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Love

The Gravity of a Quiet Heart

The drive home was filled with the rhythmic hum of the engine and the constant, cheerful melody of Mimi’s voice. She was currently recounting, in great detail, the personality of the cat she had met earlier that day. Michael kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other firmly interlaced with hers, resting on the center console. He didn't say much, but he didn't have to; his thumb traced slow, deliberate circles over her knuckles, a silent anchor to her high-energy orbit.

Once they stepped through the front door of their apartment, the world outside—the cameras, the screaming fans, the tactical demands of the Premier League—simply ceased to exist. In this space, he wasn't Michael Olise, the rising star with the ice-cold reputation. He was just Michael. And he was very, very tired of sharing Mimi with the rest of the world.

"The guys liked you," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave now that they were in the privacy of their hallway. He kicked off his shoes and immediately stepped into her space, his tall frame looming over her in a way that would have been intimidating if not for the softness in his eyes.

Mimi looked up, her eyes bright. "Of course they did! I’m delightful, Michael. Plus, I think they were just relieved to see you’re actually a human being and not a very handsome robot programmed to cross balls into the box."

He let out a short, huffed laugh, reaching out to hook his fingers into the belt loops of her jeans, pulling her flush against him. "A robot, huh?"

"A very grumpy one," she teased, reaching up to pat his cheeks. "But you were so good today! I saw that one move where you went—whoosh!—and the defender went—ahhh!—and then you—"

Michael didn't let her finish the play-by-play. He leaned down and captured her lips in a slow, deep kiss that effectively silenced her. It was his favorite way to end her tangents—not because he didn't like listening to her, but because the contrast between her bubbly energy and the quiet intensity of his affection was a drug he couldn't stop taking.

"Hungry," he whispered against her mouth, though he made no move toward the kitchen.

"You said fusilli," she reminded him, her voice a little breathier now. "The superior pasta. We have to maintain our culinary standards, Mikey."

They did eventually make the pasta, though it took twice as long as it should have because Michael wouldn't stop hovering. Every time she stood at the stove to stir the sauce, he was there, his chest pressed to her back, his chin resting on her shoulder. He followed her like a shadow, his hands constantly finding the curve of her waist or the nape of her neck.

By the time dinner was over and the dishes were stacked in the dishwasher, Michael’s need for proximity had shifted from lingering touches to a quiet, demanding hunger.

"Bed," he said. It wasn't a question.

Mimi giggled, letting him lead her by the hand toward the bedroom. "You’re so clingy today. Did the boys at training make you feel shy?"

"I just missed you," he admitted, his honesty blunt and unfiltered. He didn't do games or pretenses with her. If he wanted her, he said it. If he needed her near him to feel like his head was screwed on straight, he showed it.

The bedroom was cool, the curtains drawn against the South London streetlights. As soon as they hit the mattress, the playfulness of the afternoon melted into something far more concentrated. Michael didn't just lie down; he draped himself over her, his long limbs tangling with hers until she was effectively pinned beneath his lean weight.

He started at her jawline, his kisses light and fluttering, before migrating to her lips. It started slow, a gentle exploration, but Michael’s pace soon quickened. He kissed her with a sudden, overwhelming fervor, his tongue seeking hers with a desperate sort of rhythm.

Mimi tried to keep up, her hands sliding into his curls, pulling him closer, but Michael was relentless. He moved from her lips to the corner of her mouth, then back again, his breaths coming in heavy, jagged hitches. He tasted like the mint he’d had after dinner and the heat of his own skin.

"Michael," she gasped, her head falling back against the pillow as he trailed a line of burning kisses down the sensitive column of her throat. "Wait—"

He didn't wait. He moved back up to her mouth, his kisses becoming deeper, more possessive. It was as if he were trying to memorize the texture of her lips, the sound of the small, helpless whimpers she made when he pressed his body more firmly into hers. He was usually so controlled, so calculated in his movements on the pitch, but here, in the dark, he was a storm of raw sensation.

Mimi felt her lungs straining, her heart hammering a frantic tattoo against her ribs. Every time she thought he was going to pull back to let them both catch a breath, he would shift his angle and dive back in, his hands sliding up under her shirt to find the warm skin of her back.

"Mikey," she managed to say, turning her face slightly to the side to break the contact. She was panting, her cheeks flushed a deep rose, her eyes hooded. "Calm down... I can’t... I can't breathe."

Michael froze. He was propped up on his elbows, his chest heaving in sync with hers. His hair was a mess, falling over his forehead, and his dark eyes were blown wide, shimmering with an intensity that made her toes curl. He looked down at her, his expression a mixture of adoration and a stubborn, primal sort of hunger.

"Sorry," he rasped, though he didn't look sorry at all. He looked like a man who had found his entire world in a five-foot-something girl and didn't know how to handle the scale of it.

He stayed there for a moment, hovering just inches from her face. Mimi reached up, her fingers trembling slightly as she brushed his hair out of his eyes. "You’re so intense today," she whispered, a small, shaky smile playing on her lips. "What’s gotten into you?"

Michael didn't answer right away. He lowered his head, nuzzling his nose against hers, breathing in the scent of her shampoo—something sweet and floral that always reminded him of home.

"They were all looking at you," he finally muttered, his voice muffled against her skin. "Ebere, Marc... everyone. Thinking they know you now."

Mimi felt a surge of warmth in her chest. "Michael Olise, are you jealous of your teammates?"

"No," he said, the lie transparent. He shifted, burying his face in the crook of her neck. "I just... I don't like sharing. I like that you’re the only person who knows I’m not just 'the quiet guy.' I don't want them thinking they have a piece of that too."

"They don't," she said softly, her heart aching at the vulnerability in his tone. "They saw the sunbeam, Michael. You’re the only one who gets the rest. You’re the only one I want to hide controllers from."

Michael let out a low, vibrating hum against her skin. The tension in his shoulders seemed to dissipate, but it was replaced by a different kind of focus. He shifted his weight, his lips brushing against the soft skin just below her ear.

"I want them to know," he whispered.

"Know what?"

"That you're mine."

Before she could ask what he meant, she felt the sharp, sudden sting of his teeth grazing the side of her neck. She let out a soft gasp, her fingers tightening in his hair. Michael didn't pull away; instead, he applied a firm, steady suction to the sensitive skin right above her collarbone.

It was a deliberate, marking heat. Mimi’s breath hitched as the sensation radiated through her, a mix of sharp tingles and a heavy, grounding pressure. He was being careful, but there was a streak of possessiveness in the way his hand gripped her hip, holding her still as he worked.

When he finally pulled back, he lingered for a moment, his warm breath fanning over the spot he’d just claimed. He sat up slightly, looking down at his handiwork. A dark, blooming bruise was already beginning to form against her pale skin—a vivid, purple-red mark that would be impossible to hide with anything short of a turtleneck.

Mimi reached up, her fingers grazing the tender skin. "Michael!" she scolded, though there was no real heat in her voice. "I have that lunch with my sister tomorrow! How am I supposed to explain this?"

Michael leaned back on his haunches, a slow, triumphant smirk spreading across his face. It was the most expression she’d seen from him all day—a look of pure, unadulterated satisfaction.

"Tell her you have a very clingy boyfriend," he said, his voice smooth and nonchalant once more.

"You’re a menace," she sighed, though she reached out to pull him back down to her.

"Your menace," he corrected.

He settled back over her, but this time the frantic energy had shifted into something more settled, more certain. He began to kiss her again, but these were slower—lingering, sweet caresses that tasted of promises and quiet evenings.

As the night deepened, the silence of the room was broken only by the soft sounds of their breathing and the occasional, muffled giggle from Mimi when Michael’s "clinginess" resulted in him practically wrapping himself around her like a vine.

He didn't let her go, not even when sleep began to pull at the corners of their minds. He tucked her head under his chin, his arm a heavy, protective weight across her middle.

"Mikey?" she whispered into the dark, her voice thick with drowsiness.

"Yeah?"

"I love you. Even if you are a bit of a territorial tiger."

He squeezed her gently, a small smile tugging at his lips that no one else in the world would ever see. "Love you too, Mimi. Go to sleep."

In the quiet of the London night, Michael Olise finally let the mask drop completely. He didn't need the cool indifference or the silent stares here. He just needed the girl in his arms, the mark on her neck, and the knowledge that tomorrow, he’d get to do it all over again.

The next morning at the training ground, the banter was as loud as ever. Eberechi Eze was mid-sentence, laughing about a play from the day before, when Michael walked into the dressing room.

He looked exactly the same as always—expressionless, bag slung over his shoulder, walking with that effortless, slow gait. He sat at his locker and began to pull on his training gear.

"Morning, lover boy!" Eze called out, grinning. "How’s Mimi? She recover from the trauma of meeting us lot?"

Michael didn't look up, but as he pulled his training top over his head, the collar shifted. For a split second, a very clear, very dark mark was visible on the side of his neck—a mirror image of the one he’d left on Mimi.

The room went silent for a beat.

Marc Guéhi cleared his throat, hiding a smile behind his hand. "I think they’re doing just fine, Ebere."

Michael finally looked up, catching Eze’s wide-eyed stare. He didn't blush. He didn't look away. He simply reached up, adjusted his collar with a slow, deliberate movement, and gave them a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

"She’s fine," Michael said, his voice cool and steady. "Let's get to work."

As he headed out toward the pitch, his teammates exchanged looks of pure amusement. The mystery was gone, replaced by a reality that was much more entertaining. Michael Olise was absolutely, undeniably whipped—and for the first time, he didn't seem to mind who knew it.

Out on the grass, Michael felt the sun hitting his back. He thought of the girl at home, probably still asleep in their bed, and the way she’d complained about the hickey while simultaneously kissing him breathless. He felt a surge of energy, a lightness in his boots that had nothing to do with tactics.

He was the quiet storm, maybe. Но Mimi was the only one who knew how to make the rain stop. And as he sprinted into his first drill of the day, Michael decided that being a "sunbeam’s" favorite person was a much better title than any trophy he could ever win.