#tsimi

She still remembers the exact moment her love for stories began—curled up on the couch, legs too short to touch the floor, the weight of her very first book resting in her lap. It had been a gift from her father, the first Harry Potter book, its cover glossy and uncreased, its pages crisp with the scent of ink and possibility. She had traced the embossed title with her fingertips before opening it, not yet realizing that this simple act—cracking open a spine and stepping into another world—would become a lifelong ritual.

From that day forward, books weren’t just stories; they were doors. And with each new book, she found herself stepping into a different life, a different adventure. Determined to build a collection of her own, she began tucking away half of her allowance, counting coins with the kind of patience she rarely had for anything else. Every trip to the bookstore with her father became a small event, a ritual she looked forward to with the same excitement other kids reserved for theme parks or holidays. Together, they would roam the aisles, fingers trailing over spines, debating which new world she should dive into next.

Over time, her bookshelves filled, the once-empty spaces becoming crowded with dog-eared pages and beloved characters. But more than the stories themselves, it was the memory of those bookstore visits—the scent of fresh pages, the quiet thrill of choosing her next escape, the warmth of her father by her side—that truly stayed with her. It wasn’t just about reading; it was about sharing that love, about finding magic in the simple act of turning a page. And maybe, just maybe, that was the greatest story of all.

Upon stepping into adulthood, she found herself settling in Liverpool, a city humming with history, passion, and the quiet charm of hidden bookstores tucked between bustling streets. It felt right—like the kind of place where stories could live and breathe, where she could carve out a small corner of the world just for people like her. And so, she did.

Her bookshop was small but well-loved, a haven for the kind of people who still cherished the scent of freshly printed pages and the fragile, timeworn whispers of antique books. It was a place for those who found solace in ink-stained fingers, in the comforting creak of a well-worn spine, in the kind of storytelling that couldn’t be rushed with the swipe of a finger on a screen. The world outside moved faster with each passing year—books shrank into digital files, bookstores faded into memories—but here, within these four walls, time slowed.

She knew most of her regulars by name—the elderly professor who spent hours in the history section, the university student always hunting for classic poetry, the mother who read fairy tales aloud to her daughter in the cozy reading nook. It wasn’t just a shop; it was a sanctuary, a refuge for those who, like her, believed that stories were meant to be felt, not just read. And as much as she had built this place for others, she knew, deep down, that it had also been for herself—for the girl who once clutched her first book with wide-eyed wonder, and for the woman who still did.

And while she adored her job—guiding customers to their next great read, watching their eyes light up as they discovered a new favorite—her heart truly belonged to something else: writing. Specifically, writing romance.

It had always been that way. From the moment she realized that books could make her feel something—that words could evoke the flutter of first love, the ache of longing, the breathless anticipation of a well-crafted slow burn—she had been hooked. And so, she wrote. Not for an audience, not yet, but for herself. For the girl who had always believed that love, in all its messy, beautiful, infuriating forms, deserved to be captured in ink.

She had long since developed a habit—one that followed her everywhere. A small notebook, always tucked into her bag, its pages filled with half-formed ideas, whispered dialogue, and the fleeting sparks of inspiration that struck when she least expected them. A stolen glance between strangers at a café, a line from an old song drifting through the shop’s speakers, the way the rain kissed the pavement on quiet Liverpool nights—everything was potential, everything had the makings of a story.

She had learned the hard way that if she didn’t write them down immediately, they would slip away, lost to the chaos of everyday life. So she scribbled furiously, capturing each moment before it vanished, building a collection of untold stories, unfinished love letters, and imagined worlds that lived only in her notebook… at least, for now.

One rainy afternoon, tucked away in the corner booth of her friend’s cozy café, she let herself sink into her favorite routine—hands curled around a steaming mug of hot chocolate, notebook open, pen gliding across the page as she breathed life into her latest romantic scene. The world outside was a blur of raindrops against the window, the air inside thick with the comforting scent of coffee and pastries, the gentle hum of conversation fading into background noise as she lost herself in her words.

She had just finished crafting the perfect moment—a heart-stopping, slow-burn confession set in the glow of a rainy evening—when her mug ran empty. With a sigh, she capped her pen, stretched her fingers, and slipped out of the booth, weaving her way toward the counter for a refill. But in her haste, she didn’t see the person coming around the corner.

The collision was sudden, a sharp gasp escaping her lips as warmth spread across her sweater—not scalding, but certainly enough to jolt her back to reality.

"Shit—I'm so sorry—" she started, looking up, ready to apologize profusely.

But the words died on her tongue the moment she met his gaze.

Bright blue eyes, unruly curls, an unmistakable grin—Kostas. Freaking. Tsimikas.

Her heart stopped, then stuttered, then raced.

Because of all the people she could have bumped into, it had to be him. And, as cruel fate would have it, she had just been writing about him—more specifically, about a fictionalized version of him, complete with swoon-worthy dialogue and an ending she hadn’t quite figured out yet.

"Are you alright?" he asked, amusement flickering in his voice, his thick Greek accent wrapping around the words.

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Oh. Oh no.

"Oh my god…" she managed to utter, eyes wide as the reality of the situation sank in. "Oh my god, this can't be happening," she laughed, more out of sheer embarrassment than anything else, heat rushing to her cheeks as she stared up at him.

Kostas, to his credit, looked more amused than annoyed. In fact, he was grinning.

"I mean…" he chuckled, glancing down at his now cocoa-stained hoodie, "I was going to ask for another hot chocolate, but I didn’t realize I was going to wear it instead."

She groaned, covering her face with her hands. "I swear, I don’t make a habit of throwing drinks on people—just, apparently, on Liverpool footballers."

"Ah," he teased, crossing his arms, "so this is a special service?"

"Absolutely not." She peeked at him through her fingers, voice laced with mortification. "I’ll, uh—I’ll get you a new one. Least I can do."

"That," he said, eyes twinkling, "sounds fair. But only if you join me."

Her heart did something—a stutter, a skip, a full-blown flip—because there was no way this was actually happening. No way he was actually inviting her to sit down with him. No way that the man she had literally just been writing about was now standing here, in the middle of a coffee-scented afternoon, casually rewriting the story she thought only existed in her notebook.

And yet, as he raised an eyebrow, waiting for her answer, she found herself nodding.

"Erm… ok, hang on."

Y/N spun on her heel and all but bolted toward the counter, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"Help me… right now," she hissed, gripping the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

Sophie, her ever-so-unhelpful best friend, merely smirked. "I swear," she mused, "you have the best luck in the world. Last week, it was Xabi Alonso and his wife waltzing into your bookstore, and now you’re out here baptizing Kostas Tsimikas in hot chocolate?"

Y/N shot her a murderous glare. "Sophie!"

Still grinning, Sophie handed her a packet of wet wipes. "Relax. Give these to him, show him where the mens room is, and I’ll bring you both fresh drinks."

Y/N snatched the wipes from her hands, inhaled deeply, and muttered, "I am going to die."

Sophie just patted her shoulder, utterly unfazed. "At least you’ll die in style."

She hurried back to Kostas, trying to appear at least somewhat composed—though she was fairly certain the lingering flush on her face gave her away.

"Here," she said, handing him the wet wipes. "The mens room is over there… and, um, I’m sitting in that booth." She gestured vaguely toward her corner, internally cringing at how awkward she sounded.

Kostas took the wipes with a grin, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Duly noted!" he said, flashing her one last playful smile before heading toward the restroom.

As soon as he disappeared, she exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down her face.

This was not how she expected her afternoon to go.

Once Kostas returned, looking significantly less chocolate-covered, Sophie appeared at their booth with two steaming mugs, mischief practically radiating from her.

"Hot chocolate for the lady and coffee for the mister!" she announced dramatically, setting them down with a wink. "Enjoy!"

Y/N rolled her eyes, already bracing for whatever teasing would come later. "Sorry about her," she said, glancing at Kostas. "She seems to think every guy I meet is the one." She even threw in air quotes for good measure.

Kostas chuckled, shaking his head. "It’s okay. If only you saw how the lads are with me," he said, leaning back with a grin. "Let’s just say their matchmaking skills are… questionable at best."

She smiled, amused at the thought of his teammates fumbling through setup attempts. But before she could respond, something caught her eye—his notebook, sitting beside his coffee.

"Oh, you write too?" she asked, her curiosity instantly piqued.

Kostas' smile softened, turning just a little melancholic. "Yeah," he admitted, running a hand over the worn cover. "I was advised to use writing as an outlet… especially after losing my grandfather."

Her heart clenched at the quiet sincerity in his voice. Suddenly, this conversation wasn’t just about spilled hot chocolate and playful teasing anymore—it was something deeper, something real.

"I can understand that…" Y/N remarked, offering him a sweet, knowing smile. "I learned to use writing as an outlet after my last partner cheated on me. Funnily enough, I’m still a hopeless romantic."

Kostas let out a soft laugh, his eyes warm. "Nothing is wrong with that. The world needs more hopeless romantics, no?"

She chuckled, shaking her head. "I tell myself that every time I write a love story, but then my friends call me delusional."

"They don’t know what they’re missing," he grinned, taking a sip of his coffee. "Love stories are everywhere. You just have to be paying attention."

And just like that, the conversation unraveled effortlessly, as if they had known each other for years instead of mere minutes. They talked about books—her favorites, the ones that made her cry, the ones she wished she could experience for the first time again. He told her about Greece, about growing up by the sea, about how football had always been his first love but writing had helped him understand himself in ways the sport never could.

Before they knew it, the rain had stopped, leaving only faint droplets clinging to the windowpane. The café had quieted, the once-crowded tables now half-empty.

Then Kostas' phone buzzed on the table, breaking the spell. He glanced at the screen before groaning. "Ah, I need to go!" He stood quickly, reaching for what he thought was his notebook and tucking it under his arm. "It was really nice meeting you…"

"Y/N. Y/N Y/L/N," she said with a smile.

"Y/N," he repeated, testing the way it sounded on his tongue. He liked it. "Likewise!"

She expected that to be the end of it, but as he turned toward the door, he hesitated, casting one last glance over his shoulder.

"I guess I’ll meet you here again," he said, a teasing lilt in his voice, as if it were less of a question and more of a promise.

Y/N felt something warm settle in her chest as she watched him walk away, the little bell above the café door jingling in his wake.

That evening, when Y/N returned home, she kicked off her shoes, made herself a cup of tea, and curled up on the couch with her notebook, eager to finish the romantic scene she had started earlier.

Only… something was off.

She flipped open the cover, expecting her familiar scribbles, only to be met with handwriting that definitely wasn’t hers. The words on the page weren’t the ones she had carefully crafted, the sentences unfamiliar, the ink strokes different.

Her stomach dropped.

This wasn’t her handwriting. And it sure as hell wasn’t her writing.

She had his notebook.

Her eyes widened in horror as she clutched it to her chest. "Oh no," she whispered, staring at the offending pages as if they might suddenly turn back into her own words.

But they didn’t. Because somewhere in Liverpool, Kostas Tsimikas was holding her notebook—the one filled with half-written love stories, romantic daydreams, and, worst of all, a scene that may or may not have been inspired by him.

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To say he was intrigued by what he was reading was an understatement.

Kostas had only realized he had the wrong notebook when he sat down to jot something down—flipping open the cover, expecting his usual messy scrawl, only to be met with something entirely different. The handwriting was neater, the words flowing with a kind of effortless charm, painting a vividly romantic scene.

Set in Athens, of all places.

His curiosity piqued, he kept reading, his eyes tracing over each carefully crafted sentence. The more he read, the more something clicked. The male protagonist—the way he smiled, the way he spoke, the way the heroine described the warmth in his bright blue eyes—it all felt… familiar. Almost too familiar.

He paused, his grip tightening slightly around the notebook.

Was this about… him?

His mind drifted back to Y/N, to her flushed cheeks, the way she had stumbled over her words when she realized who she had run into. Had she been thinking of him when she wrote this?

The thought sent a slow, amused grin spreading across his lips.

Well.

This just got interesting.

He flipped through the rest of the pages, a small part of him hoping—ironically—that she might have scribbled her number somewhere inside. No such luck.

But then he found something better.

Near the back of the notebook, in a casual scrawl, was the name of a Tumblr blog.

Kostas wasn’t a stranger to social media—he’d heard plenty about Tumblr, mostly from teammates who had stumbled upon their own fan pages filled with edits, GIFs, and sometimes very dramatic posts about their performances. But this? This felt different. Personal.

Intrigued, he grabbed his phone, typing "Tumblr" into the search bar. A few minutes later—after begrudgingly going through the sign-up process—he decided to keep the account completely bare, just in case. No profile picture. No username that could give him away.

Once that was sorted, he typed in the blog name exactly as it appeared in her notebook.

@𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒅𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒓.

And suddenly, he was staring at a carefully crafted, aesthetically pleasing blog—one that all but confirmed what he had already suspected.

Y/N didn’t just write romance. She lived and breathed it.

That night, Kostas found himself completely absorbed in her world.

What started as casual curiosity quickly turned into something else entirely as he scrolled through her blog, reading everything she had ever written. He was drawn in immediately—not just by the stories themselves, but by the way she wrote them. Every character felt real, every interaction brimming with raw emotion, and her dialogue? It was effortless, sharp, alive.

She didn’t just write romance—she understood it. The push and pull, the longing, the quiet moments that spoke louder than words. She captured the complexities of love—the hesitation, the exhilaration, the way it could be both terrifying and beautiful all at once.

Kostas had never considered himself much of a romantic, but as he read, he found himself lingering on certain lines, rereading passages that struck something deep within him.

And the more he read, the more one thought nagged at him.

Had she ever felt this way about someone?

Had she ever written about someone the way she wrote about him?

A few days had passed, and Kostas found himself back at the café, lingering over a coffee he wasn’t really drinking. He told himself he was just there to relax, to kill some time—but deep down, he knew exactly why he had chosen this place again.

He was waiting.

Hoping.

And as if fate had been listening, the door chimed—and there she was.

The moment Y/N stepped inside, his lips curled into a grin. "Y/N!" he called, waving her over without a second thought.

Her eyes widened slightly in surprise, her cheeks flushing almost instantly as she made her way toward him. "Kostas!" she greeted, voice tinged with equal parts excitement and mild panic.

Because while she had spent the last few days overthinking every part of their last encounter… she hadn’t exactly planned for this one.

"I think you have something that belongs to me!" Kostas announced, his voice laced with amusement.

"As do you…" Y/N giggled nervously, shifting on her feet as they exchanged their notebooks.

She hesitated for a moment before blurting out—against her better judgment, of course—"You didn’t happen to read any of what’s written, have you? Because I—I didn’t read yours! I, um, closed it immediately when I realized it wasn’t mine." She looked away, suddenly very interested in the café floor.

Kostas chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Oh… about that!" he said, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I actually couldn’t stop reading."

Her stomach dropped.

"You’re insanely talented," he continued, completely unaware that her soul was currently trying to leave her body. "Especially the most recent one. Which brings me to my next question…" He leaned forward slightly, studying her face. "Is that scene about someone?"

Her eyes widened, her throat suddenly dry.

How could she possibly admit that, yes, she had been thinking of him while writing that scene? That she had imagined his smile, his voice, him?

"Uh… erm…" she stammered, grasping for words, for anything—but her brain had apparently chosen this moment to completely short-circuit.

Kostas smiled in amusement, watching her scramble for words. Her reaction alone told him everything he needed to know, but he decided to let her squirm just a little longer.

"I’m only asking because you are truly a master of words," he said smoothly, leaning back in his chair. "And I’d love to read more of your work."

Y/N exhaled, her heart still racing. "Oh." That was… not what she expected him to say. She had been bracing for teasing, for playful prodding—but instead, there was nothing but sincerity in his tone. "Thank you, that—that means a lot."

"You should publish one day," he added, taking a sip of his coffee. "Seriously. You have a way of making emotions feelreal. I was hooked from the first line."

She bit her lip, unsure how to process the idea of Kostas Tsimikas being invested in her writing. "I—I don’t know about that," she admitted, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Most of what I write is just… daydreams, little ideas I scribble down."

"And yet, they read like something that should be published." He tilted his head slightly, a teasing smile creeping onto his lips. "Which you still haven’t answered my question, by the way."

Her stomach flipped. "What question?" she asked, feigning innocence.

"The scene," he reminded her, eyes glinting with mischief. "The one set in Athens. The one with the mysterious, charming, blue-eyed lead—"

"Oh my God," she groaned, covering her face with her hands. "You did read it!"

He chuckled. "Obviously. I told you—I couldn’t stop reading."

She peeked at him through her fingers. "And… you’re not weirded out?"

Kostas leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Why would I be? If anything…" His grin widened. "I’m flattered."

Y/N groaned again, but this time, she couldn’t help the small smile tugging at her lips. "I can’t believe this is happening."

"Believe it," he teased. Then, after a pause, he added, "So? Are you going to answer me, or do I have to guess who the inspiration was?"

She sighed, knowing she was cornered. "If I say it’s just a coincidence—"

Kostas raised an eyebrow, his grin only growing. "—I won’t believe you."

Y/N sighed dramatically, leaning back against the booth, staring at the ceiling as if searching for divine intervention. "Of course you wouldn’t."

"Because," he continued, setting his coffee down and lacing his fingers together, "the details are far too specific for it to be a random coincidence." He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. "The curly-haired, blue-eyed Greek stranger who just happens to be charming and effortlessly likable? Come on, Y/N. At least give me some credit."

She pressed her lips together, trying—and failing—not to smile. "I mean, technically I never said he was a footballer…"

"But you did say he had a devastatingly good smile," he quipped, tilting his head. "And, well—" He flashed said devastating smile, the kind that made her insides turn to absolute mush.

Y/N groaned, shaking her head. "You are insufferable."

"And you are avoiding the question," he pointed out, resting his chin in his hand. "So, are you going to admit it, or do I have to pull out my detective skills?"

She huffed, crossing her arms. "Okay, fine. Maybe I had a certain someone in mind when writing that scene. Maybe."

Kostas’ smirk softened into something far more dangerous—something genuine. "That so?"

Y/N swallowed, feeling her heart race again. "Yes," she admitted, voice quieter now. "But don’t let it go to your head."

"Oh, no promises," he teased, but there was something softer in his gaze now, something unreadable.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them shifted, the teasing simmering into something else, something warmer. The café around them faded into background noise—the quiet clinking of cups, the soft chatter of other patrons, the occasional hiss of the espresso machine. But all Y/N could focus on was the way Kostas was looking at her now, as if seeing her in a new light.

"Okay… now that we’ve got that out of the way, erm…" Y/N fidgeted slightly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Let’s just not make it weird!" she blurted out, voice a little too high-pitched for her liking.

Kostas tilted his head, his grin widening as if he found her nervousness endearing. "Who said it was weird?" he asked, his voice laced with amusement.

Y/N narrowed her eyes at him, trying to ignore the way her stomach did a very inconvenient flip. "You’re smiling like it’s weird."

"I’m smiling because I like it," he corrected, leaning back in his chair, completely at ease. "I mean, come on—how many people get to say they’ve inspired someone’s writing? And not just any writing, but something as beautifully written as yours?"

Her face burned at the compliment, and she immediately waved him off. "Oh, please."

"I’m serious," Kostas insisted, reaching for his coffee. "I read a lot, you know."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. "Oh, do you?"

"Yes," he said, feigning offense. "Granted, most of what I read are match reports and training schedules, but I do read." He took a sip of his coffee, then smirked. "Just so happens that your writing is way more interesting than anything Klopp has ever handed me."

Y/N let out an incredulous laugh, shaking her head. "I can’t believe Kostas Tsimikas just compared my work to Jürgen Klopp’s training notes."

"I mean it as the highest compliment," he said with a playful wink.

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at her lips. "Okay, okay, enough about me. You still haven’t told me about your writing."

Kostas hesitated for a moment, drumming his fingers against his cup. "It’s nothing like yours," he admitted. "I don’t write stories—I write… thoughts. Feelings. Stuff I don’t always know how to say out loud."

Y/N softened at that. "That’s still writing," she pointed out gently.

He shrugged. "Maybe. It’s just something I started doing after my grandfather passed. Helps clear my head when things get… too much."

She nodded, understanding more than she let on. "Sounds like you’re a writer, then."

Kostas chuckled, shaking his head. "Not like you."

"Doesn’t matter how you write," she said, tapping a finger against her notebook. "Just that you do."

For a moment, he just looked at her, something unreadable flickering behind his blue eyes. Then, after a beat, he smirked again. "So… now that we’ve officially established that I’m your muse—"

"Oh my God," Y/N groaned, dropping her head onto the table.

Kostas laughed, nudging her foot under the table. "Relax, I won’t let it go to my head."

"Too late," she mumbled, still hiding her face.

And just like that, the air between them lightened again—playful, teasing, something undeniably easy. Like they had known each other longer than just a few days. Like they had somehow slipped into a story of their own.

"Alright, give me your Instagram handle!" Kostas announced, leaning forward with a grin.

"What?" Y/N blinked at him, completely caught off guard. Of all the things she had expected him to say next, that had definitely not been on the list.

"Yeah," he continued, as if it were the most casual request in the world. "Your Instagram. Give it to me."

Her brain stalled for a second. Was he—was he seriously asking for her socials? Her? A completely ordinary bookshop owner-slash-writer? Not just someone, but Kostas Tsimikas, professional footballer, Greek Scouser, and apparently, her new biggest fan?

"Uh—why?" she managed, still somewhat dazed.

"Because," he said, flashing that ridiculously charming smile, "I’d like for us to be friends."

Her heart did something—some weird, unpredictable lurch that she wasn’t entirely prepared for.

"Friends," she repeated, suspicious.

"Yes, friends," he said, placing a hand on his chest like he was making a solemn vow. "Swear on my left foot."

Y/N narrowed her eyes, biting back a laugh. "Your left foot?"

"My golden left foot," he corrected, smirking. "That’s how serious I am."

She huffed, shaking her head in mock exasperation. "Fine," she muttered, pulling out her phone and opening Instagram. She quickly typed in her username before sliding the device across the table toward him.

Kostas took one look at her profile and grinned. "TorturedWanderer?" he teased, pretending as if he didn't know, he glanced up at her. "Sounds dramatic. Very fitting."

She groaned, burying her face in her hands. "I regret this already."

"Too late," he laughed, tapping the follow button before handing her phone back. "You’re stuck with me now."

And as much as she wanted to roll her eyes at him, Y/N couldn’t help but smile—because, against all odds, she didn’t actually mind the idea of being stuck with him.

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Their bond only seemed to grow stronger. Despite their wildly different schedules—his packed with training sessions and matches, hers filled with running the bookshop and late-night writing—they always managed to find time for each other.

Sometimes, it was over coffee at their usual café, where the conversations stretched long past the time it took to finish their drinks. Other times, he would meet her near the training ground, stealing moments in between his hectic days just to catch up. And then there were the times he visited her world—the bookshop.

Kostas had never considered himself much of a reader, but something about the way she talked about books—the way her eyes lit up, the way she ran her fingers over the spines with such quiet reverence—made him want to understand. He found himself enchanted not just by her, but by the shop itself. Every shelf held a new story, every worn-out cover seemed to whisper an invitation to a different world.

She would recommend books to him, sometimes with enthusiasm, sometimes with a teasing smirk when she handed him a romance novel. "For research," she’d say, and he would only roll his eyes before taking it from her hands.

And somehow, without either of them realizing when or how it happened, their lives had begun to intertwine.

His teammates found his newfound reading habit highly amusing.

It started subtly—just a book or two tucked into his bag, something to read in between training sessions. But soon, it became a regular sight: Kostas, sprawled out in a corner of the dressing room, nose buried in whatever book Y/N had given him that week. At first, no one paid much attention. But then, when even team banter couldn’t pull him away from the pages, they noticed.

One afternoon, as the squad lounged around after training, Andrew Robertson—Robbo—strolled over, arms crossed, eyeing Kostas like he was looking at an entirely new species.

"You seem to be reading quite a lot, Kos!" Robbo mused, amusement laced in his thick Scottish accent. He narrowed his eyes. "Something we need to know about?"

A few of the other lads perked up at that, grinning as they turned their attention to him.

Kostas glanced up, unfazed. "It’s just a book," he said, flipping a page casually.

"Just a book?" Robbo repeated, gasping dramatically. "Since when do you read books instead of group chats?"

Virgil, passing by, smirked. "Must be some book," he added.

Kostas rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at his lips. "It’s nothing, just something Y/N recommended," he admitted.

The team was already familiar with Y/N.

"Ahhh," Curtis drawled, grinning. "Now it makes sense."

Trent smirked. "Wait, wait, so this is a Y/N thing?"

Robbo nudged his shoulder. "Didn’t realize we had a bookworm in the squad now. Next thing we know, you’ll be starting a book club."

"Great idea, actually!" Harvey chimed in. "We could all read whatever love story Y/N’s got him hooked on!"

Kostas groaned, rubbing his temples as the teasing got louder. "Malaka, you lot are impossible."

Robbo slung an arm around his shoulders. "Nah, mate," he teased, grinning. "You’re just in love."

Kostas shook his head, chuckling as they all laughed—but deep down, he wasn’t so sure they were wrong.

It had been six months since they had met, and despite his best efforts to deny it, Kostas found himself completely drawn to Y/N.

There was just something about her—the way she could be adorably introverted one moment, nose buried in a book, then unexpectedly animated the next, launching into passionate rants about plot twists and slow-burn romances. And somehow, that side of her—the bubbly, unfiltered enthusiasm—seemed to come out only when he was around.

He liked it.

He liked the way she spoke about stories as if they were real, how her entire face lit up when she got lost in a tangent, how she would get genuinely frustrated when fictional characters made poor life choices. He liked that she had slowly, unintentionally, become a part of his daily routine—whether it was a message about a book she was recommending, a coffee meetup squeezed in between training, or, more recently, the quiet ritual he had developed of secretly keeping up with her Tumblr.

He wasn’t proud of how deep he had fallen into that rabbit hole.

At first, he had followed her blog out of sheer curiosity. But then, he had found himself waiting for her updates. And now? He had an actual notification alert set up for whenever she posted a new part of her story—the one that was quite blatantly inspired by him.

Not that she had ever admitted it outright.

But come on. The similarities were painfully obvious. The flirty, blue-eyed Greek footballer? The way he spoke? The way the heroine always found herself drawn to him, despite her initial resistance? It was him. It had always been him.

And the worst part? He loved reading it.

He had it bad. And Kostas was starting to think that, maybe, just maybe, he didn’t want to deny it anymore.

One evening, exactly a week before Liverpool was set to travel to Portugal for a Champions League match, Y/N had casually invited Kostas over for dinner. It wasn’t anything extravagant, just a simple “Come over, I’m cooking” text, but to him, it was impossible to turn down. Any excuse to spend more time with her—just the two of them, no teammates teasing him, no distractions—was an opportunity he wasn’t about to pass up.

So here he was, leaning against her kitchen counter, watching as she moved effortlessly around the space. He liked seeing her like this—completely in her element, humming softly to the music playing from her phone, her sleeves rolled up as she chopped vegetables with practiced ease. She was graceful without trying, and for some reason, he found himself memorizing everything about her in that moment.

"So, are you excited for the match?" she asked, glancing up at him as she reached for a pot.

He smiled, crossing his arms. "Excited and nervous, as always," he admitted. "Champions League games are different. Feels like all eyes are on us."

She nodded knowingly, stirring whatever was simmering on the stove. "No pressure or anything, huh?" she teased.

Kostas chuckled. "Nah, none at all," he said sarcastically. "Just millions of fans, the boss watching our every move, and my teammates expecting me to not mess up."

Y/N smirked, giving him a side glance. "Well, I could offer some words of wisdom," she mused, "but considering I spend my time writing romance, I’m not sure how helpful I’d be."

He grinned. "I dunno… your writing makes me look really inspired. Maybe I should start taking notes."

She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "You are really good," she said, matter-of-factly. "You wouldn’t be in the squad if you weren’t."

Something about the way she said it—so effortlessly, without a hint of doubt—made warmth spread through his chest. She believed in him. Not just as Kostas the footballer, but him.

Before he could say anything, she turned back to the stove, tasting the sauce she was making. "Alright," she said, changing the subject. "Dinner’s almost ready. Go set the table, football star."

Kostas smirked but obeyed, grabbing the plates.

Yeah. He was definitely not passing up an opportunity to spend time with her ever again.

As they sat down for dinner, Kostas found himself caught in an internal debate.

He wanted to say something. To tell her how much he enjoyed being around her, how she had slowly become the highlight of his days, how he found himself thinking about her at the most random moments—during training, on flights, even right before matches.

But something held him back. Maybe it was the fear of ruining what they had. Maybe it was the fact that she still hadn’t admitted, outright, that the stories she wrote were about him. Or maybe it was because he wasn’t sure how she felt.

Instead, he exhaled quietly and glanced up at her, voice soft. "Hey, Y/N/N."

She looked up from her plate, offering him a warm smile. "What’s up?"

He hesitated for a second before asking, "You don’t have to answer this, but… how come you never sought out love after your last relationship?"

She stilled for a moment, his words catching her off guard. The memory of her past relationship—the betrayal, the heartbreak, the hollow feeling of walking in to find the person she had loved tangled in bed with someone else—flashed through her mind.

She quickly masked the hurt, forcing a nonchalant shrug. "I don’t know," she admitted, poking at her food. "Fear, maybe."

Kostas watched her carefully, sensing there was more to it. "Fear of what?" he asked gently.

She let out a quiet breath, setting her fork down. "Of getting it wrong again. Of trusting someone, only for them to prove me wrong. Of thinking I’ve found something real, only to realize it was never mine to begin with."

Her voice was steady, but he caught the flicker of vulnerability in her eyes, the ghost of old wounds still lingering beneath the surface.

His jaw tightened slightly. He hated that someone had hurt her like that.

"Not everyone will prove you wrong, you know," he said after a beat, his voice quieter now. "Some people… they’d do anything not to hurt you."

She met his gaze then, something unreadable in her expression. And for the first time that night, the air between them felt different—heavier, charged, like an unsaid truth was lingering between them, waiting to be acknowledged.

But instead, Y/N simply gave him a small, bittersweet smile. "Maybe," she said softly. "I just haven’t met one of those people yet."

And for the first time in his life, Kostas found himself desperately wishing he could prove her wrong, to tell her that he can be the one for her.

"You’ll find him," Kostas said softly, offering her a small, reassuring smile. "I’m sure you will."

Y/N looked at him for a moment, as if searching for something in his expression. There was no teasing in his tone, no playful smirk—just quiet sincerity, the kind that made her chest feel tight.

She wanted to believe him.

She wanted to believe that love—the kind she wrote about, the kind she dreamed about—was still out there, waiting for her. But the scars from her past made it hard to imagine trusting someone like that again.

Still, the way Kostas was looking at her now, like he meant every word, made something inside her waver.

"Maybe," she murmured, her lips twitching into a small, almost shy smile. "Maybe I already have, and I just don’t know it yet."

And suddenly, it was his turn to freeze.

Because for the briefest moment, he wondered—was she talking about him?

He opened his mouth, ready to ask, ready to say something, anything—but before he could, she quickly picked up her fork again, focusing on her plate as if she hadn’t just made his heart stop.

And just like that, the moment passed.

But Kostas couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted between them.

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He had told her to keep an eye on the match, so on that Tuesday evening, Y/N found herself curled up on the couch, a plate of food balanced on her lap and a glass of wine resting on the coffee table. The stadium lights illuminated her screen as the pre-match broadcast began, the energy inside the arena palpable even from miles away.

She watched as the team emerged onto the pitch, going through their usual warm-up routine. The camera panned across the players—Mo, Virgil, Trent—before finally landing on him.

Kostas.

She smiled instinctively, watching as he stretched, rolled his shoulders, and jogged across the field with that signature bounce in his step. But then—something caught her eye.

Dangling around his neck, tucked just slightly beneath his jersey, was a necklace.

Her necklace.

The one she had bought him.

Her heart stuttered as she sat up straighter, her meal temporarily forgotten. She had given it to him weeks ago—a simple silver chain with a cross and a small tag engraved with a proverb from the Bible, knowing how deeply connected he was to his faith. She hadn’t expected him to wear it all the time—let alone during a Champions League match.

But there it was, resting against his skin, a quiet but undeniable reminder that a piece of her was with him.

She swallowed, feeling warmth spread through her chest.

Maybe, just maybe, she meant more to him than she had dared to believe.

The first half was intense. Benfica wasn’t holding anything back, pressing high and forcing Liverpool into a relentless battle for possession. Y/N found herself gripping the edge of her couch, her plate of food long forgotten as she watched the game unfold.

Then, the 43rd minute came.

A quick pass from Mo—a moment of sheer brilliance, perfectly placed—set Kostas up just outside the box. And then, without hesitation, he struck.

The ball curled beautifully past the keeper, finding the back of the net with precision.

The stadium erupted.

And so did she.

"YES!" she shouted, nearly knocking over her wine glass as she jumped to her feet, her heart pounding with excitement. She watched as his teammates rushed toward him, but he had only one thing in mind.

Instead of letting himself be swallowed up in the celebration, Kostas sprinted straight toward the camera.

And that was when she saw it.

He pressed a kiss to the necklace—the necklace she had given him—before pointing directly at the lens, his expression filled with something she couldn’t quite describe.

Her breath caught in her throat.

It wasn’t just a goal celebration. It wasn’t just a random gesture.

It was for her.

As if he was speaking to her across the miles, across the noise of the stadium, across the thousands of fans watching.

And just like that, she realized—maybe she wasn’t imagining things after all.

The match had ended with a dominant 3-0 victory in Liverpool’s favor. The team had put on a spectacular performance, but one name stood out among the rest—Kostas Tsimikas.

Not only had he scored a stunning goal, but he had been relentless on the pitch, his energy, precision, and determination shining through every play. And as the final whistle blew, sealing their victory, the commentators announced what she had already suspected—Kostas had been awarded the Man of the Match trophy.

Y/N beamed, pride swelling in her chest as she watched him accept the award, his curls damp with sweat, his signature grin lighting up the screen.

She leaned back against the couch, unable to stop smiling.

He deserved this. Every bit of it.

And, without a second thought, she made a mental note—when he returned, she was going to make sure he got the celebration he deserved.

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"Did you see it?" Kostas asked, his voice laced with anticipation as he cradled a mug of hot chocolate between his hands.

Y/N glanced up at him from across the kitchen island, her own mug warming her fingers. He had stopped by after training, claiming he just wanted to check up on her—which, to be fair, might have been partly true.

But she knew better.

He wasn’t here just to check in.

He wanted to see her.

She smirked, taking a slow sip before answering. "See what?" she teased, feigning innocence.

Kostas rolled his eyes but grinned nonetheless. "Oh, come on, don’t play dumb." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter. "The match. My goal. The celebration."

Y/N bit her lip, suppressing a smile. Of course she had seen it. She had felt it—every second of it.

She met his gaze, her voice softer now. "I saw it."

Kostas’ grin widened, and for a brief moment, she swore there was something unspoken lingering in the air between them. Something warm. Something undeniable.

"I was nervous, you know…" Kostas admitted, his voice quieter now, laced with something softer—something vulnerable.

Y/N tilted her head, watching him carefully. "Nervous?"

He nodded, fingers idly tracing the rim of his mug. "Nervous that I wouldn’t score," he confessed. "That I wouldn’t play well, that I’d mess up somehow. But…" He exhaled, a small, almost sheepish smile tugging at his lips. "Somehow, I felt your presence. And in that moment, everything just… made sense."

Y/N’s grip tightened around her mug. Her heart thudded against her ribs. "Kostas…"

But he just smiled at her—really smiled, like she was the reason behind it.

And deep down, she started to think… maybe she was.

"Y/N Y/M/N Y/L/N," Kostas said, his voice warm, steady—almost too steady for the way her heart was racing.

She swallowed, fingers tightening around her mug as she looked up at him. "What?"

He smiled, softer this time, something so genuine in his expression that it made her breath hitch. "Meeting you in that coffee shop… getting hit with that hot chocolate mug…" He chuckled lightly, shaking his head before meeting her gaze again. "It was the best thing that could have ever happened to me."

Y/N’s lips parted slightly, caught somewhere between disbelief and the overwhelming warmth that spread through her chest.

He meant it.

There was no teasing, no playful smirk—just sincerity.

Her grip on her mug loosened as she exhaled shakily, trying to find the right words, trying to ignore the way her pulse refused to slow. "Kostas…" she started, voice barely above a whisper.

But he didn’t let her finish.

Instead, he just smiled at her, his blue eyes searching hers. "Just thought you should know."

"Is that it?" she wondered aloud, her voice quieter than she intended.

Kostas’ smile faltered, his brows drawing together slightly. "What do you mean?" he asked, tilting his head as he studied her expression.

Y/N swallowed, her fingers gripping the warm ceramic of her mug. "I mean…" She hesitated, gathering the courage to say what had been lingering between them for weeks—maybe even months. "You say things like that, you look at me like that, and then… what?"

Kostas’ lips parted slightly, as if the realization had just dawned on him.

She bit her lip, glancing down. "If this is just—"

"It’s not just," he interrupted, his voice firm yet impossibly gentle. "Not to me."

Her breath caught as she slowly lifted her gaze, finding his eyes locked onto hers, filled with something deep, something real.

"Then what is it, Kostas?" she whispered.

And this time, he didn’t hesitate.

"Y/N," Kostas said, his voice steady yet filled with emotion. "I’m madly in love with you."

Her breath hitched, heart pounding so loudly she swore he could hear it.

"And it’s not just because of your words," he continued, a teasing glint in his eyes. "Or the fact that your current story is one hundred percent inspired by me."

She let out a breathy laugh, but it barely masked the way her chest tightened at his words.

"It’s more than that," he admitted, his expression softening. "It’s the fact that for the first time in ages, I don’t feel like Kostas Tsimikas, the football player. I feel like Kostas—the small boy who dreamed of big things."

Y/N felt her throat close up, her fingers trembling slightly as she placed her mug down on the counter.

"Kostas…" she whispered, her voice barely there.

He took a step closer, his eyes never leaving hers. "And somehow, you make me feel like I’m already living my dream."

And just like that, she knew—she had been falling for him just as hard all along.

"So… is this it?" she asked hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Kostas took a step closer, closing the space between them until she could feel the warmth radiating off him. He leaned in slightly, his breath fanning across her face, sending a shiver down her spine.

"This is much more," he murmured, his blue eyes searching hers, filled with something deep and unwavering. "I don’t want this to be just a moment, Y/N. I want you by my side—through the good, the bad… through it all."

Her heart pounded, her lips parting slightly as she tried to process the weight of his words. He wasn’t just asking for something fleeting. He was asking for everything.

And as she looked into his eyes, full of sincerity, of love, she realized she had already made her choice long before this moment.

So, instead of answering with words, she reached for him—fingers curling into the soft fabric of his hoodie—as she pulled him in.

Kostas barely had a second to react before their lips met in the sweetest kiss, a kiss that felt like a long-awaited exhale, like something that had been building for months, finally set free.

It wasn’t rushed or desperate, but full—full of unspoken confessions, of lingering glances that had meant more than either of them had admitted, of every almost-moment that had led them here. His hands found her waist, holding her gently, as if he was afraid to break the spell, but the way she melted into him told him everything he needed to know.

When they finally pulled apart, just enough to catch their breath, she let out a breathless laugh, her forehead resting against his. "That…" she murmured, "was definitely more."

Kostas grinned, brushing his thumb softly against her cheek. "Through it all," he whispered, a quiet promise.

And for the first time in a long time, Y/N wasn’t afraid.

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A year later, Y/N stood on the sidelines of Anfield, bundled in one of Kostas' oversized jackets, her heart pounding just as fast as it had the night she first realized she loved him.

Liverpool had just secured a massive win, the kind that sent the entire stadium into chaos—fans roaring, scarves waving, a sea of red celebrating another unforgettable night. And in the center of it all, him.

Kostas.

He had been spectacular, assisting the winning goal in stoppage time, his energy unmatched. She watched as he celebrated with his teammates, a bright, almost boyish grin on his face, his curls damp with sweat. And then, as if sensing her presence, his gaze lifted to the stands—straight to her.

Her breath caught as he broke away from the group, jogging toward the sideline, his eyes locked onto hers with that look—the one that still made her knees weak.

And just like that, in front of thousands of people, he did what he had done a year ago after that Benfica match.

He kissed the necklace—the same one she had given him—before pointing directly at her.

The crowd erupted even louder, the cameras undoubtedly catching the moment, but Y/N didn’t care.

Because this time, she didn’t just smile from afar.

She ran straight into his arms.

Kostas lifted her effortlessly, spinning her around as she laughed into his shoulder, his sweaty jersey the last thing on her mind.

"Through it all, right?" he murmured into her hair.

"Through it all," she whispered back.

The stadium is brimming with excitement, the cheers of a sea of blue, red and white drowns out the sound of the Greek fan cheers. With each passing moment your stomach grows more worried and excited, cold sweat trickling down your spine. You are very aware of the power difference between the two teams - the tale of Ereuthalion and Nestor from the Iliad retold on the pitch in front of you. And so you can't help but crane your neck searching the pitch, trying to find the man you are looking for.

There he is, your Greek boy. Kostas' skin glows from spending the seemingly endless days under the Greek sun. Your eyes trace the tattoos along his skin, fingers itching to touch him. To have him in your orbit for just a minute. You admire the way his muscles bulge with each movement of his slender body as he chases the ball, trying to keep it out of the french defender's reach. Your eyes admire the way his clothes drape against his body, like armour made of cloth. His hair is shorter than when you held him last, you note. And the colour has morphed from his usual water soaked wood into a dark gold now framing his face with unruly waves that move and bounce with his swift movements. He's cut it most likely due to the heat and how it got in his way when playing, you think to yourself. The sun illuminates him like one of those Greek heroes from your books and movies, missing only a crown of golden laurels. 

The shrill ringing of Kostas's alarm wakes the both of you, and somehow everything suddenly feels cold and distant. A sadness fills the air around you. A sense of finality lingers in the air, like the blade of a guillotine, threatening to cut through the fleeting moments of closeness that the two of you have been trying to latch onto. 

You blink your eyes open to look at him, to see the way the sleepiness fills every crevice of his features chiselled by a sculptor. You let your fingers trace his cheek and shoulder, almost expecting marble, noting the way his beautiful eyes follow your movements, like the would an opponent, careful and sharp, except his eyes are full of nothing but love and adoration,something reserved for only you. You bite your lip and close your eyes, treasuring the ability to touch him, feel his smooth skin against the pillowy fingertips, making it last just before the moment passes. 

“Is there anything I can say to make you never leave?” you whisper, meeting his eyes once again.

“We both know there isn't.” He frowns, moving a lock out of your face. “I would love to stay… but you know it would not be right.”

“I wish I could come with you,” you let your thumb run over his bottom lip as you speak, “wake up next to you every morning. Like this.”He doesn't reply, but the way he almost bites back tears at the mere thought of what that would be like, makes everything sting. It's not fair to make him imagine a scenario like that. You feel your own chest drop as if someone has pierced an invisible dagger through your sternum and pulled out your heart and lungs rendering you unable to breathe normally, painlessly, a curse for even suggesting the option exists. You know he has to go and you know it's only temporary. A few weeks, not even a month, but each time is as painful as the last. 

“I love you,” you whisper, unable to find other words to fill the silence. 

“I love you.” He breathes out before turning onto his back and pulling you closer to him in one swift movement.

“I love you.” You say again, as if saying it a million more times will make time stop or make Kostas stay.

“I love you.” He repeats once for you and then again for himself.  “I love you.”

You mouth his words along with him, tasting each consonant and vowel like it is your last meal on earth. Sweet and sticky and poisonous.

You turn onto your stomach and place your chin on his chest, looking him in the eyes. You watch as he meets your eyes. He looks well rested, not a sight you see often, the traces of his insomnia only a long forgotten ghost edged into the smallest details of his features. Something only someone who knows his face better than their own hand would notice. You mentally count the hours that separate this moment from when you would be able to lay like this again. To look at him and touch him and kiss him. 

“What are you thinking about?” you hum, a desperate attempt to not worry about the number in your head.

“How pretty your eyes are…” he says softly, like he is too scared to startle some cosmic entity. 

As if on cue the alarm goes off again and the magic is lost, reality once again rearing its ugly head. You clutch onto him like a person drowning would to a life raft. Your eyes begin to sting and your heart speeds up and  the man below you begins to move. The feeling of everything crumbling around you sets in.

“Don't go yet!” You plead. 

“I have to…” He says in a defeated voice, the sense of duty battling his love for you behind his eyes. 

“Don't go yet!” you cry out against the skin of his chest. You know you are acting like a child but you want to prolong this as long as possible.“I know you have to go… just not yet!”

“Okay,” he stops moving and settles against the pillow. You both know you can steal each other only for a brief moment, to make the fantasy last only a few breaths longer. 

“Okay." You lay your head on his chest counting the beats of his heart, mentally making sure he's real. 

You almost keel over when you see the way his face grimaces as he stands in the doorway of your apartment, bags in hand, after hugging the dogs. You take his hand as if it is some kind of consolation prize, a kind of  “you can't stay, so here hold my hand.” He takes it, squeezing lightly. You don't speak, there is nothing that you could say that would salvage the situation. Kostas pulls you towards him, pressing your lips against his. When he finally moves backward out the door, your fingers touch until he's out of your grasp. You never were good at goodbyes, even if by now you should be used to them. 

The door closes behind him and he's gone. You are left alone. You lean your back against the door and your body loses control. Tears stream down your cheeks and your breath hitches with sobs. You run your hands through your hair trying to calm down, to ground yourself. Both Maui and Fuerte refuse to leave your side until your sobs calm and you are left helpless and alone.

Only a few weeks, not even a month. And you will talk on facetime every night.You can do this. 

Your phone beeps with a text from Kostas: 

“I love you❤️”

The game ends and you run to him as fast as your feet can carry you. The only thing you can think about is how much you want to be in Kostas' arms and how if you don't run fast enough he might somehow vanish. He spots you and his arms fly open instantly. Nothing around you matters to him anymore. The sadness from the loss is gone from his mind, replaced by the need to hold you. 

You collide and he nuzzles his face into your neck, breathing in your smell, his lips kissing your neck.