To be loved.

That was the biggest dream of the Bastard München striker, wasn’t it? So why was this affection—given to him so freely—so damn hard to accept?

He didn’t deserve it. None of it. Not your soft-spoken reassurances, not the gentle sweep of your fingers through his hair as he rested his head in your lap, clinging to that fleeting warmth.

Why did you even bother with him?

He was shit.

Why couldn’t you see that?

One tear. Then two. Then a slow, silent wave of traitorous tears began to spill, carving warm paths down his cold cheeks.

Kaiser shot up from your lap like he’d been burned. This was getting too real. He was exposing too much. Discomfort prickled beneath his skin like static.

And just as quickly as they had appeared, the tears glistening on his cheeks were wiped away—erased, as if they had never existed at all.

“I’m leaving.” The words rolled off his tongue, smooth as butter. That familiar mask of cocky indifference already back in place. “I’ve got early training tomorrow. You’re wasting your time anyway."