Too sweet

The golden glare of seven in the morning was an offense to Michael’s entire philosophy of living.

He dragged himself out from the tangle of dark linen sheets, his long limbs protesting every inch of movement. The loft was blindingly bright, floor-to-ceiling windows letting in the unfiltered, brazen cheerfulness of a weekend dawn. For someone who operated best under the floodlights of a stadium at night, or cloaked in the dim quiet of his living room past midnight, morning always felt like an uninvited guest.

Then, there was the smell.

It wasn't the sharp, acidic sting of espresso he usually survived on. It was vanilla, caramelized butter, and warm cinnamon.

Michael stepped silently down the hardwood corridor, bare feet making no sound against the polished oak. In the kitchen, bathed in the amber glow of the sunrise, stood Nini.

She was absurdly awake.

Her petite frame was swallowed by one of his oversized grey hoodies, the cuffs rolled back three times to free her wrists. A mop of soft, unruly brown curls was piled haphazardly on top of her head with a clip, though several springy tendrils had escaped, framing the delicate line of her jaw and brushing against her collarbone. She was humming something light under her breath, swaying gently on the balls of her feet as she flipped a pancake in the non-stick pan.

Michael leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. He didn't speak. He just watched, his heavy-lidded, dark eyes absorbing the ridiculous picture she made. She was so pretty it almost annoyed him—soft edges, bright smiles, and a heart so blatantly honest it made his own chest ache with an unfamiliar, protective caution.

As if feeling the weight of his gaze, Nini glanced over her shoulder. Her face lit up instantly, her brown eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Look who decided to join the land of the living," she teased, setting the spatula down. "I thought you were going to hibernate until tomorrow’s training."

"It’s not even eight," Michael muttered, his voice still low and gravelly from sleep.

"It’s eight-fifteen, actually," she corrected cheerfully, turning to the counter where a white ceramic mug sat steaming. "And the morning is the best part of the day. The world hasn't had a chance to ruin anything yet."

"The morning is a scam," he replied, but there was no real bite to his words. He pushed off the doorframe and shuffled toward the counter, watching as she slid a plate of golden, fruit-topped pancakes toward an empty stool.

"Here," she said, sliding the mug toward him too. "I made it special. Hazelnut roast, oat milk, and a little maple syrup instead of sugar. Try it."

Michael looked at the pale, frothy concoction. Then he looked up at her eager, expectant expression. A tiny knot twisted in the pit of his stomach—a familiar ache that had been growing over the past few months.

"Nini," he said quietly.

"What? Just taste it."

He reached behind her, pulled a small porcelain cup from the cupboard, and pressed the button on the espresso machine. The grinder whirred violently, fracturing the soft morning ambiance before the dark, bitter liquid trickled out into the cup. No milk. No sweetener.

"You're unbelievable," she sighed, though she laughed softly, shaking her head so that her curls bounced. "Why do you insist on drinking liquid asphalt?"

"I like it black," Michael said simply, lifting the espresso to his lips and taking a slow sip. The heat burned, bitter and grounding. "Tastes like what it is."

"It tastes like misery."

"It tastes honest." He set the cup down and leaned his hip against the island, looking down at her. "You put enough sugar in that to take down a horse."

"Life is hard enough, Michael. Why would I want my coffee to fight me?" She picked up her mug, cradling it in both hands, taking a blissful sip. A tiny speck of foam caught on her upper lip, completely unpretentious.

Michael’s fingers twitched with the urge to reach out and wipe it away. He kept his hands firmly planted on the granite instead.

That was always the problem with Nini. She treated life like a garden to be watered, while he treated it like a pitch to be conquered. She woke up with the sun, drank sweet things, laughed with her whole chest, and saw goodness where there was usually only noise. Michael, on the other hand, went to bed at three, thrived in the shadows, took his drinks neat, and kept his walls so high that most people stopped trying to climb them after ten minutes.

He was quiet, notoriously detached in interviews, guarded with his life. She was an open book with brightly painted margins.

"You're staring," she pointed out, setting her mug down and raising an eyebrow.

"Just wondering how someone can be this loud before nine in the morning," he deflected, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"I’m not loud! I’m vibrant. There’s a difference." She pushed the plate of pancakes toward him again. "Eat. You need calories, footballer."

"I’ll eat an apple."

Nini gave an exaggerated groan, throwing her head back. "You treat your body like an engine that only runs on kerosene and spite. Sit down and eat a pancake. I cut strawberries for you."

He couldn't say no to her when she looked up like that, petite and fierce, demanding he take care of himself. Michael sighed, pulling the stool out and sitting down. He picked up a fork, cutting a small piece and chewing slowly. It was undeniably delicious—sweet, warm, melting on his tongue.

"Good?" she asked, a triumphant gleam in her eyes.

"It’s alright," he said deadpan.

"Liar."

"Too sweet," he murmured, his gaze dropping to the plate, then rising back to meet hers.

The double meaning hung in the cool air between them. Nini’s smile softened, turning into something more contemplative, slightly guarded. She rested her elbows on the counter, her chin in her hands, her curly hair spilling over her knuckles.

"You always say that," she noted quietly.

"Because it’s true."

"About the food? Or about me?"

Michael held her gaze, refusing to blink. His silence was often his greatest shield, but with Nini, it felt less like armor and more like a confession.

"Both," he admitted, his low voice barely carrying over the hum of the refrigerator. "You’re too sweet, Nini."

She didn't laugh this time. "And what’s wrong with sweet?"

"Nothing," Michael said, setting the fork down. "If you’re made for it. But I’m not. I’m up when you’re sleeping. I keep to myself. I like things raw, quiet, without extra dressing. You deserve someone who matches you. Someone who wakes up at dawn and wants to drink dessert with you."

Nini stared at him, her dark eyes searching his face. There was a flicker of hurt there, but behind it was an iron stubbornness that Michael had come to recognize and, secretly, admire.

"Is that what you think I want?" she asked. "A mirror?"

"I think you’d be happier with one," he answered honestly. "I’m not easy to read. I don't give speeches. I don't pretend to be sunny when I'm not. You're... you're sunlight, Nini. I’d just end up pulling you into the dark."

The kitchen fell entirely silent. Outside, the world was waking up—a distant siren, the rustle of wind in the trees lining the avenue.

Nini stood up slowly. She walked around the island until she was standing right beside his stool. Because he was seated, they were almost eye-to-eye, though she still had to tilt her chin slightly. The soft scent of vanilla and warm skin rolled off her, disarming him instantly.

"You really think you're so terrible, don't you?" she asked softly.

Michael raised an eyebrow, maintaining his cool exterior. "I didn't say terrible. I said different."

"You think you're made of stone and shadows," Nini said, taking a step closer. She didn't hesitate; she reached out and placed a small, warm hand directly over his chest, right where his heart beat steady and strong under his cotton t-shirt. "You think because you don't talk a lot, you don't feel a lot. You think because you like your coffee bitter and your whiskey neat, you're incapable of holding something soft."

Michael’s breath hitched in his throat. He looked down at her hand against his chest. "Nini..."

"You think I'm naive, Michael. You think I don't know who you are." Her voice was steady, gentle, but carrying an undeniable weight. "I know you stay up late watching game tape because you demand perfection from yourself. I know you hate small talk because people always want something from you. I know you drink your coffee black because you don't like pretending things are sweeter than they are."

She tilted her head, her brown curls brushing his arm.

"I don't need you to change your rhythm for me," she continued, her fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt. "I don't need you to wake up at seven and sing along to pop songs. And I definitely don't need you to put syrup in your espresso."

Michael swallowed hard. "Then what are you doing here?"

"I’m here because I like the dark," she whispered, stepping into the space between his knees. "I like how quiet it is around you. When the rest of the world is screaming and moving too fast, you're just... still. You keep me grounded. I have plenty of sweetness on my own, Michael. I don't need more sugar. I just want you."

The dam broke.

All the careful hesitations, all the late-night overthinking where he convinced himself that a girl like her would eventually tire of a guy who communicated in glances and half-smiles—it all dissolved under the earnest heat in her eyes.

Michael reached out, his large, calloused hands coming up to rest on her waist. Through the thick fabric of his hoodie, he could feel how fragile she seemed, yet how anchored she truly was. He drew her in until her hips pressed against the edge of his stool, closing the remaining distance between them.

"You're stubborn," he murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of her hip.

"Takes one to know one," she shot back, though her breath was unsteady now, her cheeks flushing a delicate, dusty rose.

"I’m bad at this," Michael warned, his voice dipping lower, rough and intimate. "I don't do grand gestures. I’m quiet. Most days, I just want to sit on the couch and say nothing."

Nini smiled, a real, radiant thing that made his pulse hammer against his ribs. "Then don't say anything."

She reached up, her small hands sliding into the close-cropped sides of his hair, guiding him down.

Michael didn't resist. He leaned in, his lips brushing against hers in a hesitation that lasted only a second before he claimed her mouth completely.

She tasted like cinnamon, maple, and something undeniably pure. But as her lips parted with a soft sigh, pressing harder against his, there was nothing fragile about the way she kissed him. It was hungry, determined, pulling him into her orbit with an effortless gravity.

Michael groaned softly into the kiss, his hands moving from her waist to tangle into the wild, soft mass of her curls, knocking the clip loose so the brown spirals cascaded down around her shoulders and over his hands. He pulled her flush against his chest, lifting her slightly off her feet so she didn't have to strain.

When they finally broke apart for air, their foreheads rested together. The silence of the kitchen had returned, but it didn't feel cold or empty anymore. It felt full.

Nini’s eyes fluttered open, dark and dazed, her lips swollen and pink. "Still too sweet?" she breathed, teasing him even with her chest heaving.

Michael looked at her, really looked at her—the tousled curls, the oversized grey hoodie, the absolute confidence in her smile. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, rare and entirely unguarded.

"Just right," he conceded softly.

Nini let out a quiet, victorious laugh, burying her face into the crook of his neck. Michael wrapped his arms completely around her small frame, resting his chin against the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair.

The morning sun continued to climb, spilling across the kitchen island, illuminating the cold dregs of his black espresso and the half-eaten plate of pancakes. For the first time in his life, Michael didn't mind the daylight. In fact, standing there with her wrapped in his arms, he thought he might even learn to like it.