You're mine

For as long as he could remember, Arda Güler had lived in a world where everyone cast a longer shadow than he did.

At Valdebebas, walking down the tiled hallways toward the dressing rooms felt like navigating a forest of giants. Antonio Rüdiger was a broad-shouldered wall of raw muscle who slapped him on the back with enough force to rattle his ribs; Thibaut Courtois had to bend nearly in half just to hear what he was saying over the hum of the training facility; Jude Bellingham strolled in with the broad, effortless stride of a born commander. Even when Arda dazzled them with his footwork, threading impossible passes between boots twice the size of his own, he remained the baby of the squad. He was their prodigy, their little brother, always patted on the head, ruffled by experienced hands, and teased for his lean frame.

He had accepted it. Football was a game of giants, and he was the needle that slipped between them.

Then came Nini.

The memory of the first time he saw her was etched so clearly into his mind it felt like a physical carving. It had been a quiet Tuesday afternoon in a quiet Salamanca café tucked away from the prying eyes of Madrid’s paparazzi. She had been standing at the counter, completely unaware of him, waiting for an iced matcha latte. Her hair was an untamed cascade of dark brown curls that bounced with every tilt of her head, and she was wearing an oversized knit sweater that swallowed her whole.

When she turned around, taking a cautious step back to avoid bumping into someone, she had walked directly into his chest.

Arda had caught her by the elbows to steady her. And in that single, breathless second, the entire axis of his universe had tilted.

He had looked down. Not slightly down, as he did when speaking to his younger cousins back in Ankara, but truly down. She barely reached the center of his chest. Her upturned face was framed by those soft, springy curls, her dark eyes widening in startled apology as she looked up—and up—at him. When she breathed an embarrassed "Perdón," her voice was as soft and delicate as the rest of her.

Something ancient and dormant had awakened in Arda’s ribs that day. For nineteen years, he had been the boy everyone looked out for, the slight playmaker who needed shielding from bruising defenders. But holding Nini’s slender elbows, feeling just how ridiculously petite she was under that heavy wool sweater, a fierce, primal heat had sparked deep in his chest.

She was so tiny. Fragile, almost, though her fiery personality soon proved she was anything but weak. Yet physically, she felt like something made of spun glass that only he had been entrusted to keep safe.

Within a month, they were inseparable. Within two, Arda had discovered a side of himself that shocked even his closest friends.

He became utterly, hopelessly clingy.

It started innocently enough. Whenever they walked through the streets of Madrid—shielded by bucket hats and low-slung sunglasses—he couldn't bear to let her hand go. Her hand was practically half the size of his; his fingers could curl completely around her palm, enclosing her small, warm knuckles entirely within his grasp. He found himself thumbing the delicate skin of her wrist, feeling the flutter of her pulse beneath his skin like a captive bird.

Whenever they stood still—at a pedestrian crossing, waiting in an elevator, standing in the kitchen while water boiled for pasta—he would inevitably drift behind her. He would wrap his arms completely around her shoulders or waist, tucking her neatly against his torso until her back was pressed flush to his chest. He would rest his chin right on top of her head, inhaling the sweet vanilla scent of her hair, marveling at how perfectly she fit beneath him.

He was the fortress. She was the treasure inside.

"You're like an octopus, Arda," she had giggled one evening in his living room, squirming playfully as he tugged her onto his lap while playing FIFA.

"I am comfortable," he had replied in his accented Spanish, burying his nose into the crook of her neck. He hooked his chin over her shoulder, his long legs bracketing hers on the sofa. "You don't like it?"

"I didn't say that," Nini whispered, leaning back against him with a soft sigh that made his chest tighten with overwhelming affection.

"Good. Because you cannot move anyway."

That clinginess, however, carried an edge. An edge that sharpened whenever other people entered the equation.

The Real Madrid squad had caught wind of Arda’s new romance quickly enough. At first, the locker room was delighted. Rodrygo and Eduardo Camavinga relentlessly teased him, demanding to know who had managed to tame their shy Turkish jewel. When Arda finally agreed to bring Nini to a team barbecue hosted at Jude Bellingham’s sprawling estate on a sun-drenched Sunday afternoon, he had known what to expect: warmth, laughter, and endless teasing.

What he hadn't fully anticipated was the suffocating wave of jealousy that crashed over him the moment they walked through Jude’s ornate iron gates.

Nini looked breathtaking. She wore a simple white sundress with thin straps, her wild curls piled loosely on top of her head with a few tendrils framing her collarbones. On her feet were flat leather sandals. Without heels, the height difference between them was starkly evident. Arda, in a dark polo and tailored trousers, looked lean and surprisingly tall standing beside her.

As they walked across the manicured lawn toward the patio, Nini instinctively reached for his hand. Arda caught it instantly, his fingers locking between hers with a firmness that bordered on bruising.

"Relax," she whispered, looking up at him with amusement. "Your jaw is clenched so hard I can hear your teeth grinding."

"I am relaxed," Arda muttered, but his dark eyes were scanning the patio like a soldier entering hostile territory.

"Arda! Hermano!"

Eduardo Camavinga was the first to spot them, a brilliant grin lighting up his face as he jogged over, followed closely by Aurélien Tchouaméni and Jude. Eduardo, overflowing with his usual exuberance, spread his arms wide as he approached.

"Finally! You brought her!" Eduardo beamed, stepping forward to greet Nini with the standard, affectionate double-cheek kiss common among friends.

Before Eduardo’s hands could even graze Nini’s bare shoulders, Arda had already shifted.

It was seamless, almost fluid, born of pure athletic instinct. Arda took half a step forward, subtly positioning his left shoulder in front of Nini’s frame, effectively cutting off Eduardo’s angle of approach. At the same time, Arda’s free hand left Nini’s fingers only to slide heavily, possessively, around her bare waist, pulling her firmly against his hip.

Eduardo blinked, his hands halting in mid-air as he found himself facing Arda’s chest rather than Nini’s cheek.

"Eduardo, this is Nini," Arda said. His voice was smooth, completely polite, but his grip on Nini’s waist tightened until she was practically glued to his side. "Nini, this is Eduardo."

Nini offered a polite, somewhat flustered smile around Arda’s shoulder. "It’s very nice to meet you."

Eduardo glanced from Arda’s stern, unblinking expression down to the white-knuckled grip Arda had anchored onto Nini’s hip. A knowing, incredibly amused smirk slowly spread across the Frenchman’s lips.

"Ah," Eduardo said, stepping back with his hands raised in mock surrender. "I see. A guard dog today, are we?"

Jude arrived a second later, chuckling as he caught the tail end of the interaction. "Don't scare her off, Cama. Hi, Nini. Welcome. We’re so glad you came—Arda literally talks about nothing else."

Nini beamed, turning her head toward Arda with raised eyebrows. "Does he really?"

"No," Arda said quickly, feeling heat creep up his neck. "He is lying."

"I have video evidence of him daydreaming during tactical analysis, mate," Jude shot back, offering Nini a warm, respectful nod rather than attempting a hug, clearly reading the possessive tension radiating off the younger player. "Go grab some food, both of you. Drinks are by the pool."

As Jude and Eduardo wandered back toward the grill, Nini nudged Arda’s ribs with her elbow.

"What was that?" she murmured under her breath as they walked toward an outdoor lounge area.

"What was what?"

"You practically body-checked Eduardo, Arda! He was just saying hello."

"He was going to touch you," Arda said plainly, not an ounce of remorse in his dark eyes. He guided her to an empty plush sofa, sitting down and immediately pulling her down with him, maneuvering her until she was seated practically between his knees.

"It's a cheek kiss, it's Spanish tradition!"

"You are not Spanish," Arda countered, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly Turkish cadence that always sent shivers down her spine. "You are mine. He can say hello with words."

Nini stared at him, torn between exasperation and the flutter in her stomach that betrayed her. "You are impossible."

"I am careful," he corrected. He reached out, his long fingers trailing up her bare arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake, before his hand cupped the back of her neck. He toyed with the soft curls at her nape, anchoring her to him. "You are too small, Nini. People don't look where they are going. They might bump into you. Or break you."

She rolled her eyes, leaning into the warmth of his palm despite herself. "I'm twenty-two years old, not a porcelain doll."

"To me, you are."

Throughout the afternoon, Arda’s behavior only solidified. To the rest of the team and their partners, it was equal parts hilarious and endearing.

Whenever Nini stood up to get a glass of water, Arda was instantly on his feet beside her, his hand never leaving the small of her back. When Vinicius Jr. tried to pull her into a lighthearted debate about who had better rhythm—Brazilians or Spaniards—Arda stood directly behind her chair, his arms crossed over his chest, chin practically resting on top of her wild curls as if daring anyone to make a wrong move. When Fede Valverde accidentally stepped too close while gesturing with a pair of barbecue tongs, Arda subtly hitched Nini several inches back toward his own chest with a firm tug on her waist.

"Look at him," Rüdiger barked with laughter from across the lawn, pointing a beer bottle in Arda’s direction. "The little Turkish prince thinks he's a bouncer now! Look at his face!"

Luka Modrić shook his head with an affectionate smile. "Leave the boy alone. He’s in love."

Arda ignored the shouts from his teammates. He didn't care what they thought. Out on the pitch, he could share the ball, he could share the glory, he could share the stadium with eighty thousand screaming fans. But here, in his life, this girl was the only thing that belonged entirely to him.

Every time he looked down and saw her petite frame beside him, that swelling sense of pride threatened to burst from his chest. With her, he wasn't the boy wonder who needed protecting. He was the protector.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the Madrid sky in deep hues of violet and burnt orange, the party mellowed. Soft music played from the terrace speakers, and couples scattered across the gardens, laughing softly over empty glasses.

Nini stood near the edge of the stone terrace, looking out over the sprawling green valley below. The evening breeze had picked up, carrying a slight chill that made her cross her arms over her chest.

In less than three seconds, a warm, heavy weight draped over her shoulders.

Arda’s jacket smelled of his crisp, woody cologne and the familiar warmth of his skin. Before she could thank him, two strong arms wound around her waist, pulling her back against a broad, solid chest. Arda tucked her under his chin, resting his cheek against the crown of her head, completely enveloping her in his frame.

"Cold?" he murmured, his breath warm against her temple.

"A little," she admitted, relaxing back into him. She placed her hands over his forearms, tracing the taut muscles beneath his skin. "Your teammates are nice. You didn't have to growl at all of them, you know."

"I didn't growl," he denied softly, though he pressed a kiss into her curls.

"You glared at Rodrygo when he handed me a napkin."

"He held the napkin too long."

Nini laughed, a quiet, bubbling sound that Arda felt vibrate directly against his ribs. She twisted in the circle of his arms until she was facing him.

Even with him standing entirely flat-footed, she had to crane her neck back to look him in the eye. The top of her head barely reached his collarbone. Arda looked down at her, his expression softening entirely, the hard, territorial edge melting away to reveal the pure, desperate adoration beneath.

"You really are ridiculous," she whispered, her hands coming up to rest flat against his chest, right over his racing heart.

"Only with you," Arda said. His voice was thick with emotion, his gaze dropping to her lips.

Nini smiled, a teasing glint in her dark eyes. Slowly, deliberately, she rose up onto the very tips of her toes, stretching her small body upward to bridge the distance between them.

It was Arda’s favorite thing in the world.

He loved watching the strain in her calves, the way her hands gripped his shirt for balance, the sheer effort she had to make just to reach him. It made his head spin. But instead of letting her struggle, Arda slid his hands down to the curve of her waist and lifted her slightly, meeting her halfway.

Their lips met in a slow, sweet collision that tasted like the warm summer evening. Nini buried her fingers in the hair at the back of his neck, anchoring herself to him, while Arda held her flush against his body, lifting her so high her toes barely brushed the stone terrace floor.

When he finally broke the kiss, breathing heavily, he didn't set her down entirely. He kept her tucked securely against him, their foreheads pressed together, his dark eyes glowing in the twilight.

"Nobody else touches you, Nini," he whispered, a fierce, quiet promise in the cool air between them. "Nobody."

Nini smiled, her fingers gently smoothing the line of his jaw, entirely content in the fortress he had built around her.

"Nobody else would dare, Arda," she whispered back. "I'm already completely yours."