Love

The living room was bathed in the low, amber glow of a few scattered candles, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls of Michael’s London apartment. Outside, the city hummed with its usual nocturnal energy, but inside, the world had narrowed down to the leather sofa and the heat radiating between two people.

Michael Olise wasn’t usually a man of many words. On the pitch, he was all calculated movement and cold precision; off it, he was quiet, observant, and possessed a dry wit that only a few were lucky enough to see. But tonight, his silence wasn't one of observation. It was one of intense, focused desire.

Mimi was currently the center of his universe. She was small, a delicate contrast to his lean, athletic frame, but she possessed a vibrant energy that filled every room she entered. She was cute in a way that made him want to protect her, pretty in a way that made him want to stare, and funny in a way that kept him constantly on his toes. Right now, however, she was purely breathtaking.

They were tangled together on the sofa, a mess of limbs and frantic breaths. Mimi was straddling his lap, her hands buried deep in the curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as if the centimeter of space between their lips was a mile too wide. When they finally broke apart to catch their breath, the sound of their ragged inhaling was the only thing filling the room.

"Michael," she whispered, her voice a soft, melodic friction against the quiet.

He didn't answer with words. Instead, he leaned forward, capturing her lips again. This kiss wasn't like the ones before; it was slower, deeper, tasting of the wine they’d shared and the raw hunger they hadn't. Mimi felt a wave of overwhelming affection wash over her. It wasn't just the physical attraction—though that was currently at a fever pitch—it was the way he looked at her when no one else was watching. It was the way he made her feel like the most important person in the world without saying a single syllable.

She broke the kiss to trail her lips down the column of his throat. Michael let out a low, guttural groan that vibrated against her chest, his head falling back against the cushions. Mimi felt a surge of power and love. She peppered kisses along his jawline, then moved upward, kissing his eyelids, the bridge of his nose, and his forehead.

"You're so beautiful," she murmured against his skin. "Do you even know that? You're actually ridiculous."

Michael let out a short, breathy laugh, his eyes still closed. "You're the one talking, Mimi. Have you looked in a mirror lately?"

"I'm serious," she insisted, moving her path downward again. She began to unbutton his shirt with nimble fingers, her heart hammering against her ribs. As the fabric parted, she pressed her lips to the warm skin of his chest, right over his heart. She could feel it thudding—fast, rhythmic, and entirely for her.

Michael’s hands, which had been resting on her waist, slid down. He gripped her hips firmly before his large hands found their destination, squeezing her seat with a possessive heat that made Mimi gasp against his skin. His touch was heavy and sure, a silent claim that made her blood turn to liquid fire.

"Mimi," he rasped, his voice dropping an octave. "You're doing this on purpose."

She looked up, her hair a wild halo around her face, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Doing what? Showing you how much I like you?"

"You're driving me out of my mind," he corrected. He pulled her upward so they were eye-to-eye. His dark eyes were hooded, intense, searching hers for the same frantic need he was feeling. "You know that, right? Since the day I met you, it’s just been... you."

Mimi felt a lump form in her throat. For all his nonchalance and his "cool" exterior, Michael had a way of being devastatingly honest in the moments that mattered. She shifted her weight, feeling the hard muscle of his thighs beneath her, and leaned in to press her forehead against his.

"Good," she whispered. "Because it’s only ever been you for me, too. Even when you’re being a moody winger who won't answer my texts for three hours."

Michael chuckled, the sound deep and rich. "I was training. You know that."

"Excuses," she teased, though she nipped at his lower lip immediately after.

He responded by tightening his grip on her, pulling her body flush against his. The height difference was always more apparent when they were standing, but here, tucked together on the sofa, Mimi felt like she fit perfectly into every curve and angle of him. She felt small, yes, but she also felt powerful. She was the only one who could make the ice-cold Michael Olise melt like this.

She began to trail her hands down his arms, feeling the definition of his muscles, the strength that he used to dominate on the field now being used to hold her with a surprising gentleness. She felt overwhelmed by him—by his scent, which was a mix of expensive cologne and something uniquely Michael; by the heat of his skin; and by the sheer intensity of the way he was looking at her.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked softly, his thumbs tracing small circles against her skin.

"Just... how lucky I am," she said, her voice small and sincere. "And how much I want to be right here, forever. Or at least for the rest of the night."

Michael’s expression softened, a rare, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He reached up, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "The rest of the night is a given, Mimi. I'm not letting you go anywhere."

He shifted, sitting up slightly more so he could pull her into a deeper embrace. Mimi wrapped her legs tighter around his waist, burying her face in the crook of his neck. She felt safe here. In the high-stakes world Michael lived in, where every move was scrutinized and every performance judged, this was their sanctuary.

"You're so small," he murmured, his chin resting on top of her head. "I feel like I could break you if I'm not careful."

Mimi pulled back, a playful pout on her lips. "I'm not that fragile, Michael. I can handle you."

He raised an eyebrow, a challenge flickering in his gaze. "Is that so?"

"Try me," she whispered.

The playfulness shifted back into something heavy and electric. Michael’s hands moved from her back to her face, cupping her cheeks with a tenderness that made her breath hitch. He leaned in, his lips hovering just a fraction of an inch from hers.

"I don't think you realize what you do to me," he said, his breath warm against her skin. "I spend all day trying to focus, trying to be the best, and all I can think about is getting back to this. Getting back to you."

Mimi felt her heart swell. She reached up, covering his hands with her own. "Then stay. Don't think about the next match, or the fans, or the pressure. Just be here. With me."

"Always," he promised.

He kissed her then, and it was different from the others. It wasn't frantic or hungry; it was a slow, deliberate seal of the promise he’d just made. It was a kiss that spoke of late-night conversations, shared jokes, and a future that felt increasingly intertwined.

As they moved together, the sounds of the city outside faded into a distant hum, irrelevant to the world they had created on that leather sofa. Mimi felt the weight of him, the strength of his grip, and the warmth of his affection, and she knew there was nowhere else she’d rather be.

Michael pulled back just enough to look at her again, his eyes dark with a mixture of love and desire. "You're incredible, Mimi. You know that?"

"I'm starting to believe it," she teased, leaning in to kiss the tip of his nose. "Especially if you keep saying it."

"I'll say it every day if I have to," he said, his voice firm.

He shifted again, moving them so they were lying back against the length of the sofa, Mimi tucked securely against his side. The fire of a few moments ago had settled into a warm, glowing ember—a comfortable intimacy that felt just as good as the passion.

Mimi rested her head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. She felt Michael’s arm wrap around her, his hand resting on her hip, his fingers occasionally stroking the fabric of her dress.

"Michael?" she asked quietly after a few minutes of comfortable silence.

"Yeah?"

"Don't ever stop looking at me the way you do," she said, her voice muffled against his shirt.

He tightened his hold on her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Not a chance, Mimi. Not a chance in the world."

The candles flickered lower, the shadows grew longer, but in the center of the room, wrapped in each other's arms, everything was bright. For Michael, the world of football was loud and demanding, but here, with Mimi, everything was finally quiet. And for Mimi, Michael was the anchor she hadn't known she needed—a man of few words, but a man whose every touch and every look said everything she ever needed to hear.

As sleep began to tug at the edges of her consciousness, Mimi felt Michael shift, pulling a nearby throw blanket over both of them. He settled back down, his breathing syncing with hers.

"I've got you," he whispered into the darkness.

And she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he did.