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The sun was beginning to dip behind the Allianz Arena, casting long, amber shadows across the training pitch. Mimi sat on the sidelines, her petite frame almost swallowed by the oversized Bayern Munich hoodie she had borrowed from Michael’s closet that morning. Her long, straight brown hair fell like a silk curtain over her shoulders, shimmering under the stadium lights that were just beginning to hum to life.

A few yards away, the team was wrapping up a light recovery session. Michael was easy to spot; even in a crowd of world-class athletes, his movement was distinct—languid, effortless, and precise. But today, his usual cool composure seemed slightly frayed. Every few minutes, his dark eyes would flicker toward the sidelines, checking on Mimi, only to narrow when he saw who she was talking to.

Désiré Doué was leaning against the bench next to her, gesturing animatedly as he recounted a story from their most recent away trip. The young Frenchman was charismatic and high-energy, and since his arrival, he and Mimi had struck up an easy, sibling-like friendship.

"I’m telling you, Mimi, he actually thought he could beat me at Mario Kart," Désiré laughed, his eyes bright. "I had to humble him. It was a matter of national pride."

Mimi let out a melodic laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "You’re a menace, Dez. Michael told me you cheat."

"Cheat? Me?" Désiré gasped, placing a hand over his heart. "I prefer the term 'strategic optimization.' You should come over this weekend and be my teammate. We’ll destroy him together."

Mimi smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "I don’t know, Michael is a very sore loser. I might have to deal with the fallout for a week."

From the pitch, Michael watched the exchange. He saw the way Mimi leaned in when she laughed, and the way Désiré seemed to be enjoying her company just a little too much. It wasn't that he didn't trust his teammate—Désiré was like a little brother—but Michael was possessive by nature, even if he tried to hide it behind a mask of indifference. He hated the way his chest tightened when someone else made her smile that way.

The whistle blew, signaling the end of the session. Michael didn't linger to chat with the others. He grabbed his water bottle, took a quick swig, and headed straight for the bench.

"Ready?" he asked, his voice clipped. He didn't look at Désiré.

"Hey, Mike! Great session, man," Désiré said, oblivious—or perhaps intentionally poking the bear. "I was just telling Mimi she needs to join the pro-gaming circuit with me."

Michael slung his kit bag over his shoulder, his expression unreadable. "She’s busy this weekend."

Mimi blinked, looking up at her boyfriend. "I am?"

"We are," Michael corrected, reaching down to take her hand. His grip was firm, pulling her up from the bench. "Let’s go. I’m hungry."

"See you later, Dez!" Mimi called out over her shoulder as Michael practically marched her toward the parking lot.

Désiré waved, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips. "Bye, Mimi! Don’t let him be a bore!"

The walk to the car was silent. Michael walked with purpose, his strides long, forcing Mimi to trot slightly to keep up. When they reached his sleek black SUV, he unlocked it and waited for her to hop in before slamming his own door shut.

The tension in the car was thick enough to cut with a knife. Michael started the engine, the roar of the motor the only sound in the cramped space. He kept his eyes fixed on the road, his jaw set in a hard line.

"You’re being moody," Mimi said softly, breaking the silence as they pulled out of the stadium gates.

"I’m not moody," Michael replied, his voice low and raspy.

"You are. You didn't even say goodbye to him. You two are usually inseparable."

Michael gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. "He talks too much. And you listen too much."

Mimi suppressed a smile. She knew this version of Michael. He wasn't one for grand declarations of jealousy or dramatic outbursts. Instead, he turned inward, becoming a wall of cold granite that only she knew how to melt.

"He’s just funny, Michael. We were talking about video games."

"I can be funny," he muttered, though he looked anything but amused.

"You are funny," she agreed, reaching over to rest her small hand on his thigh. She felt the muscle jump under her touch. "But you’re also a giant grump when you want to be."

He didn't respond, but he didn't pull away either. They drove the rest of the way to his apartment in a heavy, charged silence. The moment they stepped through the front door, Michael dropped his keys on the console table and headed straight for the kitchen to get a glass of water, his back turned to her.

Mimi didn't let him escape. She followed him, watching the way his shoulders hunched. She walked up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek against his broad back.

"Michael," she whispered.

"What?"

"Look at me."

He sighed, a long, weary sound, and turned around in her arms. He looked down at her, his dark eyes clouded with a mixture of annoyance and something much deeper—a vulnerability he only ever showed her.

"You know I only want you, right?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Michael looked away, his throat working as he swallowed. "I know. It’s just... he’s always there. Always making you laugh."

Mimi stood on her tiptoes, reaching up to cup his face with both hands. She forced him to look at her, her brown eyes soft and unwavering. "He makes me laugh like a friend does. You make me feel everything else. There’s no competition, Michael. Never."

She didn't wait for him to answer. She pulled his head down and pressed her lips to his.

It started as a soft, reassuring kiss, a gentle reminder of where her heart belonged. But Michael wasn't satisfied with gentle. He groaned low in his throat, his hands coming up to grip her waist, lifting her effortlessly so she was sitting on the kitchen counter. He stepped between her legs, deepening the kiss with a sudden, desperate hunger.

Mimi wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers tangling in his short, dark hair. She kissed him back with everything she had, trying to pour all her love and reassurance into the contact. She wanted to drown out the noise of his insecurity, to make him forget every other person in the world existed.

When they finally broke apart for air, Michael rested his forehead against hers, his breathing ragged.

"Better?" she breathed, her lips swollen and red.

"Mmm," he hummed, though he still had a trace of a frown. "A little."

Mimi laughed softly and leaned in again, peppering his face with small, fluttering kisses. She kissed his eyelids, the bridge of his nose, and the sharp line of his jaw.

"How about now?" she asked against his skin.

Michael’s hands slid down to her hips, squeezing slightly. "Getting there."

"You are so high maintenance," she teased, but she didn't stop. She moved to his neck, finding the sensitive spot just below his ear that she knew made his knees weak.

Michael let out a shaky breath, his head tilting back to give her better access. The jealousy that had been simmering in his gut all afternoon began to dissipate, replaced by the overwhelming warmth of her presence. She was so small in his arms, so delicate, yet she held all the power over him.

"I just don't like sharing your attention," he admitted, his voice muffled as he buried his face in the crook of her neck.

"You don't have to share it," Mimi said, pulling back to look him in the eye. She ran her thumb over his lower lip. "Everything I am is yours. Désiré is just a friend. You’re my home."

The hard line of Michael’s jaw finally softened. The tension left his shoulders, and he pulled her into a tight, protective embrace, hiding his face in her hair. He smelled like his expensive cologne and the faint, lingering scent of the grass from the pitch.

"Stay here tonight?" he muttered.

"I wasn't planning on going anywhere," she replied, smiling into his chest.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, a glimmer of his usual confidence returning to his eyes. "Good. Because I’m still not happy about the Mario Kart thing. You’re playing with me, not him."

Mimi giggled, shaking her head. "Fine, Mr. Competitive. But only if you promise not to pout if I beat you."

Michael leaned down, his lips brushing against hers in a slow, lingering promise. "I think I can find a way to make it up to you if you do."

He picked her up then, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carried her toward the bedroom. The lights of the city twinkled outside the window, but inside, the world narrowed down to just the two of them.

As he laid her down on the cool sheets, Michael hovered over her, his eyes searching hers one last time. Any lingering trace of Désiré or the training ground was gone, replaced by a fierce, quiet devotion.

"I love you, Mimi," he whispered, the words sounding heavy and significant in the quiet room.

"I love you too, Michael," she replied, reaching up to pull him back down to her.

She kissed him again, a long, slow kiss that tasted of forgiveness and belonging. She knew she would probably have to do this again the next time he saw her laughing with a teammate, or the next time a photographer caught her talking to someone else. But she didn't mind. If this was how she had to remind him that he was the only one, she would happily spend the rest of her life doing exactly this.

After all, making Michael Olise forget the rest of the world was her favorite pastime.