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foreverisntenough · 14 hours ago

Text

‘Aperture’

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

Chapter Index:

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

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

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

Chapter 3- 'See You' | 'Aperture'

word count - 11.6k

‘I don’t want to play with you’ was what you had said to Trent outside in the corridor which was a lie to begin with but in the dark bathroom your body was already begging for his, desperate for any game he wanted. It was hot. Thick, unbearable heat as his grip tightened, pulling you into him. You let out a soft, helpless whimper as his fingers skimmed down, over your ass, to the backs of your thighs. Then—lifted. He lifted you effortlessly, turning, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct, his body pressing flush against yours as he placed you onto the cool marble counter beneath you, the contrast of heat and chill making you shiver. Your chest rose and fell rapidly as felt the hard planes of him between your thighs. Trent stared at you, through you, his pupils blown, deep, rich, desperate, his lips slightly parted, breaths heavy. His fingers dug into your hips, his self-control slipping, shattering by the second.

“No?” he taunted your blatant lie outside this room that felt like it was about to combust. His voice was drenched in something wicked. He was questioning your verbal rejection, his voice teasing because your body spoke a different language. But his hands—his hands gripped you like he needed you to breathe. “If you want me to stop…” He exhaled sharply, his control was slipping, his forehead nearly pressing to yours. “We don’t have to. You can take your hands off me. If you don’t want this.” He said it laced with genuine care but also in equal measure, it was taunting because you both knew you didn’t, you did want this. You watched as your hands slid down his chest, confirming you wanted them there, feeling the solid warmth beneath his black tee, feeling the heat, the tension rippling beneath the fabric, the way his muscles tensed under your touch. Then you flashed your gaze up to his and shook your head telling him you didn’t want him to stop as one of your hands found the cool metal of his chain, a finger hooking beneath it, while the other slipped to the nape of his neck, your nails raking over the fade of his hair. Trent inhaled sharply, his restraint unraveling thread by thread. His eyes squeezed shut for a brief second before snapping open again, burning with something lethal. “Tell me then,” he murmured, rough and breathless. “I need you to tell me you do.” Your lips parted.

“I do.” A breathless whisper tumbling out before you could stop it, greedy, pulling him closer to you with a tug on his chain. That was it. Trent had his verbal confirmation, consent, you were game to play with him, the very thing you had tried to convince both himself and you, you didn’t And the second the words left your lips, his smirk deepened, pure, male satisfaction flashing in his dark eyes. His hands—big, strong, burning through your skin—slid up your thighs, kneading the soft flesh with slow, deliberate pressure. The contrast of his rough fingertips against your sensitized skin made your head swim, heat pooling low in your belly.

“Yeah? Do I make you wet, baby?” The whisper was low, rasping, thick with something sinful, something that sent a full-body shiver racing through you. Then, his mouth—hot and teasing—brushed against the crook of your neck, his breath fanning over your pulse. Your head lolled to the side, giving him more, unable to stop yourself. The first press of his lips to your skin was like a live wire igniting every nerve in your body. Your stomach flipped, your chest rose with a sharp inhale, and even though you fought to keep yourself composed, your body betrayed you. You arched—just slightly—but he noticed. His hands moved higher, his thumbs dragging the fabric of your dress up, exposing more of your thighs, the smooth heat of his palms pushing against bare skin. One hand slipped higher, gripping the soft crease where your thigh met your hip, his thumb pressing, teasing, lingering dangerously close to where you ached for him most. Your breath hitched, the room impossibly silent save for the steady, muted thrum of bass vibrating through the walls. But inside this space—inside this moment—there was only him. The way his fingers teased, the way his mouth hovered near your neck, the way he was everywhere and nowhere all at once, keeping you in a torturous limbo. He leaned back just enough to look at you again, his lips curled in that smug, knowing smirk, his eyes dark with lust and amusement. “You gonna prove me wrong or something?” His voice was like silk, low and edged with mischief. Your mouth parted—intending to say something, anything—but nothing came. Because you couldn’t. You had never been this turned on in your entire life. He had stolen the air from your lungs, the words from your mind, leaving only the sharp, undeniable pull of him. Trent’s smirk deepened, understanding exactly what your silence meant. He leaned in to the other side of you, his lips ghosting over your ear, his breath hot and taunting. “Tell me your tight pussy isn’t dripping for me.” The words were a sinful whisper, a dark, husky promise, and the second his thumb dipped into the waistband of your lace panties, your entire body clenched. Still, no words. Just a shaky, shallow breath. Trent let out a quiet chuckle—not at you, but at himself, at his words, at the unbearable tension thrumming between you, at how much he wanted this. Needed it. Needed you. “C’mon, baby.” His voice softened, laced with patience, teasing but never pushing too far. “Just let this happen if you want me… I know I turn you on.” His thumb dragged the tiniest circle over the lace covering your core, and your thighs instinctively squeezed together, trapping his hand there, keeping him close.Your pulse pounded in your ears, your resolve unraveling strand by strand. You swallowed thickly.

“I never said you didn’t.” Your voice was weak, breathy, but there was a flicker of defiance there—a last stand. Trent’s brows lifted at your response, intrigued, amused. But more than that—thrilled. Because you were biting back now, challenging him in your own way. And he fucking loved it. You reached for him again, hands sliding up the firm planes of his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his tee, tugging. He let you, let you have control for a fleeting second before he moved—stepping fully between your thighs again, locking you in place.

“I get it,” he murmured, voice molten, rough with desire. “You don’t have to say anything.” His smirk was slow, devastating. “Your body speaks for you.” Then his other hand slid up your side, dragging over your ribs, his touch featherlight but scorching, until he reached the curve of your boob. His fingers cupped you through your dress, thumb flicking over your nipple, teasing the sensitive bud through the fabric. A breathy whimper tumbled from your lips before you could stop it. Trent inhaled sharply, his pupils dilating at the sound, his control slipping just a little more. He loved it. He lived for it. But some part of him—some teasing, cocky part—was still playing the game. Because the second that bathroom door has closed, the second you let yourself want him, your walls crumbled. You weren’t resistant anymore. You weren’t immune to the effortless charm, the raw, unchecked attraction between you. He leaned in, his lips a whisper away from yours, close enough that you could feel his breath, taste the tequila lingering on his tongue. “Tell me you don’t want my hands on you.” His voice was a challenge, dark and honeyed, and it sent something desperate and needy crashing through you. Your resolve shattered.

“Please.” It was a whine, a quiet, desperate plea, your eyes wide and burning with need. And the second he saw it—that tiny flicker of surrender—his mouth twitched into a smirk, victorious. There it was. He had broken you down. He had won.

“Good girl,” he murmured. Then his lips crashed into yours. The kiss was all-consuming, a wildfire of hunger and desperation, lips parting, tongues brushing, hands grasping, pulling, taking. His fingers curled into your waist, dragging you against him, pressing you flush to every hard inch of his body. Your nails raked over his scalp, tugging at his hair, swallowing his sharp inhale. And yet, you never wanted it to stop. The air was thick with heat, the scent of liquor and faint perfume swirling in the dimly lit bathroom, the bass from the club pulsing through the walls like a heartbeat. Outside, Ibiza roared—laughter, music, chaos—but in here, it was just the two of you, a slow-burning inferno waiting to consume everything in its path.

And then, the roles reversed.

Trent had kissed a hundreds of lips, felt a hundred hands pulling him in, had women looking at him like they wanted to be devoured by him. But this—this was different. This was dangerous. Because for the first time, he felt like he was losing control. Kissing you felt like slipping into something intoxicating and unstoppable. Want. Need. A hunger that clawed at him from the inside out. Your moan vibrated against his lips as you reached for him, fingers curling into the hem of his shirt, yanking him closer like you could somehow fuse your bodies together. Your hands slipped under the fabric, finding his skin, hot and taut over hard muscle, your fingertips trailing over the ridges of his abs. His stomach flexed at your touch, a shudder rolling through him as if he could barely take it. His mouth broke away from yours, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down the curve of your jaw, along the column of your throat. But it wasn’t just kisses. No, he was marking you, dragging his teeth over your pulse point, sucking just hard enough to make you gasp. A little pain, a little pleasure. A promise. He groaned against your skin. “Fuck, you’re so sexy, baby.” Your fingers tangled into his curls at the top of his, then your nails scraped back down his scalp as you arched into him, helpless against the way he had you unraveling. His kisses trailed lower, over your collarbone, down, down, as his hands roamed your body like he was memorizing it—soft caresses that felt electric, possessive, worshiping. His hard cock pressed against your core through his trousers, the friction making your breath stutter, a desperate little whimper slipping from your lips. He felt it—how much you wanted him—how your body responded to every brush of his fingers, every teasing stroke of his lips. “Let me have you,” he growled, his voice raw, thick with need. You whimpered as his hands slid lower, gripping your hips harshly, pulling you into him like he couldn’t get close enough. His gaze was molten, sweeping over you in admiration before his lips found yours again. The kiss was desperate, sloppy—tongues tangling, teeth clashing, like neither of you could get enough. His hands roamed your body like they had no patience left, and your own were just as eager, yanking him impossibly closer.

“You have me,” you whispered against his mouth, your hips tilting up into him in silent invitation. Trent exhaled sharply, his restraint disappearing. His fingers curled around your thighs, pulling one leg up around his waist, pressing you tighter against him. “Please… take me,” you breathed. His grin was slow, lazy, drunk off you.

“Let me.” His thumbs dug deeper into the flesh of your thighs before they trailed up, up—until they reached the lace of your panties. His fingers ghosted over the fabric, and then, just barely, he brushed over your sensitive clit. The lightest, cruelest touch. Your breath hitched, your body instinctively jerking forward, seeking more. Trent’s smirk deepened as he watched your reaction, as he felt how wet you were for him. “Look at you,” he murmured, dragging his fingers over the damp lace again, slow, deliberate. “So fucking wet for me.” You shuddered, your hand flying up to his neck, thumb brushing over his sharp jawline, forcing his gaze to meet yours. And then there in that look, there was a silent confessional made - want. But with it, there was hunger there—the pure, unfiltered lust—made your stomach tighten, your thighs clench. His fingers slipped past the waistband of your panties, gliding over your slick folds, teasing, exploring. A sharp gasp left your lips, your body jolting at the first slow, lazy circles over your clit. “There you go,” he praised, voice husky. “I knew you’d be a good girl for me.” His fingers pressed deeper, spreading your slickness before one slid inside, pushing in slow, teasing you open. You clenched around him, a broken moan escaping as your head fell back against the wall. His lips found your neck again, biting, sucking, as he fucked you with his finger, slow at first, then a little faster, until he felt you relax enough to take another. His knuckle pressed against your entrance with every thrust, adding a delicious friction that had your thighs trembling.

“Fuck,” you gasped, your hips rolling into his hand, desperate for more.“Oh my god, that feels so good. Right there.“ Trent’s smirk pressed against your skin as he curled his fingers inside you, hitting that spot that made your entire body jolt.

“Right there, huh?” he murmured, watching the way you came apart under his touch. Your nails dug into his shoulders, your body shuddering as the pressure built, climbing higher and higher. His pace never faltered, his fingers working you open, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. “That’s it, hmm?” His voice was velvet, coaxing. “Cum for me, baby.” And then—you shattered. Your orgasm ripped through you, waves of white-hot pleasure crashing over you as you moaned his name, your body convulsing against his, your nails dragging over his skin. Trent groaned at the sight, his fingers slowing, milking every last tremor from your body. Your chest heaved as you slumped against the counter, your legs weak, your body spent but still burning for him.

Trent pulled his fingers from you, slick with your arousal. He watched the way they glistened in the dim light, a flicker of something almost possessive flashing in his eyes before he brought them to his lips. His tongue flicked out, licking them clean.

“Fuck.” You swallowed hard, watching him, utterly wrecked. He chuckled, dark and knowing. But the look in his eyes told you—he wasn’t done with you yet. The air was thick with heat, perfumed with sweat, sex, and the lingering scent of expensive liquor. Outside, Nikki Beach pulsed—music thrumming like a heartbeat, neon lights flickering, the bass so deep it rattled through your bones. But in here, the world had shrunk to just the two of you. Trent’s breath was ragged, his lips still glistening from the taste of you as he dropped to his knees, dark eyes burning with a hunger that sent a fresh wave of arousal straight to your core. “Taste fucking unreal, baby.” His voice was husky, thick with desire, and the sight of him there—cocky, worshipful, desperate—had your thighs clenching on instinct. But he wouldn’t allow it. Large hands gripped your legs, thumbs pressing into your soft flesh as he spread you open, his gaze locked onto yours with unrelenting intensity. “Need more of you.” His voice was a rasp, his words a promise. “Gonna let me have more of you?” He asked you as he leaned in slowly, deliberately, his hands sliding up your thighs, fingertips barely brushing your skin as he took his time savoring the moment. You nodded desperately.

“T please.” The anticipation was unbearable. This was not how you thought this was going to go. Your breath hitched as his lips ghosted over your inner thigh, and then—his tongue flicked out, tracing the lace of your panties. A jolt of pleasure shot through you, a sharp gasp slipping past your lips. Trent smirked, keeping his gaze chained to yours, and then—rip. The delicate fabric tore in his hands, leaving you bare beneath him. The audacity. The sheer, unhinged need in his eyes. It sent shivers rippling down your spine. “Fuck,” you breathed. He groaned, low and guttural, before his mouth descended, tongue dragging over your soaked folds in a deep, possessive kiss.

He devoured you.

The first stroke of his tongue was slow, teasing, dragging through your slickness before he lapped at you, tasting, exploring, like he had all the time in the world. A slow hum of satisfaction rumbled from his chest, vibrating against your core. Your fingers found his curls, gripping, tugging, hips jerking toward him, but his hands tightened around your thighs, pinning you in place.

“So greedy,” he murmured against your wet core before sealing his lips around your clit and sucking. A strangled moan ripped from your throat. Your head hit back against the mirror, the cool glass a stark contrast to the fire licking through your veins. He worked you like he needed this, and he felt like he did. You were like a class A drug he was trying for the first time and he was addicted from the first hit. He was drawing pleasure from your pleasure, like nothing had ever tasted sweeter than you on his tongue. His fingers joined the torture, slicking through your folds before one pressed inside you, curling, coaxing. Then another.

“Oh my God. Oh my fucking—” His pace quickened, tongue flicking, fingers thrusting, the obscene, wet sounds of your arousal echoing through the bathroom, mixing with the muffled bass from the club outside. “Please.” Your voice was a whimper, breathless, wrecked. “Please, T. Oh my God, I’m gonna cum.” Trent didn’t let up. If anything, he worked you harder, holding you down as he feasted, his mouth relentless, tongue rubbing against your swollen clit in messy, eager circles. His lips were god like. Not only did they look good, they felt fucking good.. “I’m gonna—” Then you broke. Your body jerked, pleasure crashing over you in violent, shuddering waves. A cry tore from your lips, your thighs trembling against the broad expanse of his shoulders as he kept going, licking you through your orgasm, drinking you in like you were the only thing that had ever mattered. Your hands slipped from his curls, arms going limp as the last tremors of pleasure rippled through you. Your breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, your body boneless, trembling.

Slowly, Trent kissed his way back up, leaving a trail of wet, reverent kisses over your thighs, your stomach, his hands sliding up your dress, brushing over your tits. The fabric was thin, barely there, and his touch sent sparks racing beneath your skin. He finally reached your lips, hovering there, his breath mingling with yours, still tasting like you.

“So fucking good f’me,” he murmured. You grabbed his wrist and dragged his hand to your lips taking two of his fingers in between your lips. Tasting yourself as you swirled your tongue around them teasing Trent with the idea of you doing that to his cock until he pulled them out with a pop. He exhaled and leant forward, his forehead pressed against yours, his hands cradling your face as he looked at you—really looked at you. Like he couldn’t believe you were real. “Knew you’d sound so pretty when you cum.” Your heart clenched. Because it wasn’t just lust anymore. It was more. It was something deeper, something neither of you could name, something dangerous. And as his lips claimed yours in a searing, soul-stealing kiss, you knew—this wasn’t just a night you’d never forget. This was a man you couldn’t forget. Even when the music stopped. Even when the sun rose over the Ibizan shores.

And as you looked at him now, those deep brown eyes blown wide with desire, pupils eclipsing the warm dark hazel, you felt something shift. Something terrifying. Something that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with the way he was staring back at you—like he saw something in you worth worshiping. It was more than attraction. More than just a need to have you. There was softness in his gaze, genuine interest, maybe even something close to love. And that was the scariest thing of all. Your chest still heaved from your orgasm, legs trembling when you decided to slide off the counter, trying to regain some control. But the moment your feet touched the ground, you wobbled, Trent’s hands found your waist, steadying you instinctively, as if they belonged there. As if they’d never let go. You needed to step away. To put space between you before you lost yourself in him completely. But when you tried, he caught your wrist. Not rough. Not demanding. Just a silent plea. A tether, holding you there—not just in this bathroom, but in this moment. Your eyes flashed down in an effort to not be guilted, but instead you caught sight of something that you’d been thinking about for two days now. The hard line of his cock straining against his pants, proof of just how much he wanted you. A thrill ran through you at the thought that just touching you, tasting you, pulling you into this hidden world had wrecked him like this. But there was that guilt, too. Because he’d given you everything, and you had given him nothing in return.

“I have to get back,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure why. You weren’t sure who you were trying to convince. Trent’s lips parted slightly, a soft exhale as your hand reached for him, drawn by some gravitational pull you couldn’t fight. Your palm cupped his cheek, thumb running across his full lower lip, swollen from his sins. His enviable lashes fluttered for a brief moment before his lips parted, tongue flicking against the pad of your thumb in a slow, torturous tease. He smirked then, the cocky bastard, because he knew. He knew you knew he was hard. But the way he looked at you now, the way he leaned into your touch—it wasn’t just about his arousal. It was about you. He was vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. All the filthy things he had just said, all the pleasure he had given you, now lingering in the air between you. Words he couldn’t take back. He was the one caught out this time. Not you.

“Just tell me something…” His voice was softer now, the bravado slipping, replaced with something real. “I make you feel good?” You swallowed, pulse stuttering.

“Yeah,” you murmured, barely audible. His gaze flickered over your face, searching, reading between the lines. He wasn’t just talking about the way he’d just torn you apart with his tongue. He meant being with him. Just being with him. And you meant it, too.

His fingers curled around your wrist, bringing it to his lips. He kissed the inside of it, right where your pulse fluttered wildly against his mouth. Your heart slammed against your ribs. Because Trent wasn’t just sexy. He wasn’t just the boy you’d met on holiday or the man who had your head spinning. He was soft. He didn’t push. Didn’t demand. Didn’t lock the door or strip you down. He didn’t chase you when you pulled away, didn’t beg. He just… waited.

“Remember that,” he said, his voice low, intimate. “Think of me making you cum. Just… don’t forget, yeah?” His words should have sounded crass. Should have been cocky. But they weren’t. Because he wasn’t just talking about this. He meant more than that. ‘Don’t forget him.’ You nodded, biting your lip as you slipped past him, and this time—he let you go. Was he disappointed and mildly shocked you wanted to leave, yes. He wasn’t nearly close to satisfaction, he was aching for release. He wanted more, he wanted all of you, and yet, a part of him felt lucky to have even gotten a taste.

The hallway swallowed you both back up, reality crashing in as the music roared back to life, vibrating through the walls, chaotic and frenzied. And it was in that moment you realized that even as crazy and famous as he was, cheeky as he was, he somehow managed to be a moment of quiet. Of stillness. Of something unexpectedly safe in a world that was anything but. The quiet was behind you, only chaos up ahead. You had almost made it back when you felt him again. His touch. Trent’s large hands found your waist, pulling you back against him one last time, not letting you go back just yet, his fingers splaying possessively across your hips.

“C’mere.” The warmth of him, the scent of his cologne, the pure electricity crackling between your bodies—it was too much. You turned in his arms, facing him. “I’m gonna…” His voice was barely above a whisper, a nod toward the VIP section where his brothers and friends still sat, oblivious to what had just happened. A pang of something dangerous hit your chest. You didn’t want to leave this moment. And you hated that you felt that way.

“Gonna fuck someone else now?” you cheekily asked, keeping your voice light, but the question wasn’t a joke. It was a fear. You liked him. Not just for the way he made you come undone but for the way he had looked at you afterward. For the way he saw you. And now, all you’d done is wound him up and were about to push him back into a beach club full of beautiful women. But that didn’t matter. Not to him. Trent let out a low, breathy chuckle, shaking his head. He couldn't believe how certain he was in the answer he was going to give you.

“Nah.” That sound—his laugh—it sent butterflies swarming in your stomach, bursting like fireworks against your ribs. “Nah,” he repeated, smirking. “Gonna go back to the villa and probably have to have a wank now.” The honesty. The humor. It was so him— his smile lazy and lethal all at once. You laughed, shaking your head as your fingers curled around the fabric of his shirt. His grip on you tightened, fingers pressing into the curve of your ass as he leaned in, close enough that his lips nearly brushed yours. “But if you wanna cum for me again tonight,” he murmured, voice dripping with sin. “If you want me…” His lips grazed your cheek, his breath hot against your skin. And the thing was, as Trent said those words, terrifyingly it occurred to him that he wanted you to want him. “You come get me. Yeah?” You swallowed, body betraying you with the way it leaned into him. Unbeknownst to Trent, and surprising to you all the same, the truth was—you did want him. You wanted to come for him again. You wanted him. But you didn’t say it.

“I’ll see you.” You whispered. And the way Trent looked at you then—like he wasn’t entirely sure where he was anymore, like you had just thrown his entire world off its axis—made your heart stutter. You were something he hadn’t expected. Something real. Your hands drifted up, fingernails scratching lightly against the nape of his neck. He closed his eyes for a second, breathing you in, and when they opened, there was something dangerous in them. You were so close. Close enough to taste him. Close enough that one wrong move and you’d be back against the wall, back in his arms, back in a moment that neither of you would be able to come back from. But you knew better than to kiss him. Because you were scared. Scared that if you did, you’d drag him right back down the hall and sink to your knees for him. Trent smirked, but it was softer this time.

“You’ll see me.” He murmured. Then he turned his head, looking away—because he wanted to kiss you, too. He really really did and he knew if he did, it wouldn’t just be lust. It would be something far more dangerous. Something neither of you were ready for.

The night was alive, breathing, pulsing—thick with heat and wild energy. The bass thrummed through the air, a heartbeat in its own right, rattling through crystal glasses and rippling across skin slick with sweat and spilled liquor. The scent of expensive perfume, spiced rum, and something darker—something untamed—coiled around you, wrapping the club in a haze of sin and seduction. Dim lights flickered like fireflies, dancing across the crowds, casting fleeting golden glows over Trent’s face—the unfairly pretty face that, just moments ago, had been buried between your thighs, worshiping you like a man starved.

“Where the fuck did you go, mate?” Kieran asked, furrowing his brow, confused by Trent’s absence. Trent barely looked at him, instead watching as you slipped back to your friends, looking every bit the picture of mischief and satisfaction. The curve of your lips, the flush in your cheeks—you were radiant. And he was helpless against it.

“Was hungry…” Trent shrugged, voice lazy, but his gaze was locked on you, unashamed. The innuendo went over everyone’s head but Trent’s hunger was fresh in his mind as he stared at you. Marcel turned to him, expectant, suspicious, and when his eyes followed Trent’s line of sight—when he caught the ghost of a smirk threatening to spill across his brother’s lips—he knew. And you—damn you—felt it, too. The tether between you, humming beneath the music, louder than the club, louder than the crowd.

Your head turned, seeking him, as if pulled by some invisible force. And when your eyes met, a current crackled through the space between you, something unspeakable, something dangerously sweet. Trent smirked—slow, knowing—and shot you a wink, and fuck, it hit you like a shot of tequila straight to the veins. Your stomach flipped, a giggle escaping before you could stop it, as you reached for your half-finished bottle of Don Julio. You tipped it back, the burn of the liquor a poor substitute for the fire still licking at your skin, the memory of his mouth still haunting your body. And right then, you wished Don Julio was him. Wished it was his pillowy lips cushioning yours, not the cold glass of the bottle.

The late-morning sun hung high over Ibiza, casting golden light over the terrace where you and your best friends lounged, the remnants of last night’s chaos still clinging to your skin like the salty summer air. The scent of fresh oranges and sizzling chorizo wafted from the kitchen, mixing with the crisp bite of mimosas and the familiar comfort of laughter. The four of you were draped lazily around a white linen-covered table, oversized sunglasses shielding tired eyes, but nothing could dull the electric energy bouncing between you as you finally, finally spilled your secret.

“He what?!?!” Delaney, Foster, and Campbell’s collective scream tore through the quiet hum of the brunch crowd, drawing more than a few curious glances from nearby tables. Not that any of you cared. You shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but the heat rising in your cheeks betrayed you.

“He ate me out when I went to the loo last night. You heard what I said.” You took a sip of your drink, acting as if your world hadn’t just tilted on its axis as you looked at them through the blue tint of your Loewe sunnies [ref index]

“Oh my fucking god!” Foster practically shrieked, slamming her hand down on the table. The sheer volume of her excitement sent the group into another round of cackling, heads thrown back, laughter bubbling over like spilled champagne.

“So you did get fucked! Praise the lord!” Delaney grinned, raising her mimosa in a mock toast, her sunglasses sliding down her nose as she smirked at you.

“No! No…” you protested between giggles, shaking your head. “That’s not what I said! I said he ate me out.” You leaned forward, biting your lip, your smile turning impossibly cheekier. Campbell, ever the perceptive to you, eyed you suspiciously.

“So do you have plans? Are you gonna see him again?” She asked and your grin faltered for just a second. A small pause. A flicker of something deeper.

“I don’t have his number.” The admission sat between you like an unfinished sentence. You hadn’t thought about it in the heat of the moment—the tequila haze, the pulse of the music, the way he had made you feel. But now, in the clear light of day, it was glaringly obvious. You didn’t have his number. No plans. No promises. Just a memory. Campbell’s lips curled into a knowing smirk.

“Do you want it?” She meddled knowing it was right in her messages a few days ago. Your instinct was to brush it off, to say no, to play it cool. But your friends knew you too well. Campbell, especially, saw through you like glass. You hesitated, twirling the stem of your glass between your fingers.

“No, he didn’t give it to me.” The way you phrased it sounded… bad. Like you’d been left behind, forgotten. And you hated that. You didn’t want to care. You wanted to be unbothered, unattached. But when Foster leaned forward with a teasing grin, you knew she sensed the shift in you.

“No, he just gave that pussy some yum,” she quipped, waggling her brows. You groaned, throwing a napkin at her, but it did little to distract from the truth pressing at your ribs.

“Stop! I don’t know…” You sighed, running a hand through your hair, the memory of Trent’s touch still ghosting over your skin. “There’s… something there. It’s weird…” The words hung in the air, light but laced with an undeniable weight. “I don’t know what it is,” you admitted softly. And for the first time since last night, the thrill of it all settled into something else. Something scarier. You couldn’t describe it to them but in your mind you knew what it was. It was chemistry The Ibiza heat pressed down on you, thick and heavy, but it wasn’t nearly as suffocating as the realization creeping in. You wanted more. And that? That was dangerous.

The sun blazed high above, glinting off the rim of your glass as you took another sip of your mimosa, the cool bubbles popping against your lips. The terrace buzzed with the lazy energy of a late-morning brunch crowd—groups of tanned holiday-goers nursing hangovers, the clinking of silverware against plates, the distant bass of a beach club setting the rhythm for another sun-soaked day. Your friends were still reeling, their laughter slicing through the air like a blade, sharp and amused.

“I’m sure his thirsty ass fucked someone else that night after we left anyways.” You smiled at them, shrugging as if the thought didn’t sting. The rim of your glass met your lips again, but before you could take another sip, Campbell reached out and pulled it away with a pointed look.

“You don’t mean that.” You tilted your head at her, silently pleading with her not to do this—to not look at you like she could see through the paper-thin defense you were trying to hold up.

“No, but for me, best to think it.” You flashed her a smile, one that was meant to end the conversation, but she wasn’t convinced.

“Fair,” Delaney chimed in, adjusting her bikini strap under her sheer cover-up. “But you should follow him on Instagram or something.” She knew you, understood your hesitations, but also didn’t want you to let the moment slip through your fingers. Before you could even react, Campbell and Foster cut in with a unified shriek.

“Fuck no!” The whole table burst into giggles, the tension dissolving into the warm air, but then—

“Ladies, sent for you.” A waiter appeared at the table, a pristine bottle of champagne cradled in his hands like something sacred. It wasn’t just any bottle—it was expensive, way too nice for a casual brunch. The four of you exchanged glances before Foster furrowed her brow, scanning the room with a smirk.

“From who?” she asked, already playing detective. Your curiosity got the best of you, and you turned slightly in your chair, following her gaze, eyes sweeping over the crowd—until they landed on him. Trent.

As if the universe had cast a spotlight just for him, he lounged effortlessly in the distance with his friends, the golden glow of the morning catching the sharp angles of his jaw, the slight curl of his lips, the quiet confidence in the way he sat back in his seat. His eyes found yours easily, as if he had been waiting. You sighed, shaking your head with a soft smile, mouthing a small, ‘No,’ though there was nothing in your expression that said you didn’t appreciate the gesture. Your glossed lips unable to stop from curving. His lips twitched, his dimple peeking through before he tilted his own glass toward you in a subtle toast. You turned back around and Trent silently groaned in his head seeing your exposed back again. He wanted to rip that dress you had on off, and the bikini underneath it. Back at your table, the waiter set down your freshly poured glass, but before he stepped away, he placed a folded napkin down next to you. Your brows furrowed as you reached for it, and the moment your eyes skimmed over the inked words, your breath hitched.

'If I never get to feel your lips again, it was an absolute pleasure, baby.'

You shook your head, but you were smiling, your fingers tightening around the napkin like it was something delicate, something worth keeping. Foster gawked at the message, jaw slack in astonishment.

“Guess it was yummy, baby.” Campbell hummed into her glass, unsurprised but endlessly amused, while Delaney let out a giggle, sliding the napkin closer to examine it like it held the secrets of the universe. You should have rolled your eyes, should have dismissed it as nothing more than a cheeky playboy move, but you couldn’t. Because as much as you tried to fight it, there was no denying the truth—he didn’t feel like just some momentary thrill and you hoped this wasn't a goodbye as much as it was a see you soon.

–

Trent was cooked. Not by the Ibizan sun—though, yeah, that too. His tan was coming in nicely. But no, the real problem? You. You’d walked out of that brunch picking up your bill, your bag and your friends, and he prayed the napkin, without so much as a goodbye, just a soft, knowing smile that had done irreparable damage to his sanity. You could’ve said something cocky, thrown him a teasing remark, but no—you’d just looked at him like that, mouthed a simple ‘See you’ before leaving him there, heart pounding like some lovesick idiot. But that 'see you' meant confirmation for you. You didn't want never again you wanted a million times over.

Now, hours later, his friends were sprawled across the loungers by the pool, soaking up the afternoon heat, but not Trent. No, Trent was a man on a mission. Under the shade of an umbrella, a towel draped dramatically over his head to block the glare, he squinted at his phone screen. He should’ve been swimming, drinking, doing literally anything else, but instead, he was being a detective. Because Trent Alexander-Arnold did not just let a girl like you walk out of his life without a trace. Except, well—he kind of had. He didn’t have your number. Didn’t even know if he had your last name. Rookie mistake, mate.

But then—divine intervention. Or, well, Campbell’s Instagram story. He clicked on it absentmindedly, expecting to see the usual boozy brunch chaos, but then, in small white font, there it was. Your username. Finally. Thank you, Campbell. He should’ve sent the bottle to her just for her help alone fueling this delusional crush. Trent hummed, narrowing his eyes as he clicked on your profile, resisting the urge to zoom in on your photos like a creep. God, you were fit. But something in your bio distracted him. A second Instagram handle. A name he recognized. Curious, he clicked. And just like that, the rabbit hole deepened.

Your work page was filled with sleek, polished images—portraits, editorials, behind-the-scenes glimpses of high-profile shoots. But most interestingly…Footballers.

Trent sat up a little straighter, scrolling with a sudden intensity. Did you work for a photographer? Was this someone else’s account? But then he checked the list of people it followed—only about twenty odd names, most of them industry professionals, and there you were again. Your personal account. Oh. Ohhh. He scrolled faster now, realization hitting him like a truck. You weren’t just working for a photographer. You were the photographer.

“Oh…” He said it out loud, eyes fixed on his screen, heart thudding for an entirely new reason now. There it was—your name credited under shots from a Louis Vuitton campaign. A behind-the-scenes snap of you on set. Another post, a carousel of work that included—Marcus Rashford? Trent frowned, his scrolling slowing just a little. How professional were these shoots, exactly? He didn’t really pin you like that and that made the thought of the question all the more embarrassing to him. He clicked on another Instagram dump of yours, searching for clues, for something—anything—to confirm that he wasn’t just another name in your mental archives. But the answer was clear.

Incredibly professional.

Painfully so, in your opinion. You weren’t just some girl who took photos—you were the real deal. You worked with some of the biggest names in the game, and yet… you barely let them get your surname. You were a shadow behind the lens, a quiet force in the industry. A name typed in an email from your agency, a friendly face on set but never more than that. And Trent? Well, he had been more than that. Right?

Trent was in trouble. Deep, deep trouble. He’d started this whole thing with the upper hand—cocky, self-assured, confident. A cheeky line at a club, a wager sealed with a kiss, his name scrawled on a napkin like he was so sure you’d come looking for him. But now? Now, he was sitting under a goddamn poolside umbrella, towel over his head like some desperate gremlin, while you single-handedly ruined his entire summer holiday. He was jealous. Fucking jealous.

Of Rashford. Of the other footballers you’d shot. Of the fact that they’d had your full attention, maybe for hours, maybe days. That they’d been the focus of your lens, your voice giving quiet direction, your hands adjusting lighting, your eyes scanning them like they were the most interesting thing in the room. Meanwhile, he had barely lasted a night in your orbit. Still frowning, Trent kept scrolling, pulling your page down refreshing hoping for a sign of life and then—like the devil had it out for him—you posted.

A new grid post. He swallowed hard, thumb freezing as he took it in. A curated, sun-drenched montage of your trip, effortlessly cool and so you—a pitcher of sangria sweating on the table, Campbell mid-laugh, a perfect row of striped beach umbrellas, delicate gold jewelry scattered on a marble sink. It was the kind of post that made someone wish they were there, wish they’d been part of the moments. And Trent? He didn’t just wish. He ached.

But then—the last slide. He almost didn’t catch it at first, his mind still dazed from the photo of you stretched out on a lounger, back arched, sun dripping over you in a way that should be illegal in only a tiny tiny string bikini. His entire body reacted instantly—groaning, he tipped his head back against the chair, squeezing his eyes shut, forcing himself to breathe through the sudden rush of heat flooding straight to his length. Jesus. You were impossible. You were sexy, effortless, carefree—no calculated poses, no thirst traps, just you. Untouchable. And then, just when he thought he couldn’t take anymore, there it was—the last slide.

A snapshot of the napkin he’d sent to your table. The one with his note, his number, flipped over, the embossed restaurant name a confirmation, the faint tint of his ink leaking through the otherside. Except now, you’d written on it too.

‘They can be yours… again. xx’

Red ink. Perfectly placed. A direct hit to his ego, his gut, his—fuck. Trent stared, his entire world tilting. The words were a play on his first line to you, stolen and thrown right back at him. He’d started this, thinking he had the control. A shot in the dark, a gamble at a club. But now? Now, he was crumbling. Because he’d once offered you his lips for the night. And now? All he could think about was yours.

Autumn arrived like a quiet sigh. September rolled in with its crisp air, golden evenings, and a silence that stretched between you and Trent like an unspoken truce. Neither of you reached out. Too proud. Too stubborn to be the first one to bend. Campbell had tried, of course. Tried to nudge, hint, flat-out push you into making a move. But you refused, pretending it was nothing, just a passing holiday fling. Trent? Barely remembered your name. That was the official line you both fed your friends. But it was a lie. Because Trent did remember your name. He remembered the way it felt rolling off his tongue, the way it sounded when you laughed. And he missed it.

He found himself lurking in corners of the internet he knew you might exist in—scrolling through comments on a footballer’s post you recently worked with just to see if you'd left one. Clicking through women’s fashion editorials, hoping for a behind-the-scenes glimpse of you at work. Embarrassing. He’d clear his search history before his mates came over, because God forbid they saw “Trent Alexander-Arnold + photographer + Ibiza” “London + photographer + Y/N + boyfriend” in the search bar.

And you? You were just as bad.

You, who claimed not to care, were now watching random Premier League YouTube videos about players’ favorite foods—just for a two-second clip of Trent laughing. You streamed his matches from your phone, curled up in bed on cold Tuesday nights, letting the sound of Champions League commentators saying his name lull you to sleep like a damn bedtime story. But like anything worth waiting for, timing mattered.

And as fate—or fashion—would have it, September meant Fashion Week.

Trent was in Paris. Tired. Sore from the weekend’s match, legs still heavy from a knock he’d picked up. He was sprawled across the sofa in his hotel room, waiting for room service, mindlessly scrolling through TikTok. His algorithm had changed—his usual feed of football highlights and music clips replaced with… well, you. Not directly. Not at first. But it had started slow. A fashion week recap here, a vogue clip there, the kinds he usually ignored. But not now. The more he lingered, the more the app fed him exactly what he wanted before he even admitted to himself that he wanted it. And then—there you were. A street-style video. Travis Scott’s voice thumping over muffled reverbed bass. You, yesterday, walking down Rue Jean Goujon.

Golden hour draped over you like a personal spotlight, turning your skin radiant, turning you into something straight out of a daydream. You were wrapped in more layers than he preferred—tragic, really—but even under the high fashion, he saw you. Saw the sharpness of your cheekbones, the slight pout of your lips, the effortless way you moved. Trent let out a slow breath, thumb frozen on the screen. He envied the sun outside his window. Because it got to touch you, while he was stuck inside, watching from a screen.

Trent swallowed hard watching you walk down the Parisian street with all the ease of someone who belonged there. Your tiny exposed waist still visible as the wind blew open your coat [ref index], your heels impractically high, opened toed and potentially making your feet cold. Oh my days was he really worried if you were cold, he shook his head but continued watching the video again and again to see you carry yourself as if the world were tilting to accommodate you.

Trent had never been the type to dwell. He prided himself on his ability to let things roll off his back, to keep moving forward without getting caught up in what-ifs or maybes. But this—you—had settled into his mind like an imprint he couldn’t shake. It had been weeks since Ibiza, since that night at the club, since brunch, since you’d walked away without so much as a lingering glance. And yet, here he was, lying on the couch in his Paris hotel room, his mouth going dry trying to remember the taste of you. He shut his eyes for a moment, willing it back but it had been too long.

He hadn’t seen you in motion since Ibiza, hadn’t been forced to reckon with the way you moved, how you existed so unbothered, so self-assured. His memory had failed him—because this, this was worse. You were stunning in a way that made his body tense. His thumb hovered over the screen. And then— without thinking, without hesitating, without stopping himself—he hit ‘save video.’ The realization struck him a second too late. His stomach dropped.

"What the fuck am I doing…" Trent groaned, immediately opening his camera roll to delete it. His fingers hesitated over the screen before he dropped the phone into his lap, dragging a hand over his face. He needed to get himself together. This was ridiculous. And then—laughter. A quiet, amused sound from across the room.

“I think she’s too bad for you, bro.” Trent’s head snapped up. Marcel was lounging in the chair near the window, watching him with open amusement, a knowing smirk playing at his lips. Trent exhaled sharply.

“Who are you even on about?” He kept his voice level, uninterested. A lost cause. Marcel merely shook his head.

“You can pretend all you want, but it’s not like you don’t have a way of seeing her.” He stretched out lazily, as if he had all the time in the world to pick Trent apart. “You stare at her Instagram every week. Just follow it.” He shrugged. “You’ve got mutual friends. It’s not creepy, mate. You’re gonna run into her at some point.” Marcel explained earnestly to his older brother too wise for Trent to stomach. Trent clenched his jaw.

“Fuck off, bro” Trent curtly replied shifting in his place.

“She here?” Marcel tilted his head, sharp as ever. “Is that why you’re spinning out?” He asked. He hadn’t seen the video Trent was just watching, he’d seen enough. He knew what was on the screen or who rather.

“I’m not spinning out. Maybe she’s here, maybe she isn’t but it doesn’t matter.” Trent’s voice was firm, a clear dismissal. “Marce, we didn’t hook up. I don’t know the girl.” Trent explained frustration creeping in as he sat up straight.

“Yeah but you told me you did.” Marcel raised a brow. Trent’s jaw tightened. Mistake. “You did get to know her…” Marcel really wasn’t pestering. Trent knew that but it was easier to pretend he was. He had confided in Marcel once, admitted that breakfast in Ibiza with you was different, that it had turned into something unexpected, something that had stuck with him far longer than it should have. That he made you cum in the toilets of Nikki Beach. But that had been a moment of weakness, a lapse in judgment. He should have known his brother wouldn’t forget.

“I said I did,” Trent muttered, rubbing a hand over his face, “but I didn’t mean it. Just wanted you off my back.” His voice was edged with frustration because that wasn’t what had happened at all and they both knew it. “Drop it, mate.” Marcel didn’t argue. He just sat there, watching him with that same infuriating expression, the one that said he saw right through him.

“Trentski—” Marcel tried to say more. A knock at the door. Room service. Trent didn’t think he had ever been more grateful for food in his life. He exhaled through his nose, standing up, ready for the distraction, for anything that would pull him out of this spiral. He wasn’t sure what had happened to him, how a brief encounter had turned into something that clung to the edges of his mind like an echo. It made him sick to think that maybe, just maybe, you hadn’t given him a second thought.

“It’s cool, bro,” Trent said, reaching for the door handle, forcing nonchalance he didn’t feel. “I’m cool.” It was a blatant lie but they both just accepted it for now.

The Louis Vuitton show was tonight, and Trent sat in his hotel room, high above the hum of Parisian streets, hands resting on his thighs as a stylist crouched to lace up his sneakers. He should have been thinking about the event, about the cameras and the seats filled with people who mattered. But instead, his mind was somewhere else. On you. A stupid smile tugged at his lips before he even realized it. He caught his reflection in the mirror, the gleam in his own eyes betraying him. What the fuck am I doing? This was getting ridiculous. He was acting like some lovesick teenager over a girl he’d barely spent time with. A girl he’d met in a club. A girl who, by all accounts, had walked away from him first. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. Enough. This had to stop.

If—if—he saw you tonight, it wouldn’t be fate. It wouldn’t be some cosmic sign that you were meant to be in his life. It would be a game. And games had to be played in order to be won. If he saw you, he’d make his move. The game was only on merely so it could end. He wanted to fuck you into the mattress and never see you again because he never wanted to save another Tik Tok, and he definitely never wanted to get butterflies in his stomach or see that stupid smile on his face again.

He’d get you beneath him, he’d fuck you into the mattress and never see you again. Make sure that you’d never forget the name Trent Alexander-Arnold. And then, that would be it. No more saved TikToks. No more scrolling through the depths of the internet for traces of you. No more fucking butterflies in his stomach because he never wanted to see that stupid smile again. He repeated it to himself like a mantra, like a lifeline.

And when the show began Trent’s eyes remained forward, his posture composed, his face unreadable. He nodded along as models passed by, keeping his mind disciplined. Jacket, shirt, pants, shoes. Jacket, shirt, pants, shoes. A cycle. A rhythm. An exercise in focus.

I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care. But his heart had other plans.

The crowd was thick, a sea of bodies moving in waves, all trying to funnel out of the venue. You had no interest in the madness of the main exit, the flashing cameras, the shouting press. You just wanted to slip away unseen. So you took a quieter route—through a back hallway, down a side passage meant for press and staff. Your press pass let you move freely, let you weave between security and through a door meant for celebrities who wanted to dodge the chaos. But even here, in the so-called quiet exit, there was a crowd. Not the screaming kind, but the important kind—editors, models, designers, people waiting for private cars to take them to afterparties hidden behind wrought-iron gates and velvet ropes. You exhaled, shifting on your feet, glancing down at your phone. Maybe you should just take the Métro. This was insane.

And then—it happened. A shift in the atmosphere. A pull at the edges of your consciousness. Trent saw you first. The moment his eyes landed on you, his pulse kicked into something frantic, something desperate. His stomach clenched so hard he thought he might be sick. He hadn’t prepared for this. He hadn’t planned for you. Not out here. Not now. For a split second, he hesitated. The crowd was too thick, the timing was wrong. He hadn’t even figured out what he was going to say yet. And then, his body moved before his mind could catch up.

Through the throng of people, past the blur of conversation and laughter, like some invisible force was pulling him to you. His feet carried him forward, slinking through the crowd with the precision of a man who had spent years anticipating movement before it happened.

And then, there you were standing at the edge of the street, just before an alleyway, huddled with a small group of people you didn’t know, scrolling through your phone. Unbothered. Unaware. He leaned against a lamppost, watching. A smug smile played at his lips, slow and knowing, the kind of smile that belonged to a man who had already made up his mind.

Game on.

Paris was a living, breathing entity—golden light from the streetlamps pooling on the damp cobblestones, casting soft halos on the glistening streets. Conversations hummed around Trent, overlapping in a symphony of French and English, punctuated by the low purr of engines as sleek black cars crept along the curb. The air carried a slight chill, the kind that settled deep in the bones, yet Trent barely noticed. At first, it was just a flicker, a passing glimpse of someone impossibly familiar. But then his gaze focused, sharpened, and suddenly it was you standing at the edge of the crowd, head tilted down, your phone balanced in one hand, the other absently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The movement was effortless, thoughtless, and yet Trent felt it like a physical thing—a tether drawing him forward.

The world around him blurred, his pulse tightening in his throat as he took you in. You were in a green miniskirt [ref index] that skimmed high on your thighs, your legs disappearing into over the knee heeled boots that made your posture impossibly poised, effortlessly confident. The dim glow of the streetlights kissed your skin, accentuating the soft curve of your cheekbone, the delicate slope of your nose, the barely-there part of your lips as you focused on something unseen. There was an ease about you, a quiet self-assurance, but Trent saw what others wouldn’t—the slight furrow of your brow, the way your gaze flickered along the line of cars, scanning, searching. You were looking for an escape. The realization settled like a stone in his stomach. Of course you were. You always seemed to slip away just before he could catch you, leaving nothing but the ghost of your presence in your wake. And yet—he moved. He didn’t think, didn’t second-guess. His body acted before his mind could talk him out of it, guiding him through the clusters of people with the quiet ease of someone used to navigating chaos. His breath stayed steady, his hands loose at his sides, but his pulse was a different story—wild, erratic, pounding in a way that made his fingertips tingle.

Close enough to catch the faintest hint of your perfume, something warm and feminine and so achingly familiar it sent him reeling as he leaned up against that lamppost, waiting just a moment, allowing the anticipation to settle, to stretch, to coil between you like a taut wire before finally—finally—he spoke.

“Work or play, beautiful?” He asked. It was effortless, a line laced with that easy confidence that had always come naturally to him. But underneath it, beneath the charm, the bravado, there was something else. Something raw. Something desperate. Because he wasn’t sure what would happen if you turned, if you met his gaze and looked at him the way you had all those weeks ago. He wasn’t sure he could survive it. And yet, the moment you stiffened—just a fraction, just enough to betray your awareness of him—he knew he was gone. You turned slowly, deliberately, and his world tilted. The moment stretched, seconds bleeding together as his gaze drank you in. Up close, you were even more devastating. He didn’t forget how you looked up close but he forgot what it felt like to have you up close. Your lips parted on a quiet inhale, the barest flicker of something unreadable flashing across your face before you smoothed it away with a well-practiced ease. But he caught it. He felt it. A thousand things must have been racing through your mind—shock, hesitation, maybe even something close to regret—but you hid it well. Too well. Instead, you smiled, a slow, measured thing that barely curved the corners of your lips but still managed to shake him to his core.

“Working,” you answered lightly, though Trent didn’t miss the way your fingers flexed against your phone. A lie. And not even a particularly good one. You got invited because of work, yeah, but working as in getting paid, and taking photos, no. Not the case. You felt stupid and flustered like a teenage girl with a crush. You turned your head to look down the street as if you could single out your ride in the long line of blacked out suvs. His gaze flickered over your face, his smirk deepening. He should call you on it, push back, make you squirm. But he couldn’t. His gaze had already dropped, locking onto the bare skin of your arm as if magnetized, and then—he touched you.

“You have any say in the invite, then?” He stepped closer—not enough to overwhelm, just enough to test. It was instinct more than intention, his fingers wrapping around your forearm, thumb brushing over the delicate skin just below your wrist. It was a fleeting thing, just a squeeze, but it was enough to make your breath catch, enough to send something molten rushing through his veins. You looked down, lashes lowering, and something in your expression shifted. It was subtle, but he felt it. He watched as you registered the touch, as memory took hold, as your breath hitched just so. Trent watched it unfold in real-time, watched the way your eyes lingered on his hand, how your lashes fluttered just slightly as memory took root.

Ibiza. The press of his hands against your skin. The heat of it. The slow, unrelenting pressure. The way you had melted beneath him, unraveled in his arms, undone by the very same touch you were staring at now. A slow, sharp ache coiled deep in his stomach.But then—you looked up.

“No, sorry.” You exhaled with a barely there smile. You said no. ‘Leave Trent’ was the thought in his head. But you also said sorry, like you wish you had, like maybe you wished he was here. Trent swallowed hard, pushing the thought aside. He should let you go. He should be the one walking away. But he didn’t know you did wish he was here. You just weren’t sure why that want was so scary to you. Why the desire was causing you to feel more hesitant with him. And when your eyes met his, steady and unwavering, suddenly, he was drowning and he didn’t want to come up to the surface.

The noise of the street faded. The weight of the past month settled heavily on his chest. He had spent weeks trying to convince himself that this thing between you was fleeting. That the pull he felt was nothing more than lust. That if he saw you again, he could play the game, win it, end it on his own terms. But standing here, caught in your gaze, he knew the truth. He had already lost.

It was unfair, the way your gaze locked onto his, steady and unwavering, peeling back every ounce of control he had built around himself. The world blurred into a simple ache. The silent war raging inside of him, one he had no hope of winning.

“What you doing tonight?” he asked, keeping his voice smooth, steady, even as his heart hammered wildly in his chest. You hesitated. It was so slight, so fleeting, but he saw it. And for that split second, hope flickered in his chest—reckless and stupid and all-consuming. And then, from the corner of his eye, Trent saw movement. A sleek black SUV rolled up to the curb, a friend leaning out the window, waving you over. Your way out. He knew it the moment your gaze flickered toward the car, knew it when your weight shifted just slightly, when your fingers brushed against his for the briefest moment before—you stepped back. Just enough to break the contact. Just enough to remind him who was in control. And then you smiled—slow, knowing, devastating.

“Maybe you,” you murmured, voice light, teasing, as if you hadn’t just shattered something inside him. And then, because you were cruel, you winked. Before he could react, you turned, heels clicking sharply as you made your way toward the waiting car. As you scurried down the alleyway, the clatter of your boots against the cobblestone echoed between the narrow walls, a hurried rhythm to match the wild thrum of your pulse. The SUV door was open, your friend waiting inside, but something—someone—pulled at you like an unseen force.

Just before climbing in, you turned, glancing over your shoulder, and in the low golden glow of the Parisian street lamp, you found him. Still standing there. Trent. His expression unreadable, caught between frustration and something softer, something raw. The kind of look that could haunt someone if they let it. And then, without thinking, without meaning to hurt—because you hadn’t fully understood yet that you could—you mouthed it.

"See you." Two simple words, weightless in sound but devastating in meaning and in memory. And just like that, it wrecked him. Because as much as Trent tried to convince himself that he didn’t care, that you were just a passing thing, just another pretty girl he could let slip through his fingers without a second thought—those two words sent him hurtling back. Back to Ibiza.

To the way you left him then, slipping through the crowd and into the night like a ghost, like something beautiful and fleeting, something never meant to be his. He remembered standing there, watching you go, the cool ocean breeze doing nothing to soothe the burn of wanting. And now, here you were again—turning away, disappearing into the city, leaving him standing exactly where he swore he’d never be left again. It hurt. More than he was willing to admit. More than he had prepared for. Trent exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his face as a quiet, incredulous laugh slipped past his lips.

“What the fuck…” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. Somehow, without even realizing it, he had ended up playing a game he could never seem to win. Worse still? You didn’t even know you were playing.

The hum of the city was muffled inside the car, the low murmur of voices and the occasional honk of impatient drivers fading into the background as you exhaled, pressing your head against the cool glass. Outside, Paris moved on—oblivious to the storm raging inside you. Your fingers absentmindedly dipped into your pocket, finding the familiar weight of your Contax camera. A habit. An instinct. You weren’t working tonight, yet here you were, capturing. Framing. Freezing a moment you didn’t understand. Through the tinted window, your lens found him. Trent stood alone in the dimly lit alleyway, his head dipped low, one hand raking through his curls in frustration, in disbelief—in something you didn’t want to name. The glow from a nearby streetlamp cast his silhouette in sharp relief, highlighting the tension in his shoulders, the way his mouth parted slightly like he was about to say something—to call after you—but he didn’t. And you took the shot. The shutter clicked, quiet yet deafening in your ears. A single frame, a flicker in time that would soon exist on film, tangible and unchangeable. But why? Why did you just take that photo?

You swallowed, gripping the camera tighter as a strange, unfamiliar weight settled in your chest. You wanted to remember him. That much was clear. It was like you wanted to remember him, but he wasn’t going anywhere, you likely were going to the very same place. But why did it feel like he was already slipping away? You were the one who had left. The one who had turned, who had run like some teenage girl with a crush too big to hold. You had thought yourself clever, cheeky—leaving him with that parting line, a playful wink, a final act of control in a game you weren’t even sure you were playing. You began to wonder if it was cringey you just said that at all. And now? Now you weren’t so sure. Because even as the car rolled forward, even as the alley faded into the distance, you felt it—that strange, sinking sensation in the pit of your stomach. The feeling of having lost something before you ever even had the chance to hold it.

And maybe that was the very thing neither of you understood. This wasn’t about winning or losing. It wasn’t a game. It never had been. This was a person. A moment. An imprint on your life, whether you wanted to remember it or not. And you could feel it happening—something irreversible, something already set in motion. The film would develop. It always did. A latent image, unseen yet already there—waiting. Trent had poured himself into your world like chemicals in a darkroom, slipping into your bloodstream, into the spaces between memories you weren’t ready to claim. And now, whether you wanted it or not, the picture was forming.

Permanent. Unchanging. Completely insensitive to the light.

•

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

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

Next part - Chapter 4 Coming Soon!

📷 🪩 💄 🤍 🎞️ 🎱🍸 💷

#trent alexander arnold #Trent Alexander Arnold x reader #alexander arnold #trent alexander arnold imagines #taa x reader #footballer x y/n #footballer x reader #fie fic #aperture fic

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foreverisntenough · 6 days ago

Text

‘Aperture’

Index:

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

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

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

Chapter 1- 'Setting Traps' | 'Aperture'

word count - 11k

It was early August, and an exclusive luxury club in Ibiza was a heaving mess of heat, music, and bodies. Even in the private section your friend managed to secure, the air felt electric and claustrophobic. Normally, you would’ve thrived in this but tonight you loathed it—the crush of too many people, the constant stream of elbows and spilled drinks, and the overbearing mix of expensive overly potent perfumes. But tonight, in the confined chaos, you found yourself pressed up against someone unexpected, and unexpectedly. It wasn’t just anyone, not a complete stranger. It was a friend of a friend. Someone on a holiday of their own linked with the holiday you were tagging along on, who’d somehow managed to make himself indispensable in this moment. You were on a girl’s holiday with Campbell, Delaney and Foster, your closest friends, and a few of their connections through work. The tequila was Clase Azul, flowing too freely, and the world around you felt like a blurred vignette, so softened by the liquor, you couldn’t even make out the blue patterning on the bottles anymore.

A misstep in your impossibly high platform Prada gold heels [ref index] sent you off balance, and before you could catch yourself, his hands were there—steady and firm, finding the bare curve of your midriff in between the multicolored sequined embellished mini skirt and top you were in. His touch burned hot against your skin, grounding you in an otherwise unsteady world. You tilted your head back, your slightly glazed, doe-like eyes locking onto his. He looked down at you with a smirk that could only be described as lethal—lazy, confident, and infuriatingly handsome. His lips, impossibly perfect, curled up into an expression that made your breath hitch. They were that irresistible shade of pink, full and just shy of teasing.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice low and edged with a drawl that made it seem like he’d already figured you out. You weren’t sure if it was the tequila or the man holding you, but suddenly, the room didn’t feel so suffocating anymore.

"You have nice lips." The words slipped out of your mouth before you could stop them, a mix of tequila and the reckless honesty of the night driving your tongue. It almost felt like someone else had said them, that's how uncharacteristic the comment felt. You giggled at yourself, almost embarrassed, but the way your gaze lingered on his face betrayed the truth-you meant it. Every word. They were nice. His lips were distractingly perfect, plush, pouty, and pink, curling into a lazy smirk that only deepened with your admission.

"Yeah?" Trent's voice was warm, teasing, as he tilted his head, leaning in closer. "Well, I've been compiling a laundry list of all the things that look nice on you. I'll throw my lips in there as well, alright?" Your stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the way he was looking at you, what he just said to you. His words shouldn't have had this effect, but combined with his scent-mint laced with tequila and an aftershave that was downright sinful-they melted over you, a heady cocktail of intoxication. It was a gilded cage spun from his cologne, a velvet prison where every breath was a surrender. The air between you was thick with him—amber, dark and smoldering, vanilla, sweet as a whispered sin. His essence clung to your skin, curling around your throat like unseen silk, binding you in something deeper than touch. You inhaled, and it wasn’t oxygen that filled your lungs but the ghost of him, rich, opulent, inescapable. It didn't help that his hands hadn't moved from your waist. Massive on your frame. They were firm but gentle, fingers brushing the soft skin just above the waistband of your skirt. Every subtle shift of his grip sent a jolt of warmth through your body.

“Cheeky,” you murmured, a smirk tugging at your lips as you tried to match his energy. “You’re handsome, though. Is that how you get away with bull shit like that?” Your voice was playful, but the teasing lilt couldn’t mask the fact that you were a little breathless. His dark eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up to meet your gaze, unwavering. The club’s lights cast a soft glow over him, highlighting every sharp angle of his jaw, every line of his face. He was beautiful in a way that felt unfair, like someone who should exist in magazine spreads, not in this cramped, dimly lit corner of a nightclub. And yet here he was, holding you steady, looking at you like you were the most interesting thing in the room.

“It’s not bull shit, baby,” he said, his voice dipping lower, pulling you in like gravity. “I’m being serious. If you like my lips so much, they can be yours for the night.” Your breath caught at his words. The confidence in his tone, the way his gaze never wavered, made your cheeks flush. You tried to steel yourself, tried not to let him see how much he was affecting you, but it was impossible to hide the way your body leaned into his without you even realizing it. You, he thought, you were exactly what he wanted tonight. Cheeky, maybe smarter than he was anticipating, quicker definitely but perfect, sexy, beautiful, he’d watched you all night, and as it would go in his world, you found yourself stumbling into his arms, perfectly so.

"Is that right?" you asked, your voice softer now, almost daring, playful, managing to find composure under his spell was near impossible, but you found some fragment. Your fingers moved on their own, sliding up his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. You didn't stop until your hand rested against his neck, your nails grazing the base of his scalp in a way that made his shoulders stiffen, just for a moment. The slight hitch in his breath didn't go unnoticed, and it gave you a small thrill of satisfaction. Trent's smirk faltered, replaced by something heavier, something darker. His grip on your waist tightened just slightly, grounding you in the moment, a silent ‘don’t move away yet.’ Unbeknownst to you, you had him right where you would’ve wanted him, though the way his eyes were fixed on yours made it feel like he was the one in control.

"You have no idea what you're doing to me right now," he murmured earnestly, so quietly you almost didn't hear it over the pounding bass of the music. His eyes dropped to your lips again, lingering this time, and you could see the flicker of hesitation there, like he was holding himself back.

"What am I doing to you? You’re the one holding me," you whispered almost tauntingly, the words slipping out before you could think twice. The heat between you was unbearable now, the space narrowing until there was barely anything left. His lips were so close you could feel the faint brush of his breath against your skin. For a moment, neither of you moved, neither of you wanted to, the tension stretching between you like a taut wire. Then his smirk returned, but it was different now, slower, more deliberate.

"You're trouble, you know that?" he said, his voice dripping with amusement and something else-something that made your heart race. This wasn’t what he was expecting, you were much cheekier than he was anticipating but still sexy, beautiful under the lights.

"Maybe," you replied, your own smile teasing as your nails dragged lightly against the back of his neck again causing him to roll his head a little, swayed by the feeling. "But you don't seem to mind." You taunted his clear reaction to your hands on him. And you were right, he didn’t mind this at all, in fact, it was much more fun when someone returned his serve, the rally had him chomping at the bit. For you, you weren’t aware that said rally was even happening but you were beginning to catch on. Although, it was difficult to play when you were so distracted by him. It was almost unsettling how attractive he was. His calm, smooth, and unbothered demeanor only made it worse, disarming you at every turn. There was something about the way he carried himself, as if he already knew how the night was going to end and was simply waiting for you to catch up. Those dark, pooling yet piercing eyes and the pout of his lips could get him out of anything-hell, he could probably get away with murder if he tried. He was too pretty for his own good, and yet, you were already caught, tangled in the trap he'd barely even laid. You’ve seen men set traps before—watched them lay out charm like bait, pull back the spring with well-placed compliments, wait for the inevitable snap of attraction. But him? He never had to set the mechanism. The trap was already armed, already waiting, because it wasn’t something he does; it’s something he is. It was in the way the world tilted ever so slightly for him to have you falling into his arms without even trying. You weren't naïve. You could see the path laid out before you, the one so many girls before you had walked. It was in the curl of his perfect smile, the careless grace of his fingers staying on your ribs- their comfort on a stranger's body, the way he leaned back like the world was his for the taking, if he wanted it. He didn’t chase. Didn’t lure. He simply existed, and they came. Drawn like moths to a flame they swear won’t burn them. Falling victim to his allure seemed inevitable, but for some reason, you didn't mind. If he wanted you to be his prey tonight, maybe you'd oblige.

"And I'm not your baby," you cooed, rolling your eyes with a mock pout, though you couldn't ignore the way the nickname had made your stomach flip when he said it sentences ago, playing a little game of your own, testing if he even knew he was playing his. And then his smile grew again with cheek. The thing is, you didn’t believe in your game though. You didn’t care why he said it, you didn't hate that he called you it. Not at all. Maybe he’d never had to notice the way the traps happen, how the air tightens when he enters a room, how glances hook onto him like fish caught mid-current. Maybe he didn’t even realize that every step he took, every slow blink, long lashes fluttering, every lazy shift of his genetically blessed jaw was a trigger, a silent snap. Or maybe he very clearly did. Maybe he always had.

"Aren't you, though?" Trent's smirk deepened, devilish and self-assured. His hands shifted slightly, sliding lower until they rested just above your ass, pulling you closer into him. "I think you want to be. Actually... I'm pretty sure I'll have you calling me ‘baby’ by the end of the night."

The audacity of him should have annoyed you, but instead, it sent a spark of heat straight through your veins. His confidence was maddeningly attractive, the kind you wanted to knock down but couldn't help being drawn to.

"You sound so sure about that," you murmured, your voice teasing as you leaned in closer, your nose brushing against his. The look on your face was playful, a devious smirk pulling at the corners of your own lips as you tried to keep up with his game.

"I'm very sure," he replied, his voice dropping into something lower, something that made your heart stutter. "So sure that I'll put a wager on it." He taunted.

"A wager?" you asked, your tone feigning curiosity, though you already knew where he was going. He tilted his head slightly, his mahogany eyes that briefly lit a honey hue under a stray strobe light locked on yours.

"Yeah, a wager.” He smirked in a way that was confirmation he was very conscious of his looks, of his effects. “I think I'll have you purring in my ear, wanting more of the lips you think are so nice... if I kiss you." The air between you was thick now, buzzing with a tension that had you gripping onto your resolve like it was the only thing tethering you to the ground. You tried to meet his confidence with your own, though the edges of your composure were fraying fast.

"And what if I don't want that?" you teased, your voice quieter now, though it betrayed the truth-you wanted it more than you were willing to admit. You were losing ground on composure. His smirk widened, dangerously charming as he leaned in just enough to make you hold your breath.

"You do," he whispered, his voice dripping with certainty. He winked at you, then pulled back abruptly, leaving you breathless as he leaned away from you to pick up his glass from the table beside you two. Lifting it to his lips, he took a slow sip, his gaze never leaving yours. He didn't have to say anything more-he already knew he'd won. Dammit, you thought, mentally clenching your fists at your sides in a futile attempt to regain control. He was right. You wanted to kiss him. Badly. Suddenly you were envious of glassware in an Ibizan club being kissed by his pillowy lips.

The moment he stepped back, the absence of his warmth left a void, and in a desperate attempt to reclaim the composure you had lost the second your eyes met his, you pivoted, snatching your own glass off another table. Your body turned sharply, leaning into the cool steel railing of the private section, your eyes scanning the crowd as if searching for someone—anyone—to anchor you back to reality. But you weren’t looking for anyone. You were looking for yourself, for a shred of dignity, for anything to tether you to something other than the pull of him. To not envy a fucking glass of tequila. Even in absence, he lingered—an intoxicant, a slow-burning spell that you couldn’t break so you kept trying to find that elusive dignity. Your chest rose and fell, each breath failing to steady the racing pulse beneath your skin. The tequila in your own grip trembled ever so slightly before you lifted it to your lips, the club lights catching the gloss of your pout as you wrapped your mouth around the straw. You took a slow, deliberate sip, the chilled burn of liquor tracing down your throat, your head tipping back ever so slightly as you swallowed. Unbeknownst to you, every inch of this unconscious display was laid out before Trent like an offering.

The way you bent into the railing, arching your spine slightly, left your already minuscule skirt riding higher, the glittering fabric threatening to reveal the soft curve of your ass. His eyes locked in, laser focused on the plunging curve neckline of your top that strained as you leaned forward, your tits dangerously close to spilling free, rising and falling with each breath you couldn’t seem to control. Club lights flashed in fragmented bursts, kissing the high points of your cheekbones, your collarbone, the delicate dip of your throat as you swallowed more tequila. You didn’t see the way he watched you, but you could feel it—heavy, searing, claiming.

Trent didn’t move. He didn’t have to. He leaned back against the side of the booth, one hand lazily gripping his glass, the other resting at the hem of his shirt as he watched—smug, satisfied, and entirely in control. Confident as he crossed one leg over the other, enjoying his view. The coy smirk on his lips deepened as he took another sip of his drink, dark eyes drinking you in just the same. You, in your reckless attempt to escape him, had only handed yourself over completely. And he knew it.

—

Campbell’s voice cut through the haze of heat and tequila, her arms wrapping around your waist as she stumbled into you, pressing a fresh drink into your hand. You barely registered her words, your head still spinning from the last round, from the smirk that had unraveled you, from the man who had made it his personal mission to toy with your resolve. You flicked the abandoned straw onto the table, deciding you had no use for the pretense of sipping. Instead, you tilted your head back entirely now and downed the remainder of your drink in one go, the tequila burning its way down your throat like gasoline to an already smoldering fire.

Your friend laughed, probably saying something about your reckless pace, but her words were nothing more than a distant hum against the pounding bass and the rush of alcohol in your bloodstream. You smiled back at her, a drunk, lazy grin, pretending to have heard her when in reality, your focus was locked elsewhere—on the heat still lingering over your skin, on the phantom of his touch still pressed into your waist. Then, as if the night hadn’t already conspired against your thin resolve, your friend turned, her face lighting up in pure, intoxicated joy. She saw someone—someone she hadn’t spotted through the crush of bodies yet.

“T!” She yelled before flicking her eyes back to you. “Y/N!!!!! This is my friend T. Have you met? Trent!” Campbell practically screamed, her words absurdly slurred, her excitement cutting through the moment like a knife. You froze. For a second, you thought maybe the alcohol had made you hallucinate, but no—there he was, still, standing right in front of you again, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Mere minutes had passed since he’d pulled away, since he’d left you breathless and desperate for control. But now, he was back, and you’d be lying if you said you could’ve ever forgotten that face after a lifetime. That mouth, those lips in particular. Trent smirked as he leaned in, embracing Campbell effortlessly in a clear platonic yet friendly hug, but his eyes never left you. They remained locked onto yours, unwavering, knowing.

“You have nice lips,” he cooed, a compliment with a past, his voice a slow, syrupy tease, mimicking the very words you had let slip earlier. His smirk deepened as he watched the way your cheeks betrayed you, the flush creeping across your skin before you could stop it. It was like he had a remote control to you, like he could turn you inside out with a mere glance. But you weren’t about to let him keep the batteries.

“Mmm, don’t know if we’ve met,” you mused, turning to Campbell with an expression that was smugly sweet, feigning innocence even as your pulse quickened.

“Really, huh? I thought we had,” Trent interjected smoothly, his voice laced with something dangerously playful. His gaze dragged over you, slow and deliberate, before his lips curled into something downright sinful. “Well… I thought so because when I saw you tonight, I swore those lips were wrapped around…. a straw,” he paused, the innuendo dripping from his tongue like honey. “Maybe it fell…” His eyes flicked down to your drink—the one Campbell just handed to you that was already dangerously close to empty, the second round of tequila you were using as a shield against the slow, intoxicating pull of him. He knew. He knew exactly what you were doing. He’d rallied with girls on a night out before. He knew you were trying to drown the fire, to blur the sharp edges of the want coiling deep in your stomach. A part of you wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. But an equally strong part of you—one you were trying to silence with every gulp of Clase Azul—wanted to tell him to fuck you instead.

The moment his name was called, something in you clenched—tight, sharp, immediate. You told yourself it was relief, that the sudden break in his attention was a mercy. But your body betrayed you, your pulse thrumming in protest, your skin still humming where his gaze had lingered. He turned toward his friend, pulled effortlessly into another orbit, another trap he hadn’t even needed to set. It was almost laughable, how easily the world bent to him. Perched on the ledge of the booth, his friend gestured for him to come over, their pristine designer trainers pressed against the seat’s velvet, surrounded by girls whose gazes were already hungry, already waiting for him to just arrive so they could fall at his feet. And yet, for the past hour, he hadn’t moved. Hadn’t strayed. He had been locked onto you, circling, pushing, teasing. And that was the problem.

You hated him for it. Hated the way he had unraveled you so effortlessly, hated the way his words coiled inside your head long after they’d left his lips. You loathed the way he looked at you—like he already knew things about you that he had no right to know, like he had seen past the layers of indifference you tried to wear so well. And worst of all? You hated how much you liked it. It was pathetic, really, how deep he’d already sunk into you, how you could still feel the weight of his smirk pressed against your skin, how the mere echo of his touch felt more intoxicating than the liquor burning in your veins. You weren’t the type to fall for men like this—the ones who knew exactly what they were, exactly what they could do to you. You had seen his type before. Felt his type before. And yet here you were, caught in the same web, helpless against the slow, deliberate pull of him. You wanted to prove him wrong. You needed to. You wanted to walk away and never think of him again, to erase the memory of his voice in your ear, his hands grazing your body like he already owned it. You wanted to prove that you were immune, that you were better than the fallen, that you weren’t one of those girls staring at him like he was something divine. And yet, all you could think about was his wager. How, despite everything, you already felt like you were losing.

Campbell’s voice cut through the haze of your thoughts once over, her excitement colliding headfirst into the slow-blooming chaos in your chest.

“Did he just compliment you? Oh my god, I think he likes you! He’s never like that. What the fuck, Y/N?” she practically screamed, yanking you from your internal debrief on a complete stranger—a stranger you were now watching too closely, a stranger you should not be watching at all. Trent was talking to someone new. A girl. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That you didn’t care. But something in your stomach twisted all the same. His body language was relaxed, effortlessly magnetic, the way all of him seemed to be. But his hands? They weren’t on her. You hadn’t noticed that, but he had. And that was intentional.

“I’m sure he does,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes, shoving the thought of him out of your head before it could sink any deeper. You tore your gaze away, pretending you didn’t see, pretending it wasn’t pissing you off.

“No, Y/N… like, he can be an ass. He goes so quiet. But that? That was not… He’s never like that. That was effort,” Campbell insisted, voice laced with a mix of disbelief and giddy amusement. You turned to her with an exaggerated gasp.

“Wow, thanks Cam! And you were introducing us?” You let a teasing grin stretch across your lips, nudging her lightly. “And effort… please.” You looked at her with a smug grin and a roll of the eyes. Campbell dissolved into laughter, shaking her head.

“No! No! I just mean… he’s actually so nice. Just… reserved. Kind of low-key shy, I think? So people assume he’s rude, but he’s not. Swear. I don’t know. I’ve just never seen him move like that before. To not be distracted.” You hummed, considering her words, rolling them over in your mind like dice. You understood how introverts could be mistaken for standoffish—you’d seen it happen before. Felt it happen before. That’s fine. But Trent? No. That wasn’t the man who had cornered you tonight, who had toyed with you like he already knew the outcome.

Confident. Cocky. Every word precise, delivered with weight and purpose. That was not the behavior of a shy man.

“Hmmm. Interesting.” You mused sarcastically. Your gaze flickered back to him, drawn as if by an invisible thread. And just as your eyes found him, his were already on you. It was unsettling, the way he was watching you—his expression unreadable, dark eyes sharp with curiosity, studying you like he was piecing together a puzzle. A puzzle that had just whispered his name. And then, in slow motion—deliberate, taunting, knowing—he smirked. Just the barest curl of his lips, enough to make your breath hitch. And then came the wink. A single, devastating flicker of his eye, effortless but deadly. Like an arrow loosed straight at your chest. It was playful. It was mocking. It was a challenge wrapped in charm, a silent dare to see if you would flinch. You had mere seconds to decide: Would you let it hit its mark, let it burrow deep where you knew it would linger? Or would you step aside, get the fuck out of the way before the impact knocked you breathless? Either way, the damage was already done, he’d fired it.

The night carried on, and so did you—unscathed, but not untouched. Trent had taken his shot, and while it might’ve grazed you, you weren’t bleeding out. Not yet. Your will was stronger than that, forged in something more unshakable than the way a man could look at you, stronger than the pull of a pretty face and a cocky smirk. But the truth was, it was touch and go, because he was handsome enough to break and snap it in two at any given moment, and that was a dangerous truth to swallow.

You and Trent kept to your corners, circling each other like fighters in a ring, locked in a battle neither of you acknowledged but both of you felt. It was a silent war waged between you, invisible to the rest of the world but undeniable in the space that stretched and shrank between you all night. The music pounded through the club, deep bass rattling the walls, seeping into the floor, into your bones, but the loudest sound to you was the echo of his voice in your head. The cocky lilt, the playful innuendos, the way he said your name like he already knew how it would taste.

There were stolen glances all night, ones you both thought went unnoticed. Yours lingering on him when he seemed to forget you existed, a strange ache settling in your chest at the sight of him—relaxed, unbothered, moving on. When he wasn’t looking, when he was draped in the effortless charm that made girls hover close, drawn into the glow of him. You watched, quietly simmering, convincing yourself it was indifference rather than irritation, as if you weren’t keeping count of the times he laughed too easily at someone else’s joke, leaned in too close to whisper something into another girl’s ear. Forgetting you.

His on you when you weren’t aware, when you were talking to another guy or laughing into your drink, lips slick with tequila and carelessness. Something darker lingered in his gaze, something brooding—like he didn’t quite like the ease with which you’d left him behind. The way you hadn’t turned your head to watch him go, something sharp flickering behind his gaze, like the sight of you untouched by his presence, yet he was watching other men leaving fingerprints on you. And that left a wound of its own.

And then there were the moments where your eyes collided, held, and something unspoken crackled between you, across the hazy stretch of the club, across bodies dancing in a drunken stupor, across conversations you weren’t listening to. And in those stolen seconds, something lit behind both of your gazes. It wasn’t tension. It wasn’t lust. It was deeper—raw, unfiltered desire. A recognition that neither of you could explain, and neither of you dared to. Desire, pure and simple, threatening to bubble over. No games, no taunts, no witty remarks to deflect from it. Just the ache of it. It sat between you, invisible but suffocating, until one of you—sometimes him, sometimes you—forced it back down. Swallowed it whole. Let it simmer beneath the surface of your skin, let it coil at the base of your spine, let the moment slip away before it ruined the game you both were too stubborn to stop playing, too stubborn to call it what it was, too proud to let it end in a draw.

And so, the night stretched on. The club pulsed around you, an organism of its own—music thrumming, bodies swaying, drinks spilling over the edges of crystal-clear glasses. But slowly the crowd was thinning, the air less electric. The once-packed club had begun to filter down, the air no longer suffocating but oddly vacant, like open water after a shipwreck. Friends had been lost to the night—some tangled into waiting arms for a night of fleeting indulgence, others already gone in cabs, leaving behind only the remnants of the chaos they had brought with them.

You found yourself on a velvet couch, plush and cool against your bare thighs, your phone heavy in your hands as you scrolled through contacts, half-heartedly trying to organize a ride back to your hotel. You stared at your phone, fingers sluggishly typing out texts. Somehow, you had ended up the most sober of your friends—whether by accident or design, you weren’t sure. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was the sobering effect of knowing that for all the glances, all the unspoken words, all the tension humming between you and Trent Alexander-Arnold…He hadn’t come after you. He wasn’t going to chase you. And you weren’t going to let yourself wish he would.

But just as that thought settled, just as you started to exhale, your pulse dipped into something traitorous—because you felt him before you saw him. A shift in the air. A presence at the edge of your awareness. And when you finally glanced up from your phone, there he was. Leaning against the railing just a few feet away, drink in hand, watching you with the kind of interest that made your skin feel too tight. His lips curled at the edges. Slow. Deliberate. Something you committed to memory without wanting to. You were alone. You hadn’t left with someone else, and it emboldened him all the more. He lifted his glass in a silent, wordless toast. And just like that—just when you thought you’d get out alive—he knocked you off balance again and back into the ring. You dropped your eyes with a dismissive shake of the head acting as if you were disinterested and solely focused on your phone. Your eyes narrowed and focused attempting to ignore how the air had gone thick again, charged with something darker, heavier than before.

Then within moments, you felt him slide into the seat next to you, his thigh pressing flush against yours, heat licked up your spine. He had finally come to you. His arm draped lazily over the back of the couch, fingers just a breath away from your shoulder—close enough to feel, but not quite touching. Even in his drunken haze, Trent understood boundaries. Or maybe he was testing them, toeing the line between restraint and indulgence. Not that the line was particularly clear anymore. That same scent—amber, vanilla, and something undeniably him—coiled around you like smoke, sweet and sinful. It was almost enough to make you forget why you were actively not giving into this. Almost. But you stayed focused, tapping at your phone with perfectly manicured fingers, trying and failing to string together enough Spanish to confirm your ride. Then—warmth.

“Nah, don’t do that.” A whisper, low and thick, slipped into your ear, lips so close you swore you felt them brush against the shell. A shiver ran down your spine, but you held your ground. His breath fanned across your skin, and God help you, his lips—those devastating lips—felt just as good when they weren’t even touching you, just speaking. You sucked in a deep breath, hoping resilience would come with the oxygen. “Come home with me, baby.” The words weren’t a plea. They were a promise. A slow, decadent offer drenched in seduction, delivered so effortlessly it was damn near unfair. And just as he was about to give in—let himself slip, let himself press a kiss to the column of your neck, to drag you under with him—you turned. He hadn’t expected that. His breath hitched, gaze locked onto yours, the usual lazy confidence flickering with something less certain.

“No?” You rejected him with a quiet, amused laugh, head tilting as you studied him. Trent blinked, processing, caught off guard. The world rarely said to him, this scenario never happening to him. “You were with other girls all night,” you pointed out, brows raising. “And now you want me to go home with you?” The question dripped with disbelief, with challenge. As if he could just shake off the countless drinks he’d handed to other women, the flirtation, the way he had let them get close—only to turn around and expect you to fall into his hands because you’d made the mistake of playing his game. He leaned in, voice smooth as silk.

“Yeah, but you knew my eyes were on you.” His voice, when it came, was a slow, knowing drawl that slid down your spine like warm honey. “You put on a hell of a show, baby.” And, fuck, it was calculatedly smooth. It was too smooth. It was like honey laced with something dangerous, honey sprinkled with cocaine, he was something addictive. The way he looked at you then—deep, dark brown eyes, heavy with intent—you could have drowned in them, let them pull you under until you forgot how to breathe. He smelled like temptation, his lips looked too plush, too kissable, and suddenly, the condensation on your empty tequila glass wasn’t the only thing wet. But you weren’t that girl. Not tonight at least. Your resilience putting in one strong shift in stoppage time.

“That’s a you problem.” Your smirk was sharp, head cocking to the side as you shot the words back at him. He exhaled a low chuckle, shaking his head, but then—he tried again.

“C’mon.” And, fuck, he pouted. He actually pouted. Not in a mocking, exaggerated way, but in a way that was so natural, so devastatingly cute, it was almost cruel. His lips pressed into a soft, plush curve, his big brown eyes slightly drooping, and it was disarming. One second, you’d been curious about unbuttoning his shirt just a little more, tracing your fingers down his toned chest, and the next, you were being guilt-tripped by the single most beautiful face you’d ever seen. Then—salvation. Or, Uber. Your phone pinged.

“No,” you hummed, biting back a grin as you stood. “Sorry, baby.” The pet name dripped with mockery, teasing but not unkind. And as you moved past him, you let your hand trail from his shoulder across his chest, fingertips grazing exposed skin in the V of his half-unbuttoned shirt, Your nails scratched lightly over the material, onto his skin then back to the otherside of material, dragging it open a little more as you pulled your hand across him, just enough to feel, just enough to make him shudder. Trent’s eyes fluttered shut. His head fell back against the wall behind him. And you? You caught a perfect glimpse of his chest, pleased with both the sight and the reaction. As you turned to leave, you sent one final, flaming arrow straight at him—a slow, deliberate wink. It hit. Hard. Trent was glued to the seat, body slumped, fingers gripping his glass a little too tight. You didn’t give him the option to get out of the way. And when you disappeared into the night, his lips parted, head tilting back slightly as he let out the softest, most defeated groan naturally accompanied by a gorgeous smile. The arrow of you had ripped right through him. And yet—he only felt more determined. Maybe deluded. But definitely determined to have you.

Deranged. That was the only way to describe it now.

Trent—Premier League star, England international, double-digit millions of followers, idolized and envied in equal measure—was lying flat on his back in the middle of his Ibiza villa’s king-sized bed, limbs sprawled, chest rising and falling in slow, uneven breaths as he stared up at the ceiling like it held the answer to some impossible equation. It was late or maybe you’d call it early. The club had long since faded into a blur of neon lights and bass-heavy music, the sweat-slick bodies and overpriced tequila dissolving into the background of his memory. The house was quiet now, save for the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore beyond the glass doors of his bedroom. He could hear the rustling of palm trees in the warm night breeze, the distant hum of the city still alive somewhere in the distance. But inside his head? It was chaos.

He wasn’t in shock about why he was alone—he could’ve left with someone if he wanted to. Nicked someone on the way out. He could’ve snapped his fingers and picked any girl from the club, kissed her until she thought she was special, just to wake up and not remember her name. But that wasn’t the fucking point. The point was, he was here. Alone. He couldn’t believe that when he looked up at the blank ceiling he saw you.And when he got tired of staring drunkenly at the ceiling confused by his infatuation with rejection, he shut his eyes and it only got worse. The colors, the sounds, the feelings, the visuals all amplified. His body still thrummed with leftover adrenaline, a heat curling in his stomach that had nothing to do with the alcohol. He was wrecked, but not in the way he should’ve been. Not in the way that came from drinking too much and partying too hard. No, he was wrecked because no matter what he did, no matter how many times he blinked, he couldn’t get you out of his fucking head. It was pathetic. He shouldn’t be thinking about you. He shouldn’t be replaying every moment of the night, every glance, every smirk, every teasing remark that dripped off your lips like honey, ever decision he made that got him here. But fuck, he was. And it wasn’t stopping. And when he closed his eyes, he wasn’t met with darkness—he was met with you.

Every time, he saw you. Your body swayed behind his eyelids like a fever dream, the curve of your ass barely covered as you danced, just enough to drive him insane. He could see your lips wrapping around the rim of your glass, the way your throat bobbed when you swallowed down tequila like it was water, unbothered, unfazed—except for when he spoke to you. He remembered how you felt. God, he remembered. The warmth of your soft skin under his fingers, the way your nails scraped so innocently across his chest when you walked away, yet it felt like you had ripped something out of him. The brief but damning moments of contact, your bare waist under his hands, the soft graze of your hands on his neck marking him worse than any nail-digging scratch ever could. He remembered your scent—sandalwood and crushed magnolia—velvety, intoxicating, still clinging to his senses like you had been in his bed instead of dancing out of his reach all night and now stuck in his head. He should’ve been able to shake it off. He should’ve been able to roll over, let sleep take him, wake up tomorrow with the night nothing more than a passing thought. But instead, he lay there, the memories of you painting themselves across the darkness behind his eyelids, vibrant and inescapable. Even in the loudest parts of the club, he had still heard the hushed, breathy lilt of your laugh. Even among the hundreds of people pressing in, he had still smelled you, the scent hitting him in waves, making his head spin. You were fucking magnetic—and yet, the thing that drove him insane was that you repelled him. You wouldn’t let him in. And now, lying there, frustrated, strung-out, drunk but painfully clear-headed, he felt something he hadn’t in a long time. Want.

It wasn’t just lust, though that was there—fuck, was it there. It was more. It was an itch under his skin, an ache in his ribs, an obsession brewing before he could even recognize it as such. His jaw clenched, his body tensing as he shifted, only then realizing the other problem. He was hard. Of course, he was. Frustration crackled through him like static. The tension coiled low in his stomach, hot and unbearable, and when he finally registered the problem pressing against his boxers, he let out a vicious groan, yanking a pillow over his face like it could somehow suffocate the thoughts of you out of his system. It didn’t work. He prayed another layer over his eyes could blind him from the memories of you but you were everywhere and he felt it, he was completely bricked at the mere idea. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. After a night like that, a night of watching you, touching you, failing to get what he wanted, his body was betraying him.

Trent Alexander-Arnold didn’t win tonight and he didn’t like that. His head hit back against the pillow behind him with a thud, frustration tightening in his chest. He ran a hand down over the pillow covering his face, exhaling harshly into it, willing himself to think about anything else, anyone else. But it was pointless. It was you. Only you.

With a sharp exhale, he yanked the pillow off his face and sat up so fast the room spun. His head was a mix of tequila and longing, swimming in the aftershocks, a heat pressing against his temples that wasn’t from the alcohol alone. His fingers twitched as he grabbed his phone off the nightstand before laying back down because he felt so dizzy. Trent sprawled out in his bed, one arm thrown over his face, the other gripping his phone with a tension that could’ve had his knuckles going white. The room was still spinning, his head buzzing with the lethal mix of alcohol and frustration. He could still taste the night on his tongue—tequila, sweat, your fucking perfume. His chest rose and fell in slow, frustrated breaths, his mind running in endless circles around you. His messages were open. His thumb hovered over the screen. His jaw was tight. He was not that guy—the one who chased, who stayed up obsessing over a girl who had barely given him the time of day. He never needed to be. But here he was, his thumb moving before he could second-guess it, scrolling with a desperation he hated himself for, furiously until he landed on a number he prayed he kept. And then, finally— Campbell.

He hovered for a second, jaw tightening, something like shame flickering in his chest. Here he was, sending a text at an ungodly hour to not even you, your friend, that’s how little you gave him. But fuck that. He didn’t care. The message sent before he could think twice.

'Yo, it’s Trent. Hope you got home safe, Cam.'

Polite. Casual. Normal. Except behind the screen, he was anything but casual. His foot bounced against the bed as he lay there waiting for a response, fingers tapping against his stomach, restlessness clawing at his insides. He was wound so fucking tight it was ridiculous. It took Campbell a while to reply—probably because she was drunk and not a man currently losing his mind over a girl who had barely entertained him. Finally, his phone buzzed. He nearly dropped it in his haste to read the message. Was Campbell confused? Massively. But did she have an inkling? Yeah.

'Home safe… so is she in her room. U good?'

She laughed to herself staring at the unexpected text she received but entirely smug, but she figured she’d give him a little something, a crumb of hope that you were at least in your own room, alone or not, he could think what he wanted. Trent exhaled through his nose, rubbing his free hand down his face. Campbell knew. Of course, she knew. It wasn’t common for them to text and definitely not at this hour. He should’ve just left it there. Should’ve ignored the obvious taunt, tossed his phone to the side, and forced himself to sleep. Instead, his thumbs moved before he could stop them.

'Course. Where you lot staying?'

Blunt. Straight to the point. No room for misinterpretation. Campbell, predictably, ate that shit up. His phone lit up again, and he could practically hear her giggling behind the text.

'Maybe I'll tell you in the morning. Night xx.'

Trent groaned so loudly it echoed in the empty room. He tossed his phone onto the bed beside him and ran both hands over his face, tugging at his curls in frustration. This was stupid. He was stupid. He never did this. Never chased, never sat in bed like some lovesick idiot hoping for a text, not even from you, from your friend, never let someone burrow so deep under his skin after one night. But you had. Fuck, you had. And now he was paying for it. Why did he play a game with you if it wasn’t one he would win?

His body was still buzzing, the tension rolling through him making it physically impossible to lie still. He felt hot, like the club was still pressed around him, like your scent was still curling around his lungs. He rolled his head back onto his pillow, and instinctively let his hand fall to cup his dick over the fabric of his boxers, a natural position but tonight, even so, it was too much. He let out a pathetic frustrated whine at the mere thought of that ever being your hand. He felt like a boy desperate just for a touch, but he wasn’t a boy, he was a greedy adult now, he craved more. He wanted to show you, hold you properly this time, get a do over, dig his fingers into the flesh of your hips and fuck you. He hated how you oozed sex appeal, dangling yourself in front of him tauntingly and yet beautifully, even in your rejection. His skin was tight, his muscles coiled. He needed to do something before he lost his damn mind.

With a sharp exhale, he rolled out of bed, tugging his boxers off and tossing them somewhere in the dark. His feet carried him straight to the en-suite, his mind already set on one thing. A hot shower. Maybe that would help. Maybe it would calm him the fuck down. Steam filled the glass enclosure as he stepped under the spray, his hands bracing against the cool tile as the water pounded against his muscular back. He let his head hang between his shoulders, chest rising and falling as he willed the tension out of his body. It didn’t work. Not when the moment he closed his eyes, you were still there.

Your body pressed to his in the club. The teasing glint in your eye when you smirked up at him. The feel of your fingers dragging across his chest, the ghost of your touch still seared into his skin. His head fell back against the tile with a thud, his breath coming out ragged as frustration curled tight in his gut. He was fucking losing it. And when he finally caved—when he finally let himself relieve the ache you had left him with, his hand wrapped around himself, lips parting in a quiet groan—he hated that it was you on his mind. Not just your body. Not just the way your lips had wrapped around the rim of your glass. But the way you had laughed at him. The way you had walked away, unbothered, untouched, unfazed. The way you had denied him. It made him feral.

When it was over—when he had groaned his frustration into the heated air, his body finally giving in to exhaustion—he stood there for a moment, chest rising and falling, water still cascading over his head. And then, with a shake of his head, he turned the knob, making the water ice fucking cold. Maybe if he froze himself out, he could shake you off. Maybe if he stood under the arctic blast long enough, he could purge you from his system. Spoiler: He couldn’t.

“Fuck!” He shivered, backing into a corner of the shower. It was too cold and he was too hot, goosebumps raised over his skin. When he finally dragged himself back to bed, drops of water still trailing down his back, he barely even bothered to check his phone. He already knew Campbell wasn’t going to text back. And he already knew, with a gut-sinking certainty, that he wasn’t going to sleep a damn bit.

You hadn’t slept well, let's say that. So this morning the bathroom air was thick with steam, the scent of warm vanilla and creamy sandalwood curling into the humid space as you smoothed lotion over your skin, fingers gliding over the curves of your thighs, the planes of your stomach, the dip of your collarbones. You needed a fresh start, and to wash last night away. Your body still held the heat of the shower, water droplets lingering in the hollows of your collarbones, disappearing beneath the barely-there fabric of your lace panties. Your headache pulsed—a dull throb behind your temples that had you closing your eyes for a brief moment, pressing your fingers into the ache. You weren’t sure if it was from the shots of tequila you’d thrown back like water, fueled by the reckless, wild-eyed version of yourself who had existed for the night… or if it was because that version of you had refused him.

The thought made your lips press together, a sigh slipping through your nose as you leaned forward against the counter, letting your weight rest against the cool marble. Had you made a mistake? Your pride said no. Your self-respect said absolutely not. But your body… oh, your body was humming with a different answer. Even in your dreams it purred for him.

Even through the haze of liquor, through the blur of flashing club lights and the deep bass of the music, your memory of Trent was untouched—dangerously clear. You could still see him, still hear the cocky lull of his voice curling around the words ‘come home with me, baby.’ Why the fuck didn’t you go!? You screamed at the pent up version of yourself in your head. The way he had looked at you—hooded gaze, tongue running across his bottom lip, those fucking dimples peeking out even in the low light—had been enough to make your thighs clench again in the en suite now. God, he was pretty. And last night’s version of you—intoxicated, stubborn, righteous in your rejection—had left you with nothing but what-ifs.

With an exhale, you pushed off the counter, fingers reaching blindly for your phone. Your headache was mild, your regrets minor, but the ache low in your belly? That was not so easily ignored. You hit next on a shuffle of a playlist, J. Cole’s In the Morning filled the room, the slow, sensual beat vibrating through the air as you moved toward the bed, stretching like a lazy cat as you let yourself sink into the music, into the soft sheets beneath your knees. Your hands roamed absently as you imagined what could’ve been—the heat of Trent’s body pressed against yours, the roughness of his hands on your hips, the deep pull of his voice in your ear as he whispered something sinful, something that made you dizzy, something that made you weak. You sighed, tipping your head back, running your fingers along the tops of your thighs as you smoothed in the last of your lotion, a mix of warmth and frustration curling in your stomach.

And meanwhile, unbeknownst to you, mere yards away, outside your very door… Trent was standing in the dimly lit hallway of your hotel, back pressed against the opposite wall, phone in hand, a cocky smirk tugging at his lips. He felt good. Smug, even. He had gotten the hotel name. He had the floor number. All it had taken was a bit of charm, a well-placed dimpled smile, a sprinkle of that Scouse accent, and a reluctant but meddling Campbell.

Campbell, of course, had put up a fight. But Campbell was nosy. Campbell wanted the tea. Campbell wanted to see what would happen and knew you well enough that sober you, was fine if Trent did manage his way. And so, when Trent had texted her again—his persistence a little embarrassing even to him—she had sighed dramatically and dropped the hotel name in his messages with nothing but a laughing emoji and a single word:

'Try.'

Oh, he was trying. And he had gotten this far. The door in front of him felt heavier than it should have though. It wasn’t nerves, not exactly. He’d played in Champions League finals, for fuck’s sake. He knew how to handle pressure. But this? This was different. Because last night, he'd lost. The rejection had tasted bitter, familiar in a way that made his stomach churn. He knew what it was like to feel the sting of a loss he thought he should have won. 2018 had taught him that. He had played in a Champions League final, full of fire and promise, only to watch another club lift the trophy at the final whistle. But the next year? He came back. He played again. And he won. Last night, you had been his 2018 heartbreak. This morning? He wanted it to be his 2019 redemption. His breath came slow, measured, steady as he reached up, knuckles hovering over the door for the briefest second. And then, before he could think twice, before he could talk himself out of it— He knocked. He paused and shook his head to focus before he did a second time. Two, that was normal right? How often do you knock? What the fuck was he doing at your hotel! His thoughts began to spiral. You heard the second knock, brows furrowing as confusion settled into your sleepy, mildly hungover and certainly needy haze. Room service? No, you hadn’t ordered anything. You assumed Campbell was still dead to the world, and Delaney and Foster had all but sworn off movement until lunch—so who the hell was at your door? Gripping your towel tighter, you hesitated, mentally flipping through half-formed Spanish phrases in case you needed them. You mumbled a ‘No, pero gracias,’ under your breath, rehearsing, before cracking open the door just enough to peek out. And that was when your stomach flipped. Because standing on the other side—looking entirely too smug for someone who’d been left high and dry last night—was Trent.

You froze. For a split second, the world narrowed to just him. The sight of him shown through the sliver of the door made your heart just about stop. The cocky slant of his smile. The way his dimple crept in as he tilted his head, dark eyes flickering down, clearly clocking the towel barely secured around your chest. None of it alarming or threatening to you though which maybe confused you the most but then the voice you wished so badly was in your ear a little more last night spoke up.

"You alright, baby?" His voice was syrupy smooth, thick with amusement. Your jaw slacked in confusion as you unlatched the secondary lock and opened the door a little more. Your grip on your towel tightening.

“Erm… hi?” You blinked up at him, skeptical, still caught off guard. “What are you—” Before you could finish, he stepped forward, cutting off your words, guiding you back into your room as if this had been the plan all along, something you two decided last night, like old friends, like this was normal.

“Just makin’ sure you got home safe.” His voice dripped with feigned innocence. “Since you wouldn’t let me do that last night.” You narrowed your eyes at him, fighting back the unwilling curve of your lips.

“So that’s what you were trying to do?” You cocked your head, watching as he strolled further inside like he owned the place. His eyes surveying the room, he shrugged as if accepting the interior causing your brow to furrow because you didn’t ask and you didn’t invite him in either but here you were. And the worst part of it, you liked all of it, every second.

“Yeah,” he said smoothly, plopping down onto your bed, entirely too comfortable. His fingers ghosted over the outfit you’d laid out for yourself, taking in the delicate lace bralette with a barely-there smirk. “Can’t say it wasn’t—you didn’t let me take you home, so how would you know?” He quipped so obnoxiously innocent, you huffed a laugh, shaking your head as you watched his big hand drag underneath the strap of the tank top you’d planned to wear but now you weren’t so sure you wanted to put it on.

“You’re…” You trailed off, searching for the right word. Because it wasn’t something bad, not exactly. But it was something. Something sharp and annoying but so annoyingly attractive, it made you want to drop your towel. Then it hit you. Campbell’s voice rang through your mind, reminding you of the comment she’d made when you first clocked Trent’s game. “You’re bold,” you concluded, smirking as you bunched up the clothes on the bed from beside him, swiping them. “For someone who pretends to be shy.” You elaborated, adding a bit of clarity. Trent only shrugged again, so nonchalant, like it wasn’t an accusation, just an observation he wouldn’t deny. Your jaw dropped in playful shock, an open-mouthed, amused smile stretching across your face. “Oh, so it’s on purpose?” You laughed, raising your brows.

“Dunno what you’re on about, y’know.” Trent leaned back on his palms, looking entirely unbothered. You rolled your eyes because if he was going to act like he lived here now, you were at least going to put on some clothes. You think you wanted to put them on at least. You turned toward the ensuite. But you didn’t really shut the door, not entirely—it was a big room, and it wasn’t like that—but as you peeled off your towel and reached for the lace bralette, Trent got an eyeful in the mirror. His throat went dry. Bare back. Tiny lace thong. Soft curves in all the right places. Memories of last night he didn’t share with you but of you came flooding back. His jaw slacked for half a second, brain short-circuiting, before he swallowed hard and yanked his phone out of his pocket like it was a goddamn lifeline. Focus, man. Clearing his throat, he shook his head, grasping for anything else to say before he lost all composure.

“So, you want some breaky?” He spoke up. The sudden shift caught you off guard. Emerging from the ensuite, you adjusted the waistband of your tiny Magda Butrym shorts, the lace trim peeking out, paired with a delicate gold Miu Miu knit tank.

“What?” You gave him a skeptical glance as you leaned into the mirror, moving to put in your earrings attempting like this interaction was not affecting you. “Did you not go home with a girl last night? Is that why you’re here?” You questioned him. Trent, who had been subtly (or not so subtly) watching your ass, snapped his gaze up, brow furrowing in genuine confusion.

“What?” He blinked. You smirked at him through the mirror, amused at the obvious shift of his gaze's direction.

“I’m just saying, if you're concerned, I won’t say anything about ruining your perfect track record—” You offered him a plea bargain, wondering if he was here merely for reputation damage control.

“My what?” His brows knitted together. You turned to face him, still grinning, but he looked—sincere. Maybe even… offended? So you paused.

“I’m just saying it’s fine you didn’t have to do this… show up here, make amends.” You said more gently, feeling bad that he looked a little taken aback by your call out. “Last night…” You began a sentence but really had no idea of its direction or ending so you hesitated staring back at him. You don’t think you misread him but then again right now, you felt bad with such an assumption.

“And I’m just askin’ if you want food,” he said simply, flashing an innocent smile that made you hesitate. Your mind ran through a mental list of all the reasons this was a bad idea. You had successfully escaped him last night. You had set your boundaries. You had won. But won what? A night alone? Because right now, you were losing again to the same dimpled grin and twinkly brown doe eyed threat you thought you’d avoided. Then you looked at him—his boyish grin, his easy charm, the way he was so annoyingly persistent but never pushy—and before your brain could stop you, your mouth betrayed you.

“…Okay.” As you grabbed the matching knit sweater to your set and slid on your Loewe cream slides, you glanced at Trent. “Pass me my phone?” You asked him with a blank stare. He was still perched on your bed like he belonged there, far too at ease in your space. Stretching one long arm out, the veins bulging, his muscles flexing as he unplugged your phone and tilted the screen toward him—smirking the second he saw the song he’d been listening to this whole time still playing. "In the Morning." His brows shot up cheekily.

“Thinking about something this morning?” His voice dripped with smug amusement, that teasing lilt curling around every syllable. Trent certainly was, that’s why he showed up, he hadn’t slept, so yes tongue in cheek but he was also curious if you’d bite. Instead, you rolled your eyes, stepping closer and snatching the phone from his grasp. Your fingers brushed his—just for a second, fleeting but charged. Not aggressive, not rough. More like… a preemptive escape. Because if you had let him, Trent would’ve held onto your hand. Would’ve used it as an excuse to pull you forward, onto his lap, into that damn bed. And the person you were most worried about in the room, wasn’t him. It was you. You might’ve let him. But no. Breakfast—you could do. Everything else? A catastrophe waiting to happen.

“Oh, hush. Get over yourself, honestly.” You teased, tossing the phone into your bag like the conversation was already done. “It’s on my favorites playlist.” Trent let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as he leaned back onto his elbows. You meant it as a throwaway comment, but for some reason, it hit him differently.

He was sitting in your bed, still feeling the warmth of where you had been before you got up. He had seen you damn near naked, so comfortable in your own skin, moving through the room like you were a part of it, dripping in confidence without even trying. Radiating a sexiness he wasn’t sure he’d experienced before. He had watched you laugh at him, throw banter his way, roll your eyes in a way that made him want to press his thumb into the soft crease between your brows just to smooth it out. And now this. This small, seemingly insignificant thing, a throwaway comment to you. One of your favorite songs—was one of his.

And sure, the need to have you, to feel you against him, to ruin you in the very bed he was still sitting on—that hunger was still raging, hot and undeniable. But this was something else. Something new. Trent had spent mornings with women before. Hell, plenty. But they never felt like this. Like… something real and you hadn’t even slept with him last night. Like something he actually wanted to stay in, rather than counting down the minutes before he slipped out the door. Which was funny, because in his mind, he could already see a different kind of full-circle moment. Maybe this time, he started out like this—patient, lighthearted, taking his time—and ended the way he actually wanted, with you beneath him, breathless, saying his name the way he knew it would sound dripping from your lips. A long game. Maybe he was good at those too.

But was it a game? Because when he looked at you, now struggling with the hotel safe, brows scrunched in frustration as you tried to figure out how to lock your valuables inside, he didn’t just think about fucking you senseless. He thought you looked… cute.

And that realization nearly gave him whiplash. Cute? Did he just think that? About some girl he was supposed to just be chasing? Why was he chasing to begin with? Some girl he should be focused on getting into bed, not finding utterly adorable while struggling with a safe? What a mess. What a melt.

•

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

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

Next part - Chapter 2 - Winnings

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#trent alexander arnold #Trent Alexander Arnold x reader #alexander arnold #trent alexander arnold imagines #taa x reader #footballer x y/n #footballer x reader #fie fic #aperture fic

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