Chapter 4: H
The confession to Dr. Schuller had been clinical, draining, and ultimately, anticlimactic. Vanja sat in the Head of Psychology’s sleek, book-lined office, her palms damp, outlining the facts with the dispassionate tone of a case study. Dr. Schuller, a man in his fifties with kind eyes and a razor-sharp mind, listened without interruption. When she finished, he steepled his fingers.
“This is a minefield, Vanja. You know this.”
“I do.”
“And you are prepared to resign your position, effective immediately, if I deem the conflict of interest unmanageable?”
Her heart hammered against her ribs. “Yes.”
He was silent for a long minute, looking out at the training pitches. “Your work with the academy has been exceptional. Your profiling reports on the senior squad are the most nuanced I’ve read in years. Losing you would be a professional stupidity on my part.” He turned back to her. “But the condition is absolute transparency. No secrets within the club’s walls. Manuel Neuer must inform the team leadership and his immediate circle. They don’t need details, but they must know the nature of the relationship to avoid any perception of favoritism or breach of confidentiality. If he agrees to that, you can stay.”
She relayed the terms to Manuel that evening in his penthouse. They were tangled in the bedsheets, the scent of their sweat and sex still hanging in the air. She traced the lines of his abdomen. “We have to tell the team. Or, you do. That’s his condition. And I’ll understand if you don’t want to. This is your private life.”
He didn’t hesitate. He shook his head, his hand coming up to cup her cheek. “Of course I want to.”
A slow smile touched his lips, but his eyes held a possessive gleam. “I want to tell Leon most of all. So he’ll stop following you around like a lost puppy.”
Vanja laughed, the sound bubbling up from a place of lightness she’d almost forgotten. “Okay,” she said, sighing. “Okay.”
“So, tell them,” she said, the challenge quiet in the dark room.
He did.
It was a casual dinner at his place, the sort he occasionally hosted for his inner circle. Thomas, Joshua, Leon Goretzka, and Serge Gnabry were sprawled across the large sectional, the remains of a gourmet pizza spread on the coffee table. The conversation was a familiar mix of tactics, dumb gossip, and reminiscing about past matches.
Vanja was notably absent.
“So, where is she?” Thomas asked eventually, cracking open another beer, his tone deceptively casual.
Manuel, leaning against the kitchen island, took a sip of water. “Where is who?”
“Our gorgeous psychiatrist, you idiot. Your girlfriend.” Müller’s grin was infectious.
“She’s a psychologist,” Manuel corrected, his voice even. A quiet settled over the group.
“And your girlfriend?” Thomas pressed, the joke now edged with real curiosity.
Manuel held his gaze. “And my girlfriend.”
The room was silent for a beat. Joshua leaned forward, his brow furrowed. “You met her before. At Saber Straße. We had no idea.”
“No,” Manuel admitted. “When she got the job offer here, we agreed to be completely professional. She spoke to her boss immediately. It was… a condition.”
“But now?” Leon asked, his voice quiet. He was watching Manuel closely.
“Now she’s been offered a permanent position to stay on after her internship. She wanted to quit. To avoid any conflict.” Manuel paused, looking at each of them. “I told her that would be a shame.”
“Of course it would be,” Joshua said quickly, nodding. “She’s amazing. She’s been saving me from Lina on a daily basis, honestly. The mindfulness stuff, the pressure-coping… it’s helped.”
Serge Gnabry swirled his beer. “When are we going to meet her, then? Properly, I mean.”
Manuel allowed a small smile. “You already know her, Serge.”
“Yeah, but like… why isn’t she here?” Gnabry gestured around the room.
“She’s studying,” Manuel said simply. “Finishing her doctorate. It consumes her.”
Thomas let out a low whistle, his humor returning but softer now. “So the great Manuel Neuer is finally off the market. And by a brain the size of a planet. I approve.” He raised his bottle. “To Vanja.”
The others raised their drinks, a murmur of assent filling the room. Leon Goretzka’s smile was genuine, if a little wistful. “To Vanja.”
Later, after they’d all left with backslaps and promises of discretion, Manuel stood on his terrace. The city was a tapestry of light below. He heard the soft ping of the elevator, the whisper of the doors. He didn’t turn.
Vanja’s arms slid around his waist from behind, her cheek pressing against his back. “How did it go?”
“They toasted you.”
She stiffened slightly. “All of them?”
“All of them.” He turned in her embrace, looking down at her. The night air played with loose strands of her dark blond hair. “Goretzka looked like he’d lost a cup final, but he toasted you nonetheless.”
She swatted his chest. “Stop it. He’s been nothing but kind.”
“He looks at you.” The possessive rumble was back in his voice, but it was tempered now, almost playful.
“And you shouted to a restaurant that you didn’t care who saw you kiss me,” she countered, her golden-green eyes catching the city’s glow. “So maybe we’re even.”
He didn’t answer with words. He scooped her up, one arm under her knees, the other behind her back. She yelped, clinging to his neck as he carried her inside, through the vast living space, and into the bedroom. He didn’t turn on the lights; the ambient urban glow painted everything in shades of blue and silver.
He laid her on the bed and followed her down, his body covering hers, his weight a delicious anchor. This time, there was no frantic desperation, no exorcising of demons. This was a celebration. A claiming that felt, for the first time, unburdened.
He kissed her slowly, deeply, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips until she opened for him. His hands were everywhere, not with frantic need, but with a reverent ownership. He peeled her sweater off, then her jeans, his mouth following the path of his hands. He kissed the hollow of her throat, the slope of her breast, before taking one nipple into his mouth through the lace of her bra. He sucked hard, his tongue swirling, until she was arching off the bed with a broken sigh.
“You are so fucking beautiful,” he muttered against her skin, his fingers hooking into the sides of her panties and dragging them down her legs. “And you’re mine. And every one of those idiots knows it now.”
She helped him strip off his own clothes, her hands eager on his belt, his zipper. His cock sprang free, thick and already weeping. She wrapped her hand around him, stroking firmly, and he groaned, his forehead falling to her shoulder.
“Not yet,” he breathed, moving down her body. He pushed her thighs apart, settling between them. The first slow, flat stroke of his tongue along her slit made her cry out, her fingers fisting in his hair. He lapped at her, exploring every fold, every sensitive ridge, before zeroing in on her clit. He sucked the swollen bud into his mouth, applying a relentless, rhythmic pressure that had her hips bucking off the mattress.
“Manuel… God… please…” Her pleas were ragged, torn from her.
He ignored her, his focus absolute. He pushed two fingers inside her, curling them, finding that spot that made her see stars. His mouth worked her in tandem, fucking her with his fingers while he sucked and licked her clit. The dual sensation was too much, too perfect. The orgasm ripped through her without warning, a violent, convulsing wave that left her trembling and gasping, her inner muscles clenching around his fingers.
Before the last tremor had subsided, he was moving up her body. He gripped his cock, notched the broad head at her entrance, and pushed inside in one smooth, deep thrust. She was so wet, so pliant from her climax, that she took him easily, a full, stretching ache that made her whimper.
He stilled, buried to the hilt, his body shuddering. “Look at me.”
She forced her eyes open, hazy with pleasure.
“This,” he said, his voice gravel, “is where you belong.” He began to move, a slow, deep, punishing rhythm. Each withdrawal was agonizing, each thrust a homecoming. The slap of skin, the wet sound of their joining, filled the shadowed room. He shifted her legs, hooking them over his elbows, opening her wider, sinking deeper.
“You feel that?” he gritted out, picking up the pace. “You feel how deep I am in you? This perfect, tight cunt is mine. Your mind is mine. Your heart is mine. Tell me.”
She was beyond words, reduced to sensation—the hammering of his hips, the scrape of his pelvis against her clit, the overwhelming fullness. She could only nod, a choked sob escaping her.
“Say it.” He drove into her, harder.
“Yours!” she cried out, the word a surrender and a victory.
It unleashed him. His control shattered, and he fucked her with a raw, primal intensity, the bedframe rattling against the wall. His breaths were ragged grunts in her ear. She felt another climax building, coiling tighter and tighter at her core, fed by his words, his possession, his utter abandonment.
“Come for me,” he demanded, his pace becoming erratic. “Come on my cock. Now.”
The command, the filthy perfection of it, snapped the last thread. She shattered, a raw scream torn from her throat as the orgasm detonated, blinding white and all-consuming. Her internal contractions milked him, dragged his own release from him. With a final, driving thrust and a guttural shout that was her name, he spilled into her, his body collapsing atop hers in a sweaty, spent heap.
Long minutes passed. Their breathing slowed. The city hummed outside.
He rolled off, but immediately pulled her into his side, her head on his chest, his arm a solid band around her. His fingers traced idle patterns on her shoulder.
“I meant it,” he said into the darkness, his voice quiet. “All of it.”
She knew he wasn’t just talking about the sex. She curled closer, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The fear of being a shackle was gone, dissolved in the sweat and the silence and the sheer, terrifying rightness of his claim.
In the morning, she was at his kitchen island, textbooks and a laptop spread around her, a pair of his sweatpants drowning her slim frame. He made coffee, placing a mug beside her. He leaned down and kissed her temple, a simple, domestic gesture that felt more intimate than anything that had happened the night before.
“I have to go to the stadium. Film review.”
She nodded, highlighting a passage. “I’ll be here. Chapter seven is trying to break me.”
He paused at the elevator, duffel bag in hand. “Vanja.”
She looked up.
“I’m glad you’re staying.”
The smile she gave him was small, real, and it lit up the whole sterile, beautiful room. “Me too”
The sterile room never felt sterile again after that. It became a space defined by her presence—a forgotten hair tie on the bathroom counter, a psychology journal splayed open on the sofa, the faint, sweet scent of her skin on his pillows. They fell into a rhythm over the following weeks, a precarious but thrilling balancing act. Her days were filled with lectures, research, and her sessions at Säbener Straße, where professionalism was an unshakable wall between them. His were consumed by training, media obligations, and the relentless pressure of the season.
Their nights, however, were a different country. A secret, shared territory of tangled limbs and whispered truths.
He came home one afternoon, muscles aching from a double session, to find her curled in a patch of sunlight on the floor, surrounded by a fortress of textbooks and highlighted papers.Mr. Mercury, her arrogant Siamese, was draped over her ankles like a living fur stole. The cat fixed Manuel with a disinterested blue stare, as if assessing a mildly inconvenient piece of furniture. Vanja was chewing on the end of a pen, her brow furrowed in concentration. The sight of her, so immersed in her own world inside his, struck him with a force that was almost physical.
He dropped his bag by the elevator. The soft thud made her look up.
“Hello,” she said, the frown melting into a smile that was just for him.
He crossed the room, his cleats clicking on the hardwood. He didn’t speak. He simply bent, slid his hands under her arms, and lifted her straight up from the nest of papers. The pen clattered to the floor. Mr. Mercury gave an indignant yowl and slunk away.
“Manuel!” she laughed, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders as he held her aloft. “I was in the middle of a critical thought!”
“Fuck your critical thought,” he murmured, nuzzling into her neck, inhaling the scent of her shampoo and earnestness. He carried her like that, towards the bedroom. She didn’t protest, just wound her legs around his waist, her laughter soft against his ear.
Later, sated and slick with sweat, they lay in a heap. The evening sun slanted across the bed, painting gold stripes on her skin. He traced the line of her spine with a single fingertip, from the nape of her neck to the swell of her backside.
“I have two things to say,” he told her, his voice rough from use.
She turned her head on the pillow, a sly grin touching her lips. “I’m not going to cycle with you.”
He laughed, the sound a warm rumble in his chest. “Not that.”
“Then what?”
He propped himself up on an elbow, looking down at her. The fading light caught in her golden-green eyes. “I want you to move in. Permanently. Not just your toothbrush and a change of clothes. Everything.”
She blinked. The playful glint faded, replaced by a slow, wary consideration. “Why?”
“Because I want you here when I’m here,” he said, the simplicity of it leaving no room for argument. “I want to fall asleep with you. I want to wake up with you. I’m tired of taking you home. I want your home to be here.”
“What about my cat?” she asked, a practical hedge against the enormity of what he was offering.
“Mr. Mercury can have his own wing if he wants,” he said, and leaned down to kiss her, slow and deep. He felt her soften beneath him, her lips parting in surrender.
“Okay,” she whispered against his mouth when they broke apart.
“Okay?” He searched her face.
“And?” she prompted, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth again.
“And what?” he asked, feigning confusion.
“You said two things. What is the other thing?”
“Oh,” he said, as if just remembering. In one fluid motion, he rolled, pulling her on top of him so she straddled his hips. His strong hands gripped her waist. The sheet pooled around their legs. He looked up at her, all pretense gone, his expression utterly naked. “I’m in love with you.”
A deep, rose-colored blush spread from her chest all the way to her hairline. She looked stunned, then unbearably pleased, then shy.
“What?” he said, squeezing her hips. “You knew this already.”
“Yeah,” she admitted, her voice small. She leaned down, her hair creating a curtain around their faces. “You fell in love after we had sex for the second time. And yet you spent two weeks acting like a pissed-off ghost.”
“Oh God, that is creepy,” he groaned, but he was smiling, his hands sliding up to cup her breasts. His thumbs brushed over her nipples, making her gasp. “But go on.”
She lowered her mouth to his ear, her breath hot. “I’m in love with you, too,” she whispered. Then she pulled back, her eyes darkening with intent. “Now. Take me to your bed.”
He growled, flipping her beneath him in a tangle of limbs. “We’re already in my bed.”
“Then act like it,” she challenged, arching into him.
He needed no further invitation. He kissed her, a devouring, messy kiss that tasted of confession and future. He moved down her body, his mouth leaving a hot, wet trail. He took one nipple deep into his mouth, sucking hard until she cried out, her back bowing off the mattress. His hand slid between her legs, finding her already slick and ready for him. He pushed two fingers inside, curling them, and felt her inner muscles clutch around him.
“So fucking wet for me,” he muttered against her skin. “Always so ready.”
“Only for you,” she panted, her hips rocking against his hand. “Always only for you.”
He replaced his fingers with his tongue, licking a broad, slow stripe through her folds before zeroing in on her clit. He sucked the sensitive bud, applying a ruthless, rhythmic pressure that had her fists tangling in the sheets. He added a finger, then another, stretching her, fucking her with his hand while his mouth worked her over. The dual sensation was too much. Her orgasm hit her suddenly, a sharp, shocking burst that made her scream, her body shaking uncontrollably.
Before the tremors had fully subsided, he was moving up her body. He gripped his cock, heavy and aching, and guided himself to her entrance. He pushed in slowly, letting her feel every inch, watching her face contort in a mixture of pleasure and overwhelm.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice tight with strain.
She forced her eyes open, glazed and full of wonder.
“This,” he said, withdrawing almost completely before slamming back in, “is what love feels like.” He set a brutal, pounding rhythm, each deep thrust hitting the very core of her. The headboard slammed against the wall in a steady, frantic beat. He hooked her legs over his shoulders, driving in even deeper, the angle making her see stars.
“Say it again,” he grunted, his pace becoming frantic, animalistic.
“I love you!” she cried out, the words torn from her by the force of his possession.
“And this cunt is mine,” he snarled, one hand gripping her hip hard enough to bruise, the other fisting in her hair. “This heart is mine. This life is mine.”
“Yours!” It was a sobbing affirmation. She felt another climax building, coiling from where he was pounding into her, spreading like wildfire.
“Come on it,” he demanded, his own release imminent. “Come on my cock. Now.”
The raw filth of his words, the sheer intensity of his claim, shattered her. She came with a broken shout, her walls clamping around him in rhythmic, pulsing waves. The sensation pulled his own orgasm from him. With a final, guttural cry, he emptied himself deep inside her, collapsing his weight onto her as they both shuddered through the aftermath.
They lay like that for a long time, a slick, breathless tangle. The room was dark now, the only light from the city beyond the glass. His weight was crushing, but she welcomed it. He finally shifted, rolling to his side and pulling her with him, her back to his front. He buried his face in her hair.
“So you’ll move in?” His voice was muffled, soft.
“Yes.”
“And Mr. Mercury?”
“Will tolerate you. For my sake.”
He chuckled, his arm tightening around her waist. In the warm, quiet dark, with the scent of their sex thick in the air and her body fitted perfectly against his, the future felt less like a terrifying leap and more like the only possible landing place.
In the warm, quiet dark, with the scent of their sex thick in the air and her body fitted perfectly against his, the future felt less like a terrifying leap and more like the only possible landing place. He traced the prominent vertebrae of her spine with a blunt fingertip, following the topography of her back down to where the sheet draped over the curve of her hip.
“I want a key,” she murmured into the pillow, her voice sleep-slurred.
“You have a key.”
“A real one. Not the electronic fob. A metal one that jingles in my pocket and feels heavy. Something that makes a sound when I open the door.”
He smiled against her shoulder. He understood. The fob was temporary, corporate. A key was permanence. “I’ll have one cut tomorrow.”
She made a contented hum, the vibration traveling through his chest. “Good.”
The key was cut. Her books migrated. Her clothes infiltrated his walk-in closet, her sleek blazers and soft sweaters interrupting the monochrome regiment of his athletic wear. Mr. Mercury arrived in a carrier, yowling his displeasure, and promptly claimed the sunniest corner of the living room as his sovereign territory. He treated Manuel as a clumsy usurper, a large, blond obstacle that sometimes dispensed food.
Three months dissolved into this new, layered reality. Vanja’s internship solidified into a junior consultant role, her office moving to a more permanent space with a view of the youth academy pitches. It was there, one crisp afternoon, that Thomas Müller and Joshua Kimmich found her, leaning against her doorframe without knocking.
“Manuel wants to ask you to marry him,” Thomas said, his tone conversational, as if commenting on the weather.
Vanja looked up from her laptop, her pen hovering over a notepad. “What?”
“Yeah,” Joshua affirmed, stepping in and closing the door behind them. He wore a slightly apologetic expression. “He’s been… researching rings. Asking… well, asking us what we think.”
She set the pen down carefully. The world tilted on its axis for a second. “No.”
“Oh,” both men said in unison, their faces falling into comic, bewildered disappointment.
“It’s too early,” she stated, her voice firm despite the sudden hammering of her heart.
“How is eight months too early?” Thomas protested, spreading his hands. “When you know, you know! Lisa and I—”
“We need a year,” Vanja interrupted, her mind clicking into analytical mode, assessing variables. “A full year of being together. Of living together. He can ask me then.”
Joshua nodded slowly, absorbing the logic. Thomas just looked deflated, as if she’d canceled a party.
“He’s not going to like that,” Thomas sighed.
“He’ll understand,” she said, turning her attention back to her screen, a clear dismissal. “Or he won’t. But that’s the timeline.”
They delivered the verdict to Manuel after training, finding him doing calf raises in the weight room. He listened, his expression unreadable, the machine clinking softly with each repetition.
He nodded once. “Okay.”
“Lina said it’s because you got divorced,” Joshua offered, leaning on a nearby rack. “She thinks Vanja wants to make sure you’re serious. That it’s not a rebound.”
Manuel stopped, wiping his face with a towel. A dry, humorless laugh escaped him. “I’m cleaning her cat’s litter box, Joshua. Every other day. And the little bastard hisses at me while I do it. He tries to trip me on the stairs. Of course I’m fucking serious.”
Thomas laughed, a loud bark that echoed off the steel and rubber. “That is commitment. Lisa said you should bring her to dinner. All of us. A proper one.”
The dinner happened at a secluded, oak-paneled restaurant in Schwabing. Vanja wore a simple emerald green dress that made her eyes look like ancient forests. Manuel’s hand rested on the small of her back, a constant, warm pressure as they were shown to the round table where Thomas and Lisa, Joshua and Lina waited.
The conversation was a river of easy rapport, football, childhood stories, and gentle teasing. Vanja held her own, her wit sharp and quiet, her laughter genuine. Lina, sharp-eyed and pragmatic, leaned in during a lull.
“Joshua says your work on his performance anxiety has been transformative. He’s less of a grumpy bastard at home.”
“She’s smart,” Lisa agreed, smiling. “It’s refreshing. Someone who isn’t just impressed by the jersey.”
“I’m impressed by the work,” Vanja corrected gently. “The discipline it takes. The psychology of it is what fascinates me. It’s not so different from law, Lina. It’s all about pressure, precedent, and execution.”
Lina’s eyebrows shot up, a sign of deep approval. She had finished law school before Joshua’s career exploded. “Exactly. See? Smart.”
Later, over dessert, Vanja gazed out the window at the passing trams. “I wish we could get another cat. Or a dog. Something that doesn’t plot my boyfriend’s murder.”
Manuel chuckled, his arm draped over the back of her chair, his fingers playing with a strand of her hair. “Mr. Mercury is possessive. He’d murder me in my sleep. I’d wake up with his paw on my throat.”
The table erupted in laughter. But Vanja saw the look that passed between Lina and Joshua, a look of settled satisfaction. She had passed some unspoken test. The night ended with warm hugs and promises to do it again soon.
In the back of the chauffeured car returning to the penthouse, the city lights streaking past the tinted windows, Manuel was silent. His hand was on her thigh, his thumb making slow, absent circles.
“You told them no,” he said finally, his voice low, without accusation.
The car’s partition was up. The world was a silent film outside. “I told them not yet.”
He turned his head to look at her. The passing streetlights carved his profile out of the darkness—strong nose, stubborn jaw. “A year.”
“Yes.”
“Is it the divorce?”
“Partly,” she admitted, meeting his gaze. “It’s the statistic. It’s also… I need to know this is the life you want, not just the life you’re in because I’m in it. A year feels real. It feels grounded.”
He nodded, looking forward again. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know.”
When the elevator doors closed on their private floor, he didn’t wait. He pushed her against the brushed metal wall, his mouth finding hers with a hunger that hadn’t diminished in eight months. It was a kiss of possession and frustration, laced with the sweet wine from dinner. His hands gripped her hips, grinding her against the hard ridge of his erection straining against his trousers.
“You drive me insane,” he breathed into her mouth, one hand fumbling for the zipper at the back of her dress. “With your timelines and your logic.”
“You love it,” she challenged, arching into him, her fingers tearing at the buttons of his shirt.
“I do.” The zipper gave way. The emerald silk pooled at her feet. She stood in just her heels and sheer black underwear, the elevator’s cool air raising goosebumps on her skin. He dropped to his knees before her, his hands sliding up the backs of her calves.
He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of her panties and pulled them down, his mouth already seeking the heat between her legs. He didn’t tease. He licked a firm, broad stripe through her folds, then buried his face against her, his tongue thrusting deep inside her.
Vanja cried out, her head thumping back against the wall, her hands scrabbling for purchase in his blond hair. The elevator chimed, the doors opening directly into their foyer. He didn’t stop. He ate her with a single-minded intensity, his tongue circling her clit, his nose pressed against her, drinking in her scent and her taste. Her legs began to shake.
“Manuel… not here… the…”
He ignored her, groaning against her, the vibration pushing her closer to the edge. Her climax hit suddenly, a white-hot wire of pleasure that short-circuited her thoughts. She muffled her scream against her own arm, her body bowing as he lapped at her, drawing out every last pulse.
Before the final tremor subsided, he stood, his own clothes a hurried casualty. He kicked his trousers away, his cock springing free, thick and angrily erect. He turned her around, pressing her front against the cool metal wall. He kicked her heels wider apart with his foot.
“You want a year,” he growled in her ear, his hand guiding himself to her soaked entrance. “You can have your year. But this is mine tonight.”
He thrust into her in one brutal, deep stroke. She gasped, the sensation of being so utterly filled, pinned against the wall, making her dizzy. He set a relentless, pounding pace immediately, each slam of his hips driving her into the unyielding surface. The sound was obscene—skin slapping against skin, her choked cries, his guttural grunts.
“This cunt,” he snarled, one hand tangling in her hair, the other splayed possessively over her stomach, holding her in place. “Mine. This heart. Mine. This fucking timeline. Mine, too. You understand?”
“Yes!” It was a sob of pure surrender.
“Who do you belong to?” He fucked her harder, deeper, his balls slapping against her.
“You!”
“And when I ask you in a year?” He was losing his rhythm, his own peak rushing up.
“I’ll say yes!” The promise was torn from her, raw and true.
That undid him. With a final, savage roar, he shoved into her, hilting himself, and she felt the hot, pulsing release of his orgasm flooding her core. His whole body shuddered against her back, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades. They stayed like that, joined, panting, pinned between the cold wall and the heat of his body.
Slowly, he softened, slipped from her. He turned her gently, gathering her naked, trembling form against him. He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her swollen lips. He carried her to the bedroom, away from the stark foyer, and laid her down on the rumpled sheets.
“A year,” he said, lying beside her, his gaze tracing her face in the moonlight.
“A year,” she confirmed, her voice hoarse.
A slow, genuine smile touched his lips. “I can wait.” He pulled her close, her back to his chest, his arm a solid weight across her ribs. “But I’m not cleaning that fucking litter box for a year without a promise.”
She elbowed him lightly, a laugh bubbling in her throat. He laughed with her, the sound vibrating through her. Outside, Munich slept. Inside, with the taste of her still on his tongue and her promise ringing in the air, the wait already felt like a form of belonging.