"Oh my god Oliver! "You point to the flat screen, your boyfriend joggs from the kitchen, spatula still in hand. His eyes meet the screen his shoulders sag as he turns to you with an half-amused, half-bored expression. Â
"Come on baby, don't do that, it's an important game" he scolds walking back to the kitchen. You poke your tongue out at him, cozying on the couch once more. Half-time is twenty minutes away and none of the teams has scored yet. The tension amongst the players is slowly reaching its peak, as they become more and more aggressive: qualifications for the world cup are at stake.Â
Oliver has given you the duty to call him when a significant action is happening, as he insisted on cooking a signature Swedish meal for you to taste. You get to lounge on the couch and annoy him.
Friday nights don't get better than that.
"What the fuuuck" you exclaim after a few silent minutes, Oliver comes back running only to find out the game hasn't progressed any further. Your boyfriend fake growls, showing all of his teeth. Oliver approaches the couch dangerously. You squeal, squeezing your shoulder to your ears, in a poor attempt to shield yourself. His large hand squeezes your cheeks together, lips, crashing with your repeatedly as he groans. Your shoulders shake with laughter as he moves onto the apple of your cheek, biting. He stands beside you for a moment, eyes on the screen as his hand rests on your scalp, his fingers presses into you from time to time, like he's sizing you up.Â
"Dinner is near ready, be good" he says, walking  back to the kitchen. The sweatpant he's wearing is accentuating his waist and strong thighs. Oliver catches you staring and winks at you.Â
The game is getting boring, eight minutes to halftime and not a goal in sight, you're second away from wiping your phone out. When the commentator's speech accelerates, you give a glance in Oliver direction's. He still focuses on the pan and probably can't hear the TV over the sound of the sizzling food combined to the kitchen hood. The striker gets closer to opposite team cages.Â
"Oliver, Oliver!" you speak louder so he can hear you over the ambient sounds.
"Not falling for it thrice " he laughs, stirring the pan in front of him.
The striker aims and shoots. The net shakes under the impact of the ball.
The whistle blows, signaling to the whole world the course of the game has changed.Â
Oliver turns to you with round eyes, you burst out laughing.Â
The halftime is ending in three minutes, you're now sitting on your boyfriend's lap as he feeds you. More like he placed you there himself after you couldn't stop making fun of him for missing the action he's been waiting for all night.
"Look what I have to do to keep you from lying" he shakes his head left to right as he stuffs your mouth with another forkful. You swallow and hold his wrist away from you when he's about to give you another.Â
"Hey! I did warn you a goal was about to be scored, you don't trust your girlfriend, that's the sad story" you direct the fork to his lips, he obediently opens his mouth letting you feed him in return. His mismatched eyes don't leave yours as he chews.Â
You'd think you're able to maintain his gaze after so much time spent together, but you feel your heart flutter in your chest, just like on the first dates. You avert your gaze, just in time as he smirks like a fool, you focus back on the tv instead.
"Look Oliver it's starting again" you tap his thigh obnoxiously "Wouldn't want to miss that"Â
"Sure won't" Oliver adjusts you on his lap,you're flushed against him as he reaches for another forkful to feed you.Â
