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sunfairyy · 10 days ago

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𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐀 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐌

𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒

pairing: sir lewis hamilton x black fem!oc; nadia hamilton

summary: nadia’s got a new job, life is going great (we do not mention singapore ’23) and she has a loving husband! nothing could go wrong, right?

warnings: cussing, outfit descriptions, suggestive stuff bc i love teasing you guys, slight angst too! (tw: qatar ‘23)

saint’s team radio 🫧: hey…..hey. i did not realise that it’s been almost 7 months without giving you guys lewdia….you guys are too kind i swear oh em gee 😭. like i always say, the last chapter bummed me out but we’re back now! i hope you enjoy this one, guys and thank you for sticking around 🥹

pls like, comment and reblog (i’m watching you)

taglist is down below!

fc: @/unclewaffles_ on ig!

renaissance: the series masterlist • general masterlist

LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM

Lewis watched as his wife stepped out of the private exit of the upscale restaurant with her red bottoms clacking against the gravel of the parking lot behind the building. Holding the train of her dress like a true princess, she flicked her hair behind her shoulder as she made eye contact with her husband and a huge grin filled her face.

He leaned on the cullinan with a bouquet of white roses sitting pretty on the hood of the car and the infamous pink box from her favourite bakery, a swell of pride in his chest as he watched Nadia walk closer and closer to him.

“You, Sir,” She started, placing her clutch on the hood. “You’re looking at the brand new creative designer for Louis Vuitton.” Nadia expressed, her excitement kept in but the smile showed all her emotions. “The dinner went so well, baby, that the executives moved me from just working in Pharrell’s team to the general team in LV.” She giggled, trying her level best to surpress the excitement.

Lewis’ jaw dropped at the news. He knew Nadia was always gunning for a second chance in the fashion world and after months of communication, deep emotions and frustration, her biggest dream has come true. He could the tears prick his eyes as he watched his wife’s eyes glimmer with happiness.

“Nadia…oh my god, sweetheart. This is huge, this is…everything. I’m so proud of you, love.” Lewis spoke, his arms circling her waist and pulling her impossibly close. It truly sunk in as he spun her around in his arms and her laughter rang through the night sky. “How are you feeling? This is massive, babe, I can’t believe this.” Lewis spoke in disbelief, the ever growing smile never leaving his lips.

“I’m so shocked, I almost screamed and cried when Jean-Luc said that. Then my first thought was to facetime you then I remembered that I was still in work mode. Baby, they even asked that I sign the contract as soon as possible. Like?! Me?! I dreamt of this, Lewis, for years and I just-” The waterworks beat Nadia to her words, a few tears slipping down her cheeks.

Lewis didn’t have to say much, he just hugged her, her head softly placed on his chest and he most certainly didn’t mind that her makeup would get on his shirt. “Oh my god, I need to tell my babies Willow and Kaiden. Then the girls then- this is just so overwhelming and exciting!” She smiled wide, wiping her tears, not caring about her makeup anymore.

Nadia’s eyes finally drifted to the large bouquet staring right back at her along with the faint scent of the croissants. “Was it your job to just make me cry today? I’ve been craving these things for weeks.” Her bottom lip curled into a sweet pout before opening up the box and immediately munching on one.

“Nads, you didn’t even see the flowers? These things are heavy, you know?” He chuckled, watching move crumbs into her mouth.

She laughed. “Trust, I saw them. I had to get some real food first, they in there feeding people thoughts of food with a side of caviar.” She joked, taking up another bite of her pain au chocolat.

nadiahamilton

liked by lewishamilton, megantheestallion and 963,728 others

nadiahamilton this girl is now a creative designer for @.louisvuitton. i’m eternally grateful for this opportunity, thank you 🤍

view all comments

user THIS IS HUGE OH MY GOD CONGRATULATIONS MOTHERRRR

arianagrande nadiaaaaa i’m so proud of you!! can’t wait to celebrate you 🫧

charlottieee ARE YOU FUCKING JOKINGGGGG AHHHH

nadiahamilton girl i told you already 🧍🏽‍♀️

charlottieeee STILL THIS IS SO AMAZING

louisvuitton welcome to the family, Madam Nadia! Very excited to work with you in the future ❤️

nadiahamilton I can’t wait to start!

user damn i also wanna use my last name to get me into places that i was never supposed to go to

user you’re such a bitter bitch. you’d never say this about a white man

user TELL EM OOMF

chunkz you making big moves, sister 🥹

user THAT BOUQUET!!!

fencer sister in law is doing insane things! so proud 🥳

nadiahamilton milesssss 🥹

zendaya we’re officially co-workers! ahhh this is amazing, congratulations big sis

nadiahamilton you’re officially my work wife 😛

kehlani vv proud of you, baby girl!!!! only wearin your pieces from now on, trust

iamcardib steal my entire comment, why don’t you? 😐

latto777 y’all ain’t doin enough, i’m getting this shit tatted on me! 🗣️

alexandrasaintmleux sending the biggest bouquet of flowers to you tinkerbell!

nadiahamilton love you always, alex!

iamkaylanicole THEE GIRL, OKAY?!

nadiahamilton kaylaaaa bae 🥹

user from high school teacher to creative designer for lv….. this ain’t shady to y’all?

megantheestallion NOPE

user mother has spoken

lewishamilton clean

nadiahamilton don’t piss me off 🧍🏽‍♀️

lewishamilton i love you, darling and i’m very proud of you ❤️💐

user motherrrrr 🥹

user still can’t have kids btw

nadiahamilton and your bf is still in the ground, now what

user she went LOWER omg 😭

LUSAIL INTERNATIONAL CIRCUIT, DOHA, QATAR

Nadia was already missing Japan and Mexico. Those two races had been the most fun she had experienced this entire season. The car was behaving surprisingly and Lewis was very positive about the outcome of the car, saying the team seemed to finally listen to him.

She was riding solo this time, Miles having to leave early for some work reasons and their friends just saying something about the vibe of the track didn’t sit right with them. Shrugging her shoulders, Nadia packed and went to Lusail with her man, packing her work books as well for sketches.

It was unbearably hot on race day but she had still covered up because she knew of the strict rules around her. Thank goodness the fabrics of her outfit were breathable but she wouldn’t be surprised if her lace lifted a tad bit. Her prescription glasses perched on her nose with her pencil tapping on the corner of her mouth as she sketched potential pieces a new collection that LV was planning to release.

The sweet sounds of jazz rang through her earphones as she swung her feet. Lewis’ driver’s room was comfortable enough for the both of them to be in their own worlds together. Lewis was also focused on his little notebook, focusing on the first lap mostly as he was starting in the front with George. His leg was bouncing, thinking of how things would go for him in this race.

Nadia was the first to put her sketchbook down sigh internally, fanning herself with her hands. He followed suit, taking his airpods off and setting them aside. Lewis gently patted his thigh and Nadia hopped off the ‘bed’ and into his lap, leaning back and feeling his chin on her shoulder as his arms circled her waist and pulled her closer.

“It’s just you and me this time.” Nadia spoke softly, playing with the hem of her shirt. Lewis could only hum in agreement. “I don’t know how to feel about this one. The last two were good and that kind of scares me because the car hasn’t been reliable all year.” He sighed. “I don’t know, love…”

“What are you thinking, Lew?” She took a moment to allow him to respond. He leaned his forehead against her shoulder. “I..They listened to me, Nads. They don’t..they don’t usually do that. I should be able to trust them, you know?” Lewis expressed and Nadia could feel his despair in his words.

She took a moment before saying anything. “Are you thinking of-”

“No. No, I’ve been with them for majority of my career. They’re family to me.” Lewis lifted his head, his voice harbouring slight offence at the mere thought of…that happening.

“Do they feel the same towards you though?” Nadia said, letting the sentence linger in the air for a moment. “You give them everything and they give everything to your teammate. I’m not saying that you should…leave. Never. I just want to see you happy in a car that you can drive.” She fidgeted with her nails this time.

Lewis took his time to respond. The thoughts racing in his head. He is Mercedes. He wants to retire with them. But do they want to?

“I made it deep, innit? I’m sorry.” She chuckled, trying to lift the mood. “I know you’ll do amazing today. I’m just chatting.”

He bounced the leg that she was sitting on. “Heyyy, it’s okay, these conversations are needed. You’re a gem.” Lewis said, kissing her temple. Nadia turned to kiss him fully and when pulling away, she pecked his lips again.

“You’ll kill it today, I just know it.” She smiled.

Nadia, in fact, did not know it.

Her eyebrows were furrowed with her mouth slightly ajar as she watched her husband stand next to his car as he was knocked off the track by his own teammate. Watched as he crossed the track on foot, as they lifted the car from the gravel, as he walked through the garage with his helmet still on and his shoulders slumped in defeat, watched as he walked past her.

After what felt hours of silence sat in his driver’s room in complete shock, the man of the hour placed his cap on as he prepared to walk out of the driver’s room to the masses.

“Why’d you post that? Why’d you say you’re sorry?” Nadia finally spoke up, halting him from leaving just yet.

His hand was on the handle for a second before letting go. “Because I am. What happened out there was my fault.” He muttered, looking directly at her.

“Don’t actually piss me off, Lewis. What I saw, what the world saw? That was sickening. You can go out there and say how awful you feel for doing that to George and the team and how sorry you are but in this room? You cannot lie to my face like that.” Nadia crossed her arms, not wanting to come off as angry but it was getting worse.

“Nadia, you can’t possibly be mad at me for something I did. I was in the wrong. I need to go apologise to the team.” Lewis told her, fully facing the woman.

She took a breath, collecting her words. “They’re going to humiliate you. Do you understand how dehumanising that is?” Nadia asked, her throat feeling tight and her eyes prickly.

Lewis scoffed and looked away, scratching his beard. “I’m not doing this with you right now.”

“Lewis Hamilton, what the fuck happened out there? Tell me to my face what happened.” Nadia pointed in between her eyes, standing to her full height not breaking eye contact.

“George crashed into me. Fuck, is that what you want to hear?” He ran a hand down his face, not believing he actually admitted that out loud.

She let it linger in the air for a few moments. “Thank you. You can go and play superhero. You’ll know where to find me.” Turning away from him, she hopped back onto the bed and carried on with her sketches.

Licking his teeth and holding his breath, he looked at the ground and left the room filled with immense tension.

Hours. Hours passed and she hadn’t said a word to him. She watched as his phone buzzed with all sorts of supportive messages from friends and family. She sat in bed, staring at the bathroom door and waited for him to get out so she could sleep peacefully.

Lewis appeared with just his boxers on and his eyes immediately connected with hers and you could cut the tension with a knife. All he did was call her over with a tilt of his head and she was on her feet before she could even think about it. As soon as she was in front of him, his hand was splayed over her lower back and his other lifting her chin.

“What you did today…it was needed. I have to thank you for that, love.” He murmured, looking all over her face except her eyes and his thumb lightly brushing over her bottom lip.

With her mouth slightly open, he took the chance to slip his thumb into her mouth, immediately allowing her to melt into his arms. “You have to remember though, baby. You always have to remember…” He whispered, kissing her forehead.

Nadia nodding her head unconsciously, her eyes softening and just like that, she was putty in his hands.

AUSTIN, TEXAS

“Okay but think about it though! These cowboy boots are comfortable.” Nadia exclaimed to her friends as she leaned on the kitchen island.

Amara gave her friend the side eye. “Girl, trust me when I say you’ll regret saying all that at the end of the day.” The woman patted her face with setting powder, looking in the huge mirror just outside the kitchen.

The airbnb Tia rented for the weekend was abnormally large but it was able to fit the whole friend group in with some extra space. The sunlight shined through the floor to ceiling windows as the morning sun greeted Austin.

“The goal here was to look like a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader, Amara.” Nadia informed, her hands on her hips and her jewellery jangling.

In that moment, Natalia jogged down the stairs. “The actual goal here, besties, is to get to the track before we miss the performance or the race!” She exclaimed, fixing her dress then her hair. “Plus Andrew is saving us some bomb ass slushies.”

Nadia’s eyes widened, immediately running to her and Lewis’ room to get an alternative pair of shoes. “I feel like you should’ve mentioned that earlier, Nat!” She shouted as she bolted up the stairs.

The slushy was very refreshing under the Texan sun. The girls were right, the cowboy boots wouldn’t have worked out for the amount of walking and standing she had to do for this particular day.

Everything was going well, the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders performed so perfectly, Nadia even thought of potentially joining them one day but that seemed far fetched. The start of the race was smooth, knowing it was going to become a battle of some sort between Lewis and Charles. The guests in The 44 club were very hyped for the race and the vibes were just right.

That’s how Nadia knew something was too good to be true. Lewis had gotten on the podium with the biggest smile on his face as everyone celebrated around him. The celebrations continued into the evening, the friend group having a party of their own in the airbnb.

“I think we should come here for December, what do you think? Maybe Aspen?” Lewis asked his wife, laying his head on her shoulder as she held a smoothie in her hand, watching her friends play a board game that she checked out of a while ago.

“I’m not skiing though, I’ll watch you do your thing baby.” She smiled softly at the thought of spending Christmas with her new family.

Lewis hummed. “That’s good enough for me. Though…I might have to whisk us away somewhere special soon. I’ve got a surprise for you.” He hinted, a grin on his face that could light up the room.

“What on earth are you planning? You’re always up to something.” She giggled, barely thinking of what the surprise could be.

Miles stood up from the carpet with his phone in his hand, his jaw dropped a bit. “Mate, you got disqualified.” His usual loud voice going quiet as he showed his best friend the instagram post from F1.

All Lewis did was sigh. “I expected it. Today was going to be a bit too well with that damn car.” He scoffed in disbelief. “Maybe I should think about going red.” Lewis joked.

Nadia gasped and smacked his arm. “Lewis, you can’t say that!”

saint’s notes: heyyyyyyyy 🧍🏽‍♀️ i hope y’all enjoyed that 🥹. love y’all always. lmk what you think!

tags: @motheroffae @perfecttrashface @myescapefromthislife @slytherinjimin3nthusiast @jamie2305 @cocobutterqwueen @like-fire-love-blog @sugardontbesweet @simpfortoomanymen @mauvecherie-writes @queenshikongo3 @eugene-emt-roe @deepgothfiremuffin @18754389 @cherry2stems @anubisnoir @littlelizzies-world @httpsserene @apenasumlug4r @eddiesbitch83 @arshiyuh @alika-4466 @peyiswriting @sunfairyy @vsfavs @louvrepool @mistruscity @tian-monique @hopefulromantic1 @exotic-iris13 @yeea-nah @nichmeddar @gg-trini @lifeless-firefly @vellicora @takeoffz-tookoff9876 @serpenttines-library @emjayewrites @lewisroscoelove @purplelewlew @xoscar03 @kidsol-ar @nothaqks @tremendousstarlighttragedy @ggaslyp1 @henneseyhoe @saturnville

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sunfairyy · 13 days ago

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sunfairyy · 24 days ago

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PLAYING FOR KEEPS (chapter 3)──────iamquaintrelle

⌗ pairing : jules koundé x black oc (fc: mimajhn)

⌗ tags : @irishmanwhore @lettersofgold @deonn-jaelle @sucredreamer @greedyjudge2 @f1-football-fiend @2serenity0 @peyiswriting @coffeevacation @sunfairyy @muglermami @bbgkoo @127hydrangeas @enretrogue @cranberryjulce @julescpu @kj77 @hopefulromantic1

⌗ summary : jules is focused on himself — no girlfriend, no drama — but now he seems to have both after pictures of him having fun at a friend's house party shows up in tabloids, and now fashion houses are calling for him? and his agent wants him to keep up this charade? ♡ masterlist. (✨💕)

The Louis Vuitton store at Galeries Lafayette felt different after Barcelona. Mila adjusted her outfit - a reconstructed piece from the latest collection that she'd modified into something actually wearable, turning the denim monogram print jacket into a crop with strategic cutouts and pairing it with the matching denim pants. Let the brand try to complain now that she was trending.

The weekend had been surreal. Jules was different behind closed doors - quieter, funnier, weirdly good at card games. They'd fallen into an easy rhythm of morning workouts and late-night conversations. Their "couple content" had been effortless - coffee runs, lunches, and one particularly viral video of them arguing about his sneaker collection that had their comments flooded with heart eyes.

Less than a day back in Paris and the gossip blogs were wild. The "blind items" about her were getting ridiculous - she was a secret heiress, an undercover model, a plant from a rival team to distract Jules before his big match this weekend. Everyone was speculating if she'd show up to support him. His ex was still watching every single story despite unfollowing her, which was giving obsessed ex-girlfriend energy. Even Jules had noticed.

The ex situation was getting weirder by the hour, however. Not only was she watching stories, but her friends were now popping up in Mila's DMs trying to be subtle about fishing for information. Some fashion blogs had done a whole comparison post of their styles, trying to find similarities in what Jules was "attracted" to. The internet really had too much time on their hands.

"they're saying you're an heiress now?" his text lit up her phone.

"apparently I'm rich and mysterious," she replied. "try to keep up with your fake girlfriend's backstory."

Jules (Da Boo): guess that explains the expensive taste.

LV’s Meanest Stylist: please, you like that I'm high maintenance.

"Mila, your one o'clock is here," her coworker called out.

She looked up to find Levi Colwill already reaching for the monogram duffle that every footballer seemed to own. Even Jules had one, though she'd bullied him into the limited edition version. Levi was exactly what you'd expect from a young defender - tall, built like a Greek god, designer sweatsuit. His style was still in that new-money footballer phase, like he was buying everything with a visible logo just because he could.

"Is it true you're dating Koundé?"

"That's what the internet says." She moved to help him, already pulling better options. These boys were too predictable.

"Jules' girl, huh?" He was examining a wallet now. "Man's been different lately. Actually smiling at training."

"Are you here to shop or gossip?" She texted Jules while Levi glanced at various pieces: "your boy Colwill is fishing for tea."

"Both, actually," he said, his hands landing back to that Godforsaken duffle.

Jules replied instantly: "tell him to focus on his own love life."

"Not falling for it," she told Levi, who was definitely trying to get more details. "But you are falling for that basic duffle, which is honestly worse."

Her phone buzzed again. Jules: "he's probably gonna pull game on you 😂"

LV’s Meanest Stylist: oh? interesting. and look who’s texting me a lot. missing me already?

Jules (Da Boo): whatever. 🙄 i’m just making sure you hadn't exposed my skincare routine to your followers.

Levi pulled on a jacket that actually worked. "So about Jules..."

"So about this jacket," she countered, adjusting the sleeve. "Much better than that duffle you were eyeing. Unless you want to twin with every other footballer in Paris?"

"Including Jules?"

"You're really committed to this gossip mission, huh?" She pulled out a few more pieces for him to try on. "Did your teammates send you to investigate?"

"Maybe." Levi grinned, caught out. "They've got a betting pool going about whether you'll show up to his match this weekend."

Another text from Jules: "please tell me you didn't let him buy that basic duffle."

"give me some credit," she typed back. "already got him into the new collection. Chelsea boys are nosy af btw."

"What's the betting pool up to?" she asked Levi, who was now actually paying attention to the pieces she'd selected.

"Enough to make it worth telling me if you're coming to the match."

"Nice try." She started ringing up his purchases - none of which included that tragic duffle. "But I don't leak information to the opposition."

Her phone lit up again.

Jules (Da Boo): "they're really out here trying to spy on my love life through luxury shopping."

LV’s Meanest Stylist: don't worry babe, your secrets are safe with your fake girlfriend 😘

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

Lunch had been a sad salad affair while catching up on a week's worth of client emails. Her coworkers kept "casually" dropping by her station, fishing for details about Barcelona. The store's security had to turn away three different paparazzi trying to get shots of "Jules Koundé's girlfriend at work."

"Mila. Office. Now."

Her manager, Philippe, was wearing his serious face - the one he usually saved for customers who tried to return obviously fake bags. She followed him in, already counting the sales numbers in her head from the past week.

He stared at her reconstructed jacket first, mouth twitching like he wanted to start there. But apparently bigger issues were on his mind.

"Corporate called about your situation with Koundé."

"Is there a problem?"

"They're thrilled actually." He sounded like this physically pained him. "Sales are up. Social media engagement is through the roof."

"That's good, right?"

"It's..." he shuffled some papers on his desk, "unexpected. But I need you to remember this is still Louis Vuitton. We have standards to maintain."

Mila bit back a smile. "Of course."

"Just because corporate is excited about your... personal life going viral—"

"Our numbers have doubled since last week."

"Still." He straightened his tie. "Try to keep some separation between work and your... relationship."

She thought about the five influencers yesterday who'd bought everything she'd worn in stories with Jules. About the waitlist growing for pieces she'd reconstructed. "Absolutely. Totally separate."

The Metro was packed on her way home to the 11th. Her head stylist salary meant she could afford a decent spot near Bastille, even if it came with a third-floor walk-up. Two people definitely recognized her - she caught them trying to sneak photos.

Another buzz of her phone - a text from Jules: "eaten yet?"

LV’s Meanest Stylist: had a little something, but i had a fun meeting with philippe today.

Jules (Da Boo): your manager still mad about the sales boost?

LV’s Meanest Stylist: more like mad that corporate loves it. he had to pretend to be happy while telling me to keep things professional.

Jules (Da Boo): he’s a big hater 😆

She started the climb up to her apartment, cursing Paris's hatred of elevators. At least her place was still normal. Small, full of fabric scraps and design sketches, absolutely nothing like Jules' minimalist palace in Barcelona. The couch was covered in reconstructed pieces she'd been working on before this whole fake dating circus started.

Now, sprawled on her couch in leggings and an oversized t-shirt, Mila scrolled through an endless stream of notifications. Her tiny apartment was her sanctuary - the view wasn't much, just a typical Parisian courtyard, but it was still decent.

Her phone rung with a FaceTime request from Jules.

He was stretched out on his couch too, locs falling perfectly around his face like he was in some kind of high fashion editorial. The golden hour light in Barcelona hitting all his facial features just right.

"You look comfortable," he said, taking in her current state.

"You look like you're posing for Vogue." She propped her phone against a pile of sketches. "Bruno's influence?"

"Please. This is natural talent." He shifted, and she caught glimpse of his own off-duty fit - simple white tank that showed off exactly why footballers could charge so much for sponsored posts. "Bruno's been blowing up my phone about the Young Boys match."

"Here we go."

"The whole internet's speculating if you'll be there."

"The whole internet still needs to mind their business."

"It's an easy game," he pressed. "Perfect timing too, right after the gala."

"Watching you play against Swiss teams wasn't part of the deal."

"No, but making our fake relationship look real was." His smile was unfair through the phone screen. "What's more real than supporting your man at work?"

"My man?" She raised an eyebrow. "Getting extremely comfortable with the role, aren't you?"

"Method acting. Very serious about my craft." He sat up slightly, tank shifting in ways she refused to notice. "Come on. I'll even let you roast my warm-up kit."

"Let me? Like you could stop me." But she was smiling now. "I'll think about it."

"That's not a no."

"It's not a yes either." Mila shifted through her sketches. "Some of us have actual work to do, unlike certain footballers who just kick balls for a living."

"Says the girl who spends her day telling rich people their bags are fake."

"Someone has to maintain standards." She held up a sketch to the camera. "Like these gala fits I'm working on. Your usual style choices can't be trusted for our first official appearance."

"My style choices brought you into my life, didn't they?"

"Your tragic style choices gave me content for my blog." But she was grinning. "Now they're giving me gray hairs."

Jules adjusted his position. "The internet thinks you're my personal stylist now."

"The internet thinks I'm everything from an heiress to a spy." She started pinning fabric samples to her sketches. "Your ex's friends are still in my DMs by the way."

"Still?"

"Mhmm. Very interested in our weekend activities." She glanced at him through the screen. "Your ex must be devastated that you upgraded."

"Upgraded to someone who bullies me about my shoes?"

"Upgraded to someone who saves you from yourself." She paused. "Also your ex's style is basic. All Gucci everything? In 2024?"

Jules laughed, the sound doing things to her stomach. "You really have opinions about everyone's fashion choices."

"Only the bad ones." She switched cameras to show him her work table. "These are coming together though. The gala won't know what hit them."

"Bruno's going to have opinions."

"Bruno's going to deal with it. I'm not showing up in straight-off-the-rack anything." She flipped the camera back. "Plus, you like when I reconstruct pieces."

"I like when you're not roasting me."

"Lies. You live for my commentary." She caught his smile through the screen. "Your teammates confirmed it."

"My teammates need to mind their business too." He ran a hand through his locs. "Though if you came to the match, you could tell them yourself."

"Smooth transition back to that topic."

"I'm persistent." His eyes caught hers through the screen. "Come watch me play. I'll score for you."

"Bold promise for someone who plays defense."

"You've been studying football?"

"I've been studying you." The words slipped out before she could catch them.

The silence held for a beat too long, charged with something neither of them was ready to name.

"More market research for your role?" His voice was lower now.

"Method acting. Very serious about my craft." She threw his words back at him.

Another silence, heavy with possibilities they weren't supposed to be considering.

"Your ex is really getting on my nerves though," she said finally, breaking whatever moment was building.

"You're obsessed with my ex."

"Your ex is obsessed with me. I'm just taking notes." She shifted some fabric around. "Did she always watch this many stories?"

"Never dated anyone who posted enough to find out."

"So I'm special?"

"You're something." His smile was soft now. Different from his Instagram version.

Mila's phone buzzed with another notification. Probably Bruno with more gala details. Or another gossip blog with theories about their relationship. Or Philippe with more concerns about professionalism.

"You should sleep," she said, noting the darkening sky in Barcelona. "Early training tomorrow."

"You should say yes to the match."

"You should stop pushing your luck."

"Never." He adjusted his position again, all casual grace. "Think about it though? For real?"

"Go to sleep, Jules."

"That's still not a no."

She ended the call before he could see her smile. Her phone immediately lit up with a text from him: "sweet dreams, fake girlfriend 😘"

"don't make me block you," she sent back.

"you'd miss my tragic style choices."

She looked at her sketches for their gala outfits, then at the pile of notifications about the upcoming match. This fake relationship was getting dangerously comfortable.

Her phone buzzed one more time: "also I'm wearing those Balenciagas you hate tomorrow just to spite you"

Maybe comfortable wasn't the right word.

Mila ignored how her cheeks hurt from smiling too much. Her phone kept lighting up with his texts, each one more deliberately annoying than the last. She'd created a monster with all this fashion commentary.

The Barcelona charity gala proved exactly why she was right about their outfits. Her reconstructed LV pieces turned heads the moment they walked in - Jules in a sleek black suit with monogram details that only showed when he moved, her in a dress that made Vogue write a whole article about "the future of luxury reconstruction." The venue was stunning, all high ceilings and modern art, filled with football royalty trying their best at black tie fashion.

Bruno nearly had an aneurysm when they first arrived, but even he had to admit they'd stolen the show. Jules kept his hand on her lower back all night, leaning in to whisper commentary about his teammates' attempts at formal wear. They played their roles perfectly - the fashion-forward power couple, the defender and his brutally honest stylist. Every fashion house in attendance had someone slip her a business card. By the end of the night, no one remembered it was supposed to be fake.

Which is probably how she ended up here the very next day, at the Camp Nou, wearing a vintage Barcelona jersey Jules had "casually" sent her along with a limited edition LV bag she definitely wasn't supposed to have access to yet. She'd paired it with an LV skort and burgundy leather trench, because if she had to do team colors, she'd do them her way. The bag was just gilding the lily, but it worked. Of course it worked.

The stadium was massive, nothing like watching matches on TV. Her seat was in the VIP section, surrounded by other WAGs who definitely hadn't expected Louis Vuitton's meanest stylist to show up in team merch and thigh-high boots. But Jules had texted her that morning: "wear the jersey. it'll drive everyone crazy."

He wasn't wrong.

The WAG section was full of whispers and not-so-subtle photos of her outfit. Jules hadn't seen her yet - they were warming up on the pitch, all focus and match-day energy.

The match kicked off and suddenly Mila understood why people lost their minds over this sport. On TV, she could barely track Jules. Here, she couldn't take her eyes off him. The way he read the game, anticipated plays, and moved with precision reminded her of the careful way she arranged his closet after reorganizing it.

Young Boys scored first - some lucky break that had the crowd holding its breath. But then Barcelona's attack kicked in, and suddenly it was raining goals. 5-2 didn't even tell the whole story. Jules had been everywhere, breaking up plays, starting counterattacks.

"Your boy's having a game," some WAG next to her said after Jules made a particularly clean tackle. Mila just smiled, and then noticed that his socks were slightly different lengths.

The final whistle brought chaos - good chaos, victory chaos. The kind that had everyone in the VIP section heading for the family area, designer bags swinging. Mila followed the crowd, her new LV bag probably the only one that wasn't actually out yet.

She spotted him before he saw her. Fresh from the showers, locs still damp, wearing the team's post-match tracksuit that somehow didn't look tragic on him. He was talking to someone with a camera - probably post-match interviews.

Then he caught sight of her.

The way his face lit up wasn't for the cameras. Neither was the way he broke off mid-sentence to walk toward her, but the way he pulled her close, pressing a kiss to her cheek? That was definitely for show.

Except his lips lingered a beat too long, and his hand on her waist felt a little too natural, and maybe some of this wasn't entirely for the cameras anymore.

"You came," he murmured against her ear.

"You bribed me with unreleased merchandise." She kept her smile camera-ready. "Very unethical of you."

"Says the girl wearing my jersey."

"Your vintage jersey. There's a difference."

His laugh was genuine, even if their pose was practiced. Cameras clicked around them, probably catching what looked like an intimate moment between Barcelona's star defender and his fashion-forward girlfriend.

"The socks were uneven," she told him, just to maintain their dynamic.

"You actually watched my feet?"

"Of course I did."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, that smile that wasn't for Instagram making her stomach do things it definitely shouldn't. "Dinner? Team's celebrating but we could—"

"Go with your team." She adjusted his hoodie, knowing the cameras would eat it up. "I have an early flight anyway."

"Stay." His voice was low, just for her. "I'll make it worth your while."

"Another bag?"

"Better." His grin was dangerous. "I'll let you plan my outfits for the week."

She laughed despite herself. "Tempting, but I have a job to get back to."

More players were filing into the family area now, some with kids, others with WAGs who definitely noticed Mila's not-yet-released bag. Jules kept his hand on her waist, thumb tracing small circles that the cameras couldn't see.

"You're coming to the next one, right?" he asked as they posed for another photo.

"Don't push your luck."

But they both knew she would. Just like they both knew this was slowly starting to feel less and less fake with every camera flash, every casual touch, every smile that wasn't quite acting anymore.

"Your car's here," he said, checking his phone. "I had Bruno arrange it."

"Always taking care of your fake girlfriend."

"Only the best for Louis Vuitton's meanest stylist."

She reached up to fix his hair, a gesture that looked intimate to observers but was really just her being annoyed at how it was falling. "Go celebrate with your team. Try not to let them dress you for the club."

"You could come make sure they don't."

"Goodnight, Jules."

His kiss on her cheek this time wasn't for the cameras at all. "Text me when you land?"

She waved him off, already planning what she'd say about his uneven socks in their next FaceTime call. The cameras followed her exit, catching what probably looked like a perfect football couple moment.

Her phone buzzed before she even reached the car: "the socks were uneven on purpose. knew you'd notice."

She smiled despite herself. This fake relationship was slowly getting dangerous.

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

Mila's post from the match had over 100K likes by the time she got to work the next morning. The comments were a mess: "THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER 😭" "notice how she styled the jersey tho? queen behavior" "that bag isn't even out yet omg the power" "they're actually perfect???"

Jules hadn't helped, reposting her story at the stadium with "merci d'être venue, chérie 🖤❤️" Like he hadn't basically bribed her with that unreleased bag. His teammates had jumped in too, commenting about how he couldn't stop smiling at training.

"Your match photos are trending," Philippe said instead of good morning. "Corporate wants to discuss your social media strategy."

"Corporate loves my social media strategy." She hung her trench on her office door. "The waiting list for my section is three months long now."

Her phone buzzed - Jules had posted a picture from the gala. She looked good, obviously, but it was the way he was looking at her in the photo that had her mentions exploding. The internet was having a field day analyzing their "couple style."

Another text from Jules: "bruno says we're doing too well. wants us to have a public fight to seem more realistic."

LV's Meanest Stylist: your sock choices are horrible.

Jules (Da Boo): that's not the kind of fight he meant

She bit back a smile. Her coworkers were already too invested in their "relationship" - no need to feed the gossip by grinning at her phone all day.

The store was chaos. After her appearance at the Barcelona match, suddenly everyone wanted Mila's opinion on everything. Three influencers tried to book private shopping sessions. Two footballers' wives came in specifically asking for "something like what Jules' girlfriend wears."

"Miss Lawrence, your two o'clock is here," her assistant called out. She'd never had an assistant before the McDonald's photo and now apparently she was hired a couple days ago.

Jules texted between her appointments: "training done. thinking about that kiss" LV's Meanest Stylist: it was on the cheek Jules (Da Boo): still thinking about it

She didn't have time to analyze that. A Saudi princess wanted her entire collection reconstructed. Two fashion houses had left messages about collaboration opportunities. Her phone wouldn't stop buzzing with notifications about her latest photos with Jules.

"hungry? we can facetime..." his text came through around four.

LV's Meanest Stylist: too busy. some of us work for a living. Jules (Da Boo): kicking balls is work 😤 LV's Meanest Stylist: sure it is, babe.

By closing, she was dead on her feet. The rain had started, turning Paris into a blur of lights and wet streets. She dug her umbrella out of her bag, checking her notifications one last time before heading towards the Metro.

That's when she saw it. A DM notification from Siobhan. Jules' ex.

What the fuck is this?

The Metro was packed with the usual post-work crowd, everyone dripping from the rain. Mila tapped her card at the turnstile, eyes fixed on her screen. After two weeks of watching her stories, viewing her posts, having her friends fish for information, Siobhan had finally made a direct move.

The message sat there, deceptively casual: "We should talk. Girl to girl."

Mila's thumb hovered over it as she descended to the platform. She'd seen enough photos of Siobhan to get why people made the comparisons - they had similar features, both brown-skinned beauties with good style, though Siobhan's aesthetic leaned more luxury influencer than fashion critic. The kind of girl who watched her ex's new girlfriend's every move.

Like the fucking weirdo she was...

Her phone buzzed with a text from Jules: "you've gone quiet. tired from all that actual work? 😏"

The unread DM from Siobhan sat there like a challenge. There were a hundred ways this could go wrong. A hundred reasons to ignore it. But Mila hadn't gotten where she was by playing it safe.

She clicked on the message, marking it as read. Time to see what Jules' ex really wanted.

Mila leaned against a pillar on the platform, watching her train's arrival time tick down. No point rushing to respond. Let Jules' ex sit with that read receipt for a minute.

Three dots appeared. Another message: "I know you saw this."

"did you need something?" Mila typed back, channeling her best 'dealing with difficult customers' energy.

@/siobhan_rchm: Just wanted to chat about Jules. Girl to girl.

"Mm." Mila grumbled, watching the dots appear and disappear for a beat before responding. "about what specifically? his uneven socks at the match? the way he organizes his sneakers? his skincare routine?"

A pause. Then: "You think you're cute."

"i know i am. was there something else?"

The train rumbled into the station. Mila stepped on, finding a spot to stand near the door. Her phone buzzed again.

@/siobhan_rchm: Just wanted to warn you about him.

"warn me that he has terrible taste in exes? already figured that out."

More angry dots. Mila smiled to herself. She could do this all day.

@/siobhan_rchm: You don't know him like I do."

"you're right. I actually let him dress himself occasionally."

The train lurched between stations. Siobhan was typing again.

@/siobhan_rchm: He's not as perfect as you think.

"never said he was perfect. his sock choices prove that."

@/siobhan_rchm: I'm trying to be serious.

"and I'm trying to commute. is there a point to this?"

Three dots. Delete. Three dots again. Mila switched to her chat with Jules: "your ex is sliding into my DMs"

His response was instant: "siobhan??"

"unless you have another ex I should know about?"

Back to Siobhan's message: "You think this is all a game but he'll do the same thing to you. Get bored. Move on."

"like posting thirst traps and watching my stories obsessively? that kind of bored?"

@/siobhan_rchm: You don't know what you're talking about.

"and you don't know when to move on. sad either way."

@/siobhan_rchm: Just remember I warned you. When he—"

Mila hit the block button before reading the rest. Some entertainment wasn't worth the effort.

Jules (Da Boo): what's she saying?

LV's Meanest Stylist: nothing worth repeating. your taste before me was questionable.

Jules (Da Boo): says the girl who dragged my sock choices at the match 😒

LV's Meanest Stylist: someone had to. even siobhan agreed about the socks

Jules (Da Boo): you did NOT talk about my socks with my ex

LV's Meanest Stylist: what can I say? it's the only thing we have in common.

The train ride felt longer than usual, Mila's mind stuck on Siobhan's messages. The night crowd was starting to fill the Metro - tourists heading to dinner, students with their backpacks, the usual mix of Paris after dark. She got off at her stop, umbrella ready for the rain that was still coming down.

The walk from the station to her building was quick but just long enough to get properly soaked despite the umbrella. Water dripped from the edges of her trench as she dug out her keys. At least her new LV bag was water resistant - perks of having the unreleased collection.

"I'm sorry about her," Jules texted as Mila climbed the stairs to her apartment. "Let me make it up to you?"

LV's Meanest Stylist: with another unreleased bag?

Jules (Da Boo): better. dinner in barcelona this weekend?

Mila paused on the second floor landing. "you want me to fly out for dinner?"

Jules (Da Boo): i know this place you'd love. very exclusive, very—

LV's Meanest Stylist: very in Barcelona when you could just come to Paris.

Jules (Da Boo): I have training...

LV's Meanest Stylist: and I have a job. a real one. none of that kick the ball bs.

Jules (Da Boo): next weekend then? I'll book Le Jules Verne.

LV's Meanest Stylist: now you're just showing off.

Jules (Da Boo): is it working?

She pushed open her apartment door, dropping her umbrella in the stand. "maybe. but you're still coming to Paris."

Jules (Da Boo): high maintenance.

LV's Meanest Stylist: you knew that when you fake chose me.

A pause, then: "about that..."

Her phone lit up with Jules' incoming call. Not a text this time. That was different.

"Calling to apologize properly?" she answered, kicking off her shoes.

"About what Siobhan said—"

"Already forgotten. Like I just did with her on Instagram."

"You blocked her?"

"Should've done it two weeks ago when she first started creeping." Mila dropped onto her couch. "Why? Want me to unblock your ex?"

"No," he said quickly. "No, it's just... look, about this whole fake thing—"

"Don't tell me you're catching feelings," she kept her voice light, teasing. "All it took was one match attendance?"

But Jules was quiet for a moment too long. The kind of quiet that made her stomach do things it shouldn't.

"Nah..." He scoffed, but something in his voice wasn't quite right. "Never that."

"Good. Wouldn't want this arrangement getting messy."

"Please. I have standards."

"You have those ugly ass Balenciaga crocs."

"We agreed never to speak of those again." The weird tension dissipated, back to their usual rhythm. "So about Paris next weekend..."

"You're really trying to get out of coming here, huh?"

"I just think Barcelona has better restaurants."

"Barcelona has you wrapped around Bruno's PR finger."

His laugh echoed through the phone. "You're actually impossible."

"Part of my charm."

"Besides," Jules said after a moment, "if I come to Paris, you'll make me carry your shopping bags again."

"That's literally what fake boyfriends are for."

"Thought it was for the Instagram engagement."

"That too." She kicked off her heels, settling deeper into her couch. "Though your ex might have opinions about that."

"Can we not talk about Siobhan?"

"Why? Worried she'll tell me all your secrets?"

"You already know all my secrets. You reorganized my closet."

"True. The real skeleton was that sneaker collection and those goddamn socks."

He made a noise of protest. "You're really never going to let that go?"

"Never."

"The socks were a choice."

"A bad one." She paused, then: "Like dating Siobhan?"

"Low blow."

"Someone had to say it."

Another silence, but different this time. She could almost see him running his hand through his locs, the way he did when he was thinking too hard.

"You really blocked her?" he asked finally.

"Should I not have?"

"No, it's... good. It's good."

More weight in those words than there should have been. This conversation was veering too close to something neither of them was ready to name.

"You really have these girls losing their minds," Mila said. "Between Siobhan and your fan pages..."

"Too much BDE. They can't handle it."

She rolled her eyes so hard it probably translated through the phone. "It's not that big," she muttered, mostly to herself.

But of course he caught it. "You can always find out."

"Never."

"Never say never." His voice was all smugness and suggestion.

Mila ignored the way her stomach flipped at his tone. This was exactly the kind of territory they didn't need to explore. Even if his voice was doing things to her that it absolutely shouldn't.

"I'll make a reservation for our dinner next weekend." Back to that practiced confidence.

"Whatever. Bye." She hung up before he could say anything else dangerous.

Her phone lit up immediately with his text: "bonne nuit, chérie ❤️"

She stared at that heart emoji longer than she'd ever admit to anyone.

A week later, Mila's Uber pulled up to the Eiffel Tower. She'd gone with a Dior slip dress because why not, paired with Aquazzura white slingbacks and a beige trench. The kind of outfit that said 'yes, I'm dating a footballer, but I dressed like this before him.'

Le Jules Verne was exactly what you'd expect from a Michelin-starred restaurant in the Eiffel Tower - all understated luxury and views that made even Paris locals pause. The kind of place where no one cared who you were because everyone was someone.

Jules was already at their table, standing as she approached. The bouquet in his hands was ridiculous - white roses and peonies, probably cost more than the dinner would.

"Ah, you shouldn't have," she said, accepting his hug.

"What kind of fake boyfriend would I be?" he murmured against her ear.

"But you really shouldn't have." She pulled back, taking off her trench coat. "They're gonna die in like two days. I have a brown thumb."

Jules pulled out her chair - unnecessarily gallant for a fake date. "You look nice."

"Just nice?" Mila arranged her dress. "You flew to Paris for 'nice'?"

"Beautiful. Stunning. Better?"

"Now you're trying too hard." But she was smiling. "Speaking of trying too hard, that fit is actually decent. Did you dress yourself?"

"Funny." He settled across from her. "But no. Someone reorganized my closet with very specific instructions."

The sommelier appeared with champagne they hadn't ordered. "Compliments of the house."

"The perks of dating a footballer." Mila raised her glass. "Even if it's fake."

"About that…" Jules started, but their server arrived with menus and a long explanation about the night's specials.

"The chef has prepared something special," the server finished.

"Of course he has." Mila caught Jules' eye over her glass. "More perks?"

"Bruno's influence, actually. He has opinions about our first Paris date."

"Opinions about everything except your sock choices."

"Are you ever going to let that go?"

"Never." She studied the menu. "Like I'll never let go of those Balenciaga crocs."

"I told Siobhan to leave us alone," Jules said between sips of champagne. "Well, technically I told her to leave you alone."

Mila shook her head, more intrigued than annoyed. "Your dick must cure diseases."

Jules choked on his champagne, actually coughed.

"You keep talking about my dick like you want to try it." He settled back in his chair, legs spreading, all casual like he'd practiced this move. "Just say the word and we can—"

"I'm gonna stop you there, buddy." She held up her hand. "I'm just saying these girls are acting like your dick cures diseases, is all. No one is thinking about taking a ride on that thing." She said 'thing' like it personally offended her.

Jules just watched her, that smile that said he saw right through her act. "Mmhm."

Their waiter appeared once more, ready to take their order, saving them both from whatever was about to happen next.

"The lamb," Jules told the waiter. "And she'll have—"

"I can order for myself," Mila cut in. "The fish, please."

The waiter disappeared with their menus and Jules' amused smirk. The restaurant buzzed around them, that particular energy of expensive meals and important conversations.

"So," Mila swirled her champagne. "How's training?"

"How's telling rich people how to dress?"

"Deflecting already? Did Siobhan shake you that bad?"

Jules leaned back in his chair. "Just looking out for my fake girlfriend."

"By making your ex block me on everything?" She raised an eyebrow. "I saw her Instagram's gone private too."

"Had to maintain our image."

"Our image needs that much maintenance?"

"Bruno's words, not mine." He took another sip of champagne. "Though the flowers were my idea."

"Ah yes, the dying flowers. Very thoughtful."

The first course arrived - something fancy with foam. Jules watched her taste it, that same look he had when she'd criticized his sneaker collection.

"You're staring."

"You have…" He gestured to her lip.

She wiped at nothing, knowing he was just messing with her. "Very mature." Mila sampled more of whatever was on her plate. "This is actually good."

"Better than McDonald's at two in the morning?"

"Nothing's better than that." She caught his smile. "Though this view comes close."

"Paris showing off for us."

"For you, maybe. I live here."

"And yet you've never been to Jules Verne before."

"Some of us don't make footballer money." She set down her fork. "Speaking of money, how much did you have to pay Siobhan to back off?"

"Just my eternal soul and first-born child."

"Reasonable price."

The main course appeared - her fish arranged like art, his lamb perfectly cooked. The waiter poured wine that definitely wasn't on the regular menu.

"Bruno's going to love the bill from this," Mila noted.

"Worth it for the content." Jules cut into his lamb. "Though we could give him better content."

"If you're about to suggest something inappropriate—"

"Just saying, the whole 'will they, won't they' thing is working for our engagement numbers."

Mila pointed her fork at him. "No one is engaging with your numbers."

"That's not what you said about my BDE earlier."

"I take it back. All of it." But she was fighting a smile. "Your ego needs no encouragement."

"Too late." He was doing that thing with his eyes again, the one that probably worked on everyone else. "You're already on record about my—"

"If you say dick energy one more time at this nice establishment, I'm leaving."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

Their eyes locked across the table. A challenge, maybe. Or something else neither of them was ready to name.

The waiter appeared with dessert menus, breaking whatever moment was building. Jules took his with a smile that was almost too casual.

"Should we share?" he asked.

"In your dreams."

"Often."

Mila kicked him under the table, right as the waiter returned. "He'll have the chocolate thing. I want the one with strawberries."

"Separate desserts?" The waiter looked between them. "Most couples share—"

"We're not most couples." Mila's smile was sweet but final.

Jules watched the waiter leave, that smirk back on his face. "No, we're definitely not."

The desserts arrived looking more like art installations than food. Mila caught Jules' eyes drifting to her neckline again - the third time since their main course.

"Stare harder why don't you?"

"I'm trying." He didn't even pretend to look away.

"Horndog." But she adjusted the strap of her dress anyway, watching his eyes track the movement.

"Can't help it. The dress is…"

"Expensive? Designer?"

"Both." He sampled his chocolate dessert, still watching her. "Though I was going to say dangerous."

"Please. This is modest for me." She tasted her strawberry creation. "You should see what I wear when I'm actually trying."

"Is that an invitation?"

"It's a warning." She pointed her spoon at him. "Your game's weak if you think this neckline is dangerous."

"My game's never weak."

"But you needed a McDonald's photo to go viral before making a move."

"I didn't make a move." He leaned back, all casual confidence again. "Bruno did."

"Tragic." She stole a bite of his dessert just to prove she could. "Using your agent as an excuse."

"Using my agent for business." His eyes dropped to her lips as she licked chocolate from her spoon. "This is pleasure."

"This is a fake date."

"With real dessert." He pushed his plate closer to her. "Want more?"

"Trying to sweeten me up?"

"Is it working?"

She took another bite of his dessert, maintaining eye contact just to watch him squirm. "You wish."

The waiter appeared with their bill - or rather, with no bill at all because apparently Jules had handled that hours ago. Of course he had.

"Very presumptuous," Mila noted as they stood. "What if I hated dinner?"

"You loved it." He helped her with her coat, fingers brushing her bare shoulders. "Even if you won't admit it."

"I admit nothing."

"Your empty plates admit plenty."

Outside, Paris was still showing off - all lights and early autumn beauty. Jules' hand found her lower back as they waited for their cars.

"This was nice," he said, too close to her ear.

"Just nice?"

"Beautiful. Stunning. Better?"

"Now you're recycling lines." But she didn't move away.

His car arrived first - some sleek thing that probably cost more than her annual salary. He opened the door but paused before getting in.

"Next time dinner's in Barcelona."

"Next time?"

"Can't let my fake girlfriend think I'm cheap."

"Too late for that. Your sock choices gave you away."

His laugh echoed even after his car pulled away. Her phone lit up immediately with his text:

Jules (Da Boo): already planning your outfit for barcelona?

LV's Meanest Stylist: planning how to roast whatever you wear.

Jules (Da Boo): worth it

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

"The cheek kisses aren't cutting it anymore," Bruno's voice crackled through Mila's phone. "We need to up the ante."

"Up the ante?" Mila was packing for Barcelona, phone balanced between ear and shoulder. "What exactly do you want us to do, stick our tongues down each other's throats?"

"If that's what it takes—"

"The audacity." She dropped a reconstructed LV piece into her suitcase. "Who are you, our relationship choreographer?"

"The internet's getting restless. They want more."

"The internet needs therapy." But she knew what he meant. The comments were getting wild - theories about their relationship, demands for more content, the kind of attention that made her DMs look like a thirst trap comment section.

Three days later, she was walking through Barcelona's airport arrivals, spotting Jules before he saw her. He was trying to be incognito in a baseball cap and sunglasses, looking exactly like every footballer trying not to be recognized.

"Subtle," she said, reaching him.

"Says the girl in that dress." His eyes tracked over her travel fit - another slip dress because why not torture him a little.

"This old thing?" She let him take her bag. "Just something I threw on."

The Urus was parked illegally because of course it was. Jules loaded her suitcase while she settled into the passenger seat, already plotting how to reorganize his closet again.

"How was the flight?"

"Better than this car choice."

"Still judging my Urus?"

"Always." She pulled out her phone. "Though apparently I need new material. Bruno's orders."

"Heard about that call." He navigated through Barcelona traffic with one hand on the wheel. "No more roasting my fashion choices?"

"Or your ex."

"Tragic. Those were your best bits."

"Please. Everything I do is a best bit."

His laugh filled the car. Match 100 was tomorrow, and here they were, playing house again. At least this time she knew what she was getting into.

"So about Bruno's demands," Jules said, turning onto his street. "Think we should practice?"

"Practice what? Swapping spit for the cameras?" Mila fake gagged, but her heart wasn't in it.

"Could be worse assignments."

"Could be better ones too."

"You wound me." He pulled into his driveway. "Little birdie told me that Chanel's trying to steal you."

She rolled her eyes. "Sure is, and LV can suck my dick and jiggle my left testicle."

Jules let out a chuckle. "Damn, remind me to never get on your bad side. What happened at work?" She just stared at him blankly. "Philippe again?" His jaw tightened. "Should I give him a visit?"

"And do what exactly?"

Jules shrugged, but his grip on the steering wheel said otherwise. "I don't know. Tell him to leave my woman alone. Threaten him?"

"Whatever, Jules."

"I'm serious."

"Be so fucking for real right now."

"I'm so serious, Mila. He got the wrong one." His knuckles went white on the wheel.

Mila caught herself watching those hands, that tension in his jaw. Something about his willingness to protect her - fake relationship or not - was doing things to her pussy she refused to acknowledge.

The opportunities were piling up lately. Fashion houses sliding into her DMs. Offers to branch out on her own. She could do it - build her own brand, be an independent designer like she'd dreamed. Or worse… become an influencer. The thought alone made her want to gag. Though being a freelance stylist had potential.

"Mila." Jules was watching her, that look that saw too much. "You good?"

"Just plotting my escape from corporate hell."

"To Chanel?"

"Maybe." She stretched, knowing exactly what that did to her dress. "Or maybe I'll just become your full-time fake girlfriend. Seems less stressful."

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

"Your closet better be exactly how I left it," Mila said as they entered his house. "I'm not doing another intervention with your sneakers."

"Haven't touched anything." Jules carried her bag upstairs. "Too scared of your wrath."

"Smart man." She followed him to the guest room - her room now, basically. Her reconstructed pieces from last time still hung in the closet. "Though we need to talk about that jacket you wore to training yesterday."

"Thought you needed new material?"

"Some crimes can't be ignored."

He dropped her bag by the bed, lingering in the doorway. "Hungry?"

"Depends. Are you cooking?"

"God no. Ordered from that place you liked last time."

"The one with the pasta?"

"The one where you stole half my dinner, yes."

She kicked off her shoes, making herself at home. "It's not stealing if you let me."

"Is that what we're calling it?"

"That's what I'm calling it." She started unpacking, aware of him watching. "Don't you have a big match to rest for?"

"Don't you have a closet to reorganize?"

"Your closet can wait until tomorrow." She pulled out her outfit for the match. "This, however, needs steaming."

"Another reconstruction?"

"What else would I wear to your hundredth match?" She held up the piece - another LV remix that would probably give Philippe an aneurysm. "Think Bruno will approve?"

"Bruno would approve if you wore a trash bag at this point." Jules pushed off the doorframe. "He's desperate for content."

"Hence the kissing demands?"

"Hence everything." He watched her hang up the outfit. "Though the kissing thing…"

"Don't."

"Just saying, might need practice."

"In your dreams."

"Often." He ducked the shoe she threw at him. "Dinner's in twenty."

She waited until his footsteps faded before pulling out her phone. Three texts from Siobhan's friends, still trying to get intel. Two emails from Chanel about possible collaborations.

A new text from Jules: "brought you wine from that vineyard you pretended not to like"

Interesting...

Mila came downstairs to H.E.R. playing softly in the background. Jules was at the kitchen island, uncorking wine like this was totally normal.

"Are you trying to get at something?" She took in the dim lighting, the music, the actual fucking candles. What was this man up to?

"Just trying to relax," he said simply, holding out a glass of wine.

"Mmhm." She accepted the glass, watching him plate their food with way too much care before sliding it in front of her.

"Bonne appétit." He settled next to her at the island.

They ate in silence for a few beats before Mila couldn't take it anymore. "Seriously, what're you doing Jules?"

He had the nerve to shrug. "I told you I'm just trying to relax. Big match tomorrow, remember?"

"You're giving out too much game right now. You think I'm dumb?"

"No, Mila, you're far from dumb."

"So what's the play?" She set her napkin down, fixing him with that look she usually reserved for customers trying to play in her face. "What's going on because since when do we have this setup if we're fake—"

Her words cut off as Jules leaned over, pressing his lips to hers. He tasted like eggplant parmesan and wine, and despite herself, she sighed into it. His hands came up to cup her face, lips moving against hers with a precision that shouldn't have surprised her but did. Boy knew what he was doing with that mouth - the same confidence he had on the pitch but softer, more deliberate.

When he pulled back, Mila's brain took a second to come back online.

"What the hell?" she mumbled.

"Practice, right?" His voice was too casual for someone who just kissed her like that.

She blinked, tilting her head. "Bruno wanted us to have more PDA…"

"Oh, yeah." His thumb brushed her cheek where his hand still lingered.

"Was it good?"

Was it? Her mind screamed. But what came out was: "It was alright."

"Alright? Shit, Mila maybe I have to convince you again."

"Please don't." But her eyes dropped to his lips.

"Just a quick one." He leaned closer. "For research."

"No." She didn't move away.

"It's quick…" His mouth was already brushing hers. "For research."

This kiss wasn't quick at all. His hand slid into her hair, angling her head just right. She might have made a sound - something embarrassing she'd deny later - when his tongue traced her bottom lip. This wasn't practice anymore. This wasn't fake anything.

When they finally broke apart, the food was definitely cold.

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

The absolute audacity of this man.

Mila spent the entire match trying not to think about that kiss. Those kisses. Multiple kisses that definitely weren't just "practice." She'd even texted Leon - her most reliable situation-handler - but he was "busy." All her usual distractions were unavailable, leaving her stuck with the memory of Jules' mouth and what his hands had felt like in her hair.

Barcelona was destroying Sevilla, which wasn't helping. Every time Jules made a play, the crowd lost it. Five goals, and he'd been involved in three of them. Show-off.

Then came the post-match ceremony. His hundredth game plaque, the crowd chanting his name, cameras everywhere. And this man - this absolute menace - had the nerve to call her down to the pitch.

"Come here, chérie," he said into the mic, and what was she supposed to do? Say no in front of 90,000 people?

She made her way down, reconstructed LV dress definitely not made for stadium stairs. The cameras were already going crazy, probably catching her "supportive girlfriend" moment.

Then this fucker kissed her. Not a peck, not a casual press of lips. A proper kiss, right there on the pitch, his plaque in one hand while the other pulled her close. The crowd absolutely lost it.

When he finally let her go, she was too disoriented to even pretend to be mad. The cameras caught everything - her slightly dazed expression, his satisfied smirk, the way she had to steady herself on his arm.

"For the cameras," he murmured in her ear as they posed with his plaque.

"I hate you," she whispered back, perfect smile in place.

"No you don't."

The worst part? He was right.

Her phone was already blowing up. The notifications would be insane - fashion blogs, football accounts, probably Bruno having a meltdown about their "organic PDA moment." But all she could think about was how she needed to call every single one of her rotation guys because this tension? Unacceptable.

"Dinner?" Jules asked as they left the pitch, still riding his match high.

"I have plans."

"No you don't."

"I could have plans."

His smile was dangerous. "But you don't."

The cameras were still catching everything - her pretend annoyance, his hand on her lower back, the way they moved together like this wasn't all for show.

"One dinner," he said.

"You already got your kiss for the cameras."

"Maybe I want another one."

She really needed to call Leon. Or Jean. Or both.

The family area was chaos. Mila scrolled through Twitter while waiting for Jules, watching their kiss go viral in real time.

"THE WAY SHE HAD TO STEADY HERSELF 😭" "that man must kiss like he plays football - elite" "did y'all see her face after??? HELLO???" "mila lawrence found SHOOK" "the way he just grabbed her like that i'm—"

Someone had already made an edit set to "Kiss Me More" - her dazed expression on loop, Jules looking too pleased with himself. The engagement numbers were insane. Bruno was probably having heart palpitations of joy.

More tweets kept coming: "jules koundé said watch me score off the pitch too" "miss mila really won" "the grip he has on her waist i'm studying it respectfully"

Her phone buzzed with texts from every single one of her situationship guys.

"You're trending," Jules' voice came from behind her. Fresh from the shower, hair still damp, wearing that post-match designer fit that actually worked for once. "Something about being 'dicked down by Barcelona's finest defender'?"

"That's disgusting." She kept scrolling. "Also inaccurate."

"Could be accurate."

"In your dreams."

"Maybe it can be reality?" He leaned over her shoulder, reading more tweets. "They're really analyzing your face in 4K."

"Your fans are unhinged."

"Our fans now."

Their eyes met in the reflection of her phone screen. That tension from last night was still there, crackling between them like static electricity.

"Dinner?" he asked again.

"I really do have plans."

"With who? Leon?" His smile was knowing. "Already saw his stories. He's in London."

"I have other options." Like Jean, like Gabriel, like Muhammad...

"But you're here with me and you're gonna stay."

The worst part was he was right. Again. Motherfucker.

"Fine." She locked her phone, ignoring another wave of notifications. "But no more surprise kisses."

"No promises."

Bruno was going to lose his mind over their engagement numbers. Their fake relationship was trending worldwide. The internet was already writing their love story.

But watching Jules guide her through the stadium with that hand on her lower back, Mila had to wonder how much of this was still fake.

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

97 notes · View notes

sunfairyy · 1 month ago

Text

PLAYING FOR KEEPS ────── iamquaintrelle (✨💕)

⌗ pairing : jules koundé x black oc

⌗ tags : @irishmanwhore @lettersofgold @deonn-jaelle @sucredreamer @greedyjudge2 @f1-football-fiend @2serenity0 @peyiswriting @coffeevacation

Jules was all about the grind lately. Training, press, brand meetings, repeat. No time for relationship drama or late nights that didn't involve reviewing game footage. His DMs were constantly filled with heart emojis and "my friend thinks ur cute" messages that he left on read. The tabloids called him cold, but he called it focused.

That's why he was surprised to find himself at Antoine's 90s/00s-themed house party in Le Marais after a crazy few days of attending Fashion Week shows. The apartment was a vibe — exposed brick and big windows with vintage MTV music videos projected on one wall. Someone had hung those metallic dangly curtains everywhere, and the whole place was tinted in purple and blue LED lights that made everyone look like they were in an old-school music video.

The crowd was a mix of football players, fashion week leftovers, and local party regulars. Girls in low-rise jeans and crop tops were everywhere, and more than a few guys had committed to FUBU jerseys and backward caps. Jules had kept it simple - white tank, vintage Prada sport pants, and a gold chain.

"Get Low" started blasting through the speakers and suddenly everyone was dropping it like it was 2003. Jules nursed his drink by the window, watching the chaos. The bass was so heavy he could feel it in his chest, mixing with the persistent buzz of his phone. Probably his agent wondering why he'd been tagged at a party instead of resting before tomorrow's training.

He was about to leave — this wasn't really his scene anymore — when he spotted her across the room. The girl who regularly roasted his outfit choices at Louis Vuitton, looking completely different outside the store. She was wearing what looked like a reconstructed Dapper Dan-inspired vintage LV monogram dress that definitely wasn't official merchandise, her hair up in two buns Princess Leia would envy. And she was absolutely destroying everyone in a dance battle to "The Whisper Song."

Jules couldn't help but smile. Who knew the girl who told him his €500 sweater made him look like a sad corporate mascot could move like that?

He didn't realize he was staring until she caught his eye mid-body roll and smirked. The same smirk she gave him last week before telling him his new Balenciaga sneakers looked like "orthopedic shoes for a cyberpunk grandpa."

Maybe he'd stay for one more song.

The dance battle ended with her throwing up peace signs and disappearing into the kitchen. Jules found himself following, weaving through a crowd of people that was tonguing each other down. The kitchen was quieter, if you could call anything quiet when Lil Jon was screaming "YEAH!" through the speakers next door.

She was perched on the counter, drinking water from a wine glass like it was champagne. Up close, he could see her dress was definitely handmade - a masterpiece of Louis Vuitton shopping bags.

"Your Air Force Ones are actually clean for once," she said instead of hello, looking him up and down. "Did you finally learn how to use a magic eraser, or did you just buy new ones?"

"Do you ever get tired of roasting people's outfits?" Jules leaned against the fridge, trying to look unbothered, but she always had a way to get under his skin.

"Do you ever get tired of giving me material to work with?" She grinned, taking another sip of water. "What's a football boy doing at a fashion week afterparty anyway? Shouldn't you be in bed watching game clips or whatever it is you do?"

"Shouldn't you be at Louis folding scarves or whatever it is you do?"

"Bold of you to assume I fold anything. I'm strictly there to judge people's choices and occasionally sell bags to WAGs who pretend not to know who you are."

The music changed to "Say My Name" and a chorus of drunk screaming erupted from the living room. Jules found himself laughing — actually laughing — for the first time in what felt like months.

"I'm Mila, by the way," she said, extending her hand like a queen waiting for someone to kiss it. "In case you were wondering who's been destroying your fashion confidence for the past three months."

"Jules," he replied, even though they both knew she definitely knew who he was. "In case you were wondering who's been ignoring your styling advice for the past three months."

"Well, Jules, now that we're introduced, want to tell me why you keep coming into my store just to ignore my professional opinion?" She hopped off the counter, landing gracefully despite her platform boots. "Because either you secretly love being told your taste is questionable, or you're really bad at shopping anywhere else."

He was saved from answering by a girl bursting into the kitchen, her Y2K butterfly top slightly askew. "Mila! Dom's about to play your song but he's also about to pass out so if you want to—"

"That messy bitch," Mila muttered, already heading for the door. She turned back to Jules. "Don't leave yet. I still need to tell you how that chain is giving wannabe 2003 Justin Timberlake."

Jules watched her disappear into the crowd, presumably to save her DJ friend from face-planting onto his equipment. The kitchen felt weirdly empty now, even as drunk partygoers stumbled in and out looking for mixers.

He should leave. He had early training tomorrow, and his teammate was definitely going to snitch to their coach about him being out late. But then Nelly's "Hot In Herre" started playing, and he could see Mila through the doorway, dramatically lip-syncing every word while trying to prop up a swaying DJ.

Maybe he'd stay until the end of this song too.

Three songs later, he was still there, watching Mila and her friends absolutely destroy the choreography to "Dilemma." She kept catching his eye and grinning, like they were sharing some private joke about everyone else at the party.

By the time two in the morning rolled around, the crowd had thinned out, the playlist had switched to slow R&B, and Jules found himself back in the kitchen with Mila, both of them picking at the sad remains of the snack table.

"I'm starving," she announced, examining a stale chip like it had personally offended her. "And not in a 'these sweaty pretzels will do' kind of way. In a 'I need real food immediately' way."

"There's a McDonald's around the corner," Jules heard himself say, even though he hadn't had McDonald's since his academy days. "If you want actual food."

Mila's eyes lit up. "McFlurry run? In this economy? In these outfits?" She grabbed her tiny matching shoulder bag. "Absolutely yes."

The McDonald's was exactly what you'd expect at two-thirty in Paris — a mix of drunk tourists, exhausted delivery drivers, and a few fashion week zombies still in full runway looks. Jules and Mila probably should've looked out of place, but somehow they fit right into the beautiful mess.

"If you tell anyone at Louis that I'm eating McDonald's in this dress, I'll have to kill you," Mila said, stealing one of his fries. They'd grabbed a corner table, their knees bumping underneath because the space was tiny. "I have a reputation to maintain."

"What, the reputation of being fashion's most brutal critic? Pretty sure that's safe." Jules pushed the fries between them to share properly. "Yesterday you told a guy his Gucci loafers looked like something a divorced dad would wear to a casino."

"First of all, they did. Second of all—" She paused mid-fry theft, eyes narrowing at something over his shoulder. "Don't react, but there are definitely people taking pictures of us right now."

Jules started to turn but Mila kicked him under the table. "I said don't react! God, you're bad at this. Just act natural." She took a dramatic bite of her Big Mac. "Though I guess the tabloids catching you eating McDonald's is better than them catching you at that party."

"My agent's going to kill me," Jules groaned, but he couldn't bring himself to care that much. He was having too much fun watching Mila attempt to eat a burger while maintaining her cool fashion girl image.

"Please, this is probably good for you. Hot football player eating late night McDonald's with a mystery girl? Looking like a whole vibe in vintage Prada? The internet's going to eat this up." She dipped a fry in her McFlurry with zero shame. "No offense but you could use some spice in your public persona. You're getting a reputation for being boring."

"I'm not boring, I'm focused," he protested, but even he didn't fully believe it anymore. Not when he was sitting in McDonald's at almost three in the morning, watching one of Paris's most exclusive luxury store employees demolish fast food like it was her last meal.

"Sure, focused," Mila smirked. "That's why you keep coming into my store just to get roasted. Because you're so focused."

Before Jules could defend himself, Mila's phone buzzed. She glanced at it and nearly choked on her McFlurry.

"Oh my god," she turned the phone to show him. "We're already on Twitter."

The photo was actually good — like, annoyingly good. Someone had caught them mid-laugh, fries scattered between them. The harsh McDonald's lighting somehow glowed against the gold hardware of Mila's reconstructed dress and the vintage Prada track jacket Jules had thrown on before leaving the party. They looked like an editorial trying to be casual, except their laughter was too real.

"Look at the quotes," Mila scrolled, her platforms kicked up on his side of the booth now. "'Who is she?' 'The way they're matching without matching?' 'That LV reconstruction is everything!' At least they appreciate art." She gestured to her dress with a fry.

Jules leaned back, taking in the situation. He'd spent years cultivating his image - the serious athlete who just happened to have top-tier taste. The guy who could mix high fashion with streetwear so well that GQ had done a spread on his game day arrival fits. But he'd never looked this… effortless. Something about sitting across from Mila, who treated Balenciaga sneakers and McDonald's fries with the same level of critical analysis, made everything feel less curated.

"Your agent's definitely awake by now," Mila said, still scrolling. "The fashion girlies are going crazy trying to figure out who I am. Ooh, someone recognized me from Louis! Watch this turn into 'Football Star and LV Girl' by the afternoon."

His phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. And again.

"That's probably my team's PR group chat exploding," he groaned, but couldn't help smiling. "Think Louis Vuitton will fire you for eating McDonald's in a dress made from their shopping bags?"

"Are you kidding? This is the most interesting thing that's happened to their brand this week. Fashion week's been boring." She stole his phone, adding her number. "You're going to need my contact info when this blows up anyway. Can't have you telling reporters the wrong designer credits for my outfits."

The notification previews were already wild — his agent, his teammates, fashion blogs, sports accounts. But watching Mila save herself as "LV's Meanest Stylist 👑" while demolishing what was left of their fries, Jules found himself caring less about damage control and more about when he'd see her again.

Even if it meant getting roasted for his next outfit choice.

It wasn't as brutal as Jules expected. Well, physically at least - he'd stuck to Gatorade at the party and he snuck in a power nap on the plane ride back to Barcelona. But his phone? Complete disaster zone.

217 unread messages. 68 missed calls. His agent had sent a voice note that was just straight screaming. Even his mom texted, asking who "that girl with the beautiful dress" was.

Jules scrolled through his notifications while his coffee brewed, still in his designer silk pajamas (that Mila would probably roast him for if she knew about them). Twitter had done its thing with someone had already made a thread analyzing their "couple aesthetic" and how it was "shifting the paradigm of sports-fashion crossover." Whatever that meant.

His phone buzzed again. Mila.

LV's Meanest Stylist: your form for running away from paparazzi outside my store is terrible btw. someone just showed me old pics. we need to work on that along with your sweater choices 💅🏾

He caught himself grinning at his phone like an idiot. Before he could reply, another text came through:

LV's Meanest Stylist: also check vogue's instagram story. we're about to have an interesting day at work bestie 🥰

The Vogue story was… a lot. They'd picked up the McDonald's photo, paired it with his past fashion week appearances and what they could find of Mila's work fits. The caption was killing him: "Football's New Fashion Power Couple? Jules Kounde spotted with mysterious Louis Vuitton stylist - serving looks and McFlurries 👀"

His agent was calling. Again.

Jules finally picked up his agent Bruno's call, putting it on speaker while he got dressed for training.

"Have you seen what's happening? This is Cristiano and Georgina levels of potential. She was at Gucci, he was just shopping, now look at them!" Bruno was in full spiral mode. "And yours is even better - you're both already in fashion, both have the aesthetic, and that McDonald's photo? You couldn't plan this kind of organic viral moment."

Jules tugged on a vintage Helmut Lang sweater (that Mila had actually approved of last time, even if she said it made him look like "an art curator having a midlife crisis, but in a hot way"). He thought about how he'd started finding excuses to visit Galeries Lafayette whenever he was in Paris, always timing it when he knew she'd be working. How she'd clock him the moment he walked in, already preparing her roast for whatever he was wearing.

"Bruno, it's not like that—" he started, but his agent was on a roll.

"The internet loves her already. She's got that whole 'devil in Prada' thing going but make it Gen Z. Plus she works at Louis! Do you know how perfect this is for your image? You're already getting more luxury house follows—"

Jules thought about Mila's unfiltered commentary on everything - not just clothes. How she'd rate people's outfits out loud in public like she was doing director's commentary. Everyone assumed it was an American thing, that typical no-filter attitude, but Mila took it to an art form. She'd call out fashion week scammers and hypebeasts with the same energy she used to debate whether Jules' latest Bottega purchase made him look like "money or new money."

"—are you even listening? This could change everything. The serious athlete image was working but this? This is—"

"Bruno," Jules interrupted, "I actually need to get to training. Can we talk strategy later?"

After hanging up, he stared at Mila's last text. She'd sent a photo of the crowd outside Galeries Lafayette:

LV's Meanest Stylist: these vultures really think i'm gonna serve them looks at 8am? bestie we need to coordinate our chaos because your fans are UNHINGED

He smiled, typing back: wear something worth getting photographed in, LV's meanest stylist 👑

Her response was instant: bold words from someone who owned those tragic Balenciaga crocs

His Urus purred through Barcelona traffic, Kendrick's "N95" drowning out his thoughts about the chaos waiting at training. The teasing was going to be relentless - his teammates lived for any crack in his usually composed life, yet his mind kept drifting back to Mila instead of dreading the locker room jokes.

Jules parked at the training facility, but didn't get out immediately. Against his better judgment, he pulled up Twitter.

"Fuck…" he muttered, running a hand through his locs when he saw he was still trending. The newest viral photo wasn't even from McDonald's - someone had snapped Mila at work in Galeries Lafayette, probably from earlier this morning.

She looked exactly like herself - unbothered and effortlessly cool in a blazer from Pharrell's men's line, paired with cigarette pants and what looked like an LV open-back crop top. Her brown skin glowed under the store lighting, her straight dark hair falling perfectly with curls at the ends, even as she seemed to be mid-roast of whatever poor soul was in front of her.

The comments were wild: "THE MATERIAL GIRL AND FOOTBALL BOY WE DESERVE 😭" "nah her style is actually insane?? that blazer with those pants??" "when is she coming to watch him play in barcelona tho 👀" "they literally match without trying, your fave couples could never" "LV girl has more sauce than half these football wives I'm crying"

Jules caught himself smiling at his phone. The internet was doing that thing where it turned real people into characters, spinning narratives from two photos. But they weren't completely wrong about Mila's style - she didn't just talk the talk. Even in the leaked store photo, she looked like she'd walked off a runway but make it corporate chaos.

His phone buzzed with another text from her: "your fans found my old fashion blog. it's giving parasocial relationship but make it haute couture"

The Barcelona training ground was already buzzing when Jules walked in. He'd tried to time it perfectly - not too early, not too late - but it didn't matter. He could feel the eyes on him before the comments even started, everyone had definitely seen the photos. His attempt to slip quietly into the locker room failed spectacularly when Marc, their goalkeeper, slow clapped his entrance.

"Damas y caballeros, nuestro propio personaje principal ha llegado (Ladies and gentlemen, our own main character has arrived)," Marc announced, grinning like he'd been waiting all morning for this moment. "El hombre que rompió Fashion Twitter con McDonald’s. El rey de las colaboraciones inesperadas. El..." (The man who broke Fashion Twitter with McDonald's. The king of unexpected collabs. The—)

"Cállate," Jules threw his bag at Marc, but he was fighting a smile.

"No sabía que lo tenías en ti (Didn't know you had it in you)," Pedri chimed in, not looking up from his phone where he was definitely scrolling through the trending topics. "Todo este tiempo actuando demasiado centrado en el drama, luego te vuelves viral con la reina de la mala de Louis Vuitton." (All this time acting too focused for drama, then you go viral with Louis Vuitton's queen of mean)

Jules started unpacking his bag, trying to maintain his usual unbothered expression. The kit designers had actually consulted him on this season's away colors - not that he'd tell his teammates that. They already thought he was too into fashion. "Todos ustedes necesitan mejores pasatiempos."

"¿Mejor que verte tendencia en todo el mundo? Nunca." Marc was scrolling through his phone now, perched on the bench like he was about to give a presentation. "Dios mío, ya hay cuentas de fans dedicadas a ti: ‘Jules and Mila Fashion Archive’ ya tiene 5 mil seguidores. Espera hasta que descubran que realmente vas a su tienda solo para que te asen—"

"¿Cuánto tiempo has estado tramando esto?" Pedri interrupted, finally looking up. "Porque mi chica sigue su blog de moda y aparentemente has estado en el fondo de las fotos de su tienda durante meses."

Jules paused midway through lacing up his boots. He hadn't known about any store pictures. The thought of him showing up in the background of Mila's content while she probably roasted his outfits to her followers was… actually exactly her style.

"Recuerda cuando firmó por primera vez y usó esos crocs de diseñador para entrenar?" Marc was on a roll now. "Apuesto a que ella tendría un día de campo con esas fotos—"

"Esas eran ediciones limitadas," Jules defended.

His phone buzzed in his locker. Speaking of the devil: your team's social media manager just followed me. should i be worried or flattered?

"Ooh, está sonriendo a su teléfono!" Lamine, one of the younger players, called out. "¡Julio en realidad está emocionando! ¡Rápido, que alguien tome una foto antes de que vuelva a su cara de modelo en reposo!" (Ooh, he's smiling at his phone. Jules is actually emoting! Quick, someone take a picture before he goes back to his resting model face!)

"¿Qué está diciendo?" Marc tried to peek at his phone. "¿Está asando tus opciones de atuendo a larga distancia? Porque esos pantalones de chándal que usaste la semana pasada..."

"Focus up!" Flick's voice cut through the locker room. "Save the gossip for after training. Jules, we'll be discussing social media strategy with PR later. Apparently, you're bringing in a new demographic we need to 'strategically leverage' or whatever they're calling it."

Jules grabbed his water bottle, already dreading the PR meeting. He could just imagine the PowerPoint presentation they'd prepared. As if his relationship with Mila - whatever it was - could be turned into a marketing strategy.

Another text came through as they headed out to the pitch:

LV's Meanest Stylist: some fashion blog found pics of you actually wearing the pieces i suggested. they're calling it a 'slow burn fashion romance' i'm screaming 💀 there's a whole timeline of your store visits matched with your match day fits. these people are UNHINGED. anyway good luck at training bestie, try not to get distracted thinking about my incredible style 😘"

"Julio!" Marc waved a hand in front of his face. "Deja de enviar mensajes de texto a tu gurú de la moda y concéntrate. A menos que quieras que el entrenador te haga hacer sprints adicionales."

He was definitely going to get megged at training for not focusing. His mind kept drifting to Mila's text about his match day fits - had she really been paying that much attention? The tabloids were about to lose their minds when they figured out he'd been lowkey getting styled by her through carefully timed "roasts" for months.

"Jules! Less smiling, more running!" Flick yelled.

Worth it though.

Mila's apartment looked like a crime scene of designer pieces she'd tried on and discarded. Her phone had been blowing up since that McDonald's photo dropped - fashion blogs, sports pages, and now Jules' agent calling for the fifth time.

She scrolled through her messages while heating up leftovers, pausing on one from her boss: "The engagement on our posts is up 200% today. Whatever this is, keep it professional." As if she hadn't kept it professional these past few months, roasting Jules' questionable fashion choices within the walls of Galeries Lafayette.

He'd shown up last fall during her shift, and when she'd told him his designer sweater was giving "tech startup CEO at a midlife crisis festival," he'd actually laughed. Started coming in several times a month, sometimes just to debate the merits of vintage versus new season pieces while she restocked displays.

Her phone lit up. Jules' agent again.

"Might as well," she muttered, picking up. "Hello?"

"Mila! Finally! Let's talk about this organic marketing goldmine you two have created—"

She moved the phone away from her ear, letting the agent ramble about engagement metrics and brand synergy. Her DMs were flooded with fashion houses wanting to "collaborate." Three months ago, they wouldn't even respond to her portfolio.

Her work phone buzzed with a store notification. Someone had requested her specifically for a styling appointment. Probably another footballer looking to recreate whatever was happening with her and Jules.

Mila put her phone on speaker, letting the agent's voice fill her kitchen while she made tea. He was going on about metrics and demographics, something about Jules' engagement being up 300% since the McDonald's photo.

"—and the fashion houses are loving this organic crossover moment. Your reconstructed piece was genius, by the way. Very editorial. Which is why we think—"

A text from Jules cut through the noise: "my PR team found your tweet about my 'tragic but endearing' yeezy phase. they're using it in the presentation. traitors."

Mila smiled despite the chaos. At least he was still giving her material to work with: "you wore those shoes to a MUSEUM opening. i was professionally obligated to drag you."

She hadn't meant to be at that party last night. Wasn't planning on going viral at McDonald's in a dress she'd reconstructed from LV shopping bags, yet here she was, accidentally becoming part of a narrative she hadn't signed up for.

Mila rolled her eyes, adding honey to her tea. She had three unfinished designs due next week and a client waiting on a custom piece. Whatever this was about could wait.

"—you two should continue dating. Or at least appear to be dating."

Her spoon clattered against the counter. "We should what now?"

"The optics are perfect!" The agent was on a roll. "The brutally honest stylist and the fashion-forward footballer? It's a narrative goldmine. Louis Vuitton's numbers are up, Jules' brand deals are through the roof, and you're already getting offers from—"

"We're not dating," Mila cut in, even though that was obvious. She'd just roasted his outfit choices for months and accidentally gone viral. That wasn't dating.

"Exactly! But imagine if you were. Or if people thought you were. The fashion week appearances, the game day fits, the social media moments..."

Her phone buzzed with a text from Jules: "my agent's crazy right? please tell me you're not actually listening to this facetime dating pitch"

"Listen," Mila pinched the bridge of her nose. "I style people. I critique awful fashion choices. I'm not about to play girlfriend for your marketing strategy."

"But you're already styling Jules. Already critiquing his choices. Already going viral together. Why not make it official? Think of the opportunities. The connections. The—"

Mila looked at her tea, then at her phone, then at the pile of design work waiting for her. This was ridiculous. She had deadlines. Real work. Actual goals that didn't involve pretending to date a footballer with occasionally questionable taste in sneakers.

But...

Mila glanced at her reflection in a mirror, mentally calculating. Jules wasn't completely lost when it came to fashion - boy actually had some drip. And unlike half the footballers who came through her store, he had his natural teeth - not a veneer in sight. The fact that he was fine as hell was just a bonus to his actually decent taste level.

Plus, this job was starting to drain her. The endless hours at Galeries Lafayette, the entitled clients who thought money could buy style, the corporate bullshit of it all. Last week some wannabe influencer had thrown a fit over a bag that wasn't even in production yet.

She could use this. Use him.

"What's in it for me?" Mila interrupted the agent's monologue.

The typing bubble appeared from Jules: "did you just ask about benefits? mila please don't encourage him-"

But she was already running the numbers. Fashion houses were watching. Her reconstructed pieces were getting attention. And Jules... well, having a footballer with actual potential to not dress like a fashion disaster wouldn't be the worst thing for her portfolio.

"Access to special archives for your reconstruction pieces," the agent started, like he'd been waiting for her to ask. "Front row at fashion week - not just Paris, we're talking Milan, New York. Creative control over Jules' match day fits, which means direct lines to any fashion house you want. Plus, Vogue wants to do a feature on your work - the pieces you've been creating, your styling philosophy, all of it."

A text from Jules popped up: "he's offering you the archives?? even I can't get in there 👀"

"And?" Mila took a sip of her tea, playing it cool even though her mind was already racing with designs she could create with archive access.

"And your reconstructed pieces get official LV backing. No more 'unofficial' collections. They're interested in a limited capsule release - young, edgy, sustainable. Everything you've been pushing for."

She set down her cup. Hard.

Another text from Jules: "take the deal before he offers to throw in his firstborn child 💀"

"Timeline?" Mila asked, already thinking about the archive pieces she could remix, the connections she could build, the doors this could open. "And I maintain creative control? Over everything?"

"Six months minimum. And yes - you've already proven you know what you're doing with his image. The McDonald's photo's got more engagement than his last three brand deals combined."

She glanced at her mood board, covered in designs she couldn't legally produce. Yet.

"Fine. But I have conditions."

Twenty minutes and several non-negotiables later, Mila's phone lit up with Jules' incoming call. She barely said hello before he started.

"So you like me that much, huh? Agreeing to be my girlfriend and everything?" His voice was annoyingly smug.

"Please. I like archive access and creative control. You're just the pretty package deal." She flopped onto her couch, kicking off her slippers. "How are you feeling about all this anyway?"

His laugh was unfairly sexy through the phone. "You're not exactly bad to look at yourself. Could be worse ways to boost my image than having fashion's meanest critic on my arm."

Mila rolled her eyes but couldn't help smiling. "Careful, I can still roast your outfit choices to my followers."

"You'll have to do that in person. Come to Barcelona - we need to get our stories straight anyway."

"I'll see what I can do." She examined her nails, trying to sound casual even though her mind was already picking out outfits.

"Mhmm," he hummed, voice dropping lower. "Bonne nuit, chérie."

"Sweetheart? Really getting a head start on the pet names?"

"Gotta save face, right?" She could hear his grin. "Sweet dreams."

The call ended and Mila's face broke into a wide smile, staring at her ceiling.

Oh, this was going to be interesting.

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

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sunfairyy · 1 month ago

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tumblr needs to add a feature where you can like comments and messages. i hate leaving people on read😭. @staff

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sunfairyy · 1 month ago

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All this talk about Pep has me thinking a bald man would hate to date me because I’m rubbing that head for luck 🏃🏽‍♀️

Hahahahahahaa all shiny

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sunfairyy · 1 month ago

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Hello🤗❤️

I hope you are well🌹

Can you help me get my voice heard

and share my family's story?🙏🏻

Can you Reblog my pinned post from my blog or donate 10$?

By helping to reblog my story, you could

save a family from death and war.🌹

Thank you very much🌸

🕊️❤️🌹🙏🏻

If you can help this family, please do 🫶🏽

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sunfairyy · 2 months ago

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the boys trip • jules kounde one shot

SYNOPSIS: Jules gets roped into another one of AK's matchmaking schemes during what was supposed to be a boys' trip to Lapland. Despite his friend's historically terrible taste in setting him up, this time might be different when he meets Y/N. What happens in Lapland should stay in Lapland, but some things may be worth bringing back home. INSPIRED BY: this & this moodboard by my faves!

PAIRINGS: Jules Koundé x fem!black!reader (Y/N)

WARNINGS: cursing, drinking, smut — 18+ only

WORD COUNT: over 10K, so please show some love!!

TAGLIST: @irishmanwhore, @sucredreamer, @judesvirtual, @saturnville, @peyiswriting, @greedyjudge2, @alika-4466, @julescpu, @lettersofgold, @hopefulromantic1, @a-moment-captured, @serpenttines-library, @f1-football-fiend, @purplelewlew, @enretrogue, @yeea-nah @127hydrangeas, @sunfairyy, @pinkcatcus, @muglermami, @bbgkoo, @sinflowersugar @cranberryjulce, @lev-1-1, @deonn-jaelle, @mufasathatniggatho

The private terminal at Paris Charles de Gaulle was quiet except for AK's pacing and animated phone conversation. Jules slouched further in his leather seat, watching his friend – all confident swagger even at 7 AM, his caesar fade fresh and goatee perfectly lined – sweet-talk his girl in English.

"Baby, just—no, I know security's a pain but— Yes, love, I know…"

Wilhelm caught Jules' eye, his light brown fro slightly squished from the beanie he'd just removed, and they shared a knowing look while Stef and Nas bickered over their usual FIFA argument. Typical morning – Nas pushing his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes while insisting PSG was clear, Stef's curly fade catching the morning light as he defended Arsenal with his whole chest.

"Elles arrivent dans dix minutes," (They'll be here in ten minutes) AK announced after hanging up, running a hand over his fade. "La sécurité était supplémentaire, apparemment." (Security was being extra, apparently)

"Depuis quand parlez-vous London roadman?" Nas teased. (Since when do you speak London roadman)

"Depuis qu’il a commencé à simper," Stef added, dodging AK's half-hearted swing. (Since he started simping)

Jules stayed quiet, scrolling through Instagram without really seeing it. This season had been kicking his ass, Barcelona's form worse than he'd seen it, and all he'd wanted was a few days with his boys to decompress. No game analysis, no press, no expectations. Just vibes.

When AK had first floated the idea of bringing Van along, Jules had been firmly against it. He got it – long distance was rough, with her in London and AK running his luxury concierge business in Paris. The few times Jules had met her, she'd seemed cool enough, but this trip was supposed to be about escaping everything, including relationship drama, but AK had been persistent.

"Look, I barely see her these days. This trip is the only time that works with our schedules, and..." He'd paused, that look in his eye that always meant trouble. "She's bringing a friend. Might be good for you, get your mind off this season."

The last time AK played matchmaker still haunted him – that disaster in Mykonos last summer with the Instagram model who spent more time staging photos than having actual conversations. Or the "entrepreneur" before that who turned out to just be selling detox teas on social media. His friend meant well, but…he was garbage at picking girls for him.

It wasn't that Jules was picky – okay, maybe he was. But he had standards. He appreciated a natural beauty, curves that didn't come from a surgeon's table in Turkey. Like what was wrong with stretch marks and cellulite? More importantly, he wanted substance. Someone building something real, not just chasing clout or a footballer's lifestyle. His last few hookups had been a wash-rinse-repeat cycle of the same type: beautiful but boring, more interested in being seen with him than seeing him.

"You're too bougie," AK always said. "Too picky."

"I know what I like," was Jules' standard response.

And what he wanted wasn't another Instagram baddie with a BBL and empty conversations. He wanted—

"Oh shit, they're here."

Jules looked up, ready to be annoyed, and...

Oh. Oh.

Van glided in first in her brown faux fur coat and babushka hat, but her friend made Jules sit up straighter. She moved differently – this quiet grace about her as she followed behind. Her hair was pulled back in a low bun, baby hairs laid so precisely it looked like art, and when she smiled at AK's introduction, the small gap between her front teeth and deep dimples hit something in Jules' chest.

Her style was effortless – the turtleneck was clearly expensive but not flashy, paired with matching black leggings, boots, puffer, and gold jewelry. Everything about her seemed intentional but not trying too hard, from her perfect posture to the way her pants hugged her ass just right without being obvious about it.

"Alright," AK said, his whole face lighting up as Van kissed his cheek. "Let me introduce everyone properly. This goddess right here is my girl Vanessa—"

"Van," she corrected with a playful eye roll, her West London accent wrapping around the word.

"Van," AK amended, "and this is her best friend Y/N. Ladies, meet the guys – that's Wilhelm with the fro, Stef and Nas are the ones looking stressed about whatever FIFA argument they're having, and this quiet one right here is Jules."

"Hey!! We about to turn up in Lapland!" Van announced while Y/N just offered a small wave, those long lashes framing eyes that seemed to take everything in quietly.

Jules found himself standing, fixing his Jacquemus sweater without thinking about it. Not that he cared what she thought.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a flight attendant appeared, perfectly poised in her uniform. "We're ready for boarding."

"Let the ladies through first," AK said.

Van practically bounced up the stairs to the plane. "Oh my days, this is proper bougie!" Her voice carried back down. "Y/N, look at this!"

And then Jules heard it – Y/N's voice, soft and melodic with a lilting British accent that was somehow a bit posh and warm. "It's beautiful," she said simply, and something about the understated appreciation in her tone made his chest tight.

But watching her settle into a seat near the window, pulling out a book (who brings a book on a trip to Lapland?), Jules had to admit – maybe, just maybe, AK wasn't completely fucking up their vacation.

Even if he'd never tell him that.

"You good?" Wilhelm asked quietly in French, catching Jules staring.

"Juste fatigué," Jules replied, but they both knew it was cap.

"Liar," Wilhelm teased under his breath.

"Ta gueule," (Shut up) Jules muttered, but he couldn't help noticing how different Y/N was from Van, who was already talking about the clubs they had to hit. There was something understated about her, the way she moved, the slight smile when she caught him looking.

Fuck.

This was not how this trip was supposed to go. He was supposed to be decompressing, forgetting about his shit season, not noticing how a stranger's collarbones peeked out from her turtleneck or how she smelled like something expensive but subtle as she passed him in the aisle to use the bathroom.

"T'es dans la merde," (You're in trouble) Wilhelm muttered, and Jules couldn't even argue.

Three hours into their seven-hour flight to Rovaniemi, Jules found himself doing that thing he swore he wouldn't do – stealing glances at Y/N from his single seat across the aisle. He'd settled into that classic position – slouched with legs spread, one hand propped on his chin, thumb absently stroking his goatee – trying to look casual while very much not being casual at all.

Van's shriek of laughter cut through the cabin as AK whispered something in her ear in their back twin seats, followed by sounds Jules really didn't need to hear. But Y/N seemed unbothered, completely absorbed in her book – an actual paper book, not just scrolling on her phone like most girls he knew. He caught the title: "The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo." That book that was all over TikTok, the one his sister wouldn't shut up about. And was that... a kitten bookmark?

Check box one, he thought. She reads actual books.

The flight attendant moved through the cabin, setting up champagne and an elaborate spread of charcuterie and pastries. Y/N got up gracefully, fixing herself a small plate with careful consideration, and returned to her seat. A small smile played on her lips as she read, and Jules found himself wondering what part of the story caused that reaction.

Stop being a creep, he chided himself. But he couldn't help noticing how her turtleneck hugged her curves, how her crossed legs seemed to go on forever. This could get messy – she was his best friend's girl's best friend after all. But then again, Van brought her for a reason...

Stop being a pussy and just talk to her.

Jules did another scan of the cabin. Nas and Stef were knocked out cold, their light snores creating a gentle backdrop. Wilhelm was lost in his Switch game, probably destroying someone online in Mario Kart. And AK and Van were... yeah, definitely preoccupied.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Jules smoothly stood and slid into the empty seat beside Y/N. She looked up from her book, those long lashes framing curious eyes.

"What's up?" He aimed for cool but heard the slight nervousness in his voice.

"Just getting to the good part," she replied, her soft British accent making even those simple words sound melodic.

"Evelyn Hugo, huh?" He nodded toward the book. "Heard that one's good."

"You've read it?"

"Nah, but my sister's obsessed. Wouldn't stop talking about it in the family group chat."

Y/N's smile deepened, those dimples making an appearance. "It's worth the hype. I'm usually pretty varied with my reading though."

"Yeah? What else you into?"

"Bit of everything really. Some mysteries, biographies..." She paused, a mischievous glint in her eye. "The occasional spicy book."

Jules' eyebrows shot up. "Spicy like...?"

"You ever heard of 'Ice Planet Barbarians'?"

He had – another TikTok famous book, one that had people in the comments wilding about blue aliens and their unrealistically large sex organs.

She's a little freak, huh? "That's, uh..." He cleared his throat. "That's quite a range you got there."

Her laugh was soft but genuine. "Life's too short to stick to one genre, don't you think?"

Something about the way she said it, like she applied that philosophy to more than just books, made Jules lean in slightly. "What else you got on your reading list?"

As Y/N started describing a mix of upcoming reads, Jules found himself actually interested – not just pretending to be interested like he usually did when girls talked. The way her eyes lit up when she discussed her favorites, how she spoke with her hands when explaining particularly complex plots.

"So you're telling me you haven't read any Sally Rooney?" Y/N asked, turning slightly in her seat to face him better.

"Is that the Normal People author?"

"Mm, that's the one." She adjusted her bookmark – definitely a kitten, orange and white – before setting the book aside. "The show was good but the books hit different."

Jules shifted too, his long legs taking up more space than strictly necessary. "I'm more of a music person myself."

"Let me guess..." Y/N studied him for a moment, and something about her direct gaze made him want to fidget. "You've got that look about you. Definitely into fashion, probably listen to Steve Lacy? Kendrick Lamar?"

"Damn, am I that obvious?"

Her smile came with those crater-deep dimples again. "Your sweater's Jacquemus and your shoes are those limited Lewis Hamilton x Dior sneakers. You're either into fashion or you've got a really good stylist."

Now it was Jules' turn to be impressed. Most girls he met only knew the obvious brands, the ones you could easily flex on Instagram. "You know your stuff."

"I work in fashion editorial," she said with a small shrug. "Kind of have to."

Another box checked.

"Editorial?" He leaned forward slightly. "Which magazine?"

"I'm at British Vogue." She tucked a stray baby hair back, the movement drawing his attention to her elegant fingers, no overtly long fake nails in sight. "Junior editor assistant, nothing major yet."

"Nothing major, she says," Jules teased. "Just casually working at one of the biggest fashion magazines in the world."

"What about you? Besides the obvious football career, what gets you excited?"

They fell into an easy conversation about music (they shared a love for Frank Ocean), art (she'd just been to the new Basquiat exhibit he'd been meaning to see), and travel. Y/N had actual opinions, thoughtful ones, not just agreeing with whatever he said like he was used to.

"The vintage shopping there is insane," he said, talking about his time in Japan. "Like this one spot in Harajuku, they had original Raf Simons pieces I'd never seen before. And the food..."

"I've always wanted to go," Y/N said, her eyes lighting up. "The fashion archives alone must be incredible. Plus, I heard they have these cafes where—"

"Where you can drink coffee and play with cats?" Jules finished. "Yeah, they're everywhere. Way better than those fake Instagram spots everyone posts about."

"See, that's what I want to experience. The real culture, not just tourist traps." She tucked another stray baby hair back. "What was your favorite part?"

"This tiny ramen spot in a back alley. No pictures allowed, no social media. Just incredible food and this old man who's been making the same recipe for like forty years."

"That sounds perfect."

"You'd love it," Jules said without thinking. Then, realizing how presumptuous that sounded, added, "I mean..."

But Y/N just smiled. "Maybe I would."

Something about her genuine interest, the way she didn't immediately pull out her phone to check Instagram locations, made Jules sit back and really look at her. "You're dope, you know that?"

The slight flush on her cheeks made something in his chest tighten. "Because I want to eat ramen in back alleys?"

"Because you actually care about the experience. Most people I meet just want the picture for the gram, which is cool but still...I thought you'd be like that."

"Because I'm Van's friend?" She raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in her voice.

"Because AK has terrible taste in setting me up."

The words slipped out before he could stop them, and Y/N's eyebrow arched delicately. "Oh? Is that what this is?"

Fuck. Me.

"I didn't mean—" Jules started, but her soft laugh cut him off.

"Relax. Van already told me about AK's matchmaking attempts." She glanced toward the back where AK and Van were finally sleeping. "The Mykonos story was particularly entertaining."

Jules groaned. "She told you about that?"

"Mm. Something about an Instagram model and a very expensive photoshoot gone wrong?"

"In my defense, I didn't know she'd brought a whole production crew."

Y/N's laugh was worth the embarrassment of reliving that memory. "Well, I can assure you I don't have a glam squad hidden in my carry-on."

"No? Not even a ring light for emergency selfies?"

"The only emergency items I packed are snacks and more books."

Jules felt himself smiling – a real smile, not his usual media-ready one. The kind that actually reached his eyes.

Something shifted in the air between them, the casual conversation taking on a different weight. Y/N held his gaze for a moment before looking away, but Jules caught the slight upturn of her lips.

"We should probably try to sleep," she said finally. "Long day still ahead."

"Right. Yeah." But he didn't move.

"Jules?"

"Mm?"

"That means you have to go back to your seat."

"Oh. Right." He stood, perhaps a bit reluctantly. "Thanks for... you know."

"For not being an Instagram model with a production crew?"

His laugh was soft. "Something like that."

As he settled back into his own seat, Jules couldn't help stealing one more glance. Y/N had already reopened her book, but he swore he saw her smile widen slightly.

Definitely in trouble.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we're beginning our descent into Rovaniemi Airport."

Jules blinked awake from his nap, the seven-hour flight having passed quicker than expected. Maybe because of that conversation... He pushed the thought away, stretching in his seat as the plane started its descent through snow-heavy clouds.

The landing was smooth, and Jules watched as Y/N stood to thank both flight attendants by name – Marie and Sophie – even asking about Sophie's baby she'd mentioned during meal service. She did the same with the pilots, genuine appreciation in her voice.

Another box checked.

The whole "be nice to service staff" thing wasn't exactly groundbreaking, but there was something about the way she did it – not performing kindness for an audience, just being genuinely thoughtful – that hit different.

Lapland's winter air slapped different too, the kind of cold that made him grateful for his cashmere beanie as they descended the plane stairs. He wasn't trying to be creepy, walking behind Y/N, but when her foot caught that patch of ice and she started to slip... his hands found her waist automatically.

"You good?"

She steadied herself, this little embarrassed laugh escaping. "Yeah, just... can I get a rewind button? Because that was embarrassing as fuck."

Something about the way she said it, like she was annoyed at herself but trying to play it cool, made him chuckle. "Consider it deleted from the record."

Their luggage situation was borderline ridiculous – his three suitcases for a week's worth of fits, her matching his energy with her own collection of bags.

"Someone came prepared," he couldn't help teasing, watching her oversee the arrangement of her bags on the cart.

Her smile was playful, dimples making another appearance. "Don't judge me. A girl needs options for the Instagram dump."

"Nah, that's actually valid. Fit pics are essential."

"Oh yeah?" She raised an eyebrow. "You bring your whole camera crew or something?"

"Just my Nikon and a drone."

She nudged his shoulder, the contact brief but enough to make him hyper-aware of her presence. "But not a whole production crew?"

Ah, she got jokes... "Listen," he said, trying to keep his face serious. "You can't disrespect the Northern Lights with iPhone quality. That's just wrong."

"Mhmmmm." The way she nodded, all exaggerated understanding, shouldn't have been as cute as it was. "Very professional of you."

"Y/N!" Van's voice cut through whatever was building between them. "Stop flirting and come on, we need to get through customs!"

The customs line crawled by, but Jules found himself not minding, especially when Y/N would catch his eye and they'd share silent amusement at Van's increasing dramatics about the wait.

Their driver was posted up at arrivals with a sign for AK's company – "1 Pourcent Concierge" in sleek lettering because AK never missed a branding opportunity. The private coach was exactly what you'd expect from someone whose whole business was luxury experiences, complete with a mini bar that Van spotted immediately.

"Time to get this party started!" She was already reaching for bottles.

Wilhelm checked his phone, looking tired. "It's 2 in the afternoon."

"We're on vacation!" Van started lining up shots like they were at Tape London instead of just landing in the Arctic Circle. "Stop being a party pooper!"

Jules watched Y/N slip to the back of the bus, pulling out that same book from earlier. He must have been staring because Wilhelm's voice cut into his thoughts.

"Je ne sais pas pourquoi tu fais semblant de ne pas vouloir la rejoindre," Wilhelm said low enough that only Jules could hear. (I don't know why you're pretending you don't want to go join her)

Stef, never one to miss an opportunity to clown him, snorted. "Tu sais que Jules est timide." (You know Jules is shy.)

Jules flipped him off, but Stef just grinned wider.

"I'm chilling," Jules said, but even he could hear how unconvincing it sounded.

"Bullshit," Wilhelm and Stef chorused.

"I don't want to do too much," Jules tried to explain. "Nous venons de parler dans l’avion. Si j’y retourne maintenant..." (We just talked on the plane. If I go back there now)

"Quoi, elle pensera que tu es intéressé?" Stef's eye roll was Olympic-level. "Assez sûr que le navire a navigué, mon frère." (What, she'll think you're interested…Pretty sure that ship has sailed)

"Merde, si tu ne veux pas lui parler..." Nas dramatically ran his fingers through his hair, preening. "I will."

Before Jules could say anything, Nas was heading toward the back of the bus. At that exact moment, Van cranked up some Drake song and started twerking.

Jules pulled out his noise-canceling AirPods with what might have been the biggest eye roll of his life. He tried to focus on Frank Ocean instead of the way Y/N's laugh carried from the back of the bus – probably at something Nas said, which shouldn't have annoyed him but did.

He must have dozed off because the next thing he knew, they were pulling up to their home for the week. The cabin was crazy in the best way – all floor-to-ceiling windows and modern wooden architecture that somehow managed to look both cozy and expensive as hell. The deck wrapped around the whole structure, perfect for Northern Lights viewing, not that he was already thinking about how that could play out.

"Ladies first," he said as they entered, immediately regretting it when Van's excited shriek pierced his eardrums.

"Come on, Y/N!" Van grabbed her friend's hand. "Let's check out the rooms before these boys mess them up!"

Y/N shot Jules an apologetic look as she was dragged upstairs, and he had to fight back a smile. Van's "Oh my god, this one has a FIREPLACE!" echoed down the stairs, followed by Y/N's softer laugh that was already becoming way too familiar.

"T'es foutu," Wilhelm said, clapping Jules on the shoulder as he passed. (You're screwed.)

_______________________________________________

The den of their cabin was peak luxury winter vibes – all exposed wooden beams showing off the snowy landscape, but Jules was barely registering any of it. They'd been killing time until dinner, everyone doing their own thing. Wilhelm was in his gaming zone, Nas and Stef were arguing about upcoming Premier League matches, and AK was texting someone about work because he never really stopped working.

And Y/N? She was upstairs napping, which shouldn't have annoyed him but kind of did. Not that he needed her around, but her presence would've been better than Van's constant complaints about her nails not being done right or whatever else she was going on about before she got ready for dinner.

Jules had nothing against Van. She made AK happy, even if sometimes he wondered how his boy dealt with… all that. But not his woman, not his problem.

The sound of heels on wooden stairs made everyone look up. Van strutted – literally strutted – down in what had to be the tiniest leather dress Jules had ever seen.

"Babe, it's negative twenty-three degrees," AK said, though his eyes said he wasn't exactly mad about the outfit.

Van gave him a look. "I know, that's why I got the fur coat."

"What fur coat—" Jules began, but the words died in his throat because that's when Y/N appeared.

Holy fuck.

She'd let her hair down from that bun, now styled in a middle part with curls. Her own outfit was giving winter goddess – some designer dress he couldn't even focus on because his brain was short-circuiting, and yeah, she was carrying two fur coats.

"Thank god!" Stef broke the moment. "I'm starving!"

The bus ride to the igloo restaurant should've been awkward, but Jules found himself sliding into the seat next to Y/N before he could overthink it.

"Good nap?" he asked, aiming for casual.

"Mm, needed it." Her smile was soft, sleep-warm. "These time zones are killing me."

"Wait till tomorrow when we go snowmobiling. Wilhelm's already talking about racing."

"Oh yeah?" She turned slightly toward him. "You any good on a snowmobile?"

"Better than Nas. Man crashed three times last time we went."

"I heard that," Nas called from behind them. "And it was twice, respect the facts."

The igloo was something else – set in the middle of a forest clearing, stars scattered above them like diamonds. No Northern Lights yet, but the sky was doing its own kind of magic.

Their chef appeared – this older Finnish man with kind eyes – and started describing the courses. "Tonight we're working with what nature provides. Our first course is foraged mushrooms with…"

"For the main," he continued later, "we have local reindeer—"

"Not Rudolph!" Van's gasp was theatrical.

Jules caught Y/N biting back a smile as the chef patiently offered, "We also have freshly caught Arctic char—"

Van opened her mouth again but AK's "Babe, chill" shut it for her.

The waiters moved around them with practiced grace, pouring wine that Y/N examined with actual knowledge – doing that little swirl thing, checking the color against the candlelight.

Jules found himself watching her, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, until she caught him staring.

"I see you, wine connoisseur," he said, enjoying the slight flush on her cheeks.

"You know your wines?"

"Got a few favorites. This Bordeaux that'll change your life, and this Spanish one in my cellar that you should try out." He let the invitation hang there.

Y/N almost choked on her sip. "Are we flirting?"

Jules just shrugged, taking a deliberate sip of his own wine, but he couldn't quite hide his smile.

"So tomorrow," Wilhelm was saying, "we got the snowmobiles booked for eleven—"

"After breakfast at our villa," Stef added.

"Then ice fishing in the evening," Nas continued. "Unless you guys are scared of the cold."

"Please," Van scoffed. "I'm from London, we invented cold."

"That's… not how weather works, babes," Y/N said quietly, just for Jules to hear, and his laugh came out before he could stop it.

The first course arrived – something beautiful with mushrooms and herbs that looked like art. Jules watched Y/N take her first bite, the way her eyes closed slightly in appreciation.

The wine was taking its effect – or maybe it was just her. Jules found himself getting bolder with each course, his hand occasionally brushing Y/N's shoulder when he leaned in to talk, letting his touches linger a bit longer than strictly necessary. The igloo's candlelight did something magical to her skin, and he kept catching himself staring.

"You're staring again," she murmured during the fourth course, some elaborate fish dish he wasn't even tasting anymore.

"Can't help it." The wine made him honest. "You're nice to look at."

Her laugh was soft, private. "The wine's making you brave."

"The wine's making me honest."

Van's loud giggle cut through their moment – she was properly drunk now, hanging off AK's arm and talking about something he didn’t care for. Y/N caught Jules' eye and they shared a silent laugh.

Their driver met them outside the igloo after they finished their meal, warning them about an incoming snowstorm. "Nothing serious, but better to be inside tonight."

Once they got back to the villa, Van took this as her cue, practically dragging AK upstairs the moment they got inside. "Help me with this dress, baby!"

"Sauna?" Wilhelm suggested to the guys.

Stef and Nas were already heading that way, but Jules' attention was caught by Y/N slipping off her heels, heading toward the stairs.

"Not tonight," he said, not even trying to be subtle anymore.

"Get it, bro," Wilhelm teased.

Jules shot him a look but was already following Y/N up the stairs.

She sensed him behind her, turning with this little smile. "You stalking me?"

"Psssh, what? No." He laughed nervously, suddenly aware he might be coming on too strong. Wine drunk Jules was always a menace. He needed to chill.

But then she hit him with this smile that was pure trouble. "Wanna hang in the jacuzzi?"

Fuck yes.

"Bet."

He practically ran to his room, yanking off his sweater and digging through his suitcase for his trunks. A quick shower, his robe, those Ugg slippers he'd never admit to loving, and he was back downstairs starting up the jacuzzi.

Wine. Need wine.

He grabbed a fresh bottle and glasses, setting them up on the ledge just as Y/N appeared at the doorway. And – oh.

Her robe slipped off to reveal this black bikini that was definitely designed to kill men on sight. The way she eased into the hot water, sighing at the temperature, had his hormones going insane.

"This is perfect," she said, tilting her head back.

Jules slipped in across from her, trying to keep his eyes respectful even though that bikini was making it difficult. The wine made it easy to talk, to laugh, to gradually move closer until their legs were almost touching under the water.

"You're different," he found himself saying.

"Different how?"

"Just… real. Not trying to be anything else."

Her eyes met his in the dim light. "Maybe you're just used to people playing games."

"Maybe." He was definitely closer now, close enough to see water droplets on her eyelashes. "Or maybe you're just special."

The moment stretched between them, heavy with possibility. Then Y/N's hand found his under the water, and that was all the invitation he needed.

The first kiss was soft, testing. But then her fingers slid into his dreads, and he was gone. Her lips soft but demanding against his, and he pulled her closer as the kiss deepened.

They broke apart for air, but he couldn't stop, pressing kisses along her jaw, down her neck. Her quiet gasp when he found a sensitive spot had him tightening his grip on her waist.

"Jules," she breathed, and his name had never sounded better.

He captured her lips again, slower this time but no less intense. Everything else faded – the sound of the jacuzzi, even the wine forgotten on the ledge. There was just this, just her, just the way she fit perfectly against him.

When they finally pulled apart, staying close enough to share breath, Y/N laughed softly. "Definitely better than the sauna, huh?"

Jules grinned, stealing another quick kiss. "Definitely worth it."

"High praise."

"You have no idea."

Who would've thought the quiet girl who reads would be the one leaving everyone in her snow dust?

Jules watched Y/N zip ahead on her snowmobile, her all-white fit with that polka dot puffer making her look like some winter fashion editorial come to life. But it was the way she handled the machine – confident, fearless – that had him thinking about last night. About how those same hands that gripped the handlebars had been in his dreads, about how that mouth, which was now hidden behind the black helmet, had felt against his…

"Keep up!" she called back, and yeah, he was definitely in deep trouble.

They stopped at this clearing that looked like something out of a Christmas card – untouched snow stretching for miles, mountains in the background. While AK set up the drone for aerial shots, Van immediately started on what she claimed would be "the baddest snowman in Lapland."

Jules found himself drifting toward Y/N like she had her own gravitational pull. She was adjusting her helmet, cheeks flushed from the cold and the speed.

"Didn't expect you to be such a speed demon," he said, reaching out to fix a strand of hair that had escaped her helmet.

"There's a lot you don't know about me yet." That smile again, the one that made his stomach flip.

"Yet?" He stepped closer. "That mean I get to find out more?"

"Maybe." She looked up at him through those lashes. "If you play your cards right."

The others were occupied – Van directing AK on proper snowman architecture, Nas trying to get Wilhelm to race him again, Stef actually getting decent drone footage – when Jules decided to shoot his shot.

"Skip ice fishing with me?"

Y/N raised an eyebrow. "And do what instead?"

"Thought we could chill at the villa instead? Unless you're really excited about sitting on ice for hours…"

"Trying to get me alone?"

His laugh was low. "Is it working?"

Later, the group visited the small village of Levi, and Van pulled Y/N into some boutique, leaving Jules to deal with his boys' inevitable commentary. They found a coffee shop, and Jules knew from AK's face this conversation was coming.

"So," AK said, that smug look taking over his features. "Nous allons en parler?"

"Parler de quoi?" (Talk about what?)

"À propos de la façon dont je suis le meilleur ailier de tous les temps? À propos de la façon dont mes compétences en matière de jumelage sont d’élite?" (About how I'm the best wingman ever? About how my matchmaking skills are elite?)

Stef rolled his eyes. "L’élite? Après cette catastrophe de Mykonos?" (Elite? After that Mykonos disaster?)

"Ou cette fille à Ibiza," Wilhelm added.

"Ou l’entrepreneur en thé détox," Nas chimed in.

"Vos compétences de jumelage sont généralement nulles," Jules corrected, though he couldn't help smiling. "C’est clairement une consade." (Your matchmaking skills are usually trash. This is clearly a fluke)

"Une choute avec qui tu t’embrassais dans le jacuzzi?"

Jules nearly choked in his coffee. "Comment as-tu fait—"

"S’il-vous-plaît," Wilhelm cut in. "Toute la cabine a des fenêtres, génie."

"Et Van t’a vu en route pour piller le réfrigérateur," AK added. (And Van saw you on her way to raid the fridge)

"Et Nas espionnait depuis le sauna," Stef said.

"Surveillance!" Nas corrected. "Je menait à la surveillance."

"Vous êtes tous trop," Jules muttered, but he was fighting a smile.

"Admettez-le," AK pressed. "J’ai bien fait cette fois-ci."

"Je n’admets rien."

"Ton visage admet tout," Wilhelm said. "Tu brilles comme un adolescent avec son premier béguin."

Before Jules could defend himself, the girls returned loaded with bags, and damn if Y/N didn't look good with snowflakes in her hair.

_______________________________________________

Their guide showed up for the ice fishing expedition, and Van's parting shot to Y/N was pure Van: "Have fun getting your back blown out!"

"She's something else," Jules muttered as the others left.

"That's one way to put it." Y/N was already heading toward the kitchen. "So, what's the plan?"

The plan turned into Jules showing off his cooking skills – nothing fancy, just some pasta aglio e olio and garlic bread, but the way Y/N watched him cook made him feel like a master chef.

"Where'd you learn to cook?" she asked, perched on the counter while he worked.

"My mum. Said no son of hers was going to survive on takeout." He handed her a taste of the sauce. "Good?"

Her eyes closed slightly as she tasted it. "Mm, perfect."

They ended up in the den, fire crackling, talking about everything and nothing. About that club Van was insisting they hit for New Year's ("It's Lapland, how lit can it be?"), about Y/N's job at Vogue ("The Devil Wears Prada lied, it's actually worse"), about Jules' family in France and Benin.

"You're really not that bad," Y/N said suddenly.

"Where’s this coming from?"

"From what I expected. From what Van said."

"Van talks about me?"

Y/N's laugh was soft. "She tried to warn me you were shy. Said you'd probably just brood in corners looking pretty."

"And?" He shifted closer.

"And…" Her eyes dropped to his lips. "You're definitely pretty."

This kiss was different from last night – slower, more deliberate. Like they had all the time in the world to explore this thing between them. His hand found that spot on her neck that made her sigh, and her fingers was back in his dreads.

Yeah, maybe AK's matchmaking skills weren't completely trash after all.

Jules couldn't stop kissing Y/N if he tried, each kiss deeper than the last, more urgent. His hand found its way into her hair, curls falling loose from her updo.

Everything had shifted, like the whole universe was conspiring to make this moment happen. Y/N pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, "Do you want to come up?"

"Yeah." He tried to play it cool, but his mind was going absolutely crazy. HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT. Here he was, Jules Koundé, known for being calm and composed in front of 90,000 people at Camp Nou, completely losing it over six words from this girl.

Following Y/N upstairs felt like torture in the best way. She moved with this effortless grace that had him mesmerized, throwing these looks over her shoulder that was pure trouble – half shy, half something else that made his stomach flip.

When her door finally clicked shut behind them, the air felt electric with possibility. Jules stood still, his dark eyes tracing the curve of Y/N's silhouette as she leaned back against the door. She reached up to pull the last pin from her updo, letting her curls tumble free. Jules swore he forgot how to breathe.

"You look nervous," Y/N said softly, her voice light, teasing, as she stepped closer, her bare feet barely making a sound against the floor.

"Do I?" Jules asked, his voice rougher than he intended. He cleared his throat, but the way her hands brushed against his chest when she closed the space between them made it impossible to care.

"A little," she said, tipping her head back to meet his gaze. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his sweater, pulling him closer. "I like it, though. Makes me feel powerful."

Jules huffed out a laugh, his hands finding her waist and pulling her flush against him. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"Maybe." She tilted her head, her lips brushing against his.

That was all it took for him to close the distance, his mouth slanting over hers in a kiss that was anything but gentle. Y/N sighed into it, her arms winding around his neck as his hands explored the curve of her back, her hips, the warmth of her skin beneath the material of her clothing.

He backed her toward the bed, his fingers trailing down to the hem of her thermal top, pushing it up to reveal the soft skin of her stomach. When the back of her knees hit the mattress, Y/N pulled him down with her, their laughter mingling with their heavy breathing.

"You're in such a hurry," she teased when they broke apart for air.

"Can you blame me?" Jules smirked, his hands sliding over her hips, fingers hooking into the band of her leggings.

She opened her mouth to respond, but he silenced her with another kiss, deep and deliberate, his tongue brushing against hers. His hands worked her leggings down, the fabric clinging stubbornly until he finally peeled them away, leaving her in just a simple pair of black underwear and the thermal top pushed up to her ribs.

"You’re stunning," Jules murmured, his voice low, almost reverent, as his gaze roamed over her.

Y/N smiled, reaching for him. "Your turn."

Jules obliged, pulling off his sweater in one swift motion, the muscles in his chest and arms catching the light in a way that made her breath catch. He leaned back down, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below her ear, earning a soft gasp as her hands roamed his back.

The thermal bunched higher as his kisses trailed down her neck and across her collarbone, his fingers skimming along the edge of her panties. Y/N arched into him, her nails grazing his skin lightly, drawing a low groan from deep in his chest.

When she reached for the button of his pants, Jules caught her wrist, his eyes dark and hooded. "Slow down," he murmured, his voice a husky whisper. "We’ve got all night."

Y/N grinned up at him, her cheeks flushed, her breathing unsteady. "Then you’d better make it worth it."

Jules took his time, his hands tracing over Y/N's curves with a slowness that had her squirming beneath him. His fingers slid her panties down her legs, his dark eyes drinking in every inch of her as more of her was revealed.

Her arousal glistened between her thighs and Jules felt his stomach tighten at the sight.

"Damn," he muttered under his breath. He pulled back just enough to sit up, his dreads falling forward, framing his face as he looked at her.

His gaze took in the soft rise and fall of her chest, her thermal pushed up to just beneath her breasts. "This has to go," he said, his voice teasing as his fingers tugged at the hem of the fabric. She lifted her arms, letting him pull it over her head, and then he reached behind her to unclasp her bra. The garment fell away, baring her to him entirely.

Jules let out a slow breath. Her breasts were full, her nipples pebbled, and he couldn't resist leaning down to press a kiss to the swell of one, his lips brushing her skin softly before moving lower.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his lips dragging a path across her stomach. His eyes dipped back down, lingering between her thighs. "And this—" He ran a finger along the slickness there, grinning when she shivered. "So pretty. I need to have a taste."

Y/N flushed, her breath hitching as she propped herself up on her elbows to meet his gaze. "I’ve never met a guy who actually liked giving head," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper, though there was a teasing lilt in it.

Jules raised an eyebrow, his grin widening into something almost wicked. "You've been messing around with the wrong niggas, cherie," he said, shaking his head as if it were an absolute tragedy. He settled himself between her thighs, his hands gently coaxing them wider. "Don't worry. We're gonna change that."

His words sent a shiver through her, her anticipation building as his lips ghosted over the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. "Jules," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly.

"Relax," he said, glancing up at her, his eyes filled with heat and something softer beneath it. "I've got you."

Not to brag because, honestly, it wasn't his style, but this was his thing. Eating pussy was state-of-the-art to him, an art form he'd mastered, a skill that had left more than a few women crashing out over it. He took pride in it, sure, but it wasn't just about being good at it. He enjoyed it. The taste, the sounds, the way a woman’s body responded when he knew exactly what to do — it was intoxicating.

And Y/N? She was a masterpiece. The way her body trembled, her soft gasps, and the way she shifted her hips as if seeking him out — she was an active participant, not someone who held back. It made every second feel electric, like a performance where they were both in perfect sync.

Another box checked. She was fucking perfect.

That thought hovered in his mind for a beat too long, a flash of something deeper creeping in, and he shoved it away. This wasn’t about feelings. Not right now. Right now, he had a job to do. So he got to work.

He pressed an open-mouthed kiss just above her center, letting his breath ghost over her. His tongue followed, a slow swipe that had her hips jerking upward. "Relax, cherie," he murmured, his voice low, smooth, and tinged with amusement.

She whimpered softly, her thighs quivering against his hands as he pushed them farther apart. His tongue explored her folds with purpose, slow and teasing at first, mapping every inch of her like he had all the time in the world, but when her moans grew louder, more urgent, he picked up the pace, alternating between long, languid strokes and focused flicks of his tongue against her clit.

"Jules," she gasped, her hands diving into his dreads, holding on for dear life as he worked her over.

He hummed against her, the vibration sending a jolt through her body. Her hips bucked, and he grinned, tightening his grip on her thighs to hold her still. "You're so fucking responsive," he said, his voice muffled as he dove back in.

She moaned again, her body writhing against him, and Jules felt a rush of pride — and hunger. He wasn’t stopping until she was completely undone, every thought wiped clean except for him and what he was doing to her.

Her breathing hitched, turning into desperate little gasps, her thighs trembling around his head. "That’s it," he murmured, his lips brushing against her. "Let go for me."

And when she did — her back arching, a cry spilling from her lips, her body shaking with the force of it — Jules couldn’t help but smile. He’d always enjoyed this part, watching the aftermath, the way a woman's body melted into the mattress, chest heaving and cheeks flushed.

"See?" he said, his voice warm and teasing as he kissed his way back up her body. "Told you we were gonna change that." Jules brushed a kiss against Y/N’s lips, still tasting her arousal on his tongue, before pulling back. His voice was soft but charged as he asked, "Got a condom?"

Y/N nodded, her breath still uneven. "In my tote bag. Corner of the room."

He gave her another quick kiss, playful and lingering, before sliding off the bed. She watched him stride over to the tote, his movements unhurried, almost teasing, as if he knew exactly what kind of show he was putting on.

When he crouched down and opened the bag, his smirk widened. "What do we have here?" he mused, holding up a sleek vibrator with a raised brow.

"Oh, my God," Y/N groaned, covering her face with her hands. "Put that back, Jules."

He chuckled, the sound low and rich, and dropped the vibrator back into the bag. "No judgment. Just saying we might have to use this some other time."

She peeked out from between her fingers. "You’re ridiculous."

"Mm, you like it," he shot back, pulling out the pack of Trojans. He glanced over his shoulder, his smirk turning downright sinful. "Found what I was looking for."

He walked back toward her, the condom packet in one hand and her gaze traveled down, taking in the way he casually shucked off his pants, then his boxer briefs, until he stood completely bare in front of her, his arousal standing proud and unashamed.

Y/N's eyes widened slightly and she had that usual smile on her face.

He tore open the packet with his teeth, his eyes never leaving hers as he sheathed himself. The deliberate way he rolled the condom on, his movements smooth and precise, sent a fresh wave of heat through her.

Jules caught the way her thighs shifted on the bed, the way her teeth caught her bottom lip, and his grin softened into something deeper, more intimate. "You good, cherie?" he asked, his voice warm and genuine as he climbed back onto the bed.

Y/N nodded, her fingers reaching out to touch him, to pull him closer. "I’m good," she murmured.

Y/N was bringing out something else entirely in him. Something raw. Something freaky. And honestly? It was only right. If she was going to let her inner freak shine, Jules had no problem meeting her there. He had a feeling, though—there was something about the way she smiled, all soft and sweet, but with that glint in her eyes that promised trouble.

He stayed between her legs, his gaze dragging over her like she was a masterpiece he couldn’t stop studying, like he wasn’t in any rush. Jules had patience, especially when the reward was something like this.

"You’re bad, you know that?" he said, his voice low and teasing as his hands slid up her thighs.

Y/N smirked, her eyes half-lidded. "And you’re just figuring this out?"

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Nah, I’ve been clocking it. Just didn’t realize how bad."

His hands gripped her thighs a little firmer, pulling her closer so he could line himself up. The slick heat of her against him was enough to make his head tip back for a second, eyes closing as he gathered himself. When he looked at her again, she was watching him with that little smile, her legs shifting to hook around his waist.

Yeah, she’s definitely a freak.

He liked that. A lot.

"Say the word, cherie," Jules murmured, his voice softer now, the teasing edge melting into something deeper.

Y/N didn’t hesitate, her hands sliding up his arms, her nails grazing his skin. "Do it."

That was all he needed. Slowly, he pushed into her, taking his time, letting her feel every inch. The way her body tensed, then melted beneath him, had his heart pounding in his chest.

"Shit, Y/N," he muttered, pausing once he was fully inside her, giving her a moment to adjust. "You’re... God, you’re perfect."

She exhaled shakily, her hands gripping his shoulders as she shifted beneath him. "You can move," she said, her voice breathy but certain.

Jules smiled, something almost wicked flashing in his eyes as he pulled back, then thrust forward again, setting a slow, deliberate rhythm.

It wasn’t long before her moans filled the room, soft and then louder, her hands roaming over his back, her nails digging into his skin in a way that had him groaning. "Damn," he said, his tone full of admiration. "You like that, huh?"

She nodded, biting her lip to stifle another moan, but Jules wasn’t having that. "Don’t hold back," he said, his voice firm but still warm. "I want to hear you."

He picked up the pace, his hips snapping against hers in a way that had the bed creaking under them. Y/N met him thrust for thrust, her body arching, her legs pulling him closer, deeper.

"Jules," she gasped, her voice trembling but filled with so much need it sent a shiver down his spine.

"Yeah, cherie?" he said, leaning down to kiss her, his lips brushing against hers as he spoke.

"You’re gonna ruin me," she whispered, her voice full of awe and teasing all at once.

Jules chuckled, his forehead pressing against hers as his thrusts grew deeper, more intense. "Good," he said, his voice dropping to a growl. "Let me show you how it’s supposed to be."

And oh, he did.

The intimacy of missionary was something he didn’t take lightly—he liked being able to look her in the eyes, to see the way her lips parted and her head tilted back as he rocked into her.

Her breath hitched with each thrust, her nails raking lightly down his back, leaving faint trails that burned in the best way. Jules dropped his head, kissing along her jaw, her neck, then catching her lips in a kiss so heated it felt like it could burn the room down.

But as much as he loved this—her chest pressed against his, her thighs gripping his sides—his thoughts kept drifting. He couldn’t ignore the temptation of something he’d been eyeing for far too long.

Since they’d left Paris, Jules had been trying not to be a complete dog about it, but damn. Y/N’s ass was something else. Every time she walked ahead of him, he found his gaze following the sway of her hips, the way those leggings hugged her perfectly.

And now? Thank God.

"Turn over for me," Jules murmured.

Y/N blinked up at him, dazed but smiling, and she nodded, biting her lip as she shifted beneath him. Jules helped her, his hands guiding her onto her stomach, then pulling her hips up until she was on all fours.

And there it was.

His breath caught for a moment, his hands gripping her waist as he took in the view. "Damn, cherie," he whispered, his voice thick with appreciation. "This fucking ass."

She laughed, glancing back over her shoulder, her cheeks flushed. "You like it?"

"Yeah," Jules said, smirking as his hands slid over her hips, his thumbs pressing into the dimples of her lower back. "And now I get to see it properly."

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the small of her back, then one to each cheek, his goatee grazing her skin, making her shiver. He took his time, his hands roaming, gripping, appreciating every inch of her.

When he finally lined himself up and thrust back into her, the angle hit different—for both of them. Y/N gasped, her fingers gripping the sheets, her back arching as he set a steady rhythm, his hands on her hips keeping her steady.

"Fuck," Jules muttered, his voice rough, his movements deliberate but powerful. He watched the way her body moved with him, the way her ass bounced with each thrust. It was hypnotizing.

"You good?" Y/N asked, her voice breathless, teasing.

Jules chuckled, leaning forward just enough to press a kiss to her shoulder, his chest brushing against her back. "Better than good," he said, his voice low in her ear. "You feel like heaven, cherie."

Her laugh turned into a moan as he adjusted his angle, hitting deeper, harder. Jules was relentless but attentive, listening to every sound she made, every shift in her body, making sure she felt as much pleasure as he did.

And as much as Jules was enjoying the view—and he really was—it was the sounds she made, the way she responded to him, that had him losing his mind. Every moan, every gasp, every whispered "Jules" was fuel, driving him to keep going, to give her more.

"Perfect," he groaned, his voice almost reverent as he tightened his grip on her hips, thrusting harder. "You’re fucking perfect."

"Ooh fuck, Jules....yes."

He could feel himself getting closer and closer to that precipice with each thrust. She felt so good, better than he could imagine, and when her moans began to turn into screams...yeah...he prayed that no one heard them.

They finally came, her orgasming first and then him immediately after. Both of them still catching their breath, hearts beating a little faster than normal. Jules looked down at Y/N as his sweaty body slumped over hers.

"You're something else, Y/N," Jules said, his voice low but filled with admiration as he moved away to dispose of the condom.

She chuckled softly, rolling onto her side and facing him. "I could say the same about you."

The moment felt calm, peaceful almost, and for once, there was no rush. Jules stroked her hair gently as he lay next to her, the space between them filled with a comfortable silence.

Y/N reached up, brushing her lips softly against his, lingering for a moment before pulling back. "So... what happens now?" she asked, her eyes playful but still searching for some sort of direction.

"I guess we just chill then maybe another round," he replied, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Jules woke up to sunlight streaming through Y/N's bedroom windows, the snow outside making everything look bright white and clean. Inside though? Inside was all warmth – her room somehow perfectly heated (unlike his ice box down the hall), and Y/N's bare skin pressed against his under her ridiculously soft sheets.

He couldn't help smirking a little, remembering last night. Everything had gone exactly as he'd hoped when he followed her upstairs, that confidence he usually saved for the pitch coming in clutch. The way she'd responded to his touch, the sounds she'd made...

Now here he was, watching her sleep and feeling pretty good about himself. She looked different like this – all soft edges and messy curls, evidence of their night together in her slightly smudged makeup and the marks he'd left on her neck.

"Stop staring," she mumbled, eyes still closed.

"Not staring." He was definitely staring. "Just thinking."

"About?"

"About how you stole all the covers in the middle of the night."

She cracked one eye open. "Lies and slander. I'm a perfect sleeping companion."

"You literally kicked me."

"You were hogging the bed!"

"It's a king size bed!"

Her laugh was still morning-rough, and something about it made his stomach do that flip thing again. She stretched, the movement doing interesting things to the sheet's positioning, and – he was staring again.

"Like what you see?"

"You fishing for compliments this early?"

"Maybe." She propped herself up on one elbow, looking at him with those eyes that got him into this situation in the first place. "Is it working?"

Instead of answering, he pulled her down for a kiss. She tasted so good and when she made that little sound in the back of her throat...

A loud bang on the door made them jump apart.

"Y/N!" Van's voice carried through the wood. "Stop riding Jules and come get breakfast! We got husky sledding in an hour!"

Y/N groaned, burying her face in Jules' chest. "I'm going to murder her."

"I'll help hide the body."

"My hero."

They lay there for another moment, his hand playing with her hair, neither wanting to break the bubble they'd created. Outside, he could hear the others moving around – Van's loud laugh, AK telling someone to hurry up, the clatter of plates downstairs.

"We should probably..."

"Yeah."

But neither moved.

"Or we could just stay here," Y/N suggested, her fingers tracing patterns on his chest that were very distracting.

"Tempting." He caught her hand before it could wander lower. "But if we don't show up, Van will absolutely break down that door."

"Ugh, fine." She sat up, the sheet falling away, and – oh.

"You're making it really hard to be responsible right now."

Her smile was pure trouble. "I can see just how hard it is."

"You're terrible."

"You like it."

And yeah, maybe he did. Maybe he liked a lot of things about this girl who read actual books and drove snowmobiles like a pro and kissed like she meant it. Maybe he was in trouble in the best possible way.

But first: breakfast. And then huskies. And then... well, they had time to figure out the rest.

Jules pulled on his clothes from last night, unable to keep the satisfied smile off his face as Y/N disappeared into her en suite. The sound of her shower starting up had him thinking dangerous thoughts, but nah – they needed to actually make it to breakfast.

His own room felt weirdly cold and unfamiliar after the warmth of Y/N's bed. Quick shower, fresh clothes, trying and failing not to think about last night while he got ready. By the time he made it downstairs, Y/N was already at the breakfast table looking way too good in her red puffer, black ski pants hugging curves he now knew intimately. Those moon boots shouldn't have been cute but somehow were.

Their villa's chef had outdone himself – full spread of everything from eggs benedict to fresh pastries, fruit platters that looked like art. Y/N was already nursing a coffee, and the way she smiled at him over the rim of her cup had him remembering exactly how she'd smiled last night when—

"Earth to Jules," Stef called out, snapping him back to reality. "You want the last croissant or can I have it?"

Y/N slid the pastry toward Jules with a wink that definitely meant trouble. "Better fuel up. Long day ahead."

Van’s eyebrows raised in pique interest as she drank her mimosa.

The bus ride to the husky farm should've been chill, but Van immediately dragged Y/N to sit with her, that look in her eye that meant interrogation was coming. Jules caught Y/N's slightly panicked look and had to laugh – she was about to get the full Van experience.

"So," he heard Van start as he settled in his own seat. "Don't leave out any details..."

The husky farm was everything the brochures promised – dozens of excited dogs practically bouncing in their harnesses, their breath visible in the cold morning air. But Jules was only half listening to Erik, their guide, explain the basics of sledding. He kept getting distracted by Y/N's animated conversation with Van a few feet away.

"—and then he did WHAT?" Van's voice carried, way too loud.

Y/N's eyes met his across the snow, this little smile playing at her lips that had him remembering exactly what he'd done.

"Focus, lover boy," Wilhelm muttered, elbowing him. "Unless you want to crash into a tree."

Erik paired them up – two per sled – and obviously Jules ended up with Y/N. Obviously Van made some comment about "riding" that had AK trying not to laugh while pretending to scold her.

"You good?" Jules asked as Y/N settled into the front of their sled, his hands on her hips maybe lingering longer than necessary as he helped her in.

"Better than good." She looked back at him with that smile that was becoming dangerous for his mental health. "Though a bit sore."

Before he could respond to that loaded comment, the dogs took off, their excited barking filling the crisp air as they raced through the snow.

The dogs pulled them through this winter wonderland that didn't seem real – all pristine snow and frosted trees, sunlight making everything sparkle. But Jules was more focused on how Y/N kept leaning back against him, the way she fit perfectly between his arms as he held the reins.

"This is incredible!" she called back, turning her head just enough that he could see her profile, cheeks flushed from the cold and excitement.

"The dogs or my steering skills?"

"Both." She settled more firmly against him. "Though I think I could drive better."

"Oh yeah?"

"Mhmm. Wanna switch?"

They pulled to a stop at a clearing where Erik had planned a break. Y/N hopped out with that same grace she did everything, immediately going to thank their dogs by name because of course she'd memorized them already.

"Sven likes you," Erik noted as one of the huskies practically melted under Y/N's attention.

"The feeling's mutual," she cooed, scratching behind the dog's ears while Jules watched, something warm spreading in his chest that had nothing to do with his heavy coat.

"You're staring again," Van said, appearing beside him with two cups of hot chocolate from Erik's thermos.

"Mind your business."

"Impossible. This is literally the most entertainment I've had since that Mykonos disaster."

"Which you promised to never bring up again."

Van's laugh was loud enough to make the dogs look over. "Sweetie, that story is getting told at your wedding."

"Whose wedding?" Y/N asked, joining them with snow in her hair.

"No one's," Jules said quickly, but Van was already cackling.

"Just planning ahead," she said with a wink before dramatically calling out, "BABE! Come take pictures of me with the dogs for the gram!"

AK dutifully pulled out his camera while Y/N gave Jules a questioning look.

"Do I want to know?"

"Definitely not." He handed her the other hot chocolate. "Ready to show me these superior driving skills you were bragging about?"

And watching her handle the sled with the same confidence she'd shown on the snowmobile (the same confidence she'd shown last night), Jules thought about how sometimes the best things in life came from letting go of control.

The next few days were a mess of heated kisses, late-night jacuzzi sessions that definitely weren't just about enjoying the water, and fucking each other’s brains out. Y/N kept "accidentally" ending up in Jules' room instead of her own, and he definitely wasn't complaining. Even Van's knowing looks at breakfast couldn't dim the way Y/N's sleepy morning smile hit different when she was wearing his clothes.

Santa's Village had Van acting like a whole child, dragging them from attraction to attraction, but Jules couldn't even be annoyed because Y/N kept catching his eye and biting back laughs.

The go-karting was pure chaos – Y/N proving yet again she was secretly an adrenaline junkie, drifting through the snow like she'd been doing it her whole life. "Your girl's crazy," Stef had said, watching her lap Nas for the third time.

Your girl. Jules liked the sound of that more than he probably should.

Sledding turned into an all-out war, teams forming naturally until it was couples versus singles. "That's not fair," Nas had complained. "You two got that honeymoon phase energy!" But watching Y/N trash talk Wilhelm in her posh accent while absolutely destroying everyone on the slopes? Top tier entertainment.

Then New Year's Eve hit, and Van finally got her wish about that club. It was actually decent – something about drinking champagne in an ice bar while the Northern Lights danced overhead felt surreal. But Jules was more focused on how Y/N felt pressed against him as they danced, how she tasted like champagne and promises when they kissed at midnight.

They'd barely left his room the next day, ordering room service and making up for lost time until Van literally broke in with a spare key because "I NEED MY BEST FRIEND!"

Now here they were, back in Paris, the magic of Lapland already feeling like a dream. Van was being peak Van, fussing over Y/N's idea of heading back to London tonight.

"Are you sure? Just stay with us tonight, we can go back together in the morning..."

"I've got work prep," Y/N said, hugging Van and AK as they left.

Jules moved beside her before he could overthink it. "Stay at mine."

"I really should get back..."

"I'll go with you to London myself tomorrow."

Y/N raised an eyebrow. "Why should I even stay?"

The look he gave her said everything he couldn't in public. Her quiet "fine" was trying to sound put out but didn't quite hit the mark.

In his car, one hand on the wheel while the other found her thigh, Jules tried to sort through the thoughts that had been building all week. This wasn't supposed to happen – he barely had time to breathe between matches and training, let alone time for a relationship. But here he was, already thinking about when he could see her next.

"So," he finally said, aiming for casual. "This thing..."

"This thing?" Her smile was teasing.

"You know what I mean."

"Do I?"

"You're not going to make this easy, huh?"

Her laugh was soft. "When have I ever made anything easy for you?"

True. From that first moment in the private terminal to right now, she'd challenged him at every turn. Maybe that's why this felt different.

"I want to see where this goes," he said finally. "Like, properly."

"Properly?" She was definitely enjoying watching him squirm. "What exactly does that mean?"

"It means I want to figure out our schedules. See when you can come to Barcelona. When I can come to London." He glanced at her. "If you want."

The smile she gave him made his chest tight. "I want."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She squeezed his hand. "Let's see what happens."

Later, watching her sleep in his bed like she belonged there, Jules thought about how AK finally redeemed himself with suggesting his girl and her bestie join them on their boys trip.

Speaking of AK, Jules' phone buzzed with a text:

"So... best wingman ever or BEST wingman ever?"

For once, Jules didn't argue. Maybe AK had gotten it right this time. He typed out a reply:

"You redeemed yourself…but barely."

Then he placed his phone back onto his bedside table and smiled at a peacefully sleeping Y/N.

Yeah, maybe AK got it right this time.

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sunfairyy · 2 months ago

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This is fucking insane of them. Horrible behaviour. Hope you’re okay 🫶🏽

The Trent sector of Tumblr is rampantly racist and I actively hope any of you who are black or of colour unfollow this tag and stop providing content for it because this is what your "friends" around here think of you. If you write for him and you're black you should stop because this is what your readers think about you.

Tumblr has a report anon feature now so I'll be doing that, have a good day.

next time you want to be racist come off anonymous at least so we know who are.

and no, this is not the first or only example.

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sunfairyy · 2 months ago

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𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 | 𝟒𝟒.

— series

pairing: sir lewis hamilton x lindokuhle ‘lee’ vilakazi (oc)

general warning: cussing, outfit descriptions, smut (18+ MDNI), angst

saint’s team radio 🪽: hello my lovelies! i’m back and i’m here with a new mini series/ full series and i’m sooo excited for this. obv other work will be coming but for now here’s my baby and i hope you guys enjoy it!

summary: in the world of f1, it is tough to be taken so seriously as a black woman rooting for the only black man within the prestigious sport. a budding friendship between the two has been kept in the hush, to not raise any further rumours however…

the heart wants what it wants.

meet lindokuhle ‘lee’ vilakazi.

fc: nqobile khwezi

🪽: the journalist. the 30 year old south african sports journalist has a story to tell to the world through her words. she’s worked hard for this, for her niece and her bag. would it be easier to have some excitement and love on the decks? possibly.

🫧 taglist: @mauvecherie-writes @chaneajoyyy @alika-4466 @queenshikongo3 @serpenttines @emjayewrites @exotic-iris13 @yeea-nah @vsfavs @motheroffae @h4vertzz @arshiyuh @henneseyhoe @cocobutterqwueen @gwenda-fav @httpsserene @peyiswriting @saturnville @purplelewlew @greedyjudge2

🫧 dividers: @cafekitsune

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sunfairyy · 2 months ago

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Urgent 🍉💔😭

Hello my friend, 😊

my account has been🍉😭💔💔🙏🙏🙏 banned and now I need your help

to spread my campaign and help me collect donations to save my family and my beautiful child Ayman. Please donate and save our lives.🍉😭💔

My child was born on the first day of the war and grew up in the war. 💔😭😭🍉His childhood was destroyed. My child does not eat or drink. Please donate and save the life of my child Ayman. We do not eat or drink. The price of flour is 400 euros, and the treatment for my injury is 600 euros. Milk and diapers are very expensive. I can't buy it 🍉💔💔😭

My tent was destroyed and burned because of the bombing of our tents💔😭😭😭. We are now homeless. Please save what is left of our lives. The tent is very expensive. Its price is about 700 euros. Please donate.❤️🙏🍉😭😭

https://gofund.me/395db132

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sunfairyy · 2 months ago

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The Year I Turned 25 • JK + AT (1/10)

SYNOPSIS: Grammy-winning R&B artist Y/N Y/LN, 25, is closing out the North American leg of her tour, riding high on the success of her sophomore album "The Year I Turned 24" - a raw, emotional project born from her public breakup with an NFL player. As she prepares for six weeks in Europe before the international leg of her tour, she's determined to have her own "hot girl summer," yet she’s unaware that she's about to get entangled with not one but two professional footballers - Jules Koundé and Aurélien Tchouaméni - sparking new public interest in her love life and forcing her to confront her fears about dating athletes again.

PAIRINGS: Jules Koundé x Y/N Y/LN (fc: Ayra Starr) x Aurélien Tchouameni

WARNINGS: cursing, football b.s., not so glamorous life of a celebrity, mentions of mental illness/misogyny/slut shaming/cheating, drug use (marijuana), drinking, rotational dating, eventual smut, paragon partners/polyamory — 18+ only

TAGLIST: @irishmanwhore, @sucredreamer, @whoevenisthiz, @saturnville, @peyiswriting, @greedyjudge2, @pepfectionary, @cocobutterqwueen, @alika-4466, @julescpu, @lettersofgold, @hopefulromantic1, @queenshikongo3, @a-moment-captured, @serpenttines-library, @f1-football-fiend, @purplelewlew, @elyseesarchive, @enretrogue, @2serenity0, @yeea-nah, @planetmimi,

A/N: I know that I said that I am no longer writing but I promised a mutual that this would happen. There’s changed to actual events in order for this timeline to work (i.e. Spanish Grand Prix happening on June 21st). Let me know if you want to be added/removed from the taglist.

CHAPTER 1: Last Day of U.S. Tour - Let’s Get It!

"THANK YOU MIAMI! I LOVE Y'ALL SO MUCH! BE SAFE GETTING HOME!"

The roar of twenty thousand voices followed YN off the stage of the FTX Arena, her white platform boots clicking against the floor as she practically skipped backstage. Her skin glowed with sweat under the remaining stage lights, chest still heaving from the three-hour performance she'd just given. The last show of the North American leg. Done. Finished. Complete.

"Girl, you killed that!" Dominique, her lead dancer, wrapped her in a sweaty hug. "That key change in 'He Ain't Shit' had them losing their minds!"

YN laughed, dabbing at her face with a towel. "My healing era over that toxic nigga really paying these bills, huh?" She glanced at her reflection in a passing mirror – the leave out in her sew-in was starting to frizz from the heat, makeup slightly smeared, but her eyes were bright with post-show adrenaline. "Can't wait to tell my therapist all about it."

"Speaking of toxic..." Jazmine, another dancer, scrolled through her phone. "Your ex just posted another one of his little workout videos."

YN groaned. "Let me guess – shirtless, probably filmed at the worst possible angle to make his abs look like an eight-pack instead of the six-pack we all know he actually has?"

"You know it. Caption says: 'Missing my real one. Sometimes people show their true colors when you're at your lowest. But God got me. #blessed #RiseAndGrind #NFL.'" Jazmine rolled her eyes. "Girl, the Cleveland Browns' second-string running back needs to give it a REST."

"Damari really out here acting like he wasn't the one sliding into every Instagram model's DMs from Detroit to Dallas." YN turned away from Jazmine's phone, refusing to look at her ex's perfectly sculpted 6'2" frame doing whatever unnecessary workout he'd chosen to show off today. It was funny – she used to find his constant thirst traps endearing. Now she just saw the desperation behind them, not to mention the ever present sickening feeling in her stomach. "And his 'lowest' was getting caught. Please."

Her glam team descended as she made her way to her dressing room, already working to transform her from sweaty performer back to something resembling a human being. She had exactly two hours before her red-eye to Barcelona.

Barcelona. Just thinking about it made her feel lighter. Six weeks of European summer stretched ahead of her like a blank canvas. Sure, there was that Spotify photo op at the FC Barcelona stadium, and the Grand Prix thing her team had arranged, but otherwise...

"Y'all," she announced to her team as they helped her out of her costume. "I hereby declare this the Summer of YN. The summer where I do whatever I want. Megan would want me shaking this ass on somebody's yacht in Ibiza, and who am I to disappoint the queen?"

"Period!" Dominique cheered. "And make sure you try some of that European dick. Trust me, these men out there? Built different."

"Girl, please." Jazmine snorted. "Men are trash globally. It's an international pandemic."

"Yeah, but the European trash be looking like whole meals though," Dominique argued. "Show her that fine ass soccer player you were stalking earlier."

"Football," YN corrected automatically, earning weird looks. "What? I googled some stuff about it. You know, for the photo op. Did you know they call it pitch instead of field? I'm basically European already."

"You're basically a mess is what you are," Jazmine laughed. "But for real, you deserve this break. Just... be careful out there."

YN's smile flickered for just a second. "Always am. But this summer?" She struck a pose in the mirror, channeling her best hot girl energy. "This summer I'm trying to make Megan proud."

Her phone buzzed – her manager reminding her about the car waiting to take her to the airport. In two hours, she'd be on a plane to Barcelona, leaving behind the ghost of Year 24 and all its messy headlines.

"Europe won't know what hit it," she declared, though a small voice in her head added: and hopefully no man will destroy me and my barely functioning emotional stability again.

But that was a problem for Future YN. Current YN had a shower to take, a plane to catch, and a whole continent of fine men to potentially disappoint her.

Summer of YN was officially beginning.

"Listen here, missy," Big Kyle, YN's bodyguard of three years, fell into step beside her as she headed for the exit. "You better FaceTime me every day during this little European adventure of yours."

Big Kyle was indeed big. A mountain of a man - 6’5" of pure muscle and strength. A brick house, if you will, and her protector. His bald head gleamed beneath the fluorescent lights as they walked through the long corridors of the arena to the humid evening that awaited them outside.

"Aww, you gonna miss me?" YN grinned, nudging his massive tattooed arm with her shoulder. "The baddest bodyguard in the game worried about little old me?"

"Always." His stern expression cracked into a smile. "Remember what I taught you–"

"Bite, scratch, and make it count," YN finished. "I got it. Plus, I'll have security for the big events. I just want to feel... normal for a few weeks."

"Normal went out the window when 'What They Don't Know' hit number one," he reminded her. "But I get it. Just be safe. I'm one call away."

The moment felt heavier than she intended, so naturally, she had to ruin it. "Did you just quote Charlie Puth to me? In 2024?"

"I’m not playing with you, Lil’ Bit," Big Kyle said, trying to hide the amusement on his face. "Don’t make come out there and wreak havoc on those unseasoned-ass people."

YN let out a surprised scoff. "For the record, Italians know how to throw down and some Spanish food isn’t that bad. I mean, have you tried paella? It’s like–" Big Kyle’s look of indignation shut her up quick and she simply nodded her head. "I promise to call you if something happens."

"Good," he says with a big-ass smile, showing all thirty-two teeth, "now give your old man a hug."

And as usual whenever he said that, she wrapped her arms around him, breathing in his aftershave and the scent of the Dior Sauvage cologne he refused to give up. He wrapped his burly arms around her in return and even lifted her off the ground. YN sighed, and quickly pushed aside the set of nerves she felt about the possibly of being away from Big Kyle — her shadow, her Ace, the surrogate father she never asked for but needed.

After a while, he put her down gently then escorted her to the idling SUV.

"I love you, home skillet," he said, outstretching his hand.

"Fa sho’, Big Dog," she said then dapped him up like a hundred other times before, and they easily slipped into their secret handshake - one that was of practiced ease and familiarity. YN slipped inside the car and Big Kyle closed it behind her and as they drove off, she felt her eyes begin to well up with tears but she exhaled a deep breath, straightening her back.

The private terminal at Miami International was blissfully quiet as YN settled into her seat on the label's jet (a perk of having the highest-streaming R&B album of the summer, thank you very much) as the crew bought in her many bags and prepared for takeoff. She pulled out her phone, immediately falling into the social media scroll:

Liked by zanechild, pitchfork, and 452,297 others

MusicDeepDive: "The Year I Turned 24" by YN_YLN isn't just an album - it's a generational statement. From questioning sexuality in "What They Don't Know" to the raw vulnerability of "24 (Quarter Life Crisis)", YN crafts an unflinching look at modern identity. And don't get us started on "Situationship Blues" making us cry AND twerk. Album of the Year? We truly believe so and happy that RecordingAcademy got one thing right this year 🏆

Her phone buzzed with a text:

Mama 💕: Baby girl!! Have fun in Europe! Remember what I always say - life is meant to be lived and love is meant to be shared (safely... I packed some condoms in your carry-on because European sizes are different) 🌟✨

YN: MOM 😭 I'm on a plane full of CREW MEMBERS

Mama 💕: And? They know how babies are made too 😘 Live your best life sweetie! Mercury isn't even in retrograde! Also those Euro penises may look a bit different than what you used too. It’s okay; they’re just uncircumcised 😉

YN shut off her phone before her mother could send any more mortifying texts about astrology and safe sex. The flight passed in a blur of sleep, playlist curation (titled "Hot Girl Summer: European Edition"), and trying not to stress-stalk her ex's social media.

Barcelona greeted her with sunshine and paparazzi.

"YN! What do you think about Damari and Svetlana?"

"Are you dating again?"

"How does it feel to be replaced by a swimsuit model?"

She slipped on her oversized sunglasses, grateful for the airport security creating a path. Replaced? Please. You can't replace something that was never real in the first place.

The drive through Barcelona was like stepping into a postcard. Her driver pointed out landmarks until—

"OH MY GOD STOP!" YN pressed her face against the window. "That's where the Cheetah Girls filmed 'Strut'! Stop the car, I need a pic!"

"Miss, we–"

"Please? It'll take two seconds! This is cinematic history!" She was already pulling out her phone. "The series went downhill after this one anyway. The disrespect to Raven-Symoné..."

After documenting her Disney Channel fangirl moment, they finally reached the hotel. YN was so busy taking in the elegant lobby that she missed the slight step up, stumbling forward only to be caught by a quick-thinking bellhop.

"Thanks for saving me from eating carpet," she blurted out once they were inside her suite, immediately wanting to disappear into her designer luggage. She overtipped him out of sheer embarrassment.

Once alone, she stared out at the Barcelona skyline. "Okay, YN. First night in Europe. Time to turn up, hit the clubs, make some questionable decisions..."

___________________________________________

She woke up fourteen hours later, drool on her pillow and yesterday's makeup still on. "Well, that was anticlimactic," she mumbled to her reflection in the bathroom. "But we still got time."

Five weeks and six days to be precise, she thought as she brushed her teeth and did the rest of her morning routine. Plenty of time to make better choices than passing out at 1 PM.

The morning brought redemption in the form of a knock at her door. Her manager, Jermaine, stood there holding the distinctive orange Hermès box.

"Please tell me that's a Birkin," YN bounced on her toes.

"Girl, you need another platinum record for that. But..." Jermaine handed over the box, watching intently as YN grabbed it and opened it in a hurry.

YN gasped at the Constance bag inside. "Close enough!"

Jermaine glanced around the suite, his lips pursing as he noticed the distinct lack of flowers. He kissed his teeth. "Where's the bouquet I arranged? I specifically requested roses for your arrival." He was already pulling out his phone. "Let me call the concierge–"

"Simmer down, Karen," YN laughed. "It's not that serious."

"You ready for your first Formula 1 race?"

"You mean watching cars go zoom for hours?" YN grabbed her new bag, adjusting her pastel yellow coord set. "How is that entertainment?"

"Just wait," Jermaine looped their arm through hers.

The paddock was a whole different world - sleek, expensive, and crawling with people who probably had offshore accounts.

"So this is how the rich spend their money," YN mused, watching another group of designer-clad spectators walk past.

"This and going to space," Jermaine quipped. "But let's keep it moving. Penni told me that he only has a few minutes before the race starts."

"Penni?"

"A friend in the industry. She got us a couple minutes with the GOAT."

"Oh my god, Beyoncé's here?!" YN practically vibrated with excitement.

Jermaine shot her a disgusted look. "Did you not read my email?"

"You mean the one you sent....yesterday? Of course I did, J." YN let out a puff of air, but Jermaine didn't look convinced.

"Lies you tell. I'm talking about Lewis, not goddamn Beyoncé."

"Don't say her name in vain!" YN warned, and that finally cracked Jermaine's disappointed face.

"You right. Shit, forgive me Giselle, girl, you know I love you," he said heavenward to no one in particular, unless you counted the BeyHive of course. "Anyways, Lewis Hamilton."

YN stared at him like a fish out of water.

"I literally created a whole PowerPoint presentation and your little ass didn't see any of it?"

YN sadly shook her head and nervously smiled. "I had jet lag, J. And then you knocked on my door and bought me that amazing Hermès bag and..."

"Save it. Just read it now, okay? Come on so you can say hi to the man and be on your best behavior."

"Yes, mama."

"Chile, don't play with me in front these people."

Jermaine led her through security, where they got their Paddock Passes, and then towards the pit lane and garages. The engines hummed around them, and YN coughed as she inhaled car exhaust fumes. Jermaine turned to give her a look, and she quickly pulled out her phone to skim his email.

Damn, J really went off with this presentation, she thought, scrolling through the carefully designed slides until she landed on a photo of Lewis. Her eyes widened slightly. Braids, brown eyes, caramel complexion, double nose piercing and tattoos everywhere. He was fine as fuck, and while YN wasn't really into older men - even though she had severe daddy issues and this would be on par - but he could maybe get it. She hummed appreciatively.

There was no way this man was thirty-nine. What was his skincare regimen? Like, wrinkle where?

How had she never heard about him? What rock had she been under? But then again, she hadn't really paid much attention to any men - or other sports besides football for that matter - since being with Damari.

Jermaine cleared his throat, and YN glanced up to realize they were in front of the Mercedes garage. That's when she spotted him - Lewis Hamilton, changing into his race suit, half-naked and pulling on a white t-shirt. The lower half of his race suit was tied around the most itty-bitty waist she'd ever seen on a man, and he had more tattoos than she'd imagined - the rose on his side being a personal favorite, at least from her angle.

She looked at Jermaine, her mouth opening and closing until she finally managed to get words out. "Are we supposed to see this?" she asked, although she wasn't complaining. Just because she'd sworn off athletes didn't mean she was immune to how built they were.

That's when Lewis turned around, flashing a smile that made YN's brain short-circuit. The gap between his front teeth shouldn't have been that attractive, but good LORD—

He's an athlete, the rational part of her brain warned. Remember your rule.

But mama packed those condoms for a reason! her intrusive thoughts countered. Hot girl summer, remember?

"Hey," his voice, warm and British, sent a shiver down her spine. BRITISH? Girl, ride him like a rodeo! Her intrusive thoughts were getting way too loud.

"Hi," she managed, proud that her voice didn't crack.

"I've been listening to your album non-stop," Lewis said, crossing his tattooed arms over his chest. "'Midnight in Miami' is criminally underrated. The bridge?" He actually started singing, "'3AM and I'm still waiting, wondering if love is really worth the rating...'"

YN stared at him in awe. "You can carry a lil tune!"

"I do my best," he smiled meekly, and the humility was doing things to her. He gestured to the car beside them. "Want to see how this works?"

She nodded as she stepped closer, trying to focus on the technical explanation he was giving about downforce and DRS, but his voice was impossibly smooth and he kept doing this thing where he'd touch her shoulder lightly to direct her attention to different parts of the car.

The Mercedes marketing person snapped a few photos while Lewis finished pulling on his race suit, and then he turned to her with that deadly smile again.

"What are you doing after the race?"

YN's brain buffered like a bad WiFi connection. "Oh? Nothing. Chilling."

"Would you want to chill with me maybe?"

Her foot immediately decided to meet her mouth. "Aren't I too young for you?"

Lewis let out a small chuckle that did nothing to help her situation. "I'm just trying to chill."

Bullshit, the voice in the back of her head said, he trying to get in your panties!

AND LET HIM! her intrusive thought screamed back.

"Uh....okay..."

"Cool. I'll meet you here after the race. Nice talking with you, YN." That gap-toothed smile flashed one more time before Jermaine appeared, shook Lewis's hand, and steered her away from the garage.

Once they were out of earshot, YN grabbed Jermaine's arm. "Bitch! What the fuck?"

"I know - that man is a walking orgasm."

"He could be my father," she gasped, then corrected herself, "well more like an older uncle but still!"

"He just want to hang out, YN," Jermaine said conspiratorially, and YN matched his look before they both burst out laughing.

When they finally calmed down, Jermaine squeezed her shoulder. "I'm not your mama so I won't tell you what to do and what not to do but knowing your mama, Miss Sherelle would say 'fuck him and ask questions later.' Your choice, Lil' Bit."

YN groaned, burying her face in her hands. "Why does everyone in my life enable bad decisions?"

"Bad decision? Baby, that man is a seven-time world champion. The only bad decision would be letting that accent go to waste." Jermaine guided her towards their seats. "Now come on, let's watch your future baby daddy work."

"I hate you," YN mumbled, but she couldn't help stealing one last glance at the Mercedes garage. Lewis was pulling on his helmet, but she could have sworn he looked her way first.

Lord, she thought, what am I getting myself into?

___________________________________________

The podium ceremony was a blur of champagne spray and camera flashes. YN found herself actually cheering when Lewis took his place for P3, though she still wasn't entirely sure what happened for two hours. Between signing autographs for surprised fans who spotted her trackside and dodging questions from photographers about whether she was "getting back into the dating scene," she almost forgot she'd agreed to meet him after.

But there he was in the Mercedes garage, freshly showered and dressed in designer casual wear.

"Ready?" he asked, leading her to a waiting car.

"You're not driving?"

Lewis chuckled. "I hate driving."

"But you're literally a race car driver?"

"Racing? That's different. Going fast around a track is fun. Regular driving?" He made a face. "Rather have someone else do it."

His hotel suite made her place look like a Holiday Inn. YN wandered to the window, taking in the view. "Hey, I can see my hotel from here!"

"Small world," Lewis smiled, picking up the phone. "Any dietary restrictions before I order us some food?"

"None."

"Great, I’ll get some options."

What is happening right now? YN's brain was working overtime. Just flow with it. Stop being weird.

They settled into easy conversation on the couch after he ordered, and YN was just starting to relax when he asked, "Want to listen to something?"

"Sure?"

"Be right back."

The moment Lewis disappeared into the bedroom, YN's thoughts went into hyperdrive. What's the protocol here? Do I make a move? Wait for him? What if he makes a move and I say no because athletes are on my 'do not fuck' list? But it IS hot girl summer... but THIRTY-NINE? If he was even ten years younger...yes no doubt. Also, what does he even want with me anyway?

That young pussy, obviously, her intrusive thought chimed in sassily. Just let him hit!

Nah, fuck that. Older men are not my–

"I'm back!"

Lewis returned holding a portable keyboard and recording set. Oh.

He set them on the table, looking almost shy. "This is new stuff I'm working on. Since we have similar music vibes, I thought you could give your opinion."

"On your music?"

"On my music," he confirmed.

"What? I'm not a producer–"

"I thought I read something about you collaborating with your producer for both of your albums?"

"I did but it was mainly background beats and semantics like that."

"So you have a good ear?"

"It's okay but not–"

"You're perfect then. I just need someone that won't blow smoke up my ass."

YN laughed and agreed. He pressed play, and a smooth R&B melody filled the room. When his voice came in, she listened carefully, trying to feel the vibe. At the bridge, she hit pause.

"Okay, doesn't completely suck ass. Bridge is good, everything else needs to be swapped out."

"Holy shit! Is it like that?"

"Yeah…I’m sorry, sometimes I–"

"Don’t apologize, you’re good."

"Really?"

Lewis smiled widely, nodding his head in concurrence. "Yes, YN. I need to hear the good, the bad, and the ugly."

They spent the next hour picking apart the track, YN getting more comfortable as she realized he actually wanted her honest opinion. Finally, her foot decided to meet her mouth again.

"So... you really just wanted to hang out? I thought..." she trailed off, embarrassed.

Lewis shook his head, a knowing smile playing at his lips. "Aren't I too old for you?"

She giggled nervously at hearing her own words thrown back at her.

"I can tell when someone's feeling me or not," he explained. "And even though you were eyeing me down, you still gave me ‘friend zone’ vibes and I’m cool with that. I wouldn't mind being friends, especially if you agree to help me with this music stuff." He held out his pinky. "Sounds good?"

YN linked her pinky with his, relieved. "Good. But if any of these tracks blow up, I want writing credits."

"Deal." He grinned that gap-toothed smile again. "Now, about that bridge revision you suggested..."

Well, she thought, at least one man in sports knows how to be honest about his intentions.

Lewis Hamilton was her BFF — well, not yet, but they were getting there. And YN couldn’t be happier with the outcome. Yesterday, before he'd left Barcelona, they'd spent hours just talking.

Like, actually talking. His advice was that bad either. Honestly, YN was just glad she had another positive male figure in her life. Sure Jermaine and Big Kyle were great, but Jermaine was basically her mama and Big Kyle wanted to beat everyone’s ass — Lewis was a chaotic middle ground.

Must be that Capricorn in him…

"So you walked in on him?" Lewis had asked, cross-legged on his hotel suite couch while YN nursed a virgin mojito (she had that photo op the next day and wasn't trying to be hungover).

"Yup. Flew all the way to Pittsburgh for an away game, thinking I'm about to be girlfriend of the year," YN grimaced at the memory. "Instead, I got front row seats to Damari's performance with some Instagram baddie."

"Men are fuckin’ trash," Lewis nodded sagely, making her laugh.

"That's what Jermaine says."

"Jermaine's right. But you know what's the best revenge?" His gap-toothed smile turned mischievous. "Getting your lick back."

"Boy, bye!"

"You need to get yourself a roster."

YN had nearly choked on her drink. "A roster?"

"Shit, why not? I even got one." He'd shrugged, completely unbothered. "Look, you're focused on your career - as you should be. But that doesn't mean you can't enjoy yourself. Doesn't have to be serious. Just be safe about it."

Now, standing in Camp Nou while texting Lewis about her plans (since when did a F1 driver become her life coach?), his words kept echoing in her head.

YN: About to do this Spotify thing. These soccer players better not try me 😤

Lewis: Remember what I said about that roster... 😏 Also it's called football here love x

YN: You're corrupting me Hamilton!!

The FC Barcelona media staff person - Marc? Mike? - was giving her a tour of the stadium, spouting facts about seat capacity and championship titles that went in one ear and out the other. But even YN had to admit, the place was impressive.

They rounded a corner and nearly collided with what had to be the youngest person she'd ever seen in a professional sports setting.

"Ah, Lamine!" Her guide exclaimed. "Miss YN, this is Lamine Yamal."

The kid - because that's what he was, braces and all - gave her a shy wave. Cute like a baby brother, she thought, smiling when he continued down the hallway.

And then she saw him.

He walked toward them like he was on a runway, not a football pitch. His dreads were perfectly styled, falling just past his shoulders, framing a face that belonged in high fashion campaigns rather than sports highlights. Standing at what had to be 5'10", he wasn't the tallest athlete she'd met, but his presence filled the entire hallway. Everything about him was precise - from his perfectly groomed facial hair to his impeccable style. He wore simple black jeans and a white tee that showed off his athletic build without trying too hard, and those arms... Lord, these European men really don't miss leg day OR arm day. His smile was dangerous, all perfect teeth and knowing confidence.

"YN, this is Jules Koundé," the media person introduced.

And when he opened his mouth to speak? Angels cried and her panties were soaked.

"Enchantè," he said in a French accent that almost made her keel over. "I love your music."

No, no, no, her brain protested. We are NOT crushing on another athlete. First thirsting over Lewis and now…

"Have a roster", Lewis' voice countered in her head. "Get your lick back."

She had five weeks and four days until the international leg of her tour started. As Eloise from Bridgerton would say, she must make haste!

This was the Summer of YN after all. And Jules Koundé's accent was doing things to her that should be illegal in several countries.

Fuck me…we said no athletes!!

"I have to tell you - '24' got me through some rough patches last season," Jules said as he leaned against the wall of the media room, snapping her out of her reverie.

YN tried not to drool while staring at him. "Rough patches in football?"

"Oui. The pressure here," he gestured around Camp Nou, "it can be... intense."

"Tell me about it. Try having your entire love life dissected on Twitter."

"Ah yes, I saw some of that." His eyes met hers. "His loss, right?"

Is he flirting? "You're sweet," she managed.

"I'm honest," he smiled, and something about his accent made that simple phrase sound like a whole proposition.

The photo op itself was a blur of poses and professional smiles, but YN was hyperaware of Jules beside her. He had this presence that made everyone else fade into background noise.

At lunch, he claimed the seat across from her, lounging in that distinctly European way that would usually give her the ick. But something about the way he carried himself, the casual confidence in his manspreading... Even the way he's sitting is sexy. The French really don't play fair.

"Monaco tomorrow?" he asked, picking at his salad.

"Yeah, just a quick trip. Nice first, then Monaco."

"Nice is... nice," he smirked at his own joke. "But Monaco? C'est magique. Especially now."

She found herself leaning forward. "Any recommendations?"

"Depends what you like. Art? Food? Shopping?"

"Yes to all three?"

Jules laughed, and YN decided then and there that she needed to hear that sound more often. "I know just the places. Here–" he pulled out his phone, those long fingers swiping to his contacts. "Let me get your number. I'll send you a list."

YN didn't even hesitate. Any other time, her brain would've thrown up all kinds of red flags - athlete, public figure, somebody's going to post about this - but something about Jules bypassed all her usual defenses. Maybe it was the way he'd actually listened when she talked about her music earlier, asking questions that showed he'd really heard the lyrics. Or maybe it was just the way he existed in his skin, confident but not cocky, sexy but seemingly unaware of just how fine he was.

Their fingers brushed as she took his phone, and she could've sworn the temperature in the room went up ten degrees. His skin was warm, that brief touch sending little electric shocks up her arm.

"Your hands are soft," he commented, watching her type in her number.

"Shea butter," she replied automatically, then wanted to smack herself. Shea butter? Really? That's what you're going with?

But Jules just smiled that devastating smile again. "It's working for you."

She handed his phone back, their fingers brushing again — and this time she could've sworn he let the contact linger just a second longer than necessary.

"I'll text you," he said, his voice dropping just slightly lower. "So you'll have my number too."

"Cool, cool, cool," she nodded, trying to sound casual and not like her heart was doing the cha-cha slide in her chest. "Very cool."

That laugh again. "You're cute when you're flustered."

"I'm not–" she started to protest, but the knowing look in his eyes made her laugh too. "Okay, maybe a little flustered. But in my defense, you're very..." she gestured vaguely at all of him.

"Very...?" he prompted, clearly enjoying this.

"You know exactly what you are, Jules. Don't make me boost your ego any further."

His grin was absolutely wicked. "But it's fun watching you try not to."

Goodness, she thought, this man is dangerous.

Later that evening, her phone buzzed with a notification:

Liked by theshaderoom, balleralert, and 287,397 others

CelebTeaDaily: YN_YLN living her best life in Barcelona! From hanging with F1 champ Lewis Hamilton to getting cozy with FC Barcelona's Jules Koundé 👀 Someone's ex is definitely in his feelings rn! Hot Girl Summer loading... 🔥

view all comments:

PopCrave: The glow up we love to see 👏

TSRInterns: Not her collecting fine athletes like infinity stones 😭

FootballTransfers: Koundé looking real happy in that second pic 👀

F1Updates: Lewis Hamilton and YN collab when??

Her phone buzzed again — this time a text from Jules with a long list of recommendations, ending with: "Text me when you get to Monaco. I know all the best spots. 😏"

_____________________________________________

"Don't fall off my father's yacht!" Enzo Visconti (because of course that was his last name) called out as YN attempted what could generously be called twerking.

"Listen," she laughed, "what I lack in ass-shaking abilities, I make up for in Grammy nominations!"

Three days in Monaco, and she'd somehow ended up here - on a yacht that probably cost more than her entire tour revenue, with a guy she'd met exactly where Jules said she would: that little gallery near the harbor. Her mind drifted to Jules' texts from yesterday morning:

Jules: How's the gallery? Did you see the Basquiat piece?

YN: I did! But I got distracted by this fine ass Italian man who kept "accidentally" bumping into me in every room 😭

Jules: Ahh, the famous European "bump and chat" Very effective 😏

YN: You know all the moves huh? 👀

Jules: Speaking of moves...What's next on your European adventure?

YN: Thinking Florence maybe? Haven't decided

Jules: Germany is nice this time of year 👀 We play in Düsseldorf next week against Belgium...you should come though

YN: Remind me again what these Euros are?

Jules: *voice note* (clear sounds of him sighing dramatically) “It's only the biggest tournament in European football...”

Enzo's arms wrapping around her waist pulled her from the memory, making her yelp then laugh as he pressed a kiss to her cheek. These European men really were handsy - not that she was complaining. Still...

She thought about their conversation again:

Jules: Düsseldorf ➡️ Hamburg ➡️ Munich. Come see France win it all

YN: Confident aren't we?

Jules: Come see for yourself 😌

Honestly, Germany didn't sound half bad. After three straight nights of partying in Monaco (because apparently that's all what people did here), the idea of staying in one country for more for more than a few days was appealing. Plus, she'd yet to see Jules in his actual element – on the pitch, doing whatever it was footballers did.

"What are you thinking about, bella?" Enzo murmured in her ear.

"That I might be headed to Germany on Wednesday."

"Germany? Why would you want to go there when Florence is so much better?"

YN smiled, but her mind was already made up. Yacht parties were fun, but she had a feeling watching Jules play football might be even more entertaining.

Plus, she thought, if France loses, he might need comforting.

Her intrusive thoughts were really OD lately.

"What can I do to convince you that Florence is better choice?" Enzo murmured, his lips trailing down her neck as his hand slid up to cup her bikini-covered breast, giving it a gentle squeeze.

He was so different from her usual type - where she typically went for tall and dark, Enzo was lean and artistic, barely 5'11" with a swimmer's build and inky black hair that curled at the nape. But those eyes... as blue as the Mediterranean waves lapping against the yacht, the kind of eyes that romance novels tried and failed to describe. They reminded her of those perfect summer days where the sea and sky became one endless stretch of blue.

YN's breath hitched as his lips found that spot just below her ear. She giggled, surprising herself with what came out of her mouth next:

"You're really trying to make a compelling argument, huh?"

His responding squeeze made her gasp softly. "Is it working?"

"Maybe you need to make your case a little stronger?"

Who was this seductress and what had she done with awkward YN?

But Enzo seemed more than happy to rise to the challenge, spinning her around to face him. "Challenge accepted, bella."

His lips found hers immediately, hungry and insistent, as though he’d been waiting for this moment all night. The salty tang of the sea clung to his skin, but his kiss was warm, demanding, and full of heat that threatened to consume her. Enzo’s hands skimmed down her sides, finding the knot of her bikini strings at her back.

"Let’s take this somewhere more private," he murmured against her lips, his voice dark and teasing. He didn’t wait for a response, guiding her with ease toward the open door of the yacht’s master suite.

The bedroom was as luxurious as the rest of the yacht, its plush bedding and polished wood glowing in the sunlight spilling through the windows. But YN barely noticed. All she could focus on was Enzo — how his grin turned wicked as he spun her around again, his deft fingers tugging loose the strings of her bikini top.

The fabric fell away, and his gaze darkened as it roamed over her bare skin. "Dio mio," he breathed, his voice husky. "You’re perfect."

His lips found her neck first, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down to her collarbone, then lower still. He cupped her breasts with both hands, his thumbs brushing over her sensitive peaks before his mouth replaced them. The first graze of his tongue drew a soft gasp from her lips, and when he sucked, her knees nearly buckled.

"Enzo," she whimpered, her hands threading into his dark hair.

He hummed against her skin, the vibration sending shivers through her body. Before she could respond, he dropped to his knees, his hands skimming down her hips to untie her bikini bottoms. The fabric pooled at her feet, leaving her bare and trembling under his intent gaze. His hands traced the curve of her thighs, firm and confident as he eased her leg over his shoulder.

"Spread wider for me," he commanded, his voice low and rough. She obeyed without thinking, the anticipation coiling tight in her belly.

His mouth descended on her without hesitation, his tongue parting her folds and lapping up her arousal with precision. YN cried out, her hands gripping the edge of the dresser behind her to keep steady.

"Fuck, Enzo," YN moaned, her voice high and breathless.

He groaned against her, the sound vibrating through her core as he alternated between long, languid strokes and quick, teasing flicks against her clit. She couldn’t decide if it was the rhythm or the sheer confidence in his technique that had her thighs trembling around his shoulders.

"You taste so good," he murmured, his voice muffled as he dipped his tongue deeper, as if determined to ruin her entirely. He shifted slightly, hiking her leg higher for better access, and the new angle had her seeing stars.

Her head fell back, a string of broken moans spilling from her lips. Every movement of his mouth felt deliberate, like he knew exactly where to touch her to make her fall apart.

"How does a spoiled nepo baby get this good?" YN managed to gasp out, her words broken by another moan.

Enzo chuckled against her, the sound low and wicked. "I like to exceed expectations," he teased, sucking her clit into his mouth with just enough pressure to make her cry out his name.

Her body tightened, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter until it was impossible to hold back. With one last flick of his tongue, she shattered, her cries echoing off the cabin walls as she came undone against his mouth.

Enzo didn’t stop, guiding her through the waves of her release with a precision that made her legs weak. When she finally opened her eyes, he was grinning up at her, his lips and chin glistening with evidence of his handiwork.

"So Florence?" he said, his voice thick with satisfaction.

"Like you really needed to ask after all of that?" YN managed, still trying to catch her breath.

Those few days in Florence turned out to be... educational. Between fucking Enzo in every corner of his ridiculously huge villa and that unexpected night with him and his friend Carina (definitely not on YN's 2024 bingo card), she'd discovered several new things about herself. Like the fact that Carina had the kind of tits that deserved their own Renaissance painting, and YN wouldn't be human if she didn't at least get a taste. Having a three-way was something she'd always fantasized about but never had the courage to explore. And now she had it officially crossed off her ‘Sex Bucket List’.

Surprisingly, both Enzo and Carina turned out to be genuinely cool people - who knew stupidly rich people could actually be nice? When she left, Enzo had simply kissed her cheek and told her to hit him up whenever she was back in Italy. No drama, no expectations - just pure summer fun.

Now, settled in business class on her way to Düsseldorf, YN couldn't help but wonder what other surprises Europe had in store for her.

Jules was waiting at arrivals. His hug lasted a beat longer than strictly necessary, and she definitely wasn't complaining about the way his cologne lingered on her skin.

Dinner was at some lowkey spot that costed a pretty penny, but she wasn’t footing the bill this time. Jules kept "accidentally" brushing his hand against hers while reaching for the wine bottle, and his knee stayed pressed against hers under the table.

"So how's the tournament going really?" YN asked, taking a sip of wine.

"Stressful," Jules admitted. "But tonight?" His eyes met hers. "Tonight is just about good food and better company."

"Smooth."

"I try." He grinned. "What else have you’ve gotten into after Monaco?"

"Wild stuff. Like, things I never thought I'd do kind of wild."

"Oh?" His eyebrow raised. "Do tell."

"Maybe later," she laughed. "Right now I want to hear about this match tomorrow. I can’t wait to see you play."

"Good," his other hand moved to touch her leg under the table. "I need a good luck charm."

"Is that what I am?" Okay, flirty YN in the play!

"Among other things."

Walking her back to the hotel, Jules seemed more relaxed than she'd seen him yet.

"You're different than I expected," he said.

"Different good or different bad?"

"Definitely good. Most people in this industry are so..." he waved his hand vaguely.

"Basic?"

"Oui. You're... refreshing. Very cool. I'm really happy you actually came," he said, their shoulders bumping. "Tomorrow, before the match - let me show you around a bit? The stadium is incredible."

"You just want to show off."

"Maybe a little." He stopped at her door. "Is it working?"

"A little."

They stood there for a moment, just looking at each other before Jules started to lean down. His full lips were inches from hers when she pressed a hand to his chest.

"Wait. Full disclosure - I kind of hooked up with Enzo."

"Kind of?"

"And his friend Carina."

Something flickered in Jules' eyes - something that made her stomach flip and panties dampen. And to her surprise, he was far from angry. The hell?

"Were you safe?"

She scoffed. "Always. I mean, I did suck on Carina's titties but–" her mouth snapped shut. Why did I just say that?

"That's so fucking hot. Congrats on that."

She opened her mouth to say thanks, but his lips were already on hers. God, those lips - she'd been dreaming about them since Barcelona, imagining all the ways he knew how to use them. The reality was even better. Soft but demanding, his tongue darting out to taste her bottom lip as he pulled away.

"Sweet dreams, bébé," he smirked, pivoting on his Adidas Sambas and heading for the elevator.

"So you're a freak?" she called after him.

Jules paused, turning back with a dangerous smile. "If that's what you want to call it." He winked and continued toward the elevator.

YN let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. "Europe is wild as fuck," she muttered, fumbling for her room key. She needed to call her mom ASAP because what in the hot girl summer hell was even happening right now?

TO BE CONTINUED….

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