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Love

Leather and Gasoline

The transition from "Honeybee" to "Bad Boy" had been like jumping from a sun-drenched meadow into a dark, smoke-filled club. If their debut had been a sugary confection, VIVID’s comeback was a shot of straight whiskey. The pastel aesthetic was gone, replaced by heavy eyeliner, distressed leather, and a brooding, rebellious energy that the international media was eating up.

For Mi, the change was the most jarring. The stylists had traded her pleated skirts for a custom-made leather harness over a sheer black bodysuit and combat boots that made her feel five inches taller and ten times more dangerous. Her brown curls were slicked back into a high, sharp ponytail, and the choreography was no longer bouncy—it was predatory.

But it wasn't the clothes or the dance that had the internet in a chokehold. It was the Music Video lead.

Leo, a rising German actor with sharp cheekbones and a calculatedly messy mop of blonde hair, had been cast as the titular "Bad Boy." The director had insisted on "palpable tension," and unfortunately for Mi’s private life, she was a natural actress.

The scene currently looped on every social media platform was the motorcycle sequence. Mi, clad in a cropped leather jacket, was clung to Leo’s back as he revved a vintage Ducati through a rain-slicked neon alleyway. The way she buried her face in his shoulder, the wind whipping her hair, looked like a cinematic escape. But the real firestorm was the "almost kiss" in the bridge of the song. In a dimly lit garage, Leo had her backed against a tool bench, his hand hovering just inches from her waist, their lips a mere breath apart before the camera panned away at the final beat.

"The chemistry is insane," one top comment on YouTube read, boasting fifty thousand likes. "I know she’s with Jamal, but look at the way Leo looks at her. That’s not acting."

Another tweet, featuring a side-by-side of Jamal’s shy smile and Leo’s smoldering gaze, simply said: *Sorry Jamal, the Bad Boy era wins.*

Mi sighed, tossing her phone onto the plush rug of her dressing room. She was exhausted. The press tour for the comeback was twice as grueling as the debut, and she hadn't seen Jamal in person for nearly two weeks due to his away games and her grueling filming schedule.

"You okay, Mi?" Sarah, one of the other members of VIVID, popped her head into the room. "The TikTok trends for the #BadBoyChallenge are already at a billion views. We’re officially global stars."

"I know," Mi said, forcing a smile. "It’s amazing. I’m just... ready to go home."

"Home to the honeybee?" Sarah teased, though her eyes softened. "Don't listen to the shippers, Mi. Everyone knows who you belong to. It’s just the price of the concept."

***

When Mi finally unlocked the door to their shared apartment late that night, the atmosphere felt heavy. Usually, Jamal was waiting by the door, or at least called out from the kitchen. Tonight, the apartment was dimly lit, the only sound being the low hum of the refrigerator.

She found him in the bedroom. He wasn't sleeping; he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his large frame hunched over as he stared at his hands. He was wearing his gray training sweats, his hair a bit more mussed than usual.

"Jamal?" she whispered, dropping her bag.

He looked up, and for a second, Mi saw a flicker of something she rarely saw in him: insecurity. Jamal Musiala was one of the most confident players on the pitch, a man who could weave through world-class defenders like they were statues. But here, in the quiet of their room, he looked like a boy who was afraid he was losing his place.

"Hey," he said, his voice a little hoarse. "You’re late."

"The last interview ran over," Mi said, walking toward him and sliding onto the bed beside him. She reached for his hand, but he shifted slightly, reaching for a glass of water instead. The rejection, however slight, stung. "Have you eaten?"

"Yeah. I had something at the facility." He finally looked at her, his dark eyes scanning her face, still wearing the remnants of her heavy "Bad Boy" stage makeup. "The video is everywhere, Mi."

"It’s just a concept, Jamal," she said softly, trying to bridge the distance between them. "It’s acting. You know that."

"I know," he said, but his jaw tightened. "I know it’s acting. But I don't like seeing him touch you. I don't like reading that he’s 'better for you' because he fits your new 'vibe.' I’m not a bad boy, Mi. I’m just... me."

He looked away, his voice dropping. "I went to training today and the guys were joking about it. Leroy showed me a compilation of the 'almost kiss' set to some romantic ballad. I laughed it off, but... it didn't feel like a joke."

Mi felt a pang of guilt. She had been so caught up in the whirlwind of the comeback, the rehearsals, and the chart positions that she hadn't realized how much the public narrative was chipping away at Jamal. He was private, he was sensitive, and he loved her with a quiet intensity that didn't need the validation of a camera lens.

"Jamal, look at me," she commanded gently.

He turned his head slowly.

"That actor? I don't even remember his last name," Mi said, taking his hand and this time, holding it firmly. "He smelled like cheap cigarettes and hairspray. The motorcycle was on a trailer, it wasn't even moving. And that 'almost kiss'? I was literally counting the seconds in my head until the director yelled 'cut' so I could go call you."

Jamal sighed, his shoulders dropping an inch. "I feel stupid for being jealous. I know your job. I know you’re a star."

"You’re not stupid," she whispered, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. "You’re human. And you’re mine."

She stood up, moving to the closet. She rummaged through the drawers until she found what she was looking for: his red Bayern Munich home jersey, the one he’d given her after a particularly big win. It was huge on her, the hem reaching mid-thigh, the fabric smelling faintly of the detergent they both liked.

She pulled off her designer top and slipped the jersey on, the cool fabric a relief against her skin. She grabbed her phone from her bag and walked back to him.

"What are you doing?" he asked, a small, curious smile finally breaking through his somber mood.

"Fixing the narrative," she said.

She climbed into his lap, straddling his legs. Jamal instinctively wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The height difference was always so stark when they were this close; she felt so small and protected in his grip.

"Hold me," she murmured. "Like you mean it."

Jamal didn't need to be told twice. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his nose brushing against her skin, and let out a long, shaky breath. Mi lifted her phone, angling it so the mirror reflected them—her in his oversized jersey, his dark curls pressed against her, his arms locked around her tiny waist.

She snapped the photo. It wasn't polished. It wasn't "Bad Boy." It was raw, intimate, and unmistakably them.

"Don't look at the comments for a while, okay?" she said, looking into his eyes. "Just look at me."

Jamal looked at her, his gaze softening into that familiar "golden glow" she had written about months ago. "I can do that."

He leaned up, his lips finding hers. This wasn't the staged, breathless tension of a music video. This was deep, slow, and certain. It tasted of forgiveness and possessiveness. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark, but the sadness was gone, replaced by the quiet confidence of a man who knew exactly where he stood.

"You’re still my honeybee," she whispered against his lips.

"And you’re still mine," he replied.

Mi settled against his chest, listening to the steady, strong beat of his heart. She opened her Instagram, her fingers hovering over the upload button. She didn't need a long caption. She didn't need to explain herself to the millions of people watching.

She uploaded the photo with three simple words: *My honeybee. Always.*

Within seconds, the notifications began to explode. The shipping wars, the "Bad Boy" theories, and the rumors were silenced by a single image of a girl in a football jersey and a boy who didn't need to act to show he was in love.

Jamal reached over, taking the phone from her hand and setting it on the nightstand.

"Enough of that," he murmured, pulling the duvet over both of them. "I’ve had enough of the internet for one day."

"Me too," Mi agreed, curling into his side.

As the world outside continued to debate her chemistry with a stranger, Mi fell asleep in the arms of the only man who truly knew her. The "Bad Boy" era might have been a hit, but in the quiet of their room, the sweetness of their reality was the only thing that mattered.