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kennasutopia · 2 days ago

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One of my favorite TAA reads!!!!🥰

GOLDEN BOY (chapter 9) ─── iamquaintrelle (☁️☔️💕)

⌗ pairing : trent alexander arnold x black oc ⌗wc: 6.5k

⌗ summary : trent is having a quarter life crisis but will a smart-mouthed girl whip him into shape?

⌗ warnings : 18+ only!! (☁️☔️💕)

⌗taglist: @trentswrld, @trentpov @judesvirtual @sailurmewn @football-and-fanfics @eriks-girl @preetykookie @4ngryssgf @endlessmuse @noturbabe22, @sucredreamer @bbgkoo @hollablkgrl @notzara @chrisoppar @letmeapologise @amrx1 @butterpas2 @ri6ht6ack

April was proper peaceful sleeping on his chest, curls everywhere, Pussy Galore curled up near their feet like some furry guardian. After yesterday's revelation about her PCOS and fertility issues, seeing her this calm felt important somehow.

His phone vibrating nearly woke her. Tyler's name flashing on the screen.

"What?" he whispered, trying not to disturb April.

"Have you seen the Mail?" Tyler sounded stressed. "They're running some shit about you and Sophie–"

"Not now Ty."

"They're saying there was overlap with April–"

"I said not now." His voice came out sharper than intended. April stirred slightly but didn't wake.

"But–"

"My girl just told me about her PCOS yeah? About proper personal medical stuff. I don't give a fuck what the Mail's saying about Sophie."

Silence on the other end.

"They can print what they want," Trent continued, softer now, watching April sleep. "I know the truth. April knows the truth."

"But your image–"

"Later." He ended the call, putting his phone on silent.

April shifted closer in her sleep, that spiced vanilla scent of hers filling his head. After everything she'd shared yesterday, some made-up drama about Sophie felt meaningless.

Pussy Galore blinked at him like she approved of his priorities.

April stirred against his chest, those curls wild from sleep. Different from his usual dom - all soft edges and vulnerability after yesterday's revelation.

"Hungry?" His hand traced patterns on her back.

"Mmm." She pressed closer, like she needed the contact. "Not yet."

Mental seeing her like this - April who always had control, who made him sign contracts about everything, actually letting her guard down. Made him want to proper protect her.

"Been dealing with it since I was sixteen," she said quietly. "The PCOS. Makes everything... complicated."

He'd Google it all later, learn everything he could about it. But right now April just needed him here.

"We'll get through it yeah?" His fingers found her curls. "Whatever you need."

She looked up at him then, none of that usual dom energy. Just April, trusting him with this part of herself.

"It's why I'm so..." she started.

"Controlled?"

"Yeah." Her hand found his chest, right over his heart. "Need to manage everything. My body, my relationships..."

"Makes sense now." All those specific rules, the careful planning, even her dom side - it was all about having control when her body didn't cooperate.

"You're not freaked out?"

"By what? You being human?"

That got a small smile - not her usual dangerous one, but something more real.

Proper mad how this felt more intimate than anything they'd done before. April letting him see behind all her walls, trusting him with her vulnerabilities.

Even Pussy Galore had moved closer, like she was trying to comfort her human.

"Though fair warning," he added, trying to lighten the mood. "Gonna proper research this later. Become an expert and that."

"Such a good boy." But it wasn't her dom voice. Just... grateful.

Yeah, they were definitely getting closer.

"My mum has it too," April said after a while, fingers tracing patterns on his chest. "Why they only had me. Doctors said I was their miracle baby."

Mental that - April being anyone's miracle. But watching her like this, all soft and open...

"That's why you're so close with your dad?"

"Mmm." She shifted closer. "He was always there for the bad days. The hospital visits. Even got stationed back in the UK when it got really rough."

Everything was clicking into place now - why she'd gone quiet yesterday, why she did those post-Valentine's brunches with her dad.

"Should've told you sooner," she murmured. "About the PCOS. The fertility stuff."

"Tell me when you're ready innit? No rush."

She looked up at him then, something shifting in her eyes. Bit of that dom energy coming back.

"Such a good boy." This time it was closer to her usual tone. "Taking care of me."

"Always."

"Careful with those promises." But she was properly smiling now. "Might hold you to them."

"Hope you do."

Pussy Galore chose that moment to demand breakfast, properly meowing at them.

"Someone's bossy," Trent laughed.

"Wonder where she gets it from." April's smile turned slightly wicked - definitely coming back to herself.

"Should feed her majesty," April said, watching Pussy Galore's increasingly dramatic protests. "Before she reports me for neglect."

But she didn't move from his chest. Different from usual April - normally she'd be up, giving commands, setting the day's schedule. This morning she seemed content just... being.

"Tyler called earlier," he said after a bit. "Some shit about Sophie in the Mail."

"Trying to stir drama?"

"Yeah but..." His hand found her curls again. "Got more important things to think about."

She lifted her head at that, studying his face. "My dom side's coming back you know. Won't always be this soft."

"Good." He actually meant it. "Like all your sides."

That got a proper smile - mix of soft April and dom April that had his stomach flipping.

"Such sweet words." Her hand traced lower down his chest. "Almost makes me forget how you performed at Wolves yesterday..."

Yeah, she was definitely coming back to herself.

"About that-"

"Later." But her smile was dangerous now. "First, breakfast. Then we discuss your... focus issues."

Pussy Galore meowed louder, like she was backing up her human.

***************************************************

After sorting Pussy's breakfast demands, they found this quiet spot near her flat. Trent couldn't stop playing with April's curls, proper focused on making sure she was okay after yesterday.

"Need to cut it," she said, watching him twist a strand around his finger.

"Don't cut it. Like it long."

"Braids then?"

His whole face lit up at that. "Love braids."

Her smile turned knowing. "Does it do something for you? The braids?"

He shrugged, trying to play it cool. "Just like seeing women in braids. My fave hairstyle actually."

"Out of all the hairstyles black women have? Your fave is braids?"

"That or dreads." Another shrug. "Just somethin' bout them."

"The culture of it?"

"Yeah. Maybe it's that."

"Have you been to Africa?" The question came out of nowhere, making him laugh.

"What?"

"You mentioned the culture, just wondering if you ever been."

"Have you?"

"Loads of times," she revealed, stirring her tea. "Been to Nigeria, Tanzania... Senegal, but my fave is Morocco. Love it there. A lot of my close friends are from there or Lagos. So..." She took a sip. "Have you been?"

Trent shook his head. "Never gone."

"Mmm," she hummed. "We may have to go. I always wanted to see Table Mountain."

"That's in South Africa?"

"Yeah."

"We should go then. Our first trip together." He knew he sounded proper giddy, like some melt, but he didn't care.

"We do have two trips in the contract, don't we?" Her smile was back to that dangerous edge.

He nodded eagerly, making her giggle again.

"We'll see on your performance. Still owe you punishment for losing a bit of focus during that match yesterday."

"We won though didn't we?"

The look she gave him could've frozen the sun.

Even after sharing all her vulnerabilities, dom April was definitely still dom April.

"You know what's funny?" April said, picking at her avocado toast. "For someone who loves braids, you've never dated a black girl before me."

Trent paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. "How'd you know that?"

"Please." That smirk again. "I did my research before agreeing to work with you. Your dating history is very... vanilla."

"Oi!"

"Am I wrong?"

He couldn't argue really. Sophie and the PR relationships had all been proper safe choices. Image-appropriate.

"Though I get it," April continued. "Being mixed, in the spotlight. Having to be careful."

Something about the way she said it... "You too?"

"Mmm. Photography world's not that different. Lots of expectations about who you should be." She took another sip of tea. "Though I stopped caring about that years ago."

"Obviously." He grinned. "Miss I-Told-Nike-To-Fuck-Off."

"Their concept was trash." But she was smiling too. "Besides, look who's talking. Mr. I-Post-Valentine's-Photos-Against-Contract."

"You told me to!"

"And you listened." Her foot found his under the table. "Such a good boy."

Even after yesterday's vulnerability, she could still make his stomach flip with those words.

"Though speaking of contracts..." That dangerous smile was back. "We should discuss your punishment for that match performance."

"Thought we were planning Africa trips?"

"Oh baby," she leaned forward, voice dropping low. "We can do both."

Proper violation, this woman. But she was his violation now.

"When did you start photography?" Trent asked, wanting to know more about her now that she was opening up.

"Properly? At uni." She pushed her plate aside. "But I got my first camera when we were stationed in Prague. Dad thought it would help me... process things. The moving around, then the PCOS stuff."

"Did it?"

"More than therapy." Her smile was softer now. "Something about capturing moments, controlling how people see things..."

The control thing again. Making more sense now.

"Then discovered I was actually good at it. Started doing shoots for friends, then their friends..." She shrugged. "Next thing I know, I'm telling Nike to fuck off."

"Proper baddie you."

"Always." But there was something playful in her eyes. "Though look who's talking."

His face went proper hot. Even after everything they'd shared, she could still make him blush.

"Speaking of focus..." She leaned forward again. "We really need to talk about that match performance..."

"Can we not?"

"No," her foot found his again. "We're definitely discussing it. After breakfast."

Even soft April couldn't resist being dom April for long.

But watching her talk about her photography, seeing her passionate about something... yeah, he was falling harder by the minute.

They sorted the bill - or rather, April let him sort it after giving him a proper look about being too eager with his card. Some habits died hard with her.

But before they could leave, Trent caught her arm by the restaurant door. His brain was screaming that he hadn't asked permission, hadn't earned this, but...

He kissed her anyway. Proper soft like, none of their usual heat. Just... gratitude. For trusting him, for letting him see behind her walls.

When they separated, her eyes had that look that meant trouble later. Good boys asked permission after all.

"Thank you for telling me this," he said anyway. "I really 'preciate it."

She studied him for a moment, like she was deciding between dom mode and something softer.

"You'll pay for that unauthorized kiss later," she said finally, but her eyes were warm. "Though... you're welcome."

Mental how she could make even tender moments feel like a threat and a promise at once.

But watching her walk ahead of him towards her flat, he knew the punishment would be worth it.

Some things were worth breaking rules for.

His neck was killing him - April's punishment for that unauthorized kiss had been... thorough. But sitting with his brothers at lunch, that wasn't even his main concern.

Tyler was going on about damage control for the Mail's Sophie story, but Trent's mind was everywhere else. He'd spent half the night researching PCOS, learning about fertility rates and treatment options - proper mental that, thinking about babies when they'd barely survived Valentine's. But something about April trusting him with this...

"Are you even listening?" Tyler cut through his thoughts. "This Sophie situation needs handling-"

"April said something interesting," Trent interrupted, the words coming out before he could stop them. "About me never dating black girls before her."

Both brothers properly froze. Marcel's fork stopped halfway to his mouth.

"I mean..." Trent continued into the silence. "She's right innit? All my relationships have been... you know."

"White?" Marcel supplied.

"Yeah."

Tyler shifted in his seat, probably thinking about Liv, who was mixed like them.

"It's different though," Tyler said carefully. "Being mixed, in the spotlight-"

"That's what April said too." Trent pushed his food around. "Said she gets it. The expectations and that."

"But?" Marcel was watching him proper careful now.

"But nothing. Just... made me think."

"About what?"

About everything really. About image and authenticity. About why he'd always gone for the safe option.

"It's not like you never dated black girls," Marcel said after a bit. "Remember hooking up with Ola from year ten?"

"That's different though innit?" Trent shifted, neck proper stinging. "Before all this. Before the spotlight."

"Before the image management," Tyler added quietly. Like he was thinking about his own journey with Liv.

"April says she stopped caring about all that." Trent couldn't help the pride in his voice. "Proper tells these massive brands to fuck off if they try changing her vision."

"Yeah well, she's not a footballer is she?" Tyler went proper agent mode. "Different pressures-"

"But that's the thing innit?" Trent sat up straighter. "Why's it different? Why'd we let them make us think we needed to be... safer?"

His brothers exchanged that look they'd been giving him since April came into his life - like they couldn't decide if he was growing up or losing it.

"Speaking of April..." Marcel tried changing the subject. "Those marks look proper sore."

"Don't."

"Just saying! She's clearly not worried about your image-"

"Maybe that's good though," Tyler cut in, surprising them both. "Being more... authentic."

Mental hearing that from Tyler, who'd helped manage his "safer" image all these years.

"Though," Tyler added with a grin, "maybe with fewer visible marks."

"Violation, both of you."

But his mind was still spinning. About image versus authenticity. About April making him question things he'd accepted for years.

About how maybe being "safer" wasn't always better.

"Making progress though," Trent said carefully. "With April. She told me about her PCOS and that."

"That's rough," Tyler's face went serious. "Must've been hard sharing that."

"Yeah but..." Trent couldn't help himself. "Been thinking about options yeah? Like adoption or surrogacy–"

"Whoa whoa!" Marcel nearly choked on his drink. "What are you on about?"

"Calm down," Tyler added. "What's got into you?"

Trent took a breath, knowing how mental he probably sounded. "Think I'm falling for her."

"It's been two months bruv," Tyler said slowly.

"Yeah, what type of pussy is she–" Marcel started.

The look Trent gave him could've melted steel.

"You're in lust," Tyler tried reasoning. "Not love. It's the honeymoon phase-"

"Nah." Trent shook his head. "Last night... we proper connected. Getting closer to that point anyway."

"Then bring her to meet mum and dad," Marcel challenged.

Trent actually scoffed at that. If they only knew how much he'd have to earn that privilege with April.

"Yeah," Tyler backed Marcel up. "Bring her round. Could meet Liv and Aura too."

His brothers had no idea about the contract, about how every family meeting had to be earned. But watching them get proper excited about April meeting everyone...

Maybe he needed to up his good boy game.

"Liv would love her," Tyler continued, getting proper excited now. "Both proper driven women innit?"

If he only knew how 'driven' April really was. His neck throbbed at the thought.

"And Aura needs her auntie April," Marcel added with a grin. "Since that 'A' celebration wasn't just for her anymore."

"Speaking of celebrations," Tyler switched back to agent mode. "The Mail thing-"

"Let them chat shit." Trent was done with that topic. "April knows there's no overlap."

"Yeah but the public-"

"The public's more interested in April cussing me out in patois." He couldn't help grinning. "Proper viral that."

"Still mental that," Marcel shook his head. "You letting a girl check you like that."

"She doesn't just check me-" Trent started, then caught himself. Both brothers' eyebrows shot up. "Don't." He pointed his fork at them. "Don't even start."

"Wasn't gonna say anything," Marcel's grin was pure evil. "About how whipped you are…"

"About how she's got you writing lines…" Tyler joined in. "About how you're planning babies after two months."

"I hate both of you."

But watching them take the piss, seeing how interested they were in April being part of the family...

Yeah, he definitely needed to earn those family meeting privileges.

"Just need to plan it right," Tyler was proper in organization mode now. "Maybe a Sunday dinner? When you're not playing?"

"Could do that thing mum does," Marcel added. "The proper roast with all the-"

"It's not that simple," Trent cut in, thinking about April's rules.

"What's not simple? It's dinner."

How do you explain that everything with April had to be earned? That even this conversation was probably breaking some contract clause about discussing their arrangement?

"She's just... particular about these things."

"Particular?" Marcel's grin was back. "Like how she's particular about marking up your neck?"

"Or particular about making you write lines?" Tyler couldn't help joining in.

"Or particular about-"

"I swear to god," Trent cut them off. "One more word..."

"You'll what?" Marcel challenged. "Tell April on us?"

"Might do." He tried for threatening but probably missed by miles. "She's scary when she wants to be."

"Scarier than mum?" Tyler raised an eyebrow.

That actually made Trent think. April in dom mode versus his mum in full scouse mum mode...

"Different kind of scary."

"Speaking of mum," Marcel's face went serious. "You know she's gonna ask about marriage and babies straight away."

"Already planning that himself isn't he?" Tyler laughed. "After two months!"

"Violation, both of you."

But they weren't exactly wrong, were they?

"Just promise me one thing," Tyler said as they were finishing up. "No more unauthorized Instagram posts yeah? Need some warning next time."

"Tell that to April." Trent touched his neck without thinking. "She's the one making the rules."

"Obviously." Marcel snorted. "Speaking of rules... when's the wedding?"

"Fuck off."

"Just saying! Way you're going on about babies and family meetings-"

"Leave him alone," Tyler cut in, but he was grinning too. "Let him at least earn the family dinner privileges first."

Mental how even they could tell everything with April had to be earned. Though they had no idea how literal that was.

His phone buzzed - April sending him some article about PCOS treatment options. Even while taking the piss about his match performance, she was trusting him with the real stuff.

"Look at that face," Marcel fake gagged. "Proper gone."

"Tell April we say hi," Tyler added. "And that mum's roast is legendary."

"Yeah yeah."

Walking to his car after, neck still stinging from April's "punishment," mind full of family dinners and future plans...

Maybe his brothers were right. Maybe he was proper gone for her.

But watching how excited they were about April being part of the family, about her meeting everyone...

Yeah, he'd earn those privileges. One good boy moment at a time.

two weeks later....

The Etihad was proper buzzing for a Sunday afternoon. April had been mental busy lately - some massive shoot in Paris again then off to Geneva - but at least she was texting regular now. Proper getting closer they were, even with the distance.

That Mail drama about Sophie had died quick death anyway, buried under the new Calvin Klein campaign that had everyone proper losing it. April's friend at CK had seen their raw shots and "just had to have them" for the spring collection.

The photos were everywhere now - him and April looking editorial on billboards and bus stops. Nothing too intimate - April was dead specific about that - but enough to have everyone going mental:

"This is what a power couple looks like 😮‍💨"

"The way they LOOK at each other though"

"Trent and April eating up this Calvin Klein campaign"

"Never seen him look this good in photos before"

"She really brought out his model potential"

"They're so hot it's actually offensive"

Tyler was bouncing about the deal - both the fat check and how it had killed all his concerns about April's influence. Hard to question their relationship when they were being called "couple goals" on massive billboards.

Made Trent proud too, seeing them up there together. April in full professional mode, making him look better than any photographer ever had.

"Still admiring yourself?" Robbo appeared as they started warm-ups.

"Shut up."

"Can't blame him," Virgil grinned. "Those billboards are something else."

Watching himself stretch in the Manchester sunshine, remembering how she'd directed every movement in that shoot...

Yeah, she definitely knew how to get his best angles.

The match was intense from kickoff - City pressing high, trying to catch them out. Then Bernardo came in with this violation of a tackle, catching Trent's ankle late.

Pain shot up his leg as he hit the grass.

Fucking hell that hurt.

"Ref!" Virgil was going off. "You having a laugh?"

Nothing given though. Not even a yellow.

"You good?" Virgil helped him up, still glaring at Bernardo.

"Yeah." Trent tested his weight. Sore but nothing serious. "I'm good."

But something in him switched then. April's voice in his head: "Channel that energy properly."

Next ten minutes he was everywhere - defending like a demon, spraying passes about. When the free kick came at the thirty-minute mark, there was only one thing on his mind.

Top bins. No chance for Ederson.

The away end proper erupted as his teammates piled on him. Even Virgil was grinning now.

2-0.

"That's how you answer them," his captain said.

Trent just smiled, thinking about April's lessons in focus. About using frustration properly.

Mo then made it three in the seventy-third minute, proper taking the piss out of their defense. The Etihad was emptying now, City fans having seen enough.

Trent was in that zone where everything felt possible. Ankle still sore but who cared? They were proper demolishing City in their own backyard.

Bernardo tried getting lippy near the end, something about Trent's celebration being disrespectful.

"Bit late for chat that," Trent fired back. His usual calm replaced by something fiercer.

The final whistle felt like victory laps. Three-nil at the Etihad? Proper statement that.

Trent spat into the grass, watching City's players trudge off. "Pussies," he called out, not even caring who heard.

"Easy," Virgil laughed, but he was proper buzzing too.

Something about getting tackled like that had awakened his scouse attitude. April's training in channeling energy had worked - instead of losing his head, he'd used it.

Though calling them pussies might earn him some punishment later.

Worth it though. Proper worth it.

TNT had him cornered before he could escape to the dressing room, but seeing Micah's massive grin made it better.

"Look at this one!" Micah was already laughing. "Showing off for them Calvin Klein billboards?"

"Shut up you."

"Nah but seriously - that free kick? After that tackle? Proper response that."

Trent couldn't help grinning. The adrenaline was still pumping, making him proper chatty.

"Speaking of responses," Micah's eyes went playful. "These contract rumors..."

"No comment."

"None?"

"I'm Liverpool till I die mate." The words came out strong, proper scouse. Tyler would give him shit for being so direct but fuck it. "Simple as."

"Love that! And how you celebrating this win then?" Micah's smile went knowing.

Trent felt his face go hot. "No comment, mate."

"Understand, understand..." Micah was barely containing himself. "Though I think her name begins with an A?"

"Oh Aura? Yeah, love my niece." Trent couldn't help playing along.

"Get out!" Micah properly nudged him, both of them cracking up now. "Hit the showers mate! You deserve it!"

Mental really - doing post-match interviews about his dom girlfriend with his ankle still throbbing.

But the way Micah was laughing as he walked off...

Yeah, everyone knew exactly which 'A' he'd be celebrating with.

******************************************************

"She's here then?" Robbo's voice carried that knowing tone as Trent finished adjusting his tracksuit. His ankle was still tender but manageable.

"Who's here?"

"April, mate. Waiting outside." Robbo's grin went cheeky. "Proper done up too."

His stomach did about sixteen flips at her name. But hold up - "When did she-"

"Just showed up." Robbo shrugged, already heading out. "Better not keep her waiting eh? You know how she gets."

Yeah, he did know. Christ.

The answer hit him full force as he rounded the corner. April was there alright, but she looked... different. Stunning. Her hair was done up in these intricate braids that fell past her shoulders, little curly bits woven through them catching the light. Made her look even more beautiful somehow, if that was even possible. Proper royal like.

His brain was short-circuiting trying to take it all in. The way the braids framed her face, how they moved when she turned to spot him - mental really, how something as simple as a hairstyle could have him proper weak.

"There's my boy." April's voice carried that edge that made his stomach flip. Her braids swayed as she stepped toward him, and he couldn't take his eyes off them.

"Like what you see?" She caught him staring, teasing, but with that undertone that made his skin warm. "Got them done earlier today."

"Yeah." His voice came out a bit rough. "Yeah, they're... proper beautiful."

April's smile turned knowing. "Good answer. Though we'll discuss that tackle later."

His pulse quickened. The way she was watching him now - yeah, he was in for it.

Standing here getting hot under the collar just from how she was looking at him, while his ankle was still throbbing.

The braids caught the stadium lights as they walked to her car, making her look even more untouchable somehow. Proper February chill in the air now, making him pull his tracksuit closer. Crazy really, how she could just show up and flip his whole world sideways like this.

"In you get then," April nodded toward the Ferrari. "Unless you're planning to just stare all night?"

His face went hot. "Just... the braids. They really suit you."

"Sweet boy." That familiar devil's smile played across her face as they settled into the car, the leather seats still holding her spiced vanilla scent.

The engine purred to life, and April handled it like she was born to it - all smooth gear changes and confident turns as they wound through Manchester's evening traffic. The city lights played across the dashboard, and Trent found himself resting his head against the cool window, watching the streets blur past.

"Didn't expect you to be here, really." He tried to sound casual, but his curiosity was killing him. "Not that I'm complaining like."

"Wanted to surprise you." She touched one of her braids as they stopped at a light, some students stumbling past toward what looked like Deansgate. "Couldn't wait to show you. Figured I'd catch the match."

"That's nice."

"This doesn't count as one of your match appearances by the way," she added. "You still need to earn another one."

"Yes, ma'am," he smiled. April always being April.

"Liked that free kick though," she said, casual, but her eyes had that gleam. "Proper impressive response to that tackle."

He couldn't help grinning, watching the braids sway with each turn she made. Mental how something so simple could have him this caught up. But that was April all over - always finding new ways to make him fall harder.

Christ. She was actually going to be the death of him.

And watching her handle this car like she handled everything else in her life - with that easy confidence - he still couldn't wait to see what else she had planned.

******************************************************

Trent barely thought twice as he extended his stay for another night, tapping his card against the reader without hesitation. His mind was still spinning from seeing April with her braids, the way they framed her face making it hard to focus on anything else. But when he glanced at her, she was unreadable, her expression calm, her body language easy as she adjusted the strap of her weekender tote over her shoulder.

They rode the lift up in silence, the hum of the hotel quieting everything else. April was always throwing him for a loop, always finding new ways to leave him properly stunned. The braids caught the hotel lighting differently each time she moved, making it impossible to look away. It should've made him nervous, being this caught up. Maybe it did. But mostly, he was just desperate to understand her — to know what was going on in that sharp, beautiful mind of hers.

The moment they stepped inside his hotel room, she set her bag down, toeing off her sneakers with a practiced ease. Her braids swayed with the movement, and Trent's breath caught. Then, just like that, she turned to face him, arms folded.

"You're distracted tonight," she said, studying his face.

"The braids," he admitted. "They're just… proper beautiful."

April smirked, but there was something different in her eyes tonight, something soft beneath her usual control. She sat on the edge of the bed, watching him with that measured gaze.

He tried to pull his attention back from how the braids framed her face, how they made her look even more regal somehow.

"Proper gone on these braids aren't you?" She smiled, that knowing look that always made his stomach flip.

"Can't help it." His face went hot. "They suit you."

Her smile deepened. "Good boy. Now - strip."

The command was sharp, effortless. Trent blinked, still processing, but his body moved before his brain could catch up.

"Yes, ma’am."

She watched him with that measured control, chin propped on her hand as he peeled off his hoodie, then his shirt.

His fingers fumbled a little at his waistband, his mind still stuck on her beauty.

"Trent."

He startled slightly, glancing up at her.

April tilted her head. "You’re thinking too much."

He swallowed. "Sorry, I just—"

"Don’t apologize. Just focus."

That was the whole thing with her, wasn’t it? Control. Redirection. She guided him like no one else ever had, steered him back to the moment when he got too lost in his own head.

So he exhaled, let his mind go quiet, let his body take over. His joggers and boxers pooled at his feet, and he stood there, bare, waiting for her next instruction.

April leaned back on her hands, dragging her gaze over him slowly. "That’s better."

Trent stood there, naked, watching as April stayed fully clothed, perched on the edge of the bed like she had all the time in the world. She let her gaze drift over him, slow and deliberate, then finally spoke.

"Your ankle alright?" she asked, tilting her head so the braids caught the light again.

"Yeah, just a bit sore."

"We'll ice it later," she said easily, like it was already decided. Then, after a beat, "Color?"

"Green."

"Safe word?"

"Anfield."

April smirked, satisfied, and reached for the buttons of her coat, shrugging it off with that practiced ease of hers. Then came her sweater, lifted over her head, revealing smooth, warm skin and the swell of her breasts in a black lace bra. She kicked off her jeans next, leaving nothing but her underwear before she unhooked that her bra then shrugged off her panties to let it slide down her legs.

Trent swallowed hard, his jaw tight, his hands flexing at his sides. She was breathtaking — always was — but there was something about the way she undressed in front of him that made his stomach clench. Casual. Unbothered. Like she knew exactly what kind of effect she had on him.

She gathered her braids, twisting them up into a quick bun, then glanced at him with that playful glint in her eye before sitting back down on the bed. April grinned, reaching for him with her foot, dragging it up the inside of his thigh, teasing. "Been feeling a little… horny lately," she admitted, voice thick with amusement.

"No kidding," Trent muttered, swallowing around the tightness in his throat.

April tilted her head, eyes glinting. "Wanted to fuck you so bad." Another slow drag of her foot, her toes curling slightly against his skin. "Think you can handle that? Think you can fuck me good tonight?"

His whole body tensed at the challenge, at the way she just knew how to wind him up, how to get him aching for her without even touching him properly.

Trent exhaled, steadying himself. "Yeah," he said, voice low, determined. "I got you."

April’s lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile as she crooked her finger, beckoning him closer. "Come fuck on me then."

Trent didn’t hesitate. He never did when it came to her. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them in a breath, his hands settling on her waist as he pushed her back onto the bed. He was a good boy, after all.

April let out a soft hum of approval as he hovered over her, her fingers trailing up his arms, tracing the muscles that tensed under her touch. "That’s it," she murmured, her legs parting just enough to make space for him. "Knew you’d listen."

Trent exhaled through his nose, trying to keep himself steady, but the way she looked up at him — dark eyes gleaming, lips slightly parted, body open and waiting — had him feeling like he was on the edge already.

"Gonna take care of you, ma’am," he promised, his voice rough with need.

April smirked, reaching up to grip his chin, tilting his face so their eyes locked. "I know you will."

His hands were on her before he even realized it, his mouth trailing downward before immediately latching onto the soft skin of her inner thigh. April sighed, amused at his eagerness, fingers threading into his curls and giving a sharp tug.

"Easy," she murmured. "Take your time."

He groaned, but he obeyed. He always did.

April let him work for it — let him prove himself. He kissed and licked his way up and down her body, worshipping her like she was something holy. His mouth found her breasts, sucking a nipple between his lips, teasing it with his tongue. She arched into him, humming in approval.

"Good boy," she whispered, and Trent moaned against her skin. April smirked. She never got tired of how much he loved praise. She raked her nails down his back, making him shudder. "But I’m not done with you yet."

She pushed him onto his back, settling on top of him, rolling her hips just enough to make him whimper. He was hard as a rock and she loved how desperate he looked.

"You’re so fucking pretty like this," she murmured, dragging her nails down his chest. "All worked up. You like it when I take my time with you, huh?"

Trent nodded, breathless. "Yes, ma’am."

She grinned, reaching between them to palm him. His hips jerked up, chasing the friction.

"Needy boy," she teased, squeezing just enough to make him hiss.

His eyes fluttered shut. He was drowning in her touch, in her voice, in the way she owned him completely.

"Tell me how much you want it."

"So bad," he rasped. "I need you, ma’am."

Her smirk deepened. "That’s more like it."

She finally wrapped her hand around him, stroking slow, teasing.

Trent groaned, hips twitching. "April—"

She squeezed, not too hard, but just enough to remind him who was in control. His eyes snapped open, breath catching in his throat.

"What’s my name?" she asked, tilting her head.

His jaw tightened. "Ma’am."

"Good boy."

His whole body trembled as she played with him, dragging her nails along his shaft, squeezing and releasing, pushing him to the edge but never letting him fall. His chest rose and fell rapidly, fingers gripping the sheets, his whole body a mess of tension.

April loved seeing him like this — strong and disciplined everywhere else, but utterly helpless under her hands.

She leaned in, pressing her lips against his ear. "You gonna fuck me good tonight, Trent?"

His breath was ragged. "Yes, ma’am."

"Show me."

And just like that, Trent flipped her over, pinning her beneath him. His lips crashed against hers, and April smiled into the kiss. He was still her good boy, still eager to please. But he was also desperate — wild with need.

Just the way she liked him.

.............tbd

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kennasutopia · 2 days ago

Text

‘Aperture’

Summary: A professional footballer with a playboy reputation finds his world reframed when he meets a talented photographer who captures the light and depth he’s never seen in himself. As their friendship develops, he finds himself illuminated by her presence—a stark contrast to the shallow spotlight he’s used to, but her guarded heart keeps her from fully trusting his intentions. Their friendship develops, like film in a darkroom, shifting into something far more intimate. But when their connection begins to blur the lines between friendship and something more, he realizes she’s the light he’s been chasing without knowing it and fights to prove he’s ready for something real. Yet, their love hangs in the balance—will the film of their story overexpose and fade, or will it develop into something vivid and timeless. Sometimes, love is about adjusting the focus, letting in the right light, and trusting the process.

Chapter Index:

Fashion Index: For all Y/N's looks! No more bad links!

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI [ smut, drinking - not sure what else really… if i miss anything please lmk!]

Note: Thank you for reading! Please be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series!

Chapter 2- 'Winnings' | 'Aperture'

word count - 11.3k

The Ibiza sun hung golden in the sky, its reflection dancing across the rippling cerulean water as you followed Trent’s lead down a dock lined with luxury boats, the scent of salt thick in the air. Seagulls cawed in the distance, the occasional wave lapped against the wooden planks beneath your feet, and yet, somehow, the only thing you could focus on was him. Trent, clad in an effortlessly casual linen shirt—unbuttoned just enough to tease the smooth, golden stretch of his chest—turned back to you with that infuriatingly smug smirk. His sunglasses were pushed up on his head into his curls, the morning sun making his brown skin glow, and as he lifted his hand in invitation, you folded your arms and narrowed your eyes.

“You’re kidding, correct?” You laughed, glancing past him at the yacht floating in front of you like it belonged in a GQ spread. This wasn’t just food.

“Was my morning plan,” he said, as if that justified everything. “The lads were too hungover, and I thought—who better to join me?” He took a long, confident step onto the ramp, barely even looking where he was going, completely fearless. Unbothered. You, on the other hand, were highly bothered.

“Literally… anyone else,” you replied, deadpan, crossing your arms tighter. “You don’t even know me.” Trent tilted his head, a faux expression of impatience playing on his face, like this back and forth was exhausting him.

“I’m trying to,” he said smoothly, extending his hand toward you. You stared at it. Not surprisingly, it was pretty like the rest of him. Soft and moisturized, pretty but strong, manly and far too tempting. You knew exactly what you were walking into. Knew this was a setup. Knew his mates' bailing was convenient. Knew this was just another move in his game, another step toward the outcome he really wanted—the one he almost got last night at the club. And yet… When you placed your hand in his, your whole body lit up in a way you couldn’t tell it not to.

His grip was strong, warm, steady—wrapping around yours in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. You weren’t even thinking about your Alaïa bag, which was dangerously close to tipping into the water, because in truth, if you fell in, it wouldn’t matter. You’d go with it. You’d dive to the depths for that bag. And still—somehow—you knew, instinctively, that he wouldn’t let that happen. Because for the first time in a long time… You felt safe even as you willingly stepped into his temptation. The realization startled you, hitting you so suddenly that you almost stumbled as he guided you up the ramp and onto the deck of the yacht. But then—just as quickly as it came—the feeling disappeared. Because Trent let go.

And just like that, you crashed back down to earth. This was not about keeping you afloat. He was not some sturdy foundation to lean on. No—he was like this yacht. A passing ship. Glamorous, impressive, but fleeting. He was trying to prove a point. Trying to see if he could still get what he wanted. You turned to him, immediately on high alert, crossing your arms again as he watched you with an almost amused expression—like he could feel your inner battle.

“You’re so full of shit,” you muttered, but it lacked bite. Because he was still standing there, still looking at you with those unfair eyes, still making you feel things you should not be feeling. Trent just smirked again, clearly enjoying himself far too much.

“You say that a lot to someone you say you don’t know,” he murmured, stepping just a fraction closer, his voice dropping slightly. Your breath caught in your throat. Because fuck, he smelled good. That mix of sandalwood, clean linen, and something distinctly him and memorable that made you want to lean in instead of step away. But you wouldn’t. You couldn’t. So instead, you rolled your eyes and walked past him, pretending your heart wasn’t slamming against your ribs.You weren’t playing hard to get, it wasn’t that. You weren’t sure what you were doing, why you agreed to this. It felt like he was spinning hoops around you and you stood frozen, it was too many games all at once and you couldn't’ keep up, but you sure as hell would try.

“Are we actually going anywhere,” you called over your shoulder, “or did you just bring me here to watch you admire yourself in the reflection, pretty boy?” You decided maybe knocking him down a peg would help you find your footing both in the game and on the boat. Trent let out a boy-ish laugh behind you. It was a jab but he’d also take the compliment.

“Nah, we’re going somewhere,” he said, his voice carrying just a little too much promise. And for some reason… You weren’t sure if that excited or terrified you.

The deck of the yacht stretched wide and open beneath the Ibizan sun, the sea shimmering like crushed sapphires around you. A gentle breeze lifted the scent of salt and citrus into the air, lazily rustling the edge of your knit sweater as you reclined in your seat, the slow, rhythmic rock of the boat coaxing away the last remnants of your hangover. Across from you, Trent sat with effortless sprawl—one arm slung over the back of his chair, the other lazily picking at the fruit on your plate, his golden skin kissed by both the sun and the gods, glistening in a way that made it increasingly difficult to hold your ground. Unfair. You’d been in a conversation for a bit about this. About why you were here. And his responses had been nothing but sweet innocent replies. Safe, almost as if there was no game at all. But you didn’t trust that. Not with someone like him. Still, this breakfast was far from cheesy and that made you all the more on edge.

“This is meant with no shade, I just don’t think we’re a good fit, that’s all,” you said, spearing a cube of cantaloupe with your fork, willing yourself to sound casual. “You don’t have to do all this.” You explained. Trent didn’t even blink. Instead, he casually reached over, plucked a piece of watermelon from your plate like it belonged to him, and popped it into his mouth. His bicep flexed as he stretched, the veins in his forearm standing out in sharp definition, they looked delicious, even more so than breakfast you two were having. The effortlessness at which he made your stomach flip, was pissing you off, he was attractive even when he was stealing your food. You hated how good he looked. Hated how even stealing your food was something that made your stomach tighten in frustration and—fuck—maybe something else. Hated how the juice of the watermelon on his lip had you wanting to lick it off.

“Why not?” he asked, chewing like he hadn’t just knocked the wind out of you with his sheer existence. You exhaled, shaking your head. All of this inner turmoil though? It was just that. Inner, hidden behind your Miu Miu sunnies [ref index], inside of you was swirling in chaos but on the outside, you were poised, not even a waiver in your voice. Trent was adamant but he was grasping at straws. Last night, his plan of hook, ignore, and tease didn’t work, in fact in ended up with him getting off to the sheer thought of you in the shower and this morning's cheeky schoolboy act didn’t seem to land either and yet, you were still here. He could feel the tension between you two. It was palpable but he began to wonder if you felt it at all or if he was alone sitting on this yacht, sweating under the heat of the sun and the pressure of trying to impress a woman that looked like a dream and felt like a mirage he couldn’t lay a hand on.

“You’re just interested because there’s a chase,” you said, watching as he unabashedly went in for another piece of fruit, shoving his worries down, covering them with tarmac so thickly made of confidence even he’d believed they were gone. You swatted his fork away with your own before he could grab it, making him laugh in amused defeat. “But I’m not something I think I want you to catch.” Trent tilted his head slightly, eyes scanning your face with interest, like he was studying a puzzle. You’d just met but it felt like there was something here, you both knew it. Something that merited this conversation. You were trying to convince yourself that you didn’t want it because you felt like he was in it for bad reasons whereas he knew something was there and he was hoping he could hit it and quit it and get real emotions out of his system. You sighed, feeling the weight of the conversation despite knowing it shouldn’t be this deep—you barely knew each other. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? It felt like there was something here. You both knew it. And that was dangerous. “You have a game plan,” you said simply, offering him a small, knowing smile. His brows furrowed, lips parting slightly in protest.

“Nah, I don’t.” He leaned forward, bracing his forearms against the table as he studied you, voice warm, casual. His gaze dipping to your cleavage unapologetically and back up. “I’m just enjoying this… right here.” The twinkle in his eye, that teasing charm, made you hesitate for a split second. You wanted to believe it. Maybe in another life, you would have. But you knew better.

“You’re enjoying the game,” you corrected with a smirk, eyes narrowing. “And you have an ideal outcome in your mind right now, don’t lie…” You looked at him and he exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly, but there was no denying the flicker of amusement behind his eyes—the little glint of mischief that told you yes, he did. He had an outcome in mind and you did too but you couldn’t go there, that would hurt far too much. Waking up beside him only to watch his strong back walk out of the room, only to be seen on match of the day come autumn. And you hated how pretty he looked at that moment. How that laugh, warm and unguarded, sent an unwanted flurry of butterflies through your stomach. It was breaking you down and you had no defense against him. Still, you smirked seeing the mischief behind that very twinkle he used to charm the front desk to get your room number. His eyes weren’t lit up with what you thought though. Well they were, but not with mal intent, because the lens Trent viewed you through at the minute was one of pure admiration. He thought you looked soft yet sexy and gently yet stern and he liked all of it. He liked the way the sun seemed to fall differently on you. A lot more than he understood. Your mouth worked faster than your brain when you spoke next, throwing out the first thing that popped into your head. “Your mind hasn’t thought about bending me over that railing?” you quipped, aiming for something cheeky, an out-of-pocket guess about why, exactly, he brought you here of all places. The moment the words left your mouth, his brows lifted, and his lips curled into the most infuriatingly smug smirk you’d ever seen.

“Well, yours has though, evidently…” he shot back smoothly, voice thick with satisfaction. Your breath hitched.‘Here she is,’ he thought to himself. Heat rushed to your cheeks, betrayal burning through your veins as an involuntary, flustered giggle slipped past your lips. Trent went completely still for a second. His heart clenched at the sound because seeing you, shy, with flushed cheeks followed by hearing that soft little laugh? He wasn’t prepared for it. He wasn’t prepared for the way it felt. But you were already shaking your head, collecting yourself, trying to recover.

“No…” you tried to deny, raising your finger towards him but your smile gave you away. “No. Hold on .I just understand you.” He raised a brow, intrigued because at the minute he didn’t recognize who this person sitting across from you was; this man had failed to bed a girl from the club, stayed up all night fixated on one, gone to a hotel and begged to be let upstairs and organized to eat breakfast all with a girl he’d only spoken a couple sentences to. But if he was honest with himself there were more than a few sentences said through the looks you shared. There were volumes that terrified him and it scared him that you might know that but he’d pretend for now.

“Do you?” He asked you as the dimples indented further in his cheeks and your heart. You leaned back in your chair, giving him a knowing look.

“Yeah. A bit obvious, isn’t it?” You looked at him attempting to find a bit of cheek despite feeling like you were in a freefall. He waited patiently preparing to be read like a book, he could see it in your eyes that you knew. “You live in this very niche space of being like every single other boy your age, but you just get a little extra grace,” you mused. “A protective veneer over your life that lets you get away with it all.” Trent scoffed, shaking his head with a quiet chuckle, but he didn’t deny it. Because you weren’t wrong. And not for the first time, he wasn’t sure if he liked that you could see right through him. But he couldn’t stop the way it was feeling that you could see through it all. That you had noticed the film that made his life a little glossier than others and that it was just that, merely a shiny gloss. The air between you crackled with tension, thick and intoxicating, the sea breeze doing nothing to cool the heat building between you. The sun was high, casting golden light over Trent’s skin, making him look even more like trouble—delicious, undeniable trouble. The rhythmic sway of the yacht beneath you was nothing compared to the unsteady ground you suddenly felt like you were on. He exhaled, taking your bait. His eyes flickering up to you.

“Alright, so I’ve thought about you like that,” he admitted smoothly, the words leaving his lips with an unbearable calm, as if he were merely stating a fact. His laugh softened as he held his hands up in faux innocence, but the cheeky smirk stretching his lips? That was anything but innocent. It was sharp, suggestive—designed to provoke. The second the words registered, your stomach twisted.

“Really?” You asked aloud. It fell out so quickly—too soft, too revealing. You practically wanted to shove it back in your mouth the second you heard it. Trent, of course, caught it instantly, his smirk twitching wider, his eyes burning with amusement. Maybe you weren’t as immune as you were leading on. He leaned in slightly, his gaze locked onto yours with a devastating mix of mischief and something else—something darker, heavier. You were both trying to navigate this in the ways you knew how but it was uncharted territory, they were pointless, useless maps.

“Hey, you got a very pretty smile…” he murmured, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “Wouldn’t hate seeing more of it.” Your lips parted slightly, stunned by how seamlessly he slipped from filthy implication to casual charm. It was so quick, so effortless, that it was almost impossible to believe it was genuine. Your eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping in. He could have complimented anything—your legs, your lips, your ass. But he picked something safe, something sweet. A ruse. It had to be. “You’re very funny,” he added, watching your face, waiting for your reaction.

“And that makes you want to bend me over a railing?” you fired back instantly, raising a brow. If he wanted to play, you could rally. Trent’s dimples deepened again, a boyish giggle escaping him before he could stop it. Fuck. That sound—it sent something twisting deep in your stomach. He liked this. In fact, he liked you. A lot.

“That was your vision, not mine,” he teased, raising his hand in mock accusation. You laughed despite yourself, shaking your head, but then—like a switch flipping—the air shifted. It was like someone had vacuumed all the oxygen off the deck. Trent leaned in, his voice dropping, his eyes locked onto yours, dark and molten. “But yeah…” His smirk faded, replaced with something far more dangerous. “I have thought about you bent over for me.” Your breath hitched. His fingers grazed the tabletop as he inched closer, his voice a whisper that seemed to wrap around your spine, setting fire to every nerve ending. “That ass wouldn’t be a bad view,” he continued, his eyes flicking down, then back up, slow and deliberate. “Grip that waist… watch you arch your back for me… turn your head, face me while I fuck you slow…” Your entire body ignited. “Watch those eyes shut… those lips pout…” His gaze flickered to your mouth, his own lips parting slightly as if he was picturing it right now, as if he needed to see it. “Be a good girl for me.” He whispered. Your breathing was uneven, your heart pounding so hard you swore he could hear it. His lips were inches from yours—too close, too tempting. Your own mouth parted slightly, as if on instinct, as if your body had already decided it wanted to meet him halfway, to close the distance, to erase the space between you. Tear your clothes off. Let him do everything he was describing. But then— A loud bell from another boat rang through the air, snapping reality back into focus. Your brain screamed at you, reminding you that this was Trent, the same boy as last night, that this was a game to him, that you weren’t supposed to be affected like this.

“Alright, alright,” you exhaled, turning your head away from him, breaking the spell, rolling your eyes for good measure as if you weren’t seconds away from losing yourself. Trent giggled. Soft. Amused. And it was alarmingly innocent given what he’d just been whispering to you across your breakfast.

“What?” he asked, feigning cluelessness, as if he hadn’t just described bending you over in vivid, devastating detail you desperately wanted to experience.

“You’re very cheeky, Trent Alexander-Arnold,” you murmured, shaking your head, fighting the small smile threatening to form. Your eyes fluttered shut briefly, willing yourself to steady the pounding of your heart. And Trent—he was torn. Completely, helplessly torn. Between his two heads. And for the first time in his life, he genuinely didn’t know which one to listen to.

The afternoon sun stretched over the dock, casting long, flickering reflections onto the water’s surface as you and Trent made your way off of the yacht. The Mediterranean breeze was softer now, lazier, swirling the scent of salt and suncream around you.

“Well, thank you for coming to eat with me,” Trent mused, effortlessly slipping his hand into yours again to help you off, his fingers curling around yours with that same instinctual confidence. He acted like he was simply guiding you back onto solid ground, like it was nothing at all. But the second his skin touched yours, it wasn’t nothing. It was a slow, simmering burn. A low, humming electricity that sparked through both of you, making your breath hitch ever so slightly. You knew he felt it too—his fingers flexed against yours, holding on for a fraction longer than necessary before he let go. You took a steadying breath, glancing at him.

“It would’ve been rude to decline.” A teasing smile played on your lips, but there was sincerity in your voice. “You also were in my room so I didn’t have a choice.” You told him eliciting a sweet laugh from Trent, a cross between embarrassment in his actions and pride that he achieved getting you here. “Thank you though. You’re full of it, but… I had a nice time.” His eyes flickered over your face, something unreadable flashing behind them before you turned away, stepping ahead of him down the dock. You needed space—space from the way his presence was making your head spin, from the heat still lingering where his hand had been, from the way your body reacted to him like he was something dangerous and irresistible all at once. Trent exhaled sharply, tilting his head back with a silent groan, eyes trailing down your figure as you walked ahead of him. You had just had him confessing to thinking about how he would’ve fucked you on the yacht, and now you were walking away like you were unphased. Meanwhile, he was an utter fucking mess. He’d had to adjust his shorts four times before you got back to shore. You caught his theatrics in the shimmering reflection of the water as he picked up his stride to match yours. But it didn’t make you feel the way it should’ve. It wasn’t an ick. Instead, it was terribly cute. You smiled to yourself as you felt him closing in before he was close behind you again, effortlessly sliding back into step like he belonged there.

“You lost a wager, by the way.” Your voice was light, but there was something weighted underneath it. You threw it over your shoulder turning back to him ever so slightly without stopping, knowing full well he’d take the bait. His eyes locked on yours in an instant and your stomach flipped. Trent’s smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, his eyes flicking to yours, and God, he was pretty.

“The thing about a wager…” he mused, his voice that velvety smoothness that made your stomach flip. “Someone needs to bet something on the outcome of an event.” He reminded you of the obvious definition.

“Well, you did bet something.” You slowed your steps slightly, glancing at him. His eyes were locked onto you now, watching, waiting. You let the pause stretch just long enough to make him remember it, want it. “You bet if you kissed me—” Your sentence paused as you watched his smile grow, stretching into something devastatingly boyish, and that was the moment you realized— You had walked into a trap. A perfectly laid, expertly executed trap, and he hadn’t even set it. You had armed it yourself and stepped into it willingly. But instead of feeling cornered, instead of feeling like he was pressing you into another game—something else settled into your chest. Hurt. Like a cold splash of reality washing over the warmth of the afternoon. Like the sharp sting of remembering that you weren’t special—just another conquest. Was the yacht a standing reservation? Were there other girls before you who had sat in that same chair, watched him flex his arm while stealing their food, had flirted, had laughed, had been made to feel something? You swallowed.

“If I kissed you…” Trent’s voice was softer now. At first, there was that familiar hunger in his eyes, but then—hesitation. It was a rare moment of vulnerability, a break in his unwavering confidence. “You’d want more.” His words lingered between you, but this time, they didn’t carry the same cocky weight they had in the club. And he saw it. Saw the shift in you, the way you suddenly looked at him like you weren’t entirely sure if you wanted to keep playing. “Hey, it was dumb. I’m sorry.” His voice was quieter now, apologetic, but it wasn’t enough to bring you back down. He knew it, and it unsettled him. Like he had offended you in a way he couldn’t take back. A beat of silence. Then, in a desperate attempt to smooth it over, to salvage whatever this was, he tried, “You wanna hang for a bit?” He asked. There was something almost hopeful in the way he said it. And for a second, you almost did. But then you caught yourself.

“I have to go meet my friends,” you lied smoothly, shifting your weight on your feet, feigning casual disinterest. You hadn’t checked your phone since stepping onto the yacht. For all you knew, your friends were still passed out at the hotel, blissfully unaware of the push and pull that had unraveled between you and Trent. Trent’s jaw tightened slightly.

“You sure?” He smirked, attempting to pull you back into that easy playfulness, back into the flirtation, back into him. But you didn’t bite. And that was the moment he realized— Not only was he losing, but for the first time… He wasn’t even sure if he knew what winning looked like. This wasn’t the game he thought it would be. This wasn’t just about getting you in bed. And that terrified him more than anything. He felt like he fucked up and at something he hadn’t even planned. A drunk ploy he planted before all this. Before, and he hated to say it, even in his mind, feelings arose.

The afternoon sun hung low over the Ibiza marina, casting golden ripples over the lapping waves, as if the sea itself was eavesdropping on your goodbye. The air was thick with salt and something heavier—something unspoken. It pressed against your skin, settling in your lungs like an ache you weren’t ready to name.

“T…” The pet name slipped from your lips, soft and unguarded, and Trent felt it like a punch straight to the gut. How did you do that? How did you dismantle him with something so small? You had done it last night too—the wink that had been both vicious and delicious, the kind of fleeting moment that branded itself onto his memory like a scar. You were addicting and yet fatal. “This was fun, really,” you said, your voice careful, like you were setting down something fragile. “I get it, but I don’t think that’s what we are. I’m sorry.” It was the right thing to say, wasn’t it? The logical thing. And yet, the moment the words left your mouth, your chest tightened, because somehow it felt wrong. Like you were ruining something important. And it wasn’t the stupid game you thought you were in. Like you were cutting off air to something before it had the chance to breathe. Then for the first time, you reached for him. Your fingers brushed his arm, and Trent stiffened, his whole body lighting up as if you’d just set him on fire. A simple touch shouldn’t feel like that, not to people like him.

“How do you know what we are?” His voice was quieter when he finally spoke. His gaze searched yours, dark and unreadable. “You just met me.” He said earnestly. And when your eyes flicked up to his face, you were surprised to find there was no teasing smirk. He was serious. Deadly serious. Your stomach twisted.

“I can tell,” you murmured. “You said it on the boat.” His brows twitched, the smallest flicker of amusement flashing through his otherwise hardened expression.

“It’s was a yacht.” That damn silky smirk returned—unintentional, effortless. Just him. And even now, even as you were trying to do the right thing, you couldn’t help but sigh at just how devastatingly beautiful he was.

“On the yacht,” you corrected yourself, softer now. His eyes never left yours, waiting. “You have an end game,” you said finally, willing yourself to believe it. “And I’m just not interested in that.” A blatant, fucking lie. Trent let the silence stretch, his expression unreadable. His head tilted slightly as his lips parted, and when he finally spoke, it was so quiet it nearly killed you.

“You’re not?” Trent asked you, his gaze narrowing on yours, his heart breaking in real time. Your breath stilled. His voice wasn’t cocky anymore. His eyes weren’t playful. His eyes began to pool into lethal puppy dog ones. They were locked onto yours with an intensity that had your pulse thrumming like a war drum. Waiting. Begging. Searching for the truth in you. And fuck, you hated how easy it was for him to see that it all was a lie, every word. Your lips parted, but you hesitated. He had a sliver of hope.

“No…” You could barely get the word out. It was barely a whisper, shaky and uncertain. Trent inhaled sharply, his jaw tensing. But he knew he wasn’t out for the count yet.

“You don’t sound so sure.” He smirked and let his eyes cast down at the very reason he was so sure that you did want him. His gaze dropped—to your hand. You hadn’t even realized what you had done. Your fingers had slid from his forearm, down curling around his wrist, delicate and small against his skin. And then, as if someone had flipped a switch, you let go. The loss of your touch was immediate and brutal. Like stepping off a ledge. Like a gut punch neither of you had braced for.

“I don’t think you’re good for me,” you admitted, voice barely above a breath. You weren’t sure why you thought that other than assumptions you’d made. Still, it hurt to even say it because you weren’t convinced by your own words. Your eyes met his, pleading. Begging him to be strong here, to agree with you. To put whatever this was—this dangerous thing, dangerously deeper than you two were acting it was —to an end before it became too real. Trent exhaled through his nose, his lips pressing into a thin line. Then, in a voice so soft it sent chills down your spine.

“C’mon, let me see more of you.” he whispered, not just objecting to your silent plea but rejecting it. There was no playfulness in his tone. No teasing smirk. Just something raw. Something aching. Your head shook before you could even process it, your body rejecting the thought. You moved to step back, but Trent caught your wrist, his grip firm but not forceful. Slowly, his fingers slid over yours, guiding your palm into his until you let him hold it.

The world around you didn’t stop moving—the marina was still alive, boats bobbing gently in the waves, the distant sound of music and laughter spilling from nearby decks—but it felt like it had. Like the two of you were trapped in a pressure cooker of everything unsaid, everything you were too scared to admit. You swallowed, voice barely above the chaos of your own heartbeat.

“I’ll see you.” You didn’t mean for it to sound so final. Trent’s chest deflated, his fingers loosening around yours before he finally let you slip away. And there you both stood. Two wounded soldiers from a war neither of you had signed up for. With feelings neither of you had anticipated. You tried for a sympathetic smile, but he didn’t even try to return it. He just stood there, eyes dark and unreadable, jaw clenched. Pissed. Not at you. At himself. At the circumstances.

Your words hung between you, fragile yet weighted, as if they could alter the course of something neither of you fully understood yet. You turned away before you could talk yourself into something reckless, into something you knew you weren’t ready for—but that didn’t mean you didn’t want it. The ground beneath your feet felt unsteady from the way your body was betraying you. Your mind was screaming at you to go, but everything else—the warmth still lingering on your wrist where he had held you, the echo of his voice in your head, the way his eyes had looked at you like you were it—was screaming stay.

And Trent? He was rooted in place, watching you go, jaw locked, chest rising and falling unevenly like he was trying to breathe through something he didn’t quite know how to name. You knew he was looking. You could feel it, his gaze a slow burn against your skin, trailing over your bare waist where the wind had lifted your sweater, the hem of your shorts where they rode up ever so slightly with each step, the curve of your as just peaking out.. Which he appreciated, your ass looked great but he wasn’t sure if the sight of it was drawing him closer or further away from himself. And you? it was supposed to make you feel powerful, make you feel in control, but instead, it made your stomach flip violently, because deep down, you knew it wasn’t just lust in his stare. He knew it too. There was a connection there, a chemistry that scared the shit out of both of you. It was more. And, you weren’t ready for more and he wasn’t either. You rolled your eyes with a sad giggle as you risked one last glance over your shoulder, biting your lip, trying to keep yourself from saying something that would make this harder than it already was. But Trent? He wasn’t going to let you go that easily.

“If you ever want to collect your winnings on that wager…” His voice was smooth, teasing, but there was something underneath it. A quiet invitation. A desperate attempt at holding onto whatever was slipping through his fingers. And then he smiled. That smile. The one that had made your knees weak since you first saw it. The one that could level you in an instant. The one that, despite reality, made your heart stutter against your ribs sending you straight into a fantasy. And there on Marina Ibiza Trent lodged one last attempt and this time he hit you with an arrow straight through your heart. You looked down for a moment, exhaling sharply, half-expecting to see if you were bleeding from it. Because fuck, it felt near fatal, a kill shot, with precision only Trent Alexander-Arnold could execute. You swallowed hard, forcing your head back up, forcing yourself to meet his gaze one last time. And then, because you didn’t know what else to do, because you needed him to hear what you weren’t saying, you gave him the only thing you could.

“I’ll see you.” You wished it into the world. Like a promise. Like a prayer. Like an apology for the way you had let this play out. For letting this be bigger than it needed to be. And as you turned, disappearing into the buzz of the marina, you swore you could still feel him standing there, watching. Waiting.

The following day, a villa was bathed in summer light, filled with hungover English boys, the Ibizan sun beginning its slow descent, casting long, lazy shadows over the pristine pool deck. The air smelled of salt and sunscreen, mingling with the faint scent of charred meat from a long-finished lunch. It was the picture of relaxation—loungers occupied by sun kissed bodies, drinks sweating in the heat, the distant hum of music filtering from someone’s speaker. But Trent? Trent was a storm brewing in the middle of it all. He’d gone to dinner with the lads last night but turned in early, watched a movie he’d already seen three times only to forget the whole thing. He sat stiffly on the edge of a sun-warmed lounger, elbows on his knees, gaze unfocused behind his sunglasses, a half-melted drink sweating in his grip. His fingers flexed around the condensation-slick glass like it had personally wronged him. Everyone could feel it. The tension clung to him like the humidity, oppressive and inescapable, infecting the group who had been otherwise basking in the ease of their holiday. Trent could be a drama queen but even so, his friends and brother’s didn’t understand where the moodiness was coming from today.

“Mate, what’s the deal?” Kieren’s voice cut through the air, thick with suspicion. He peered over at Trent from his reclined position, one hand lazily gripping a bottle of beer, the other shielding his eyes from the glare.

“Nothing, bro…” Trent shot back, way too fast, way too sharp. Kieren blinked. Alright then.

“Lad, Jesus…” Marcel muttered, shooting his older brother a look over his own drink. “You gotta relax, we’re on holiday. Have a drink, text a bird or something.” And that was it. That was the sentence that sent something inside Trent snapping. Because it hit him like a gut punch—he didn’t even have your number. He’d spent a whole night thinking about you, a whole morning with you, had practically had his hands on you, could still feel the ghost of your touch on his skin… and yet, you’d walked away. And he’d let you. And what was worse? He cared… still.

“Nah, fuck off.” His voice came out harsher than intended, and Marcel’s brows knit together in confusion, his grip tightening around his glass. Trent exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face like it might wipe away whatever this was. “I’m gonna go shower.” He stood abruptly, his movements sharp, impatient. “Do we have plans tonight?” he asked with speed, looking at the rest of the boys impatiently. The group hesitated, exchanging wary glances, feeling out the landmines in Trent’s mood.

“Uh… roughly,” his friend Leon answered cautiously. “Dinner and then deciding where to go after.” Trent nodded once, barely looking at them as his gaze flicked down to his untouched drink. He grabbed it aggressively, downing a large gulp, swallowing like the burn might put out whatever fire had ignited inside of him.

“Well, maybe we should think of a plan, yeah?” He said, voice tight. The air grew awkward, despite the warm breeze and the gentle lapping of water in the pool. Kieren’s eyes darted toward Marcel, lips parted slightly in something between confusion and amusement. Trent was notoriously a drama queen, they all knew that, so this would pass, no use in jokes, but there was a light reception to the moodiness.

“Erm… alright,” Marcel replied slowly, watching his brother like he was some sort of unpredictable animal, despite knowing him far too well. “I think I heard that girl Foster talking about some place that’s supposed to be a good time.” Trent barely heard the rest of the sentence. Because the name Foster—those two fucking syllable—hit him like a brick to the chest. He knew that name. His brain lagged for a moment, sifting through hazy memories before it clicked. He’d never officially met her, but he knew she was friends with Campbell. And he knew Campbell was with you. He’d seen Foster and Campbell together the other night in passing, the night he met you and now, just like that, the thread connected. If Foster was going there, then that meant you might be going too.

“Yeah, sound. Let’s do that then,” Trent said feigning nonchalance before he downed the rest of his drink as he set his glass down with unnecessary force, the ice clinking violently against the glass. He turned on his heel before anyone could analyze the shift in his expression, disappearing into the villa. The moment he was gone, the tension broke like a spell. Kieren exhaled a low chuckle, shaking his head.

“What the fuck is that lad on about?” He looked at the other boys. Marcel smirked, glancing around at the group.

“Dunno.” Leon murmured trying to hold back a laugh by taking a sip of his drink.

“Okay, so… anyone actually have Foster’s number?” He chuckled and a chorus of laughter erupted, the boys all reaching for their phones, sinking back into their loungers, drinks in hand, easy and carefree. But inside the villa? Inside, Trent was a fucking wreck. Because this wasn’t just about a game anymore. And he had no idea what the hell to do about it. Why the hell did he care so much?

London had been a canvas, and you had painted it with light and shadow, capturing moments in silvers and hues only your eye could translate. You had met Campbell there at university and became fast friends. Two girls in a city of endless movement, both searching for something—exposure, expression, perhaps a touch of destiny.

When you first met back then, she was a whisper of influence, a name on the cusp of becoming something bigger. And you? You were unseen behind the lens, the architect of angles, the sculptor of light. What began as casual portraits between lectures and late-night city strolls turned into something more—something that reshaped both of your trajectories. Her social media following exploded half way through school. Her following grew, and with it, so did yours. And in large part she accredited the sky rocketing of her career to you, always. She always said that behind every glossy campaign, every perfectly imperfect candid, was your eye, your instinct, your photography and art direction.

You had studied photography in a formal sense—earned a degree, doing digital and analogue, dissecting the mechanics of exposure and composition—but the truth was, your education had begun long before, and your love for it stemmed beyond classrooms. Your family's legacy was built in film canisters and meticulously framed archives. It was something that came naturally to you, something you excelled in, something you inherited. Your family’s heirlooms were letters from Cartier Bresson tucked away like relics. Leica cameras passed down like sacred texts. There was something in your blood, something inherited, an unteachable knowing of when to press the shutter and when to wait, when to let a moment breathe before capturing it forever.

When you and Campbell began to work together and harder, it spiraled fast. London had given you the stage, a hotbed for fashion… and football. And that’s where you found your sweet spot.

Your first major solo break had been with Sports World Magazine, a foot in the door that swung wide open. Soon, your name was being passed around with quiet reverence. Brands sought you, influencers wanted your vision, companies were paying for you, and the footballers—well, they looked at you like something if they could get to you, it was as if they could add it to the Honours section on their wikipedias. From campaign shoots to something as simple as well-lit fit pics, you had carved out a niche, a space where fashion and football intertwined, and you stood at the center, capturing it all. You were the best kept secret to them, an exclusive if they could find a way to get you to do it, and when you arrived to shoot, your appearance was even more jaw dropping then the final edited files you had an agency email to them, with the only accreditation to your work being your business instagram handle and website. You were an enigma, unreachable yet coveted.

But even in a city brimming with opportunity, home remained an abstract concept. And when Campbell decided to return north, back to her home city in Manchester, something in you shifted. Maybe it was the ever-present restlessness in your bones, the desire for a place that could anchor you amidst the whirlwind. Maybe it was just instinct, maybe it was just wanting to be with your best friend. And so, you let the north of England become your tether.

Now, Ibiza was a different kind of escape—a gilded retreat where sun-drenched afternoons bled into moonlit indulgence. Today, your camera was in hand, lens fixed on Campbell, who moved effortlessly against a backdrop of cerulean waves and sleek yachts, modeling for the swimwear brand she had built from summer dreams and a lucrative following. She had an exclusive drop coming out soon, and only your eye would do it justice. But this wasn’t a work trip in the traditional sense. It was more of a shoot when the mood strikes, drink when the sun dips kind of affair. Brand paid dinners and an airline flying you all there in exchange for a few posts and photos. Easy. A blurred line between duty and pleasure, between art and indulgence; working with your best friends. And as the shutter clicked, the sea breeze tangled in your hair, and the taste of salt clung to your lips, you felt it— A moment. A fragment of something fleeting, something beautiful, something worth capturing.

You weren’t exactly as frustrated as Trent but you definitely weren’t fairing well. You’d gone out with the girls, had a laugh, but did a double take every time you thought you might’ve seen him. And seeping alone last night felt like a mistake. Like you’d messed something up, and missed out. Today the sun was ruthless, beating down in thick waves that shimmered off the sand, clinging to your skin like a second layer. The air smelled of suncream, warm bodies moving lazily under the weight of summer. Campbell posed effortlessly in front of you, the ocean stretching behind her, the horizon blurred by the midday heat. You adjusted your camera, the familiar weight grounding you, but there was a restlessness in your fingers, an urgency that had nothing to do with the shoot. Then—a ping. A disruption. Foster’s phone screen lit up where she stood, reflector in hand, angling the light just right onto Campbell. At least, she had been, before she glanced down and let it drop to her side. The sudden shift in light made Campbell groan, made you huff in frustration. Maybe you were on edge.

“Hold on!” Foster grinned, her eyes glinting as she read the name on her screen. Leon. The excitement in her voice was instant, infectious. They didn’t know each other all that well but well enough to have each other's number. “A boy just asked me where we’re going tonight.” The possibility there was any connection between Campbell’s texts with Trent no one knew about, Foster’s mystery man, and your morning date yesterday you hadn’t shared with anyone didn’t exist to any of you.

“Ooooh, go on, Foxy!” Campbell cooed, a teasing lilt in her voice as she used the nickname that never failed to make you giggle.

“Where are we going tonight?” you mused, lowering the camera slightly, feeling the heat press heavier on your shoulders. “I need to, like…” You trailed off, struggling to name the feeling, the coiling thing in your chest. “Release,” you landed on finally, the word slipping out like an exhale.

“Good. Because we’re going to Nikki and so is he.” Foster’s thumbs flew over her screen, another text coming through before she looked up, triumphant. The name sent a buzz through the group instantly. Nikki Beach. A favorite and a temple of indulgence, where the champagne flowed as freely as the ocean, where the beautiful and the reckless collided under the Ibizan sun.

“Oh my god, I forgot we had that booked!” Delaney yelped from where she sat behind you in the sand. A slow grin stretched across your face as relief rushed in, cooling the heat that had settled in your chest.

“Thank god. I’m not joking. I need to clear my head.” You explained to the girls. You needed to drown out the memory of dark eyes narrowing in disappointment, of a voice low and insistent against your skin. You needed loud music, cool drinks, the kind of night that left no room for thoughts of him. You didn’t catch it but Campbell’s eyes narrowed on you curiously. “Okay, okay,” you exhaled, shifting back into work mode. “We need a few more frames, one more roll of film, and then we need to get back. I have to look…” You hesitated, aware of how fast you were speaking, of how much you needed this night to wipe out the feeling still lingering on your skin.

“Sexy?” Delaney quipped, the grin evident in her voice. You shrugged, lips quirking, and before you could stop them—

“Oh my god! Just say you need to get fucked tonight,” Foster teased, her laugh sharp and wicked. Your jaw dropped in exaggerated shock, rolling your eyes as the laughter bubbled around you, the kind of laughter that belonged to best friends, to girls wrapped up in each other’s energy, in the freedom of youth and summer.

“Maybe she will,” Campbell smirked, something knowing in her tone, something you didn’t quite catch. But the truth was, no matter how much you wanted to let the night carry you away, to dance until your body was weightless, to let someone’s hands erase the memory of his— You weren’t sure anything could.

–

The night was alive before it even began. You felt it in the air, thick with perfume and promise, in the warmth of Ibiza’s breath against your skin, kissed golden by the sun and shimmering with oil. You were draped in white, a Mother of All mini dress, [ref index] the kind of dress designed to ruin men, with cutouts wicked enough to make the devil himself turn away. Every step you took was laced with purpose, your pink Louboutin heels clicking against the smooth stone as you and Campbell strolled into Nikki Beach, hands clasped, a silent oath to indulgence. Ahead of you, Delaney and Foster glided through the entrance, already buzzing from dinner’s cocktails, laughter sweet and sticky like sangria. The bass from the club throbbed beneath your feet, the distant hum of the waves competing with the music, the night slipping into something sinful. Campbell’s fingers tightened around yours, pulling you closer into her body.

“So, are you going to pretend like you didn’t disappear yesterday?” She whispered in your ear not wanting the other girls to overhear and call you out, but she could’ve yelled and it would’ve been hard to hear her. You blinked at her, the lights above flashing like heat lightning, the question slicing through your haze of tequila and defiance.

“What?” You asked earnestly. Her eyes narrowed knowingly.

“Y/N, come on. I gave you a grace period. You ghosted the group chat for hours. And he asked for the hotel name…” That made you pause. You hadn’t even considered how Trent had found you. You’d just accepted it, like the sky was blue, like the sea met the shore. But now—now that Campbell had laid it out so plainly—why had he done that? But before your mind could wander too far, a stray strobe light flickered in your face, blinding, erasing the thought. You let it slip away, like so many other things you weren’t ready to face.

“If you’re asking if he charmed his way up to the room, yes.” Your lips curved into something unreadable. “If you’re asking if he charmed his way into my bed… no.” Campbell tilted her head, eyes flickering with something between amusement and concern. You smiled at her sympathetically. She was just being a good friend but you wanted to forget that he succeeded at one thing and failed at the other.

“Y/N…” She whispered your name, pleadingly, attempting to drag you back to talk to you more. She knew you didn’t trust people often, but knew just as well you also liked a party as much as the next person, and another person who liked a party just as much as you did was Trent. And it was clear to Campbell that something had happened far beyond some silly potential party hook up if you weren’t talking about it. She was a good friend, your best friend in fact, but you didn’t want good tonight. You wanted reckless. You wanted the kind of night that smothered overthinking, that buried lingering touches and dark-eyed glances beneath champagne bubbles and basslines.

“C’mon, let’s have a fun night…” you murmured, and she saw it in your eyes—the plea, the edge of something bruised. That you were a little rattled by Trent but you wanted to move forward and now wasn’t the time So she nodded, stepping into you, pulling you into an embrace as you stumbled into the open-air club together. And it was decadence.

The reserved daybed was already waiting for you, the kind of luxury that came as second nature in your world now. Champagne—pre-ordered, courtesy of a brand that had sent Campbell a dress. And then, inexplicably, the real treasure that made your eyes light up: four bottles of Don Julio 1942. Glasses already lined up you’d ignore, limes sliced, a ceramic pot of Sal de Ibiza Flor de Sal. You lifted a brow, exchanging looks with the girls.

“Genuinely no idea, but they said it’s definitely for us!” Foster announced with a grin, reading the unspoken question on your face. A shrug. A moment of hesitation. But no one was complaining. Not even you.

“Well,” you exhaled, fingers curling around the dark bottle’s neck. “It’s going to be one hell of a night now.” You giggled. Delaney grabbed another, laughter bubbling over.

“You get a bottle! You get a bottle! You get a bottle!” she quipped, mimicking the infamous Oprah meme as she distributed the remaining tequila bottles to Foster and Campbell, a bottle per girl, a night destined for chaos and that’s exactly what you wanted. You placed a pinch of salt from the pot on the webbing between your thumb and forefinger and licked the salt off your hand, and as the other girls followed suit before you placed the bottle to your lips. You let yourself be swept up in it—the weight of the bottle in your palm, the scrape of salt against your tongue, the smooth, slow burn of liquor as you tipped it straight to your lips. And as you took a shot straight from the bottle that’s when you saw him.

Out of the corner of your eye, a presence that cracked through the night, unmistakable even in the haze of strobes and smoke. Trent. Suddenly the generous tequila made perfect sense. Of course. He was seated, watching, half-lit by gold and blue, the glint of a chain around his neck catching the light as he observed you with an unreadable expression.

Something inside you sparked seeing him, igniting, tequila gasoline rushing to meet it and you couldn’t stop it. You lowered the bottle from your lips, the burn still fresh on your tongue, but your reaction wasn’t to wince at the liquor. It was to play. It was like an immediate hit of liquid courage. So you leaned forward, the weight of your gaze locked on his, deliberate and slow. You reached for a lime, bringing it to your lips, your lips wrapping around the citrus, biting down just enough, sensually sucking it. Your tongue flicked against the tartness as you pulled away, letting the juice linger on your lips until you licked over them sexily, letting him watch the whole show.

And Trent—oh, Trent—he took the bait, his lips twitching, his jaw tightening, something dark settling behind his eyes. This was not the plan tonight, he was not the plan but even just the eye contact felt so fucking good and he was still on the other side of the beach club. The tequila was warm in your veins. The bass was thrumming in your ribs. And he was ever present in your mind.

Trent watched you with the kind of hunger that was more than desire—it was dangerous. A slow-burning need that curled in his chest, one he knew better than to indulge, but tonight, restraint wasn’t in his vocabulary. His fingers tightened around the heavy crystal tumbler, the añejo swirling like liquid gold, mirroring the color of his own gaze. Smooth. Intoxicating. And right now, filled with longing that burned deeper than the liquor sliding down his throat. He craved being close enough to touch, but the shimmering pool between your sections of the club felt like an ocean. A cruel, deliberate distance. He wanted to close it. He didn’t want to be Trent Alexander-Arnold. He wanted to be Don Julio. He wanted to be the tequila you caressed with your lips, the bottle you gripped with that teasing little hold, wanted to feel himself slip down your throat as you swallowed the fire. You had him in a trance, mesmerized. But a sharp clap on his shoulder broke the spell.

“Trentski, who’s got you drooling?” Kieran’s voice was all mischief, dragging Trent back to the present, but not enough to shake his fixation. Marcel, catching the shift in energy, leaned in, following the trail of Trent’s gaze. And there you were—moonlit and magnetic, reclined on the daybed, body stretched in effortless elegance, with a slight arch to your back, creating a shape that had Trent locked in. Strobe lights licked over your exposed skin, turning you into something celestial. You were laughing with your friends, head tipped back, fingers brushing your hair behind your shoulder before you grabbed the bottle again, bringing it back to your lips like a lover. Marcel let out a low whistle, eyebrows raised in admiration and understanding

“Oof wow merited.” Kieren exhaled a puff of air in admiration. Trent barely heard them, his mind looping back to yesterday.

“I took her to breakfast,” he muttered, words heavy with meaning. The reaction was instant—both boys snapped their attention from you to him, eyes sharp with curiosity and confusion.

“What?! You slept with her?” Marcel’s question carried more disbelief than judgment. Kieran just waited, wide-eyed, for the answer, impatient, eager. They’d been with him for days so they were a little confused when he might’ve snuck off to do such a thing. Trent’s jaw tightened, his grip flexing around the glass.

“Nah,” he admitted, before his lips curled into something sharper, more certain.Trent’s eyes narrowed in on you like a target. Maybe it was being surrounded by other boys but his weakness to you hardened into the person he was before he met you desperately trying to cling to that. “I’m gonna though.” It was a bold claim, one that should have tasted like every other conquest, but it didn’t. It sat heavier, like something unspoken lay beneath it, like his body was saying one thing but his heart was playing a different game entirely. He didn’t even look at them. Didn’t care for their reaction. His focus was trained solely on you—on the way the tequila in your bottle, the bottle he gave you, was draining, the way your cheeky glances acknowledged him but never indulged, the way you carried yourself as though the whole damn club was orbiting around you.

He wanted to call it a game. Wanted to believe he could play it. After all, precision was his craft—every pass calculated, every cross designed for the perfect assist. That’s what this was supposed to be. And he was going to set this up just the same, lethal execution and game winning. Every word and touch to be precise, delivered with weight and purpose just like the perfect assist.

But as the minutes slipped by, you stood, looking even better beneath the club lights, he realized there was no one on the receiving end of this assist. You weren’t moving toward him. You were an anomaly, a masterpiece of contradictions—untouchable yet inviting, intoxicating yet in control. And while he talked a good game to his friend and brother, it was clear you were not a game to win. His usual tactics weren’t going to work. And, in a strange new sensation he kept feeling, he liked that they didn’t work on you. So, for the first time in longer than he cared to admit, he made a choice. A deviation from the script. He was going to chase.

And as if fate itself was offering him an opening, you bent over to grab your purse, and Trent felt all the blood in him rush somewhere south and every ounce of restraint left in him snap.

“Fucking hell.” He murmured to himself, imagining all the ways he wanted to touch that body across the pool. His fingers twitched against his knee, his body coiling tight. He didn’t just want a night—he wanted you.

“Hmm?” Marcel turned to him not hearing what he said. Trent’s brow furrowed and waved him off. When you stood, your eyes found his. You told the girls you were popping to the loo but you also wanted to see where his eyes were. And there were exactly where you wanted them, on you. Maybe he was deviating from his normal approach but that didn’t mean his personality, charm and cheek were going anywhere. His lips curved into something dangerous. Slowly, he tilted his head, nodding toward the dimly lit hallway leading to the toilets. A silent invitation, a command wrapped in a challenge. For a half second, you just stared, unreadable, unreadable, unreadable—until the tequila, the heat in your belly, and the way that fucking smirk of his made your stomach tighten all conspired against you. Your lips curled, a soft roll of your eyes before you gave in. Trent’s smirk deepened. He winked. And then he stood.

You hesitated, letting him go first. You needed to see if he meant it, if this was real, if he would wait. And he did. The corridor stretched before you, bathed in the dim glow of ornate lanterns casting golden halos against the walls. The music thumped faintly in the background, muted by distance, but your pulse pounded louder. The air here was warmer, thicker, laced with anticipation. Maybe it was the tequila, maybe it was the way Trent stood there, back against the wall, waiting—for you. Your heels clicked softly against the polished floor as you approached, but the sound barely registered over the thrumming heat coursing through your body. The low light kissed the sharp edges of his jawline, the smooth curves of his full lips, and the deliberate way he pushed off the wall as you neared. His smirk landed first, hot and knowing. Trouble.

“You look too good tonight to be that far away from me.” His voice dripped in confidence, in control, but there was something else—something deeper. Your breath hitched. The temperature had climbed ten degrees, but the burn wasn’t from the liquor. A part of you wanted to roll your eyes and ask ‘then why wasn’t he bold enough to come over to you’, and yet a part of you preferred this. That he didn’t try to charm your friends in an effort to get to you. Instead, he got you alone. And once again, you found yourself terrified not of him, but of yourself and yet equal parts excited.

“Still trying?” you teased, mirroring his smirk, leaning a shoulder against the wall near the restroom doors to steady yourself, to keep from sinking into the gravitational pull of him. His eyes gleamed under the amber glow.

“Still trying…” His tongue darted out to wet his lips, his smirk tilting playfully. “No other girls tonight.” The mention of your initial rejection at the club made your stomach flip. You bit your lip, letting your lashes flutter shut for a second, fighting back a giggle. Damn tequila, loosening your restraint.

“Until I say no…” you mused, raising a brow, daring him. Trent chuckled lowly, stepping in just an inch closer, enough for the heat of him to lick at your skin.

“Ah, see, you saying no already?” His voice was velvet and smoke, smug because he knew. He knew you had followed him down this hallway. He hadn’t needed to touch you, hadn’t needed to call your name. Just a flick of his head and you were here. “You came though.” He raised his brows knowingly. You shook your head, trying—trying—to ground yourself.

“Just came to say thanks for the tequila,” you countered sweetly, though the smile on your lips betrayed you. It was beaming, flirty, cheeky, and yet all at the same time testing and taunting saying ‘try something, I dare you.’ His eyes narrowed, scanning yours, reading between the lines of your words. But before he could reply, his gaze flicked past you, when two girls stumbled into the hall, giggling as they drunkenly pushed into one of the open doors before disappearing as fast as they appeared. You turned to look over your shoulder, a momentary opening, then, in that moment where your focus lapsed, you felt him. A hand, low, ghosting over your waist. A single, effortless touch that sent a wildfire through your bloodstream. You exhaled sharply. His fingers flexed slightly, pressing just enough to feel the curve of you beneath them. A hand, low on your waist. Light at first, just a whisper of heat. But it sent a shockwave through your body, a dizzying, pulse-quickening spark that made your breath hitch. You turned your face back to face him slowly and as you did, his grip tightened, slipping lower—over your hip, around to the small of your back, settling just above the swell of your ass. Your lips parted instinctively. As your skin burned.

“C’mon…” His voice dropped, a sultry rasp, barely above a whisper, but it slithered down your spine like sin. “At least play with me a little, baby.” His voice dropped, a voice wrapped in honey, thick with something unspoken, something dark and aching. You actively left him the other day because of the idea of a game but now you wanted to play and he saw it in your eyes and he felt it in your body too.

Your body betrayed you. You shifted, arching, pressing into his touch instead of pulling away. His smirk deepened. He knew. The smug glint in his eyes told you he noticed. He always noticed when someone wanted him. And he was right, you did. And then—he moved. He had you like your king was in check in a game of chess. Both hands firm on your hips, and in swift sexy movements, he turned you gently, pressing you back against the wall—not rough, no. He wasn’t forcing anything. He was coaxing. Using nothing but the weight of his body, the slow drag of his breath against your skin, the burn of his touch, to make you melt, a silent claim that left your breath uneven. Deliberate.

“I don’t want to play with you…” You whispered, the words rolling off your tongue like a lie wrapped in silk followed by a cheeky smile. His eyes narrowed and hummed, a low, knowing sound, his breath fanning over your lips. It was a purr that sent shivers through your body and a pulse to your core. His eyes dragged over you— flickering to your lips, to the rise and fall of your chest, then lower, tracing the exposed skin between the cut-outs of your dress like a man savoring every inch before indulging. He didn’t miss the way your thighs squeezed together as if your body was trying to temper the growing ache. It was in that moment, when you couldn’t use words to get out of this. Your body was saying yes blatantly under his gaze, so you caved and reached for him. Your fingers curled around his jaw, thumb brushing over the sharp edge of his cheekbone. His skin was warm, taut beneath your touch, his breathing slow but deep. Your lips parted. And just as you went to close the space, to pull him in, ready to close the final sliver of space between you, he moved—rolling effortlessly to your side. Confusion flashed for a split second before realization hit. His hands stayed on you, guiding you as he pressed his back against the door beside you pushing it inwards. It swung open with ease, and before you could process, he was pulling you in after him, the dimly lit bathroom swallowing you both whole. It wasn't a forceful pull. It was firm but gentle enough to give you the option to pull away if you didn’t want to follow, but you didn’t want that. You let him take you in.

•

Thank you for reading! Welcome to my new fic 'Aperture' I really hope you enjoy this chapter and look forward to what's ahead!

Please like, comment, or message what you think!!!

Next part - Chapter 3 Coming Soon!

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