୧ 𝓙 ＵＬＥＳ ＫＯＵＮＤＥ

THE LIGHT FROM THE CHANDELIER GLANCED OFF HIS SHOULDER, BRUSHING AGAINST THE EDGES OF THE SUIT YOU HAD METICULOUSLY CHOSEN — fabric soft, tailored sharp, like it had been made to trace the lines of him alone. The room smelled faintly of cologne, and something warmer — your perfume, lingering in the folds of the jacket as you draped it over him.

He shifted, and you felt the familiar pull of closeness, the comfort of years spent in silent understanding. Your fingers adjusted the cuff, smoothed the lapel, traced the contours as though you could read him in the folds of fabric.

“You always do this…” he murmured, voice low, teasing, a note of mischief underlined by trust. “Make me look… unstoppable. Like I belong here.”

You smiled, brushing one of his locs from his face. Your hand lingered just a heartbeat too long, a casual touch that meant everything. You had seen him through jerseys and cleats, through press cameras and post-match chaos, but tonight — tonight he was yours in a different way. Polished, composed, magnetic.

@𝓜𝐑𝐒𝐑𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒𝐒