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The training ground at Sabener Strasse was buzzing with the usual post-session energy. The air was thick with the scent of cut grass and expensive cologne, punctuated by the rhythmic thud of footballs being cleared into bins. Michael Olise, usually the most composed and reserved presence in the squad, was currently leaning against the brick wall near the facility entrance. He wasn’t looking at his phone, and he wasn’t discussing tactics.

Instead, his large, calloused hands were firmly anchored to Mimi’s waist.

Mimi was tiny compared to him—a delicate contrast to Michael’s lean, athletic frame. Standing there in her oversized sweater and leggings, she looked like she could be swallowed whole by him. Michael didn’t seem to care that they were in a public thoroughfare for the team. His fingers were hooked into the belt loops of her jeans, pulling her flush against him as he rested his chin on the crown of her head.

"Michael, I’m literally just going to the car to get my bag," Mimi whispered, her voice muffled by his chest. She laughed softly, the sound vibrating against his ribs. "I’ll be back in two minutes."

"I’ll come with you," Michael murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. He didn’t move. In fact, his grip tightened slightly, his thumbs tracing slow, rhythmic circles over her hip bones.

"You have to shower," she reminded him, patting his forearm. "You’re sweaty."

"Don’t care," he replied simply. He shifted his weight, tucking her head under his chin more securely. It was as if he were trying to fold her into his own skin. He wasn't being performative; he wasn't even looking around to see who was watching. For Michael, the world had shrunk down to the few square inches of space Mimi occupied.

Across the courtyard, Thomas Müller nudged Jamal Musiala, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Look at him. It’s like he’s worried she’s going to float away if he lets go for a second."

Jamal chuckled, shaking his head as he pulled his training top over his head. "He’s been like that since she arrived. I don’t think I’ve seen his hands off her for more than five minutes."

"It’s like he’s a magnet," Serge Gnabry added, joining the group. "I walked past them in the lounge yesterday. He was trying to play FIFA with one hand because the other was busy holding her foot in his lap. Who does that?"

"A man who is down bad, Serge," Thomas said loudly, intentionally raising his voice so it would carry across the lawn. "A man who has lost his senses to the power of love!"

Michael didn't even flinch at the shouting. He just adjusted his grip, moving one hand from Mimi’s waist to the back of her neck, his long fingers tangling in the dark strands of her hair. He began to massage the nape of her neck absentmindedly, his eyes half-closed as he breathed her in.

"Michael," Mimi teased, tilting her head back to look at him. "Your friends are making fun of you."

He finally opened his eyes, blinking slowly as if waking from a trance. He looked over at the group of players who were now openly staring and grinning. "What?"

"You're a koala, Michael!" Thomas yelled, miming a hugging motion. "Let the poor woman breathe! She needs oxygen to survive!"

Michael frowned, looking down at Mimi as if checking to see if she was, indeed, deprived of air. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," she giggled, reaching up to pinch his cheek. "But they’re right. You’re very clingy today."

"I'm not," he defended, though he didn't move his hands. If anything, he pulled her an inch closer.

Eventually, the pressure of the team’s teasing and the necessity of a shower forced him to let go. But even then, he watched her walk to the car with a focused intensity, his hands feeling strangely empty.

An hour later, the team was gathered in the player’s lounge for a quick recovery meal. Mimi was seated on one of the plush leather sofas, scrolling through her phone. The moment Michael entered the room, he didn't head for the buffet or the drinks fridge. He headed straight for her.

He sat down so close that there wasn't a sliver of light between them. Without a word, he lifted her legs and draped them across his lap, his large hands immediately finding a home on her ankles. He started squeezing the muscles of her calves, a mindless, repetitive motion that he seemed to do on autopilot.

Harry Kane, sitting in the armchair opposite them, watched the exchange with a polite, amused smile. "Good session, Michael?"

"Yeah, not bad," Michael answered, his eyes fixed on Mimi’s phone screen as she showed him a meme. He leaned in, his chest pressing against her shoulder, his hand migrating from her ankle to her thigh.

"You know, Mike," Harry started, leaning forward. "I thought I was a family man, but you take it to a whole new level. Do you ever sit on a different furniture piece than her?"

Michael looked up, genuinely confused. "There’s space here."

"There's a whole sofa next to you, mate," Leroy Sané chimed in, pointing to the empty three-seater. "But you’re practically sitting on top of her. You’re like a human weighted blanket."

Mimi tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, blushing slightly. "He’s always been like this. I think he thinks I’ll disappear if he isn't touching me."

"It’s not that," Michael muttered, his hand now resting heavily on the small of her back, pulling her into his side. "I just... I like where she is."

"We know you like where she is," Jamal laughed. "We all know. We saw you in the tunnel before the last home game. You were holding her hand while the ref was doing the kit check. You almost walked onto the pitch with her."

Michael paused. He racked his brain, trying to recall the moment. He remembered Mimi being there. He remembered the smell of her perfume and the way her hand felt small and warm in his. But he hadn't realized he’d held on for that long. To him, it was just natural. It was gravity.

"You don't even realize you're doing it, do you?" Serge asked, leaning against the wall with a smirk.

"Doing what?" Michael asked.

"The 'Michael Grip,'" Serge said, gesturing to the way Michael’s arm was currently wrapped around Mimi’s waist, his hand splayed across her stomach as if shielding her. "You’re always anchored. It’s like you’re worried a gust of wind is going to blow her away because she’s so petite."

Michael looked down at his hand. His fingers were long, his palm broad enough to cover nearly the entire width of her torso. Against her pale skin and the soft fabric of her shirt, his hand looked massive. He realized then that he was holding her with a sort of possessive gentleness that he hadn't consciously acknowledged before.

He thought back to the morning. He’d followed her into the kitchen, his hand resting on the back of her neck while she made coffee. He’d sat on the floor while she was on the chair, his chin resting on her knee. Even in sleep, he knew he spent the night tangled around her, his limbs heavy and protective.

"Is it annoying?" Michael asked suddenly, looking at Mimi. His voice was uncharacteristically quiet, a hint of genuine concern breaking through his usual cool exterior.

Mimi looked up at him, her eyes softening. She reached up, cupping his jaw with her hand. "No, Michael. I like it. I like knowing you’re right there."

"See?" Michael said, looking back at his teammates with a defensive shrug. "She likes it."

"We're not saying she doesn't," Thomas said, holding up his hands in surrender. "We’re just saying it’s adorable. The big, tough winger can’t function unless he’s within touching distance of his girl. It’s a good look on you, Olise. Very domestic."

Michael rolled his eyes, but a small, private smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He shifted, pulling Mimi even closer until she was practically in his lap. He rested his temple against hers, his large hand moving to cover her hand on his jaw.

"I'm going to get some pasta," Mimi said after a few minutes, making a move to stand up.

Michael’s grip tightened instinctively. "I'll get it for you."

"I can walk ten feet, Michael," she laughed, pushing against his chest.

"I'll come with you then," he insisted, standing up with her. He didn't let go of her hand as they walked toward the buffet line.

As they walked away, the table of players erupted into quiet snickers.

"Look at that," Jamal whispered. "He’s literally guiding her by the waist like she’s a precious vase."

"He's gone," Harry agreed, shaking his head. "Completely gone."

At the buffet, Michael stood directly behind Mimi. He didn't grab a plate for himself yet. Instead, he placed both hands on her shoulders, his thumbs massaging the tension there while she picked out her food. He felt a newfound awareness of his actions. He noticed the way he leaned into her space, the way his body naturally sought hers out like a compass needle pointing north.

He realized that he didn't just want to be near her; he needed the physical confirmation that she was there. In the high-pressure world of professional football, where everything was about speed, strength, and clinical precision, Mimi was his stillness. Touching her was how he grounded himself.

"Michael," she said, turning around with a plate of fruit in her hand. "You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"The hovering," she teased, though her eyes were shining with affection.

He looked down at her, his expression softening into something raw and vulnerable that he only ever showed her. He reached out, his thumb brushing a stray hair away from her forehead, his hand lingering on her cheek.

"I just... I like feeling you there," he admitted, his voice low so only she could hear. "Makes everything else quiet."

Mimi smiled, leaning her face into his palm. "Then don't stop. I don't mind being your anchor."

Michael felt a surge of warmth in his chest. He didn't care if the lads laughed. He didn't care if the whole of Munich saw him as a "clingy" boyfriend. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side as they walked back to the table.

As they sat back down, Michael’s hand immediately returned to its rightful place on her thigh. He felt the familiar weight of her presence, the steady rhythm of her breathing.

"You okay there, Michael? Need a pair of handcuffs?" Serge joked as they sat down.

Michael didn't even look up this time. He just squeezed Mimi’s leg gently and took a bite of his pasta. "I'm good, Serge. Better than you, anyway."

"Ouch," Thomas laughed. "The koala has claws!"

Mimi leaned her head on Michael’s shoulder, and he instinctively tilted his head to rest on top of hers. He was clingy. He was down bad. He was completely, utterly wrapped around her finger. And as he felt her hand cover his on her lap, Michael Olise decided that there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be stuck.