← Back to overview

Love

Velcro and Vanilla

The morning sun in Munich was unforgivingly bright, slicing through the gaps in the heavy blackout curtains of the master bedroom. It was the kind of light that usually signaled the start of a frantic day—rehearsals for VIVID, tactical meetings at Säbener Strasse, or the relentless buzz of two high-profile lives colliding with the public eye. But today, the world outside the bedroom door didn't exist.

Jamal shifted slightly, his muscles stiff from a night of sleeping in a single position. He tried to roll onto his back, but he found he couldn't move more than an inch. A familiar weight was anchored to his side, a tangle of soft limbs and wild brown curls that had spent the last eight hours practically fused to his skin.

Mi was draped across him like a living shadow. Her head was tucked firmly into the hollow of his shoulder, one of her legs was hooked over his hip, and her small hands were balled into the fabric of his t-shirt, gripping him as if he might evaporate if she let go for even a second. Even in the depths of sleep, her body seemed to be on high alert, maintaining a constant, unbroken perimeter of contact.

He looked down at her, his heart doing that strange, fluttering thing it only ever did for her. The "Honeybee" of the nation looked small and fragile in the morning light, her eyelashes casting long shadows against her pale cheeks. She looked like she had been through a war, and in a way, she had.

"Mi," he whispered, his voice raspy with sleep. "Hey, little one. I need to breathe."

He didn't really want her to move, but his arm was starting to go numb. He gently tried to pry her fingers loose from his shirt, but the moment he created a centimeter of space, Mi’s eyes flew open. They weren't hazy with sleep; they were wide and instantly panicked.

"Jamal?" she gasped, her grip tightening until her knuckles turned white. She surged upward, her face inches from his. "Where are you going?"

"Nowhere, nowhere," he said quickly, his hands coming up to cup her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones to soothe the sudden spike in her heart rate. "I’m right here. I just wanted to stretch my arm, Mi. It went to sleep."

She stared at him for a long beat, her chest heaving as she processed his words. Slowly, the panic receded, replaced by a soft, needy vulnerability that made Jamal’s chest ache. She didn't pull away. Instead, she collapsed back onto him, burying her face in his neck and inhaling deeply.

"Don't move," she mumbled against his skin. "Just stay like this. Five more minutes. Or five hours."

"I have training in two hours, Mi," he reminded her gently, though he was already wrapping his arms back around her, pulling her closer until there wasn't a sliver of air between them.

"Cancel it," she whispered, her lips brushing against his collarbone. "Tell them you’re stuck. Tell them you’ve been kidnapped by a pop star."

Jamal laughed, the sound vibrating through both of them. "I think Vincent Kompany might have a few questions about that excuse. And the paparazzi are probably still camped out at the end of the street. If I don't show up, they’ll start a new rumor that I’ve been abducted by aliens."

Mi groaned, but she finally loosened her death-grip on his shirt, only to replace it by sliding her arms around his waist and squeezing. "I hate them. I hate the noise. I just want to stay in this bubble forever."

"Me too," Jamal said, his voice turning serious. He kissed the top of her head, lingering there. "But the bubble is here, Mi. Inside these walls, it’s just us. They can’t get in unless we let them."

Eventually, the reality of their schedules forced them out of bed, but the "glue" didn't dissolve. If anything, it became more apparent as they moved through the apartment.

When Jamal went to the bathroom to brush his teeth, Mi followed him. She didn't say anything; she just leaned against the counter, her hip pressed against his, watching him in the mirror with an intensity that would have been unnerving if it weren't so sweet. When he reached for the towel, she was already holding it out for him.

"You're being very helpful today," he teased, wiping his face.

"I'm being efficient," she corrected him, stepping into his space and wrapping her arms around his neck. She stood on her tiptoes, her eyes searching his. "Can I have a kiss? A real one?"

Jamal smiled, his hands settling on her tiny waist. He leaned down, meeting her halfway. The kiss was slow and lingering, tasting of mint and the quiet promise of a new beginning. When he tried to pull back, Mi followed his lips, her fingers tangling in the short curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him back down for a second, then a third.

"Mi," he murmured against her mouth, a playful warning in his tone. "I’m going to be late."

"One more," she whispered, her eyes dark and pleading. "Just one."

He gave her three more before he managed to break away to head to the kitchen. Even there, the pattern continued. As he stood at the stove scrambling eggs, Mi was a constant presence at his back. She tucked herself under his arm, her head resting against his shoulder blade, her arms looped around his middle. She followed his every movement, a tiny, determined shadow.

"You know, it’s actually quite dangerous to cook with a human backpack," Jamal said, flipping the eggs with one hand while the other rested on Mi’s forearm.

"I’m a professional dancer, Jamal. I have excellent balance," she replied, her voice muffled by his jersey. She shifted, sliding her hands under his shirt to feel the warmth of his skin. "You’re so warm. I missed this. I missed the way you smell like home."

Jamal stopped stirring for a moment, his expression softening. He turned in her arms, ignoring the sizzling pan, and looked down at her. Her brown curls were a mess, her eyes were slightly puffy from the night before, and she was wearing one of his hoodies that swallowed her whole. To the rest of the world, she was a fierce, untouchable idol. To him, she was just Mi—his girl, who had been hurt by the world and was trying to find her footing again.

"I missed you too," he said softly. "More than I let myself admit while I was away."

He leaned down and kissed her forehead, then her nose, then finally her lips. It was a soft, butterfly-press of a kiss, but Mi wanted more. She surged upward, her hands framing his face, deepening the contact with a hunger that spoke of all the weeks they’d spent apart. She was clingy, yes, but it was a clinginess born of a deep, aching need to be reassured that he was real, that he was back, and that he wasn't going anywhere.

"Stay," she whispered against his lips, her voice trembling just a little. "Even when you leave for training, just... stay mine."

"Always, Mi," he promised, his voice a vow. "I’m not going anywhere. The only place I want to be is right here, even if you’re making it impossible for me to cook breakfast."

They eventually managed to eat, though Mi insisted on sitting in his lap for half the meal, sharing his toast and stealing sips of his orange juice. Every time he moved his hand, she caught it, interlacing their fingers and resting their joined hands on the table. It was as if she were trying to make up for every second of lost time in a single morning.

When the time finally came for Jamal to head to the training ground, the separation process was like trying to peel a sticker off a surface it had been bonded to for years.

He stood by the front door, his gear bag slung over his shoulder, while Mi stood in front of him, her hands flat against his chest. She was looking at him with an expression that was half-pout, half-longing.

"I'll be back in four hours," he said, checking his watch. "Four hours, Mi. That’s just two movies. Or one long rehearsal for you."

"I don't have rehearsals today," she said, her lower lip trembling slightly. "I told management I needed a mental health day. I’m just going to be here. Waiting."

"Don't just wait," he said, tilting her chin up. "Write something. Read a book. Take a nap. You look like you need it."

"I'll write about you," she said, a small, mischievous glint returning to her eyes. "I'll write a song about how my boyfriend is a meanie who leaves me all alone to go kick a ball around."

Jamal laughed, leaning down to give her a final, firm kiss. "I look forward to hearing the lyrics. Maybe this one won't make the whole world cry."

"No promises," she whispered, her arms winding around his neck for one last squeeze. She held on tight, her face buried in his shoulder, for a long, silent minute.

When she finally let go, she stayed in the doorway, watching him walk down the hall toward the elevator. Jamal turned back just before the doors closed, seeing her standing there—small, curly-haired, and beautiful—waving a tiny hand at him.

"Four hours!" he called out.

"Three hours and fifty-nine minutes now!" she shouted back.

The elevator doors slid shut, and Jamal was alone with his thoughts. He felt a lightness in his chest he hadn't felt in weeks. Yes, she was being clingy. Yes, she was practically glued to his side. But after the cold, hollow silence of their breakup, he wouldn't trade her touch for all the privacy in the world.

***

Training was a blur. Jamal was back to his best, his feet moving with a precision and speed that had his teammates shaking their heads in disbelief. The "Bambi" of Bayern was back, and he was playing with a joy that was infectious.

"You seem happy today, Musiala," Leroy Sané remarked as they walked off the pitch toward the dressing rooms. "Did you finally get some sleep, or did you just stop reading the comments?"

Jamal smiled, a genuine, wide grin that reached his eyes. "A bit of both, I think. I just realized that the noise only matters if you listen to it."

"Good," Leroy said, clapping him on the back. "Because the noise is never going to stop. But as long as you’ve got your head right, it doesn't matter."

Jamal nodded, his mind already drifting back to the apartment. He checked his phone the moment he reached his locker. There were twelve missed texts, all from Mi.

*10:15 AM: I miss you.* *10:45 AM: The apartment is too big without you.* *11:20 AM: I found your old hoodie in the laundry. It smells like you. I’m wearing it now.* *12:00 PM: Come home. I’ll make you coffee. Or I’ll just be the coffee. I’m very sweet, remember?* *12:30 PM: 30 minutes left. I’m counting.*

He chuckled, his thumbs flying across the screen as he typed a reply.

*On my way, Honeybee. Don't move an inch.*

He showered and changed in record time, ignoring the teasing remarks from his teammates about his sudden rush to leave. He drove home with a sense of purpose, the Munich traffic feeling like a minor hurdle rather than a source of stress.

When he walked through the front door, he didn't even have time to set his keys down.

A blur of white fabric and brown curls launched itself at him. Mi had been waiting right behind the door, and she practically climbed him, her legs wrapping around his waist and her arms locking behind his neck. Jamal stumbled back against the wall, laughing as he caught her, his hands supporting her weight.

"Whoa! Careful, little one," he gasped, his heart racing.

"You're late," she murmured, her face buried in his neck. "You were supposed to be here five minutes ago."

"Traffic was bad," he said, his voice muffled by her hair. He pulled back slightly to look at her. She was indeed wearing his hoodie, the sleeves rolled up several times to reveal her small hands. Her eyes were bright, and she looked more alive than she had in months. "Did you miss me?"

"Terribly," she said, her expression turning serious. She reached out, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "I realized something while you were gone."

"What’s that?"

"I don't care if people think I’m clingy. I don't care if they think it’s 'too much.' I spent a month without touching you, Jamal. I spent a month not knowing if I’d ever get to hold your hand again. So for the next... fifty years, I think I’m just going to stay right here."

She leaned in, her lips meeting his in a kiss that was both a greeting and a desperate reassurance. Jamal met her with equal fervor, his hands tightening on her hips. The world could talk. The fans could theory-craft. The paparazzi could wait in the rain.

Inside the apartment, the only thing that mattered was the girl who wouldn't let go, and the boy who finally realized he never wanted her to.

"Fifty years, huh?" Jamal said, pulling back to grin at her. "That’s a lot of scrambled eggs with a human backpack."

"You'll get used to it," Mi said, her eyes sparkling with a playful, possessive light. She leaned her forehead against his, her smile mirroring his own. "Now, take me to the sofa. I have a new song to show you, and I need to be sitting in your lap to explain the lyrics."

"Of course," Jamal said, carrying her toward the living room without a second thought. "Whatever the Honeybee wants."

As they settled onto the sofa, Mi immediately curled into his side, her head on his chest and her hand tucked into his. The silence of the apartment was no longer heavy; it was full of the quiet, rhythmic sounds of two people who had found their way back to each other. The noise of the world was still out there, but for now, it was just an echo, drowned out by the steady, beautiful beat of two hearts finally back in sync.