Love

For the past twelve months, Mi had existed in a beautiful, gilded bubble. To the world, Jamal Musiala was the "Bambi" of Bayern Munich, the starboy with feet like a magician and a smile that could melt the Bavarian ice. To Mi, he was just Jamal—the boy who stole the covers, the boy who took his tea with too much honey, and the man who held her as if she were the most precious thing in the universe.

Being the girlfriend of one of the most famous footballers in the world required a certain level of tactical stealth. Mi was naturally private, a trait that suited Jamal’s protective nature perfectly. They had spent a year dodging the flashbulbs, opting for quiet dinners at home or secluded vacations where the only audience was the ocean.

But even the best-laid plans have a weakness. For Mi, that weakness was the 9:00 AM reformer pilates class three blocks from their apartment.

It had started as a way to clear her head, but it ended with a single photographer lurking behind a parked SUV. The pictures had hit the internet on a Tuesday afternoon. By Tuesday evening, the world had shifted.

The photos were candid and strikingly clear. Mi was caught walking toward her car, her curly brown hair tumbling down her shoulders in messy, effortless waves. She was wearing a matching set of charcoal grey leggings and a cropped tank top that left little to the imagination regarding her physique. She was petite—barely reaching Jamal’s shoulder—but she was toned, with a dangerously thin waist and curves that the camera seemed to adore. She looked like a mixture of a high-fashion model and the girl next door, an intoxicating blend of "sexy" and "cute" that the internet was not prepared for.

Within hours, the images were everywhere. Twitter threads were dedicated to "Musiala’s Secret Muse," and Instagram fan pages were popping up with handles like @MiMusialaSource. The comments were a chaotic mix of admiration and intense, unabashed lust.

Jamal had been at the training ground when the frenzy started. He hadn't said anything when he got home, but the way he gripped his phone and the slight tension in his jaw told Mi everything she needed to know.

A few nights later, the atmosphere in their bedroom was thick with the scent of vanilla candles and the quiet hum of the city outside. They were tangled together under the duvet, Mi’s head resting on Jamal’s chest. His hand was tracing idle patterns over the skin of her arm, his touch light but possessive.

The silence was peaceful until Jamal let out a long, heavy sigh that vibrated against her ear.

"You know," he started, his voice a low rumble, "I think I liked it better when you were my little secret."

Mi shifted, propping herself up on her elbow to look at him. His dark eyes were fixed on the ceiling, but there was a pout to his lips that she recognized instantly. It was the look he got when a referee made a bad call—agitated and slightly wounded.

"Is this about the pilates pictures?" she asked, a playful lilt in her voice.

Jamal finally looked at her, his gaze dropping to the way her hair spilled over her shoulders. "It’s about the comments, Mi. I made the mistake of clicking on the 'Explore' page today."

Mi bit her lip to keep from grinning. "And? What did the people have to say?"

Jamal groaned, pulling her closer so that her chest was pressed against his. "They’re saying things I don't want to repeat. Someone called you a 'national treasure.' Another guy wrote a three-paragraph poem about your waistline. It’s... it’s a lot."

"A poem?" Mi laughed, the sound bright and melodic in the quiet room. "Jamal, are you telling me you’ve been doom-scrolling through my fan club comments?"

"It’s not a fan club," he muttered, though his grip on her waist tightened significantly. "It’s a bunch of strangers who think they have a chance. They don’t even know your last name, and they’re acting like they’re ready to propose."

Mi leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the hollow of his throat. She could feel his heartbeat, steady and strong. She secretly loved this. Jamal was usually so composed, so humble and relaxed. Seeing this flash of territorial jealousy was new, and it sent a thrill through her.

"You’re jealous," she whispered against his skin.

"I’m not jealous," he lied, though his fingers dug slightly into the soft curve of her hip. "I’m just... protective. I don't like the way they talk about you. Like you’re some prize to be won. They don't know how funny you are, or how you always burn the toast, or how you look when you wake up."

Mi pulled back just enough to catch his eye. "They only see the outside, Jamal. You’re the only one who gets the rest. Doesn't that make it better?"

Jamal looked at her for a long moment, his eyes softening as he took in her face. He reached up, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "It makes me want to lock the door and never let you leave the house again. Especially not in those grey leggings."

Mi giggled, poking him in the ribs. "Those leggings are for core strength, Musiala! My instructor says my posture is improving."

"Your posture is fine," he grumbled, rolling them over so he was hovering above her. His frame was lean but powerful, casting a shadow over her small form. "Your posture is perfect. Everything about you is perfect. That’s the problem."

"You’re being dramatic," she teased, reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck. "You’re the one who’s on billboards. You have millions of people screaming your name every weekend. I think I can handle a few thirsty comments on Twitter."

Jamal’s expression turned serious, his thumb grazing her lower lip. "It’s different for you. You didn't sign up for this. I wanted to keep you safe from the noise."

"I’m not made of glass, Jamal," she said softly, her heart swelling at his sincerity. "I knew who you were when I fell for you. If a few pictures are the price for being with you, I’ll pay it. Besides, it’s a little bit flattering."

Jamal narrowed his eyes. "Flattering?"

"Just a little," she admitted, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Knowing that all those people think I’m pretty, but I’m the one coming home to you? It’s a good feeling."

Jamal let out a huff of breath, his forehead dropping to rest against hers. "You’re enjoying this, aren't you? Seeing me get all worked up."

"Maybe a little bit," Mi confessed, her hands sliding into his hair. "It’s cute when you’re possessive. It reminds me that you’re not just the world-class athlete everyone sees on TV. You’re just a boy who’s worried about his girl."

"I’m not worried," he countered, though his voice had lost its edge. "I know you’re mine. I just... I want to remind them. Maybe I should post a picture."

Mi gasped, her eyes widening. "Jamal, no! We agreed on no public posts yet. The chaos would be ten times worse."

"Just a hand," he suggested, a devious smirk finally touching his lips. "Or a silhouette. Just something to let the 'poets' know that the seat is taken."

"You are such a brat," she laughed, pulling him down for a proper kiss.

The kiss was slow and deep, a silent reassurance that eclipsed any comment section or viral tweet. Jamal tasted like mint and home, his hands moving with a familiar, hungry grace that made Mi’s breath hitch. When he eventually pulled back, he was breathing heavily, his eyes dark with a mix of adoration and something much more primal.

"Fine," he whispered, his lips grazing her ear. "No posts. For now. But if I see one more person calling you their 'wife' in the comments, I’m wearing a shirt with your face on it under my jersey for the next match."

Mi burst out laughing, the image of Jamal celebrating a goal by revealing her face on a t-shirt too ridiculous to contemplate. "You wouldn't dare. Thomas Müller would never let you live it down."

"I would," Jamal insisted, his arms wrapping around her like a vice. "I’d do anything for my girl."

Mi sighed, sinking into his warmth. The viral pictures were still out there, and the world was still talking, but in the sanctuary of their room, none of it mattered. She was petite, she was private, and she was currently being crushed by a very jealous, very handsome midfielder—and she wouldn't have it any other way.

"Go to sleep, Jamal," she murmured, closing her eyes.

"I’m watching you," he teased, though he settled down beside her, pulling the blanket up over them both. "And I’m watching the internet. They better behave."

Mi smiled into the darkness, listening to the rhythm of his breathing. She knew the fame would only get louder, and the bubble would eventually pop, but as long as she had Jamal’s arms around her, she felt perfectly safe. Even if she did have to find a new route to her pilates class.