Love

The fluorescent lights of the boutique felt like interrogators. Mi stood in the cramped dressing room, the heavy velvet curtain offering the only semblance of privacy against a store filled with women who seemed to possess a confidence she lacked. In her hands, she clutched a hangers-worth of delicate, midnight-blue silk. It was a slip dress, barely reaching mid-thigh, transparent in all the places that mattered, with intricate white lace framing the bust and a pair of matching underwear that looked more like a collection of dental floss than actual clothing.

She looked at herself in the three-way mirror and felt a familiar, sinking sensation. Her petite frame seemed swallowed by the expectations of the garment. Her curly brown hair was a wild halo around a face that felt too youthful, her curves too subtle, her stature too small.

Would Jamal even find this attractive? she wondered, her thumb tracing the hem of the silk.

Jamal was a world-class athlete, used to grandeur and strength. When she saw the women who frequented the stadium VIP lounges—tall, statuesque, with bodies that looked like they were carved from marble—she felt like a footnote. She bought the set anyway, driven by a desperate Valentine’s Day wish to be "enough," but the moment she got home, she shoved the bag into the deepest corner of the bathroom drawer, beneath a pile of spare towels.

Weeks passed. Valentine’s Day came and went with a lovely dinner and a quiet evening, but the blue silk remained hidden, a secret monument to her insecurity.

It was a rainy Tuesday night when the tension finally snapped. They were in bed, the only light coming from the streetlamps filtering through the Munich drizzle. Jamal was trailing kisses along her jawline, his large, calloused hands—the hands that controlled a football with surgical precision—sliding down her sides.

Every time his palms brushed the curve of her hip or the small of her back, Mi flinched. It wasn't a flinch of disgust, but one of acute self-consciousness, as if she were trying to pull her skin away from his touch to hide the parts of her she deemed imperfect.

Jamal stopped. He propped himself up on one elbow, his dark eyes searching hers in the dim light. "Mi? What’s going on?"

"Nothing," she lied, her voice cracking. "I'm just tired."

"You’ve been 'tired' every time I’ve touched you for two weeks," he said gently, his voice a low rumble. He reached out, tucking a stray brown curl behind her ear. "You’re shaking. Did I do something? Did I hurt you?"

"No! No, Jamal, never," she whispered, looking down at the duvet.

"Then talk to me. Please."

The honesty spilled out before she could filter it. "I bought something. For Valentine’s Day. Lingerie. And I... I saw myself in it and I hated it. I felt small. Not the good kind of small, but the kind that isn't... womanly enough for someone like you. I feel like I’m playing dress-up in a body that doesn't fit the part."

Jamal was silent for a long moment. Mi held her breath, bracing for him to offer a polite, dismissive compliment. Instead, he sat up completely, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"Where is it?" he asked.

"What?"

"The lingerie. Where is it?"

"Jamal, no, it’s embarrassing—"

"Mi," he said, turning back to look at her with a seriousness that usually preceded a penalty kick. "Where is it?"

"Bottom drawer in the bathroom. Under the towels."

Without another word, he got up. Mi pulled the covers up to her chin, her heart hammering against her ribs. She heard the drawer slide open, the rustle of tissue paper, and then the silence of him inspecting it. A minute later, he walked back into the bedroom, the blue silk draped over his arm.

He didn't hand it to her. He held it up, letting the moonlight catch the transparency of the fabric. "Go put it on."

"Jamal, I look like a kid in it," she pleaded.

"You look like my woman," he countered, his voice dropping an octave. "Go. Put it on for me. Not for the mirror, not for the store, but for me."

Reluctantly, Mi took the fabric and retreated to the bathroom. Her hands trembled as she stepped out of her oversized t-shirt and slid the silk over her head. The lace was cold against her skin. The underwear felt like nothing at all. She refused to look in the mirror, keeping her eyes on her toes as she walked back into the bedroom.

Jamal was sitting against the headboard, his gaze fixed on the doorway. When she stepped into the light, his breath hitched. It wasn't the sharp, jagged gasp of someone seeing a femme fatale; it was a soft, reverent exhale.

"Come here," he commanded softly.

She walked to the edge of the bed. Jamal reached out, his fingers hooking into the lace at her waist, pulling her between his knees. He looked her up and down, his eyes lingering on the way the silk clung to her petite frame.

"You think you aren't enough?" he asked, his voice thick. "Mi, you look... you look so incredibly cute it’s actually painful. But don't mistake 'cute' for something I don't want to tear off you."

"You don't think I look... small?"

"I think you look perfect," he said, standing up so he towered over her, his hands sliding up her thighs, bunching the silk in his grip. "I think you look like a secret I get to keep. You’re so delicate, it makes me want to be careful with you, and it makes me want to lose control at the same time."

He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?"

The insecurity didn't vanish instantly, but the heat in Jamal’s eyes acted like a cauterizing iron, sealing the wounds of her self-doubt. When he kissed her this time, it wasn't the gentle, tentative exploration of earlier. It was hungry.

He lifted her easily, her light weight a testament to his strength, and laid her back against the pillows. The silk dress hiked up, the transparent fabric leaving nothing to his imagination.

"I want to see you differently tonight," he whispered, his hands moving to her knees, gently urging them apart.

Usually, they stuck to the familiar—positions where she could hide against him, burying her face in his neck. But tonight, Jamal was insistent on visibility. He moved her to the edge of the bed, kneeling on the floor between her legs while she stayed elevated on the mattress.

The vulnerability of the position made Mi gasp, her fingers clutching the sheets. "Jamal..."

"Look at me," he said, his eyes locked onto hers as he moved his hands over her, tracing the lines of the lingerie, his thumbs grazing the lace. "You are so beautiful. Every inch of you."

He took his time, worshipping the body she had spent weeks criticizing. He kissed the pale skin of her stomach, the inner curve of her thighs, and the small of her back when he eventually flipped her over, pulling her hips up so she was on all fours.

The blue silk bunched at her waist, the contrast of his large, dark hands against her fair, petite frame creating a picture that finally made her feel the way she wanted to feel: desired.

As they moved together, the rhythm was new and primal. Jamal was vocal, his low groans filling the quiet room, telling her exactly how much he loved the way she felt, the way she looked, the way she fit against him.

"Stay right there," he murmured, his chest pressed against her back, his arms wrapping around her to hold her securely. "Don't hide. I want to see all of you."

In the peak of their passion, Mi didn't feel small or inadequate. She felt like the center of his universe. The petite curves she’d lamented were the very things Jamal handled with such desperate adoration.

Later, as the rain continued to drum against the window, they lay tangled together. The blue silk was a crumpled heap on the floor, forgotten and unnecessary. Mi was tucked into the crook of Jamal’s arm, her head resting on his chest, listening to the steady, slowing thud of his heart.

"Mi?" he whispered, his fingers tracing circles on her bare shoulder.

"Yeah?"

"Don't ever hide from me again. Not in a drawer, and not in your head."

She looked up at him, her brown curls messy and her skin flushed. For the first time in a long time, she didn't feel the need to pull the covers up. "I won't. I promise."

Jamal smiled, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "Good. Because that dress? I think it’s my new favorite thing. Mostly because of how easy it is to get you out of it."

Mi laughed, a genuine, light sound that filled the room. The insecurity wasn't entirely gone—it rarely is—but as Jamal pulled her closer, she realized that beauty wasn't about fitting into a piece of fabric. It was about the way the right person looked at you when you were wearing it, and more importantly, how they looked at you when you weren't.