The story of us

The first time Michael Kaiser ever noticed Angel, she was crying over a scraped knee in the gravel driveway between their houses. They were seven. He was already the kind of boy who carried himself with a jagged edge, a defense mechanism against a world that hadn't been kind to him yet. But seeing her—small, pale, and genuinely devastated by a minor injury—he had felt a strange, proprietary tug in his chest.

"Stop crying," he had told her, looming over her with his hands on his hips. "It’s just a scratch. You look pathetic."

Angel had looked up, her eyes wide and shimmering with tears. "It hurts, Michael."

He had grumbled, reached into his pocket, and handed her a crumpled sticker he’d stolen from a shop earlier that day. It was a blue rose. "Here. Now shut up."

That was the beginning. A childhood spent in the shadow of the same German suburb, where Angel was the soft light to Michael’s growing darkness. She was the one who shared her sandwiches when he forgot his, and he was the one who chased away the bullies who thought her shyness was a weakness.

When they hit their teenage years, the distance began to stretch, though it never snapped. Kaiser’s talent for football took him to elite academies, while Angel remained in the local system, focusing on her studies. They went to different schools, lived in different social spheres, but the tether remained.

Every night, without fail, his name would pop up on her phone.

"Are you sleeping?" he’d text at 1:00 AM.

"I am now," she’d reply. "Did you win your match?"

"Obviously. I’m the best. Why do you even ask?"

"Because if you lost, I’d have to buy you ice cream to stop you from pouting."

"I don't pout, Angel."

He did. She knew it, and he knew she knew it.

By the time they were seventeen, the dynamic had shifted into something restless. Kaiser was growing taller, his features sharpening into the striking, arrogant beauty that would one day grace billboards across Europe. Angel had bloomed too, though she seemed unaware of it, hiding behind oversized sweaters and her books.

It was the summer before their final year of secondary school. They were sitting on the roof of Kaiser’s porch, the heat of the day lingering in the tiles beneath them.

"I’m going to graduate without ever being kissed," Angel lamented, hugging her knees to her chest. "It’s embarrassing. Everyone at school talks about it like it’s this big milestone, and I’m just... stuck."

Kaiser, who had been tossing a football into the air and catching it, went still. He turned his head, his blue eyes tracking the line of her profile. "You’re complaining about that? It’s just a biological function, Angel. It’s not a trophy."

"Easy for you to say," she muttered. "You’ve probably kissed half the girls in the city."

"Not half," he smirked, though the expression didn't reach his eyes. "But I know what I'm doing."

He sat up, leaning closer. The smell of his cologne—something sharp and expensive—swirled around her. "If you’re so worried about being inexperienced, I could just show you. Purely educational, of course. I wouldn't want you making a fool of yourself with some loser from your school."

Angel’s heart hammered against her ribs. "You’d do that? Just to help?"

"I’m a saint, aren't I?" Kaiser murmured.

He didn't wait for an answer. He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw before tilting her face up. When his lips met hers, it wasn't "educational." It was a claim. It was fierce, demanding, and tasted like the summer air. Angel melted into him, her hands clutching his shirt, realizing too late that Kaiser never did anything just to be helpful. He did things to win.

Two years later, the world had changed. Kaiser was a rising star, the "Blue Rose" of the football world, his name whispered in the same breath as legends. Angel was in college, buried under textbooks and living in a modest apartment that felt far too quiet.

"I want a boyfriend," she complained over the phone one evening. "A normal one. Someone who can go to the cinema with me without being mobbed by fans. Someone who actually lives in the same city as me for more than a week at a time."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

"Is that so?" Kaiser’s voice was dangerously low.

Three hours later, there was a pounding at her door. Angel opened it to find Kaiser, still in his training gear, looking windblown and furious.

"Michael? What are you doing here? You have a game in Munich tomorrow!"

He stepped inside, slamming the door behind him and pinning her against the wall. "You want a boyfriend? Fine. You have one. It’s me."

Angel blinked, breathless. "But you—you’re always traveling. You’re arrogant, you’re demanding, and you’re a nightmare to deal with."

Kaiser leaned down, his forehead resting against hers. "And I’m the only one who’s allowed to touch you. Say yes, Angel. Don't make me ask twice."

"Yes," she whispered, her heart soaring. "Obviously, yes."

The public debut of their relationship sent the internet into a frenzy. The contrast was too perfect to ignore. Kaiser was the arrogant king of the pitch, known for his sharp tongue and even sharper playstyle. Angel was the "Nation’s Sweetheart"—shy, soft-spoken, and devastatingly cute.

Paparazzi followed them everywhere, but they struggled to find any scandal. Instead, they caught moments that made the world swoon. They caught Kaiser, the man who looked down on everyone, walking through an airport with Angel’s pink, fluffy handbag slung over his shoulder while she slept against his arm.

They caught photos of them at gala events where Kaiser wouldn't let her stand more than an inch away. During interviews, he would pull her onto his lap, his large hand possessively anchored on her waist, ignoring the cameras to whisper something in her ear that would make her blush a deep crimson.

"He looks like he’d kill someone for her," one viral tweet read, accompanied by a photo of Kaiser glaring at a reporter who had asked Angel a question that was too personal.

"She’s his only weakness," another replied.

At twenty-four, they decided they didn't want a spectacle for their wedding. They flew to a private island with only their closest family and a few teammates. Kaiser, who usually wore designer suits like armor, looked genuinely vulnerable as he watched Angel walk down the aisle in a simple, lace gown.

"You’re mine," he whispered as he took her hands. "Forever. No exits."

"I don't want an exit, Michael," she smiled, her eyes bright.

A year later, the news broke that the Blue Rose was going to be a father. The fans went wild, speculating on whether the baby would inherit Kaiser’s athletic prowess or Angel’s gentle nature.

When the baby arrived, she was a perfect fusion of the two. They named her Hana. She had Angel’s button nose and soft cheeks, but her eyes were a piercing, crystalline blue—exactly like her father’s.

Kaiser, the man who had once claimed he had no room for anyone but himself, was completely undone by his daughter.

"Look at her, Angel," Kaiser whispered, sitting on the nursery floor when Hana was three years old. The little girl was currently busy "styling" his hair with dozens of sparkly plastic clips. "She’s going to be a menace. She already knows exactly how to make me do whatever she wants."

Angel leaned against the doorframe, watching them. The fearsome Michael Kaiser was currently wearing a play-crown and letting a toddler boss him around.

"She got that from you," Angel teased. "The manipulation is definitely a Kaiser trait."

Hana looked up, grinning widely, showing off a missing front tooth. "Daddy, look! You’re a princess now!"

Kaiser sighed, a look of utter defeat and adoration on his face. "Yes, sweetheart. I’m a princess."

He stood up, Hana clinging to his neck like a baby koala. He walked over to Angel, wrapping his free arm around her waist and pulling her into his side. He kissed her temple, then kissed the top of Hana’s head.

"I used to think the world revolved around me," Kaiser said quietly, his voice thick with a rare sincerity. "But I was wrong. It revolves around the two of you."

Angel leaned her head on his shoulder, looking at the man she had loved since they were children. From the gravel driveway to the global stage, through the noise of the fans and the flash of the cameras, they had found their own quiet gravity.

"We know, Michael," she whispered, reaching up to adjust one of the plastic clips in his hair. "We’ve always known."