Love

The neon lights of the television studio felt hotter than usual, but Mi was used to the heat. For the past three months, her life had been a whirlwind of hairspray, grueling choreography sessions, and the constant hum of bass frequencies. Germany had finally done it; they had produced VIVID, the four-girl powerhouse group designed to take the international pop scene by storm. And Mi, with her wild brown curls and a smile that seemed to radiate genuine warmth, had become the group’s unexpected focal point.

Their debut single, "Honeybee," was currently sitting at number one on the global charts. It was a sugary, high-octane pop anthem that hid a suggestive double meaning beneath its infectious hook. The world was obsessed with the lyrics—lyrics Mi had written herself in the quiet hours of the night when she was missing a certain someone.

"We have to talk about the fancam," the interviewer, a bubbly woman named Lena, said with a mischievous glint in her eyes. She gestured to the large screen behind them, which displayed a frozen frame of Mi from their recent performance in Berlin.

Mi felt her cheeks flush. The outfit had been a bold choice by the stylists: a pleated black miniskirt, a crisp white button-down tied tightly just beneath her bust to accentuate her petite frame, a loose black tie, and thigh-high boots. The clip, which had amassed over fifty million views in forty-eight hours, captured Mi during the bridge of the song. Her movements were fluid, her tiny waist swaying in a way that felt both effortless and hypnotic.

"The internet is calling it the 'National Treasure Fancam,'" Lena teased. "How does it feel to be the girl everyone is obsessed with right now?"

Mi tucked a stray curl behind her ear, her voice soft but melodic. "It’s a bit overwhelming, honestly. We worked so hard on the choreography to make it energetic, but I didn't expect that specific moment to go viral. I’m just glad people like the song."

"Oh, they like the song," Lena leaned in, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial stage whisper. "But they love the lyrics. 'Stuck in your golden glow, tasting the sugar you leave behind, my sweet little honeybee.' Mi, you wrote this. And the fans... well, they have a theory."

On the screen, a collage of social media posts appeared. Fans had highlighted specific verses, cross-referencing them with photos of a certain young man.

Verse 2: 'Quiet eyes but a heart that roars, scoring points while I’m keeping score.'

Bridge: 'Twenty-one reasons why you’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.'

"They think it’s about Jamal Musiala," Lena said, her eyebrows wiggling. "The star of Bayern Munich and the German national team. Your boyfriend. Is it true, Mi? Is the world’s catchiest song actually a love letter to Jamal?"

The studio audience erupted in "oohs" and light applause. Mi felt the heat crawl from her neck to her forehead. She had tried to be subtle, but looking at the lyrics now, she realized she had been about as subtle as a sledgehammer. She thought of Jamal’s shy smile, the way he always smelled like expensive vanilla cologne, and how he’d rather stay in and play video games with her than go to a glitzy party.

"I..." Mi started, then bit her lip, a small, shy smile breaking through her composure. She looked down at her lap, unable to meet the camera’s lens. "I think... I think the lyrics speak for themselves. He’s a very sweet person. It’s hard not to be inspired by that."

She didn't explicitly say yes, but her blush was a loud, clear confirmation. The segment ended shortly after, but Mi knew the clip would be all over TikTok before she even reached the parking lot.

---

The apartment was quiet when Mi finally let herself in. The scent of home—a mix of her floral candles and Jamal’s laundry detergent—immediately lowered her heart rate. She kicked off her heels, sighing in relief as her feet hit the cool hardwood floor.

She found him in the living room. The TV was on, but the volume was muted. Jamal was sitting on the sofa, his long legs stretched out, scrolling through his phone. When he looked up, his dark eyes were dancing with a playful light that told Mi he had seen the interview.

"So," he said, his voice deep and smooth, a slight smirk playing on his lips. "I’m a honeybee now?"

Mi groaned, dropping her bag on the armchair and walking over to him. "You saw it."

"I saw the interview. I saw the fancam. I saw the Twitter threads explaining how 'golden glow' refers to my skin tone under the stadium lights," Jamal teased, standing up to meet her. He towered over her, his presence warm and grounding. "You didn't tell me you wrote a song about me, Mi."

Mi wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest. "I didn't think it would be this obvious! I thought I was being poetic and metaphorical."

Jamal laughed, a rich sound that vibrated through her. He pulled back slightly, cupping her face in his large hands. His thumbs traced the line of her jaw, his expression softening from teasing to something much more tender.

"The fans are right about one thing," he whispered, leaning down so his forehead rested against hers.

"What’s that?" she breathed.

"That outfit," he murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips. "And the way you move. I think I’m the one who’s obsessed, actually."

Mi felt a flutter in her stomach that no amount of stage performance could ever replicate. "It was just a song, Jamal. I just... when I was in the studio, I was thinking about how everyone sees you as this incredible athlete, this 'Bambi' on the pitch. But I see the boy who shares his chocolate with me and listens to me vent about my producers for hours. You’re just sweet."

"Sweet, huh?" Jamal grinned, his eyes sparkling. "Does that mean I get royalties? Or maybe just exclusive performances?"

Mi swatted his arm playfully. "You get the girl who wrote it. That’s more than enough."

"More than enough," he agreed.

He leaned in, his lips meeting hers in a slow, lingering kiss that tasted of home and shared secrets. The chaos of the music industry, the viral videos, and the frantic schedule of the Bundesliga felt miles away. In this small bubble, she wasn't a pop star and he wasn't a football prodigy. They were just two people who were hopelessly, publicly, and musically in love.

After a moment, Jamal pulled away, though he kept his arms locked around her. "Come on. You look exhausted. The world can wait for their honeybee to rest."

"I am tired," Mi admitted, leaning her head against his shoulder as he led her toward the bedroom.

As they climbed into bed, the moonlight filtering through the curtains, Jamal pulled her close, her back against his chest. He kissed the top of her head, his breath warm against her curls.

"Mi?" he whispered into the darkness.

"Yeah?"

"I really like the song," he said softly. "Even if the whole world knows I’m a sap now."

Mi smiled, closing her eyes and letting sleep finally take her. "They already knew that, Jamal. I just gave them a beat to dance to."

He chuckled, his grip tightening protectively around her waist. Within minutes, the only sound in the room was the rhythmic breathing of two people who had found their own rhythm, far away from the flashing lights.