I'll take care of you

The heavy click of the front door turning in its latch was duller than usual, muffled by the sheer reluctance of the hand turning the key.

Outside, Munich was slick with a late autumn drizzle, cold asphalt reflecting the orange glow of the streetlights along the quiet residential avenue. Inside the apartment, the air was warm, scented faintly with cinnamon and steep chamomile. But the man crossing the threshold carried the chill of the outside world deep in his bones, layered under hours of sweat, chalk, grass stains, and bone-deep weariness.

Jonas Urbig let his heavy kit bag slide from his shoulder. It hit the wooden floor with a thud of dense leather and damp gear. He leaned his back against the closed door, closing his eyes as a sharp throb blossomed along his right flank. His ribs were bruised from an unforgiving collision during the final scrimmage at Säbener Straße—a desperate, reckless dive at the feet of a striker who hadn't pulled his boots back in time. On top of that, his left shoulder felt as though it had been pulled from its socket and jammed back in with rusted pins.

He exhaled slowly through his teeth, his head resting back against the wood. In the quiet, the sound of soft socks padding against the hardwood hallway approached.

"Jonas?"

Her voice was quiet, hesitant, yet instantly familiar enough to pierce through the haze behind his eyelids.

Jonas forced his eyes open.

Nini was standing at the end of the short hallway, framed by the warm light spilling from the kitchen. She looked impossibly small in one of his oversized grey hoodies, the ribbed cuffs pushed past her wrists to reveal small, delicate hands. A tumble of rich, chocolate-brown curls cascaded over her shoulders, springing with natural life and catching the low lamp glow. Her wide, expressive eyes took him in with an instant, practiced precision—starting at the faint cut across his cheekbone, lingering on his pale face, and dropping to the rigid, protective posture he was holding around his ribcage.

"Hey," he whispered, his throat raspy. He tried to offer a smile, the kind he gave the cameras or the coaching staff when they asked if he was ready for tomorrow.

It didn't work on her. It never did.

Nini didn't ask questions. She didn't press him for details about training, or whether the team doctor had looked at him, or what the manager had said. Instead, she crossed the floor with quick, light footsteps, closing the distance between them.

"Oh, Jonas," she murmured softly, stopping just inches away.

She looked up at him, her petite frame making his towering goalkeeper's build seem even more immense, yet in that moment, he felt fragile enough to shatter. Slowly, carefully, her warm hands found his chest, resting over his heart, mindful of the stiff jacket he was still wearing.

"I'm fine," he muttered instinctively, though the tremor in his breath betrayed him completely. "Just... an ugly session."

"You don't have to be fine here," Nini said gently. Her voice was steady, a soothing anchor against his turbulent thoughts. "Come on. Let's get these wet things off you."

She reached up to unzip his rain jacket. Her fingers were warm against his chilled neck, working the zipper down with effortless care. Jonas let his head fall forward, his forehead coming to rest against her shoulder, his face buried in the soft fabric of his own hoodie and the intoxicating, familiar scent of vanilla and lavender that was purely Nini. He let out a long, shuddering sigh, allowing his massive frame to slump just a fraction of an inch, trusting her entirely to hold the weight of his exhaustion.

Nini didn't flinch under his leaning weight. Instead, she gently rested one hand against the back of his neck, her fingers tangling into the damp hair at his nape, massaging the knotted tension at the base of his skull.

"I've got you," she whispered against his ear. "I've got you, Jonas."

With infinite patience, she guided him out of his jacket and eased his shoes from his swollen feet. Every movement was slow, measured to protect his injured side. She picked up his heavy bag without complaint, sliding it into the utility closet to be dealt with tomorrow, and took his large, calloused hand in hers. His goalkeeper hands—rough, taped around two jammed fingers, built to block leather balls traveling at a hundred kilometers an hour—looked impossibly huge engulfed in her small, soft grasp. Yet, as she led him toward the bedroom, she was the one with all the strength in the room.

"Sit," she instructed softly, gesturing to the edge of their bed, which had already been turned down, crisp white sheets inviting and warm.

Jonas lowered himself gingerly. A sharp hiss escaped his lips as his ribs compressed.

"Ribs?" she asked, kneeling down on the carpet in front of him.

"Yeah. And the shoulder. Landed awkwardly on the hard turf after a tip over the crossbar," he admitted, finally dropping the stoic facade he kept up in front of the world. "Then took a knee to the side in the six-yard box five minutes later."

Nini clicked her tongue softly, not in annoyance, but in pure sympathy. She reached up, gently lifting the hem of his thermal undershirt. Jonas raised his arms slowly, gritting his teeth as the fabric brushed against the tender flesh.

When the shirt came off, the damage was laid bare. A dark, blooming expanse of purple and angry red was already spreading across his lower ribs, stretching toward his hip. His right shoulder was visibly inflamed, swollen compared to the left.

Nini’s brow furrowed, her brown eyes softening with fierce tenderness. She didn't gasp or make him feel broken. She simply leaned forward and pressed the softest, lightest kiss to the edge of the unbruised skin right beside the injury. The heat of her lips against his cold, bruised skin sent a shiver straight down his spine.

"Wait here," she said quietly. "Don't move."

Jonas couldn't have moved even if he wanted to. The warmth of the room was beginning to thaw the chill out of him, leaving behind only the heavy, leaden ache of pure exhaustion. At a club like Bayern Munich, the pressure was unrelenting. Every ball in the net during training was scrutinized. Every clearance, every shout, every step off the line carried the expectation of perfection. You couldn't show weakness; you couldn't hesitate. You were a wall, a guardian, a machine.

Only with Nini was he allowed to be human.

She returned a minute later carrying a basin of warm water, a clean flannel cloth, an ice pack wrapped in a thin tea towel, and a jar of arnica balm. Following behind her was the soothing aroma of fresh mint tea steaming from a ceramic mug she set on the bedside table.

"First, the cold," she told him, sitting down beside him on the edge of the mattress.

She took the wrapped ice pack and hovered it over the darkest purple spot on his flank.

"Tell me if it's too much," she warned.

"I'm used to ice, Nini," he smiled weakly.

"You're used to ice baths that freeze your soul," she countered, the ghost of a teasing smile touching her lips as she pressed the pack gently against his ribs. "This is different."

The shock of the cold was sharp, making him flinch and catch his breath, but Nini's free hand immediately moved to his thigh, squeezing firmly to ground him. She didn't let go. She kept the pressure even, her thumb rubbing rhythmic, soothing circles against his sweatpants.

For ten minutes, they sat in near silence. The only sounds were the soft patter of rain against the windowpane and the steady rhythm of their breathing. Slowly, the numbing sensation took over the sharp ache in his side, replacing fire with a manageable, dull hum.

When she finally pulled the ice pack away, she set it aside and dipped the soft flannel into the warm water, wringing it out until it was damp.

"Lean toward me just a little," she requested softly.

Jonas complied, letting his upper body tilt toward her. Nini began to wipe away the remaining grit of the pitch—a smudge of black rubber turf crumb behind his ear, the chalk dust clinging to his collarbone, the sweat dried along his neck. Her touch was feather-light, reverent, as if she were polishing delicate porcelain rather than cleaning a professional athlete.

Her curly hair fell forward as she concentrated, brushing lightly against his bare chest, soft as silk. Jonas reached out his uninjured left arm, his hand resting on her waist, his thumb hooking gently into the fabric of the oversized sweater she wore. She was so petite he felt as though he could wrap his arms around her twice, yet the comfort she radiated filled the entire room.

"You took a hit for the team today," she murmured, her eyes focused on cleaning the small scrape on his cheekbone.

"Part of the job," he answered, his voice barely a rumble. "If I hesitate, the ball goes in. If the ball goes in, I'm not doing what I was brought here to do."

Nini stopped her hand, the damp cloth resting against his jawline. She looked directly into his eyes, her gaze clear and unwavering.

"You are more than your clean sheets, Jonas," she said firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument. "You give everything to that pitch. But when you come home, you leave the goalkeeper at the door. You don't have to save anything here."

The words hit him deeper than any physical blow he had taken that afternoon. A tight knot of tension in his chest—one he hadn't even realized he was holding—suddenly unraveled. His throat tightened, and he looked down, feeling the sudden, overwhelming sting of tears behind his eyes. It was the crushing weight of expectation, the fear of slipping, the endless drive to be flawless, all coming undone under the quiet compassion of one girl.

"Nini," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly.

"I know," she murmured softly.

She set the cloth aside and shifted closer, climbing onto the bed so she could sit on her knees beside him. She reached around his shoulders, mindful of the injury, and pulled his head against her chest.

Jonas closed his eyes and let go. He wrapped his arm around her back, burying his face into her warmth, inhaling the scent of her skin and hair. He felt her fingers thread into his hair again, gently tracing the contours of his scalp, untangling the knots of stress that had plagued him for days.

"I've got you," she repeated, like a lullaby. "You're safe. You did well today, Jonas. So well."

She began to hum a quiet, wordless tune—something sweet and unstructured that she only ever hummed when she was content, or when she was soothing him. Her voice resonated softly against his cheek. Every stroke of her fingers, every gentle breath she took, chipped away at the dark, grinding fatigue that lived in his muscles.

After a long time, when his breathing had slowed to a steady, deep rhythm, she gently pulled back just enough to look at him. Her face was flushed, her dark eyes shining with warmth.

"Arnica now," she said softly, showing him the jar. "Then you sleep."

"Yes, ma'am," he whispered, a genuine, soft smile finally gracing his face.

Nini warmed the herbal balm between her palms, rubbing them together until the scent of medicinal herbs filled the space between them. Then, with gentle, circular motions, she began working the cream into his battered shoulder.

She knew his anatomy almost as well as the club physios, but while the physios worked with brutal efficiency to push him back onto the grass, Nini worked purely to take away his pain. She found the tight knots along his trapezius, applying just enough pressure to coax the muscle into letting go, pausing whenever she felt him tense, waiting until he softened under her palms before moving on.

From his shoulder, her hands moved to his bruised ribs, applying the thinnest, most delicate layer of balm over the purple skin. Her touch was cool, featherweight, like a balm itself.

"Better?" she whispered, wiping her hands on a small towel.

"Better," Jonas breathed, his eyelids heavy. "You have magic hands, you know that?"

"Not magic," she teased gently, tapping his nose with a clean index finger. "Just lots of love. And maybe a little bit of stubbornness."

She helped him slide beneath the heavy duvet, making sure he was propped comfortably on his good side with extra pillows supporting his back and his injured shoulder. Once he was settled, she reached over to hand him the mug of tea.

"Drink a few sips while it's warm."

Jonas took the mug, his large hands engulfing it, and drank. The hot liquid tasted of sweet honey and fresh mint, soothing his dry throat and warming him from the inside out. He drank half of it before setting it back on the nightstand, his body practically melting into the mattress.

Nini slipped off the bed for a moment, switching off the overhead light and leaving only the warm, amber glow of the bedside lamp. She turned off the hallway light, came back into the room, and quietly slid under the covers on his uninjured side.

The mattress dipped under her small weight. Jonas immediately shifted, opening his good arm to welcome her. Nini curled into his side like she was made to fit there, resting her head on his chest, her soft curls spilling over his arm. She draped one arm carefully over his waist, keeping her hand flat against his stomach, avoiding the bruised ribs entirely.

"Are you warm enough?" she asked into the darkness.

"I'm warm," Jonas said, his voice thick with approaching sleep. He pressed a kiss into the crown of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair. "Thank you, Nini."

"For what?"

"For taking care of me. For... everything."

Nini lifted her head slightly, her brown eyes finding his in the dim amber light. She smiled—a sweet, radiant thing that made his heart swell so intensely he forgot all about the pain in his ribs.

"There's nowhere else I'd rather be, Jonas," she whispered softly. "Now close your eyes. Tomorrow can wait."

Jonas rested his chin lightly against the top of her head and closed his eyes. The roar of the Allianz Arena, the harsh whistle of the training pitch, the burning burn of bruises and expectations—all of it faded into complete, quiet insignificance.

Held in the gentle embrace of the only person who saw him entirely for who he was, Jonas finally let the armor fall away, drifting into a deep, healing sleep.