I want you

The first time Nini tried to shift the tectonic plates of their friendship, she opted for the classic "movie night" maneuver. She had spent two hours getting ready, choosing a silk slip dress that was far too impractical for a couch and letting her long, brown curls cascade over her shoulders in a way she knew framed her face perfectly. She looked, in her own estimation, like a woman ready to be kissed.

Jamal arrived at her apartment with a bag of Haribo and a grin that could light up the Allianz Arena. He didn't even blink at the dress.

"Nice pajamas, Nini," he said, hopping onto the sofa and immediately turning on the PlayStation. "Are we watching the movie or are we playing FIFA? I need to practice my skill moves before the weekend."

Nini sat down beside him, tucking one leg under her so that the silk hiked up her thigh, revealing a generous amount of skin. She leaned into his space, her perfume—a heavy, amber scent—practically screaming for attention.

"I thought we could just... talk," she murmured, looking at him through her lashes. "Or watch something romantic."

Jamal didn't look away from the screen. "We talk every day! And romance movies are always the same. Come on, play one match with me. You can be Real Madrid."

He handed her a controller without even looking at her legs. Nini spent the next hour losing 4-0 while Jamal explained the importance of his thumb placement on the joystick. He was so focused, so purely joyful in her company, that he failed to notice she wasn't looking at the TV at all. He eventually left with a friendly pat on her head, telling her she looked "real comfortable" before heading home to catch up on sleep.

---

The second attempt was more calculated. It was a summer evening, and they were lounging by his pool. Nini had bought a bikini that was little more than a few strings and a prayer. It was designed to turn heads, and as she stepped out of the water, droplets clinging to her skin, she felt confident. She was petite, but she knew she had curves in all the right places.

Jamal was lying on a sun lounger, scrolling through his phone. As Nini approached, she made sure to move with a certain deliberate sway. She sat on the edge of his lounger, effectively blocking his view of the screen.

"It’s so hot today, isn't it?" she asked, her voice dropping an octave. She reached back to wring out her hair, a gesture that arched her back and accentuated everything she wanted him to see.

Jamal squinted up at her, shielding his eyes from the sun. "Yeah, it’s brutal. You should probably put on a t-shirt or more sunscreen, Nini. Your shoulders look a bit pink. I don't want you getting sunstroke; you know how you get when you’re sick."

Nini stared at him, her mouth slightly agape. "Jamal, I’m fine. I’m just... enjoying the sun."

"I have a spare hoodie inside if you want it," he offered earnestly, already half-rising to go get it. "It’s that oversized one you like. It’ll cover you right up."

"I don't want to be covered up!" she snapped, her frustration finally bubbling over.

Jamal blinked, his dark eyes wide with genuine confusion. "Okay, okay. No need to be grumpy. It’s the heat, I’m telling you. Drink some water."

He handed her a lukewarm bottle of Evian and went back to checking his match stats. To him, she wasn't a siren rising from the depths; she was Nini, his best friend who was prone to sunburn and needed looking after.

---

The third time, Nini decided to use the power of the "accidental" touch. They were at a quiet bar in Maxvorstadt, tucked into a corner booth. The lighting was low, the music was soft, and the atmosphere was ripe for a confession.

Nini reached across the table, placing her hand firmly over his. She didn't pull away. She rubbed her thumb over his knuckles, watching him intently.

"Jamal," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "Do you ever think about... us? About how long we’ve been in each other's lives?"

Jamal smiled, his expression softening into that pure, sweet look he always gave her. "All the time. I was telling my mum the other day, I don't know what I’d do without you. You’re like the sister I never had, Nin. You keep me grounded."

The word 'sister' hit Nini like a physical blow to the stomach. She pulled her hand back as if burned.

"I’m not your sister, Jamal," she said sharply.

"I know that," he laughed, oblivious to the heartbreak in her tone. "I just mean you’re family. You’re the purest person I know. I can always count on you to be yourself, no matter how crazy the football world gets."

He saw her as 'pure.' He saw her as a sanctuary, a piece of his childhood he could keep in a glass box, untouched by the complexities of adult desire. It was the highest compliment he could give, and yet it felt like a prison sentence to her.

---

The fourth attempt was a desperate one. It was after a gala event where Jamal had been honored. They were back at his apartment, and Nini was wearing a floor-length gown that hugged every inch of her body. She had spent the entire night watching women throw themselves at him, and she was done playing nice.

When he went to the kitchen to get a glass of water, she followed him. She didn't say a word. She walked straight up to him, trapped him between her arms against the kitchen counter, and leaned in until their noses were almost touching.

"Jamal," she breathed, her eyes darting to his lips. "Stop being so dense."

Jamal froze. For a second, his breath hitched. He looked down at her, his eyes searching hers. Nini thought, Finally. This is it.

Then, his face crumbled into a look of deep concern. He reached up and placed a hand on her forehead.

"Nini, you’re burning up," he said, his voice laced with worry. "And your eyes are all glassy. Are you coming down with the flu? I knew you shouldn't have worn that thin dress in this weather."

He gently moved her aside, guided her to the sofa, and wrapped her in a wool blanket. "Stay there. I’ll get you some tea and some aspirin. Don't worry, I’ll take care of you."

Nini sat under the blanket, fuming in silence, as the man she loved hovered over a kettle, completely convinced she was suffering from a viral infection rather than a romantic one.

---

The fifth time happened by accident, which was perhaps the only way it could ever work with a man like Jamal Musiala.

It was a rainy Tuesday. There were no silk dresses, no bikinis, and no calculated touches. Nini had come over to his place after a long day at work, drenched from the walk from her car. She was wearing a pair of old gray leggings and one of Jamal’s own training shirts that she’d stolen months ago. Her hair was a wild, wet mess of curls, and she had no makeup on.

She was standing in his kitchen, trying to open a stubborn jar of pasta sauce while Jamal sat at the island, watching a replay of a Champions League match.

"Stupid... piece of... rubbish," Nini hissed, her face turning red as she twisted the lid with all her might.

"Need help?" Jamal asked, not looking up.

"No! I’ve got it!"

She gave one final, violent shove. The lid didn't budge, but her hand slipped, and she slammed her knuckles against the counter. She let out a sharp cry of pain, the jar thudding onto the floor—thankfully not breaking—as she clutched her hand to her chest.

Jamal was off the stool in a heartbeat. "Nini! Are you okay?"

He reached for her hand, pulling it away from her chest to inspect the damage. It was just a bruise, but Nini was suddenly overwhelmed. The months of failed seductions, the 'sister' comments, the sheer exhaustion of loving someone who saw her as a saint—it all came crashing down.

Tears pricked her eyes. "I’m fine, Jamal. Just leave it."

"You’re not fine, you’re crying," he said softly, his thumbs stroking the back of her hand. He stepped closer, his brow furrowed. "Why are you so upset? It’s just a jar."

"It’s not the jar!" she yelled, her voice cracking. "It’s you! You’re so... you’re so blind!"

She tried to pull away, but he held her firm. He was looking at her differently now. The playful, oblivious light in his eyes had vanished, replaced by a sudden, sharp intensity. He noticed the way her wet shirt clung to her, the way her breath was coming in short, jagged gasps, and the way her lips were trembling.

For the first time, he wasn't looking at his childhood friend. He was looking at the woman standing in his kitchen, radiating heat and frustration and something much more potent.

"Nini?" he whispered, his voice dropping into a register she had never heard before.

"What?" she snapped, blinking back tears.

He didn't answer with words. He reached out, his hand sliding from her wrist up to her neck, his thumb tilting her chin upward. The air in the kitchen suddenly felt heavy, charged with a static electricity that made the hair on Nini’s arms stand up.

"You’re wearing my shirt," he noted, his gaze dropping to the fabric stretched over her chest.

"I... I didn't have anything else dry," she stammered, her bravado failing her.

Jamal leaned in, his face inches from hers. The "pure" vision he had of her was shattering, piece by piece, as he took in the scent of rain and vanilla on her skin. He saw the fire in her eyes, the way she was looking at him—not with sisterly affection, but with a raw, aching hunger.

"I’m not blind, Nini," he murmured, his breath hot against her skin. "I think I was just scared."

"Scared of what?"

"Scared that if I looked too closely, I wouldn't be able to stop myself."

He didn't give her a chance to respond. He leaned down and captured her lips with a sudden, desperate hunger that knocked the wind out of her. It wasn't a tentative first kiss; it was the explosion of years of suppressed tension.

Nini’s hands flew to his hair, her fingers tangling in the short curls as she pulled him closer. The jar of sauce sat forgotten on the floor. Jamal groaned low in his throat, his hands sliding down to her waist, lifting her effortlessly until she was sitting on the kitchen counter.

He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against hers, both of them panting. His eyes were dark, focused, and entirely devoid of his usual innocence.

"Was that... what you were trying to do with the movie?" he asked breathlessly, a small, crooked smirk forming on his lips.

Nini let out a watery laugh, tugging on the collar of his shirt to bring him back down to her. "And the bikini. And the bar. And the gala. You are an idiot, Jamal Musiala."

"Maybe," he whispered, his lips grazing her jawline. "But I’m your idiot. And for the record? You look way better in my shirt than I do."

He kissed her again, deeper this time, and Nini finally realized that she didn't need the silk or the perfume. She just needed him to finally open his eyes.