Love

The neon lights of the festival stage were still burned into Jamal’s retinas, even hours after the show had ended. He sat on the edge of the plush velvet sofa in their Munich penthouse, the blue light of his phone screen illuminating his face in the dark living room. He knew he should put it away. He knew he should just wait for her to come through the door, but the algorithm was relentless.

Every second scroll on TikTok was a new angle of the same thirty seconds.

The bass of Honey thrummed even through the tiny phone speakers. On screen, Mi was a vision in obsidian. The black leather miniskirt hugged her tiny waist, emphasizing the delicate curve of her hips, while the V-cut top hinted at the soft skin of her chest. She looked powerful. She looked untouchable.

Then came the bridge.

“Give me all your honey, baby, make it pour...”

The choreography shifted. Mi dropped low, her movements fluid and hypnotic, a perfect blend of R&B soul and raw magnetism. As she turned, the hem of the skirt rode up just enough to offer a fleeting, heart-stopping glimpse of skin. The crowd’s roar in the video was deafening, a wall of sound that seemed to vibrate Jamal’s very bones.

He glanced at the comments.

“Jamal Musiala is the luckiest man on the planet. I’d fold instantly.”

“The way she looked at the camera during the chorus? She knew she was ending us all.”

“Musiala better be treating her like a queen because the rest of the world is ready to step in.”

Jamal sighed, dropping the phone onto the cushion beside him. He wasn't the jealous type—not usually. He was a professional athlete; he understood performance, he understood the grind, and he was immensely proud of her. But there was a strange, prickly heat in his chest seeing the entire world lust after the woman who, just twenty-four hours ago, had been wearing his oversized hoodie and complaining about a broken toaster.

The sound of a key turning in the lock broke the silence.

Jamal stood up just as the door swung open. Mi stepped inside, looking nothing like the pop titan who had just commanded a stadium of fifty thousand people. Her curly brown hair was a wild, tangled halo around her head, her makeup was slightly smudged under her eyes, and she was swaddled in a massive, fluffy faux-fur coat that made her look even smaller than she already was.

She spotted him and her entire face transformed. The fierce, sultry gaze from the viral clips vanished, replaced by a wide, weary, and incredibly soft smile.

"Jamal," she breathed, her voice raspy from singing.

She didn't even take off her boots before she was crossing the room, collapsing into his arms. Jamal caught her easily, his large hands spanning the narrow width of her waist. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply.

"You’re home," he murmured, his hands sliding up her back to cradle her head.

"I missed you so much," she mumbled against his skin, her arms wrapping tightly around his middle. "Everything was so loud. I just wanted to be here. With you."

He pulled back just enough to look at her. Up close, the "It Girl" of the year looked like a tired college student. Her cheeks were flushed, and she looked up at him through her lashes with that characteristic shyness that she only ever showed him.

"You were incredible, Mi," he said softly. "I watched the livestream. The whole world is talking about you."

A deep pink hue crept up her neck and dusted her cheeks. She ducked her head, hiding her face against his chest again. "Don't. It's embarrassing."

Jamal chuckled, the tension in his chest beginning to thaw. "Embarrassing? You were the most confident person I’ve ever seen. That dance... the one for the bridge?"

Mi groaned, her voice muffled. "The skirt was too short. I didn't realize how much it moved until I was already doing it. My manager said the clips are everywhere. I kind of want to crawl under the bed and never come out."

"Everyone thinks the song is about me," Jamal teased, though his voice held a trace of genuine curiosity.

Mi pulled back, her dark eyes wide and earnest. She reached up, her small hands framing his jaw, her fingers cool against his skin. "It is about you, Jam. Who else would it be about? The 'honey' part... that's just how I feel when we're alone. It's not for them. I just have to pretend it is when I'm on stage."

She stood on her tiptoes, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. She tasted like lip gloss and exhaustion, but she felt like home. When she pulled away, she looked at him with such pure adoration that Jamal felt a bit foolish for his earlier bout of insecurity.

"I'm going to go get out of this leather," she whispered, her eyes dancing with a bit of mischief. "It’s sticking to me. Can we just... watch a movie? And not talk to anyone?"

"I'd like nothing more," Jamal agreed.

Twenty minutes later, the leather skirt and V-cut top were discarded on the bedroom floor. Mi emerged in a pair of gray sweatpants and one of Jamal’s training shirts that hung down to her mid-thigh. She looked tiny, her curly hair piled into a messy bun on top of her head.

She crawled onto the sofa, immediately tucking herself into Jamal’s side. He draped a heavy wool blanket over them, his arm acting as a pillow for her head. She was a total homebody, a stark contrast to the high-octane energy of her public persona. Here, in the quiet of their home, she was clingy in the best way possible, constantly seeking out his touch.

"You know," Jamal said, his fingers tracing patterns on her arm. "I saw a comment today that said I was the luckiest man on the planet."

Mi shifted, looking up at him. "And what did you think?"

"I think they're right," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "But not for the reasons they think. They think I'm lucky because of the girl in the black leather skirt. I think I'm lucky because of the girl who refuses to eat the crusts on her toast and falls asleep ten minutes into every movie we watch."

Mi’s lip trembled slightly, a shy smile breaking across her face. "You're so cheesy."

"I'm serious," he insisted, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "You were beautiful tonight. You were a star. But you’re my star."

She sighed, a contented sound that vibrated against his chest. "I like being your star best. The stage is... it's fun, but it's not real. This is real."

She reached for his hand, interlacing their fingers. Her hand looked so small in his, her nails painted a shimmering gold that caught the dim light.

"Is the song really about that night in London?" he asked quietly, referring to a lyrics about a rainy balcony and a shared secret.

Mi went stiff for a second, her blush returning twofold. She bit her lip, nodding slowly. "I didn't think people would pick up on the details. I thought I was being subtle."

"You weren't," Jamal laughed, pulling her closer. "Every fan account has mapped out our entire relationship timeline based on your lyrics."

"Oh, god," she groaned, burying her face in his shoulder. "I should have written about something boring. Like... like the weather. Or taxes."

"People would still find a way to link it to me," Jamal said, feeling a surge of protective warmth. "That’s just how it is when you’re the 'It Girl'."

"I don't want to be the 'It Girl'," Mi whispered, her voice growing sleepy. "I just want to be your girl."

"You're both," he said firmly.

He felt her relax completely against him, her breathing evening out as the adrenaline of the day finally faded. This was the part the cameras never saw—the quiet, the mundane, the absolute devotion she had for him. The world saw a siren, a woman who commanded attention with a flick of her wrist. Jamal saw the girl who got shy when he complimented her eyes, the girl who needed to be touching him to feel safe.

He reached for the remote, turning the volume down low on a random documentary. As he looked down at her, he realized that the jealousy he’d felt earlier was gone. Let the world have their thirty-second clips and their viral dances. Let them speculate and admire from afar.

They could have the honey. Jamal had the heart.

He leaned his head back against the sofa, closing his eyes as Mi’s soft breaths tickled his neck. Outside, the world was still buzzing about her performance, but inside the four walls of their sanctuary, it was just Jamal and his girl, exactly where they were meant to be.

"Jamal?" she murmured, her eyes barely open.

"Yeah, Mi?"

"Don't let me go to the studio tomorrow. I just want to stay here. With you. All day."

"I promise," he whispered, kissing the top of her head. "No studio. Just us."

She hummed in approval, drifting off into a deep sleep, her small hand still gripped tightly in his, a silent anchor in the whirlwind of their lives.