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Love

Signed, Sealed, Delivered

The aftermath of the park incident hadn’t resulted in the PR disaster Mimi’s label had feared. Instead, it had catapulted "JuMimi" into the realm of cultural icons. The public wasn't just interested; they were feral for them. But for Jamal, the sudden transparency of their relationship didn't act as a deterrent for his possessiveness. If anything, it acted as a green light.

Now that the world knew he wasn't just the "shy boy" of German football, Jamal felt a newfound freedom. A dangerous freedom.

"Jamal, stop it! I have a shoot in two hours," Mimi squealed, trying to wiggle out of his grasp.

They were tangled together on his oversized velvet sofa, the morning light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his Munich penthouse. Jamal had his face buried in the crook of her neck, his stubble grazing her sensitive skin. He wasn't just kissing her; he was lingering, his teeth grazing the soft area just below her ear.

"They can use concealer," Jamal murmured against her skin, his voice vibrating deep in his chest.

"They already complain that I take too long in the chair," she panted, her fingers threading through his short, dark hair. "If you leave a mark, the stylists will tease me for a week."

Jamal didn't listen. A primal part of him—the part that hated the way millions of men stared at her legs during "Honeybee" performances—wanted to leave a visual reminder of who she belonged to. He applied a firm, deliberate pressure, his lips creating a blooming heat on her pale skin.

When he finally pulled back, he looked at his handiwork with a dark sense of pride. A small, blossoming violet mark stood out against her skin like a badge of ownership.

"Jamal!" Mimi rushed to the hallway mirror, gasping as she tilted her head. "It’s huge! I told you not to!"

Jamal walked up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder. He met her eyes in the reflection, his expression unrepentant. "You look beautiful."

"I look like I’ve been attacked by a vacuum cleaner," she grumbled, though she leaned back into his chest. "You’re lucky I love you."

"I know," he whispered, his hands sliding down to rest firmly on her hips, mimicking the pose from the paparazzi photo that was still pinned to the top of every gossip site in Europe.

Three days later, the consequences of his stubbornness caught up with them.

VIVID was performing at a massive outdoor summer festival in Berlin. The heat was stifling, the humidity turning the stage into a sauna. Mimi was giving it her all, her signature chestnut curls damp with sweat as she powered through the high-intensity choreography of their second single.

Halfway through the performance, the heavy-duty waterproof concealer her stylist had painstakingly applied began to fail. As she hit the bridge of the song, tilting her head back to hit a high note, the stage lights caught it. The cameras, zoomed in for the giant LED screens, didn't miss a beat.

The purple trace was unmistakable.

By the time she walked off stage, the internet was already in a meltdown. Screenshots of her neck were trending alongside hashtags like #BeGentleJamal and #NationalTreasure.

*“Someone tell Musiala he’s playing football, not wrestling!”* one viral post read.

*“He really said 'Property of Jamal' in 4K resolution,”* another fan joked, attaching a side-by-side of the mark and Jamal’s smug face from his last post-match interview.

Mimi saw the tweets in the dressing room and put her face in her hands. "I’m going to kill him. I am actually going to kill him."

"At least he's passionate?" her groupmate, Sarah, offered with a giggle, poking at the fading bruise. "The fans think it's romantic. They’re calling him 'The Hunter' now."

Mimi groaned. "He’s not a hunter, he’s a menace."

But as she sat there, listening to the roar of the crowd outside, a spark of mischief lit up her eyes. If Jamal wanted to play the game of public displays, she could play too. And she knew exactly how to hit him where it mattered most: at the Allianz Arena.

The following Saturday, Bayern Munich was set to face one of their biggest rivals. The stadium was a sea of red and white, the atmosphere electric. Jamal was in the locker room, locked in his pre-match ritual, unaware that the VIP section was about to become the center of attention.

Mimi arrived twenty minutes before kickoff. She wasn't wearing her usual high-fashion idol attire. Instead, she was wearing a vintage, oversized Musiala jersey. The fabric hung low, the hem reaching mid-thigh, and she had styled it so one side slipped off her shoulder, revealing a hint of a black lace camisole underneath and her delicate collarbone. She looked effortless, sexy, and devastatingly "his."

The moment she took her seat, the whispers started. By the time the stadium announcer began the lineup, the camera operators had spotted her.

Suddenly, the massive Jumbotron flickered, replacing the sponsor logos with a live feed of Mimi. She noticed herself on the screen and blew a kiss, a mischievous dimple appearing in her cheek. The stadium erupted. Seventy-five thousand people let out a deafening roar that rivaled the sound of a goal.

Down in the tunnel, Jamal heard the sudden spike in volume. He frowned, looking at Thomas Müller. "Did something happen? The game hasn't even started."

Thomas pointed toward the monitor in the tunnel, a wide grin on his face. "I think your 'National Treasure' is here to collect her taxes, Jamal."

Jamal looked up and froze. Seeing Mimi in his jersey—his name stretched across her back, his number resting against her skin—did something to his brain that no tactical speech ever could. She looked incredible. She looked like she belonged to him, but she was doing it on her own terms, turning the entire stadium into her own personal fan meeting.

His heart hammered against his ribs. The possessiveness flared up, but it was tempered by a fierce, burning pride. That was his woman.

The match was a blur of adrenaline. Jamal played like a man possessed, scoring a brace in the first half. After his second goal, he didn't do his usual celebration. Instead, he turned toward the VIP boxes, found Mimi in the crowd, and pointed directly at her before blowing a kiss back.

The internet, predictably, died again.

After the final whistle, the locker room was a scene of celebration, but the players were more interested in the guest waiting in the lounge.

"Bring her in, Musiala!" Leroy Sané shouted, snapping a towel at Jamal’s legs. "We want to meet the girl who’s making our star boy lose his mind."

Jamal rolled his eyes, but he couldn't hide the smile tugging at his lips. He quickly showered and changed into his tracksuit, heading out to the player’s lounge.

Mimi was standing by a refreshment table, surrounded by a small group of staff who looked starstruck. When she saw Jamal, her eyes lit up. She moved toward him, the oversized jersey swaying around her petite frame.

"You played well, 'Hunter,'" she teased, her voice low enough only for him to hear.

Jamal didn't care who was watching. He pulled her into his arms, lifting her slightly off the ground. "You’re wearing my shirt."

"I thought you liked it when I made it obvious," she whispered, her curls brushing his cheek. "Payback for the neck mark."

"I'll take this kind of payback every day," he murmured, kissing her forehead.

He turned around, his arm draped firmly over her shoulders, to find half the Bayern Munich squad standing there, watching them with varying degrees of amusement and awe.

"Everyone," Jamal said, his voice unusually loud and clear, "this is Mimi."

"We know who she is, Jamal! We have Spotify!" Thomas Müller stepped forward, offering a theatrical bow. "A pleasure to meet the woman who finally made our Bambi grow some antlers."

Mimi laughed, her bright, melodic voice filling the room. Within minutes, she had the entire team wrapped around her finger. She was asking Harry Kane about his favorite spots in Munich, debating fashion with Leroy, and laughing at Thomas’s terrible jokes.

Jamal stood back for a moment, watching her. He saw the way his teammates looked at her—not with the predatory gaze of the fanboys he hated, but with genuine warmth and respect. They saw why he was so protective. She wasn't just a pop star; she was a force of nature.

"She's special, Jamal," Manuel Neuer said, stepping up beside him. The veteran captain watched Mimi with a fatherly smile. "Try not to squeeze her too hard, eh? We need you focused on the pitch, not just on marking your territory."

Jamal chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm trying, Manu. It's just... hard."

As the night wound down, Jamal led Mimi toward the underground parking garage. The adrenaline of the game was fading, replaced by a quiet, heavy intimacy.

"So," Mimi said as they reached his car, "did I pass the teammate test?"

Jamal pinned her gently against the car door, his hands resting on the metal on either side of her head. The jersey was still slipping off her shoulder, and in the dim light of the garage, she looked like a dream he didn't want to wake up from.

"They love you," Jamal said, his voice dropping to that low, possessive register that always made her breath hitch. "Everyone loves you. It’s infuriating."

"You’re the only one who gets to take the jersey off, Jamal," she reminded him, reaching up to tug at the collar of his tracksuit.

Jamal leaned in, his lips hovering just inches from hers. "Good. Because I'm not sharing. Not the jersey, not the girl, and definitely not the way you look right now."

He kissed her then—a deep, slow, claiming kiss that tasted of victory and salt.

The next morning, the top trending photo on Instagram wasn't from the game or the concert. It was a grainy shot taken by a stadium staff member of Mimi walking out of the arena, draped in Jamal’s heavy team jacket, her small hand tucked into his large one.

The caption read: *The King and his Queen.*

Jamal looked at the photo while Mimi slept beside him, her curls sprawled across his chest. He realized then that he didn't need to leave marks or hide her away. The world could watch all they wanted. They could loop the fancams, they could analyze the lyrics, and they could scream her name until they were hoarse.

But at the end of the day, when the lights went down and the stadium emptied, she was wearing his name on her back and his heart in her hands. And for Jamal Musiala, that was the ultimate clean sheet.