You

The bass was a physical entity, thumping through the floorboards of Thomas Müller’s sprawling villa and vibrating up through the soles of Mimi’s boots. The air smelled of expensive cologne, artificial fog, and the sugary scent of spiked punch. It was the annual Halloween bash, the one night of the year where the biggest stars in Munich could drop their professional guards and hide behind masks, capes, and—in Mimi’s case—a cloud of pink tulle.

Mimi adjusted the straps of her corset, feeling the tight silk press against her ribs. She felt utterly exposed, yet strangely ethereal. Her natural curls were tucked away under a vibrant pink wig that cascaded in soft waves down her back, perfectly matching the blush-colored miniskirt and the feathered wings that bobbed with every step she took. She was Cupid, though she felt less like a deity and more like a nervous girl lost in a sea of giants.

"You’re going to trip if you keep staring at your feet," a familiar, soft voice teased near her ear.

Mimi looked up, her heart doing a synchronized somersault. Jamal stood there, looking effortlessly handsome in a costume that was far less elaborate than hers but somehow twice as effective. He had gone for a sleek, dark look that contrasted sharply with her sugary palette. But it was the way he was looking at her—eyes wide, a faint, stunned smile playing on his lips—that made her breath hitch.

"Everyone is staring, Mimi," Jamal murmured, stepping closer to shield her from a passing group of teammates dressed as characters from Money Heist. "I think you might actually be an angel."

Mimi felt the heat rise to her cheeks, matching the pink of her wig. "It’s too much, isn't it? I should have just gone as a ghost. A bedsheet would have been much more my speed."

"Don't you dare," Jamal laughed, his hand briefly brushing the small of her back, right between the base of her wings. "You look incredible. Truly."

The party swirled around them. Alphonso Davies was somewhere in the middle of a dance-off, and the flashes of phone cameras were constant. Jamal, usually the one to shy away from the spotlight himself, seemed emboldened by the festive atmosphere. He pulled out his phone, gesturing to the decorated photo wall draped in faux cobwebs and flickering orange lights.

"Let’s take a couple," he suggested. "For the memories."

Mimi bit her lip. She hated the lens. She always felt awkward, never knowing where to put her hands or how to quirk her mouth. But seeing the hopeful glint in Jamal’s eyes, she couldn't say no.

They posed for a few. In the first, Jamal had his arm draped over her shoulder, smiling brightly while Mimi gave a shy, small grin to the camera. In the second, he was looking at her instead of the lens, his expression soft and unguarded.

By the third photo, the attention of the room felt like it was pressing in on her. She could see a few other players nudging each other, pointing at the "Cupid" who had captured their star midfielder’s undivided attention. Panic flared in her chest—that familiar, quiet urge to hide.

As Jamal held the phone up for one last shot, Mimi turned her back to the camera. She didn't want her face in this one; she wanted to disappear into him. She leaned in, pressing her body against his side, and stood on her tiptoes. Instead of looking at the screen, she pressed her lips firmly against the side of his neck, just below his jawline.

She felt Jamal stiffen for a split second in surprise before he relaxed, a low, shaky breath escaping him. She pulled away, leaving a clear, shimmering pink smudge of lipstick against his tan skin.

"Mimi," he whispered, his voice sounding slightly strained.

"I'm camera shy, remember?" she teased, though her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Jamal didn't say anything. He just looked at the photo on his screen—the back of a pink-winged angel, her face hidden, marking him as hers. With a decisive tap of his thumb, he uploaded the carousel to his Instagram.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her eyes widening.

"Giving the people what they want," he joked, though the flush on his own cheeks suggested he was just as affected as she was.

Within ten minutes, the digital world exploded. Mimi didn't see it yet; she was too busy being ushered toward the drinks by Jamal. But across the room, phones were chiming. The "Cupid" post was going viral. The comments were a frenzy of 'Who is she?' and 'Jamal is off the market!' and 'Look at the lipstick mark!'

The party moved into the large lounge area, where the lighting was dimmer and the music had shifted to a slower, R&B rhythm. Mimi felt a bit more relaxed now, the initial shock of the costume having worn off. She found herself backed against a pillar, a glass of sparkling water in her hand, while Jamal stood directly in front of her.

He had one hand braced on the pillar beside her head, the other resting firmly on her waist. The height difference was pronounced; she had to tilt her head back significantly to meet his gaze.

"Are you having fun?" he asked. The noise of the party seemed to fade into a dull hum, leaving only the two of them in a private bubble.

"I am now," Mimi admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "It was a bit overwhelming at first."

Jamal leaned in closer. The scent of his cologne—something woody and clean—wrapped around her. "I won't let anyone bother you. You know that, right?"

Mimi looked up at him, her dark, curly lashes fluttering. She was looking at him with such intensity, hanging on every word, that she didn't notice Leroy Sané standing a few yards away, grinning as he snapped a candid photo of the pair.

In the photo Leroy took, the lighting was moody and atmospheric. The pink of Mimi’s wig glowed under the purple LED lights. Jamal was bent slightly at the waist, his face inches from hers, his hand gripping her hip as if he were afraid she might fly away. Mimi was looking up at him, her expression one of pure, unadulterated adoration. You could almost feel the electricity between them through the screen.

"You have a bit of pink right here," Jamal said softly, reaching out. His thumb brushed the corner of her lower lip, lingering much longer than necessary.

Mimi felt his breath against her skin. It was warm and steady, a sharp contrast to the frantic pace of her pulse. "Did you get it off?"

"No," Jamal murmured, his eyes dropping to her mouth. "I think I just made it worse."

"Jamal," she breathed, her hand reaching up to rest on his chest, feeling the solid beat of his heart beneath the fabric of his shirt.

"I don't really care about the party anymore," he confessed, his voice dropping to a register that made her toes curl in her boots. "I think I just want to stay right here."

Mimi smiled, a genuine, radiant thing that reached her eyes. "Cupid finally hit her target, then?"

Jamal chuckled, a deep, vibrating sound. "She didn't even need the arrows."

Meanwhile, Leroy had already posted the candid shot to his story with a simple caption: 'Love is in the air. 🏹❤️'

By the time the clock struck midnight, the internet was in a full-blown meltdown. The two images—the deliberate, playful mark on his neck and the raw, intimate moment by the pillar—had painted a picture that no one could ignore. Jamal Musiala, the golden boy of German football, was hopelessly enchanted by his pink-winged Cupid.

Back at the party, oblivious to the millions of likes and retweets, Mimi leaned her head against Jamal’s shoulder. The wings were a bit itchy, and the wig was starting to get hot, but as Jamal tightened his hold on her waist and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, she decided she never wanted to take the costume off.

"Let's get out of here," Jamal whispered. "I think I've had enough of sharing you with the room."

Mimi nodded, tucking her hand into his. "Lead the way, Jamal."

As they walked out, the pink lipstick mark was still visible on his neck, a bright, defiant badge of honor that stayed there long after the party ended.