Love

The shopping bags felt heavier than they actually were, a physical weight representing the internal conflict Mimi had been battling all afternoon. Her sister, Sarah, had been relentless. For three hours, Mimi had been paraded through the high-end boutiques and trendy shops of Munich, dodging racks of sequins and silk while Sarah played the role of a high-fashion drill sergeant.

"Mimi, you are literally living with Jamal Musiala," Sarah had whispered urgently over a rack of pastel sundresses. "The man is a star. He’s gorgeous. You can’t just wear his oversized hoodies every single day. Give him something to look at!"

"He likes my hoodies," Mimi had protested, though her voice lacked conviction. "He says I look cute when I’m swimming in his clothes."

"Cute is for puppies, Mimi. Try for 'breathtaking' just once."

Now, back in the quiet sanctuary of the apartment she shared with Jamal, Mimi stood in the center of their bedroom, staring at the glossy shopping bags scattered across the duvet. The apartment was silent, save for the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Jamal was still at the Säbener Strasse for training, likely finishing up drills or spending extra time in the gym. He was dedicated, focused, and—as Sarah constantly reminded her—incredibly handsome.

Mimi caught her reflection in the full-length mirror. Her curly brown hair was a bit wild from the wind outside, framing a face that she considered 'average,' despite Jamal’s constant insists that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She was small, petite in a way that made Jamal look even more like the towering athlete he was when they stood together.

She sighed, reaching into the nearest bag. "Just one," she muttered to herself. "Just to see if Sarah was right."

She peeled off her baggy denim jeans and the thick cotton sweatshirt she’d worn out. The cool air of the bedroom hit her skin, making her shiver slightly. From the bag, she pulled out a skirt—a shade of soft, dusty pink that Sarah had insisted matched the undertones of her skin perfectly. It was a miniskirt, shorter than anything Mimi had ever dared to buy for herself. The fabric was a delicate velvet, soft under her fingertips.

She stepped into it, zipping it up at the hip. It hugged her curves in a way her jeans never did, highlighting the slope of her waist and the length of her legs. Next came the top. It was a cropped blouse, white with tiny embroidered flowers, featuring puff sleeves that sat just off the shoulders.

Mimi struggled with the small buttons, her fingers fumbling. The hem of the top ended just above her navel, leaving a daring sliver of her midriff exposed. She leaned in toward the mirror, adjusting the neckline, her brow furrowed in concentration. She looked... different. She looked like the girls she saw in the VIP stands at the Allianz Arena, the ones who looked effortlessly polished.

"It's too much," she whispered, her hand going to her stomach. "I look like I'm trying too hard."

Just as she reached back to undo the zipper of the skirt, the distinct sound of the front door clicking open echoed through the hallway.

Mimi froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Jamal wasn’t supposed to be home for another hour. She heard the familiar thud of his sports bag hitting the floor and the soft whistle he always made when he was in a good mood.

"Mimi? You home, babe?" his voice called out, deep and melodious.

"In the bedroom!" she shouted back, panic rising. "Don't come in yet! I'm—I'm changing!"

But Jamal was already moving. He was used to their shared space, used to the easy intimacy of their lives. He pushed the door open, a bright smile on his face, his hair slightly damp from a post-training shower.

"I finished early, we didn't do the full tactical—"

The sentence died in his throat. Jamal stopped dead in the doorway, his hand still resting on the handle. His dark eyes, usually filled with a playful, boyish light, widened as they swept over her.

Mimi felt a heat crawl up her neck, staining her cheeks a deep crimson. She instinctively tried to pull the hem of the tiny blouse down, but it wouldn't budge. "I was just... Sarah made me buy things. I was going to take it off. It’s stupid, right?"

Jamal didn't answer immediately. His gaze was intense, traveling from her messy curls down to the exposed skin of her waist, and then lower to the way the pink velvet clung to her thighs. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. The air in the room suddenly felt thick, charged with an electricity that made the hair on Mimi’s arms stand up.

"Jamal?" she prompted nervously, shifting her weight. "Say something. You're scaring me."

He finally moved, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room. He walked toward her slowly, his movements fluid and deliberate, like a predator who had just realized the prey was far more captivating than he’d imagined.

"You look," he started, his voice dropping an octave, sounding raspier than usual, "incredible, Mimi."

"Really?" She looked back at the mirror, then at him. "It’s not too short? Sarah said I needed to be more... feminine. Since we're living together and you're, you know, you."

Jamal reached her, stopping just inches away. The scent of his cologne—something clean and expensive—mixed with the faint smell of the grass from the pitch. He reached out, his large, warm hand hovering just over the exposed skin of her waist before he let his fingers graze her.

Mimi gasped softly at the contact. His skin was hot against hers.

"I don't care what Sarah says," Jamal murmured, his eyes locked onto hers. "I love you in my hoodies. I love you in your jeans. But this?" He let his hand slide around to the small of her back, pulling her a fraction closer. "This is doing something to me, Mimi."

"Is it a good something?" she whispered, her confidence beginning to flicker to life under the heat of his stare.

Jamal let out a low, breathy laugh, leaning down so his forehead rested against hers. "A very good something. I can barely breathe, to be honest. You look so pretty, it hurts a little bit."

Mimi smiled, her hands finding their way to his chest, feeling the steady, rapid thumping of his heart beneath his training shirt. "She said I needed to dress up for you. That I was being too lazy."

"You could wear a trash bag and I’d still want to come home to you every day," Jamal said fiercely. He pulled back just enough to look at her again, his eyes dark with a mixture of admiration and something much hungrier. "But this pink... it suits you. It makes you look like a little doll. My doll."

He ran a thumb over the hem of the cropped top, his touch lingering on the soft skin of her stomach. Mimi felt a shiver run down her spine that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. The way he was looking at her—not just as his girlfriend, but as a woman who utterly captivated him—made her feel powerful in a way she hadn't expected.

"I thought you'd think it was silly," Mimi admitted, her voice trembling slightly. "That I was trying to be someone I'm not."

Jamal shook his head, his curls bouncing slightly. "Mimi, look at me. You're not 'trying' to be anything. You're just you. And you happen to be the most beautiful girl in Munich, whether you're in a three-euro t-shirt or this." He gestured to the outfit. "But if you wear this out of the house, I might have to stay glued to your side the whole night. I don't think I'd like other guys looking at you like this."

Mimi giggled, the tension breaking just enough for her to lean into him. "Possessive much?"

"When it comes to you? Always," he admitted unashamedly. He wrapped both arms around her waist, lifting her slightly so she had to stand on her tiptoes. "Don't take it off yet."

"I have five more bags to try on," she teased, emboldened by his reaction.

Jamal’s eyebrows shot up, a smirk playing on his lips. "Five more? Well, in that case, I think I should stay right here and be the judge. We need a professional opinion, don't we?"

"You're supposed to be resting for the game on Saturday," she reminded him, though she was already reaching for the next bag.

Jamal pulled her back into a lingering kiss, one that tasted of promise and adoration. When he pulled away, he was breathless. "Trust me, Mimi. Looking at you like this? This is the best recovery I could ask for."

She laughed, feeling a sudden rush of gratitude for her sister’s persistence. Maybe Sarah was right about one thing—change wasn't always a bad thing, especially when it resulted in the look of pure, unadulterated devotion currently written all over Jamal Musiala’s face.

"Okay," Mimi said, stepping back and reaching for a blue silk slip dress. "Sit down, Musiala. The fashion show is just beginning."

Jamal dropped onto the edge of the bed, leaning back on his elbows, a predatory, delighted grin on his face. "Take your time, babe. I'm not going anywhere."