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SUGAR, PLEASE. | 01: Terms & Conditions

Part of the SUGAR, PLEASE. series. Accompanying SMAU here

word count: 7159 warnings: alcohol, nothing else really notes: this one is so boring i'm sorry, it's just a bunch of exposition basically so we can get to the juicy stuff later! the way of how u guys got in contact and started texting is purposefully spotty so i wouldn't bore you with it lolz.

tag list: @redamancy6 @faelvz @tripleariies @s-v-e-l-t-e @librianabrrrrr @carolineswritingcorner @flvrq @leahxx34 @sunflowerssunlightphotosynthesis @lovejuliettq @blurry-rep @red-regret @pjmname

you are forty-three pounds into your overdraft, the milk in your fridge is one warm afternoon away from turning, and your landlord has slipped a note under your door that says, in the rounded, untroubled handwriting of someone who has never been poor, that rent is due monday with no extensions.

this is the london you know: grey light pressing against the windows, the radiator clicking like it’s trying to cough up a lung, and a low, constant panic that hums behind your teeth every time you open your banking app. so when marnie texts you at half past six on a thursday—i know a guy. drinks?—you say yes before you ask what kind of guy, because she always buys the second round and you have not eaten since yesterday morning’s toast.

she’s already at the pub when you arrive, tucked into the corner beneath the stained-glass lamp, one leg crossed over the other, tapping away at her phone with nails the color of dark cherries. marnie works in sports pr, which means she spends her days managing the disasters of very large, very rich men and her evenings looking like someone who has never once worried about a gas bill. she sees you before you see her and raises a hand, her gold bracelets sliding down her wrist.

“you look tragic,” she says, by way of greeting.

“thanks.” you slide into the booth across from her and immediately steal the bowl of nuts from the center of the table. “i look tragic because i am tragic.”

“you’re not tragic. you’re just... down,” she waves the barman over and orders you both glasses of white wine without asking what you want. “and that, my love, is what i want to talk about.”

you narrow your eyes. “is this pretty woman?”

“god, i wish. my life would be so much easier if i were julia roberts.” the wine arrives, and she pushes one glass toward you, then leans in with the particular intensity she gets when she is about to sell something. “okay. so. i know a guy.”

“you said that.”

“a specific guy. a footballer.”

you stop with the glass halfway to your mouth. “a footballer.”

“yes.”

“as in, kicking a ball around for millions of pounds.”

“that’s the one.”

you set the glass down. “marnie, if you're about to ask me to be your wingwoman again, i swear...”

she laughs, loud enough that a man at the bar glances over. “it’s nothing like that. he’s a client-adjacent person. friend of a client. twenty-six, plays in the premier league, recently single, absolutely not interested in dating anyone properly. but he’s lonely in the way that people who live inside a schedule get lonely, you know? he wanted company. someone to fly out on off days, have dinner with, stay over. someone who’s there.”

you pick up the wine again and take a longer sip. the pub is warm, and the wine is cold, and for a second you let yourself imagine a life in which any of this could possibly involve you. “and he came to you?”

“he didn’t come to me. he was drunk with a group of us after a match last month, complaining about being lonely and the fact that every woman he meets either wants a selfie or a ring on her finger, and he said something like, i wish i could just pay someone to keep me company, and i thought, well, that’s easily arranged.”

“you thought that was a business opportunity?”

“i thought it was a you opportunity.” she reaches across the table and squeezes your hand. “you’re broke, you hate your temp job, you’re too smart for the life you’re living, and you have the patience of a saint. he’s sweet, i swear, absolutely lovely. he’s not one of the nightmare ones.”

you lean back in the booth and fold your arms across your chest. “marnie, you are aware that you are describing prostitution.”

“no, i’m not.” she takes a sip of wine, unbothered. “i’m describing a very wealthy, very busy, very lonely man who wants to pay for companionship. there’s a difference.”

“is there?”

“yes. one of them is illegal and depressing. the other is taxable and depressing, if you want to be cynical about it.” she grins at you over the rim of her glass. “which you do. you love being cynical.”

“i’m a realist.”

"potato potato,” she softens, setting the glass down and reaching across the table to squeeze your wrist. “look. i would not offer this to you if i thought it would hurt you. i know him. he’s not one of those men who gets off on having power over someone. he genuinely doesn’t have time for a relationship and he genuinely hates the circus of dating. his last girlfriend couldn’t handle the schedule, the travel, the press. he wants something simpler.”

you turn your wine glass in slow circles, watching the pale liquid catch the lamplight. “does he know you’re asking me this?”

marnie hesitates. it is the first time you have ever seen her hesitate, and you find you do not like it. “well,” she says carefully, “not exactly.”

“jesus, marnie.”

“wait. wait.” she holds up both hands. “he said it, drunk and miserable, and i filed it away. i’ve been thinking about who i know who would actually suit him. you. i thought of you. but no, i haven’t mentioned your name to him yet. that would be insane. i wanted to talk to you first.”

“so your plan was to find me a sugar daddy without asking either of us?”

“yes,” she says, unashamed. “and if you say no, i never bring it up again, and you go back to being tragically broke and i go back to managing athletes’ scandals. but if you say yes, i approach him. properly. i say, remember that thing you said? i know someone. she’s smart, she’s private, she has her own life, and she might be interested. and if he says no, it’s done.”

“and if he says yes?”

“then you fly out for a weekend. all expenses paid. nice hotel, nice dinners, and a conversation about expectations and boundaries and money, because contrary to what you think of me, i am not sending you into some victorian novel. you meet him. you see if you like him. you see if you can stand him. if either of you wants to walk away, that’s the end.”

you press your thumb against the stem of the glass. “is this a sex thing?”

marnie snorts. the sound is loud and inelegant and exactly why you like her. “well, probably. he’s twenty-six and incredibly fit and he hasn’t had a girlfriend in months. he’s not flying a woman to a five-star hotel to lose at monopoly. but it’s not—” she lowers her voice, leaning in, “—it’s not that. it’s not a transaction per fuck. i think he wants a certain type of... situation. he wants to spoil someone. he wants to come back from training and have someone there who is actually glad to see him and not because he’s famous. the sex is part of it. it would be weird if it weren’t. but it’s not the point.”

you finish your wine in one long swallow. the pub is filling up now, the after-work crowd pressing in with their coats still on, laughing with the bright, exhausted relief of people who can afford to be tired, and you feel very still in the middle of it, like the eye of something.

“show me a picture,” you say.

marnie already has her phone out, already scrolling. “here. this is from a dinner last month.”

she turns the screen toward you, and you look at a man you know. everyone knows him. even if you do not follow football, you have seen that face on billboards, in adverts, looming out of airport television screens. blond hair pulled back from a high forehead, a nose that looks like it's been sunburnt recently, cheekbones that could cut glass, and blue eyes so pale they look almost colourless in the flash. he's smiling, a big, cheesy, genuine smile which seems out of character to how he was just described to you. his shoulders fill the frame, and he looks like a completely different species from you.

“erling haaland,” you say.

“yes.”

“erling haaland wants a sugar baby.”

“erling haaland wants you,” marnie corrects. “or he will, once i tell him about you.”

you stare at the picture. you think of your overdraft. you think of the milk in your fridge. you think of the note under your door, and the temp job where they make you scan files for eight hours while the fluorescent lights hum, and the fact that you have not left london in two years because leaving costs money. then you think of this man, this huge famous man, sitting somewhere in a hotel room with his schedule and his money and his specific, scheduled loneliness, wanting someone to have dinner with.

“he’s not weird?” you ask. “not formal? not one of those men who reads you a contract by candlelight?”

“he’s the opposite of formal. he’s goofy. he’s sweet. he’s too big for every chair and he eats like a horse and he has absolutely no filter. he’ll probably say something horrifying within the first ten minutes and then look genuinely confused when you don’t laugh.” she puts her phone down. “he needs someone steady. you’re steady. that’s why i thought of you.”

you look at your empty wine glass. you look at the pub, at the warm lights, at marnie’s face, hopeful and certain and slightly drunk. you think of all the ways this could go wrong, all the ways it could humiliate you, all the ways it could turn into something ugly and transactional and small. you think of the ways it could go right.

“okay,” you say.

marnie blinks. “okay?”

“set it up.”

for a second she does nothing. then she grins, that wide, delighted grin that has gotten both of you into trouble more times than you can count, and picks up her phone. “i’m texting him right now.”

you watch her thumbs move across the screen, watch the little message bubble appear and float out into the night toward a man you have never met. your heart is hammering against your ribs in a way that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the terrifying, sparkling possibility that your life is about to change shape.

marnie sets the phone face-down on the table and raises her glass. “to new beginnings,” she says.

you clink your empty glass against hers because the barman has not brought the next one yet, and you both laugh, and a moment later her phone vibrates against the wood. marnie picks it up. her eyebrows rise. she turns the screen toward you.

“he says,” she reads, “okay. tell me about her.”

the receptionist squints politely at her screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard in that way that already tells you this’s about to be awkward.

“and your surname again, miss?”

you repeat it, slower this time, spelling it out over the low murmur of conversations and the soft roll of suitcase wheels on marble. the lobby is all beige stone and tall glass and soft, expensive-looking armchairs occupied by men in suits checking emails and a family arguing quietly over whether they’ve left something in the taxi.

the receptionist taps, frowns, taps again. “i’m not finding a reservation under that name. are you sure it’s today?”

your stomach does a slow, unpleasant turn, even though this was always going to be the worst case scenario only in your own head and not in reality. “yeah, it’s today,” you say, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, fingers tightening around the handle of your carry-on. you’re suddenly very aware of your nails, chipped and unmanicured, and the fact that your coat has a missing button. “he said it would be in my name.”

“do you perhaps have a confirmation email?” she asks gently.

you fish your phone out of your bag, swipe through your inbox, and remember that no, you don’t have a confirmation email because you didn’t book this. he did. from a phone number that appeared on your screen three days ago with a simple hi, it’s erling and has lived in your contacts since as a full legal name situation, erling haaland

he’d texted the itinerary over himself—flight number, departure time, terminal, driver’s name—with the same blunt efficiency he’d used in every message since you’d agreed to come.

you’d replied with something that tried very hard to sound relaxed and not like you were rereading every word ten times. aside from that short run of messages—times, addresses, a “have a good night, talk tomorrow” thrown in once when you’d checked in to say you’d got your boarding pass—you haven’t really talked. no phone calls, no long late-night chats. just his name in your notifications, brief and steady, like calendar reminders.

“um,” you say to the receptionist now, scrolling uselessly. “could it be under… someone else’s name? he was arranging it.”

she gives a professional little smile, the kind people in expensive hotels have perfected, halfway between indulgent and noncommittal. “we can try, of course. what’s the other name?”

you stare at the polished counter, at the glossy hotel logo inlaid under the glass, and feel ridiculous even as you say it. “erling haaland.”

something flickers across her face—recognition, amusement, that quick schooled-away twitch of a football fan at work. she doesn’t comment, just types, and the seconds stretch out, long enough for heat to crawl up the back of your neck.

then her eyebrows lift a fraction. “ah. yes. i do see a note on mr haaland’s suite booking.” she scrolls, eyes moving quickly. “there’s an additional guest authorised to check in under his reservation.” she looks up at you properly then, gaze flicking over your travel-creased clothes and your slightly frazzled expression, and her smile turns real. “that would be you.”

you let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding, the sound coming out as a quiet, shaky laugh. “that’s me,” you say, resisting the urge to apologise to her, to the lobby, to the entire building for wasting their time by existing.

“if i could just see some id, please.”

you hand it over with hands that aren’t quite steady, and while she scans it, you let your eyes wander around the lobby, taking in the towering arrangement of white flowers on the central table, the hushed efficiency of the staff, the faint scent of something floral and expensive threaded through the air. this is several universes away from your flat in london, with its drafty windows and uneven floorboards and the neighbour’s music bleeding through the wall like a steady headache.

“here you are,” the receptionist says, sliding a keycard across to you in a little embossed wallet. “you’re in the presidential suite on the eighteenth floor. breakfast is included and served from six until ten-thirty in the brasserie, or you can order it to your room at any time. the spa is on level three, pool and sauna open until nine. there’s also a note here that any incidentals during your stay will be charged to mr haaland’s account.”

you try not to gape. “any… incidentals?”

“yes.” she smiles again, a tiny knowing thing that makes you wonder for a second what exactly she thinks you are to him, then seems to think better of it and returns to professional mode. “if there’s anything else you need, just dial zero from the room phone.”

you thank her, tuck the card into your palm like it’s something dangerous and delicate at once, and wheel your suitcase toward the lifts, feeling the odd, weightless sensation you always get in dreams where things are going far too well for them to be real.

the lift is mirrored on all sides, which means you get to watch yourself ascend: hair slightly flattened from the plane seat, lipstick mostly intact but smudged at one corner, eyes a little too wide. you smooth your hands down the front of your jumper and practice an expression that looks like someone who belongs in a lobby like this, in a hotel like this, going up to a suite booked by a man whose entire existence you’ve experienced so far through slow-motion replays and text bubbles.

the doors open onto a thick, plush carpet that muffles your footsteps as you follow the signs down a quiet corridor to the end, to a door with a brass number and a peephole and nothing else to mark it as different from any of the others. your keycard light flashes green on the first try, which feels like a small blessing, and then you’re pushing the door open and stepping inside.

the first thing you see is the window.

the entire far wall is glass, stretching from floor to ceiling, looking out over manchester in a soft wash of pale winter light. roads like veins, buildings stacked haphazardly in every direction, a hint of the stadium in the distance if you squint. the sky is that particular northern grey that looks almost silver when it catches, and for a moment you just stand there in the doorway with your suitcase crooked against your leg, staring.

then the rest of the room registers. there’s a living area, for a start, an actual living room in a hotel suite, with two enormous cream sofas and a low marble table and a flat-screen television mounted opposite, already set to some hotel welcome channel playing generic piano music. on one side there’s a dining table that could seat eight, laid with a bowl of green apples that look like they’ve been shined individually. the bed is in its own alcove, huge and perfectly made, all white duvet and a ridiculous number of pillows. there’s a separate dressing area, a bar with crystal glasses, a coffee machine that looks more complicated than your entire oven at home.

you trail deeper into the suite, letting your fingers brush along the back of one of the sofas just to prove it’s tangible. your trainers sink into the thick carpet with each step, like walking on memory foam, and the air smells faintly of lemon and something warm, like cedarwood. someone has left a small folded card on the dining table with your name hand-written in looping black ink and a welcome message from the hotel manager; beside it, another envelope with haaland printed on the front in neat block capitals. you don’t touch that one.

you roll your suitcase into the bedroom area and leave it by the wardrobe, then gravitate back toward the window as though there’s a magnet in your chest pulling you there. up close, the city looks both smaller and more intricate, every terraced house and warehouse and office block slotting together into a pattern you can’t quite decipher from this height. cars crawl along the ring road like toy models, people move as tiny dark specks on the pavements, and you press one hand lightly against the cool glass, feeling the difference between in here and out there with a clarity that makes your throat tight.

two days ago you were on your sofa in london in three jumpers, your phone buzzing with a message that had popped up while you were staring at your online banking, willing numbers to rearrange themselves.

aside from that, you really haven’t gotten to know him. you know his stats and his face, the way everyone does; you know he uses too many full stops for a man with such a joyful game face; you know he hates trains and worries if you’ve eaten and that’s about it. the rest is all blank space you’ve been filling in on your own, imagining his voice, his laugh, the way he’s going to look at you when you’re standing in front of him instead of on the other end of a screen.

it’s 12:32 now, according to the sleek digital clock by the television. he’d told you he had training this afternoon, but that he might be able to swing by the hotel before heading to the training ground if the schedule allowed, and if not then definitely dinner, booked for eight. you’d tried to sound casual when you texted back that you’d just be around, that you’d probably shower and unpack and maybe explore the hotel a bit, and he’d replied with a thumbs-up and nothing else.

you’re so wrapped up in replaying that last message, in imagining how this is going to go—he’ll knock, you’ll open the door, he’ll be big and a little shy, you’ll both laugh too much—that you don’t hear the door open behind you over the muted hum of the air conditioning and the distant rush of the city, don’t register the soft thud of footsteps on the carpet or the faint click as the door eases shut again.

you’re still staring out across manchester, hand on the glass, heart beating a strange uneven rhythm against your ribs, when a low, amused voice comes from just behind your shoulder, close enough that you feel the rumble of it before the words land.

“nice view, yeah?”

you jump, an actual little half-step forward that bumps your knee against the window ledge, your heart lurching up into your throat. a hand comes up instinctively as if you can ward off whatever startled you, palm splayed against the glass, and you spin around too fast, already flushing because of course it’s him, because who else would be walking into this room like he owns it.

he’s closer than you’d pictured, big enough that he seems to take up the space between you and the doorway entirely, shoulders broad under a pale grey sweatshirt, matching joggers slung low on his hips, the kind of thick cotton that looks impossibly soft. his hair’s pulled back in a loose tie at the nape of his neck, and there’s a faint pinkness across his nose and cheeks that makes him look like he’s just come in from the cold. a black backpack is hanging off one shoulder, his car keys hooked around a finger, and he smells like outside air and clean laundry, the slightly sharp tang of deodorant rising under it.

his eyes flicker over you automatically, quick and assessing in a way that doesn’t feel cruel, just curious, and then he winces a little, lifting both hands. “shit, sorry,” he says, accent thicker in person than you’ve heard in interviews, rounder at the edges, the vowels softer. “didn’t mean to scare you. i thought you heard me.”

you let out a breath on a laugh that sounds too high, hand still pressed to your chest now instead of the window. “i… definitely didn’t. you’re big, but you’re weirdly quiet.”

he grins at that, the corner of his mouth kicking up hard, something like relief sparking behind his eyes. “stealth mode,” he says, tapping his temple with two fingers. “very dangerous. sorry.” he takes a couple of steps closer, careful and unhurried, and reaches out, one huge hand settling warm and solid on your shoulder, thumb rubbing an absentminded stroke through the fabric of your jumper as if to smooth away the fright. “you okay?”

the touch grounds you in a way the room hasn’t yet managed to, heat seeping through your clothes, the size of his palm almost ridiculous where it spans from your collarbone toward your upper arm. you inhale and nod, feeling your pulse begin to relax. “yeah. just—wasn’t expecting… anyone. yet.”

his mouth softens, eyes dipping briefly to your chest where your heart is probably visibly trying to hammer its way out, then back up. “that’s on me,” he says. “just on my way to training. wanted to say hi before we talk tonight.” his thumb does another slow pass over your shoulder, like he’s reassuring himself as much as you. “hi,” he adds, voice a little quieter, almost shy underneath the steadiness.

“hi,” you say back, and it comes out breathier than you mean it to.

up close, he’s even more absurd than on television. there’s a familiarity to his face that’s uncanny—cheekbones, jaw, the exact angle of his nose from photos you’ve seen hundreds of times—layered over with all the tiny human details you never get from screens: the faint stubble along his jaw where he’s missed a spot shaving, the tiniest of lines by his eyes when he smiles, the way his eyebrows are so light they feather off on the ends. his sweatshirt hangs comfortably on his frame but still pulls a bit at his chest and arms when he moves, hinting at the kind of muscle that doesn’t really fit into clothes properly.

his hand lingers on your shoulder a beat longer, warmth sinking through the knit, and then he seems to realise he’s still touching you and gives your arm a light, almost absent squeeze before letting go. the room feels bigger and smaller at once when he steps back a little, giving you space while still somehow filling your entire field of vision.

“you found it okay?” he asks, glancing around the suite like he’s checking the work, like he personally assembled the place. “they didn’t make it weird downstairs?”

you huff out a small laugh, tension easing another notch. “i tried to check in under my own name and they looked at me like i’d made the whole thing up.”

his mouth curves, a flash of teeth. “yeah, that’s my fault. i forgot to tell them to put it in your name. i remembered the note, though.” he nods toward the dining table, where the envelope with his surname still sits. “they were texting me like, ‘sir, there’s a guest arriving, what do we do,’ like it was some kind of crisis.”

“and you told them… what, exactly?” you’re suddenly aware of the receptionist’s little knowing look and feel your cheeks heat again.

he shrugs, one shoulder lifting under the soft grey cotton. “that you’re staying here for the weekend and they should be nice to you.” his gaze comes back to you, steady and open. “that’s all.”

there’s something disarming about how simply he says it, no wink, no suggestion, just a fact laid down between you. he’s watching you properly now, taking you in without rushing it, and you have to fight the urge to fidget under the attention.

“you look…” he pauses, searching for the word, lips pressing together for a second. “good,” he decides, but that’s clearly not enough for him, because his face brightens and he corrects himself. “you look really good. the pictures your mate showed me don’t do you justice.”

your brain snags on that, on the idea of him looking at your photos, and you’re abruptly aware of every choice you made getting dressed this morning, every doubt about whether your jeans were too casual or your jumper too plain. “thanks,” you manage, your mouth tilting in something that’s half smile, half disbelief. “you look… cozy.”

he barks out a quick laugh, eyes creasing. “cozy,” he repeats, like he’s trying the word on. he looks down at himself, at the sweatshirt and sweatpants, then back up with a self-deprecating little shrug. “this is my uniform when i’m not in my other uniform. hope that’s not disappointing.”

“it’s very on brand,” you say, and relax a little more when you see how amused he is by that.

for a moment you both just stand there, a few feet apart, the window at your back and the door at his, the space between you filled with all the conversations you haven’t had yet. he shifts his backpack off his shoulder, drops it gently onto one of the sofas, and suddenly the room feels less like a show home and more like somewhere people actually exist in.

“i like that you went straight to the window,” he says, nodding past you. “first thing i did too, the first time i stayed here. you feel like god, looking down on the little ants.”

you glance over your shoulder at the sprawl of the city beneath the glass, then back at him. “you feel like god a lot?” you ask, teasingly light, because it’s easier than admitting how surreal this all is.

his grin widens, but there’s something a touch wry at the edges of it. “only when i score,” he says. “the rest of the time i feel like a very tall idiot running after a ball.”

you laugh, and the sound comes easier now, bubbles up from your chest without that brittle edge. he watches you, something pleased and a bit proud flickering in his expression, like he’s won a small victory.

“you must be tired,” he says after a moment, glancing at the clock on the wall. “long morning?”

“not really,” you admit. “the flight was short. i got here faster than i get to work most days.”

“good,” he says, a hint of relief there. “i didn’t want to drag you across the country and have you arrive half dead. did you eat? at the airport?”

you blink at the swift pivot into concern, then nod. “yeah. i got coffee and a… sandwich thing.”

“a sandwich thing,” he repeats, scandalised. “okay, we’ll fix that later. proper food.” his gaze does another quick pass over you, like he’s checking for signs of actual damage, then he seems to remember his own timeline and shifts his weight, glancing towards the door. “i can’t stay long right now, i’ve got to be at the training ground in…” he checks his watch, makes a small face, “forty minutes. but i wanted to see you. make sure you made it. that you’re… you know. real.”

“same,” you say softly, and it’s true. text messages and screenshots and marnie’s stories all felt like a sketch; this is colour.

his eyes catch on yours at that, hold for a beat that feels a fraction longer than casual. there’s a steadiness in him you hadn’t expected, given the nature of what you’re doing here; he doesn’t fidget or ramble or fill the silence, he just stands there, open and unhurried, giving you time to look back.

“you okay being here?” he asks finally, voice lower. “the hotel, the… whole thing.” his hand lifts slightly, then drops again, like part of him wants to reach for you and another part is reminding him you barely know each other. “if anything feels off, you tell me. today, tomorrow, whenever. i want you to be comfortable first, before we talk about… everything else.”

you nod, throat a little tight. “i’m okay,” you say. “it’s… a lot. but in a good way.”

he exhales like that’s an answer he’d been hoping for. “good.” the corner of his mouth tips up again. “and if it ever stops being good, we change it or we stop, yeah? no one’s trapped here.”

you’re the one who looks away this time, briefly, suddenly worried he can see too much on your face. “okay,” you say. “deal.”

“okay,” he echoes, and the agreement hangs there between you.

he steps past you then, moving toward the huge window you’d been standing at, and for a second you get the full scale of him in profile against the glass. he’s taller up close than you realised even a minute ago, the drape of the sweats doing nothing to hide the breadth of his back, the long line of his legs. he looks out over the city, hands going into the pockets of his joggers, his reflection faint in the glass.

“mad, isn’t it,” he says. “all those people down there, and i’ve seen maybe, like, ten streets properly.”

“you don’t explore much?” you turn slightly, shoulder almost brushing his arm now.

“season’s busy,” he says. “days off, i’m usually sleeping or… going somewhere i can’t be recognised, to be honest.” he glances sideways at you, a brief flash of sheepishness. “that’s part of why i wanted this like… this. quiet. simple.”

you’re close enough to see the way his lashes cast little shadows on his cheeks when he blinks. there’s none of the hollow, jaded distance you’d half-prepared yourself for; he looks tired in the way someone with a packed calendar is tired, but his eyes are bright, alert, fixed on you when he looks back.

“i should let you unpack,” he says reluctantly, glancing at the time again. “get settled, shower, whatever you want. order room service if you’re hungry. put everything on the room. don’t feel weird about that.” he says it with such casual certainty that for a second you don’t.

you hesitate, then, because this seems like the moment you’re supposed to say something about tonight, about dinner, about the conversations waiting for you on the other side of clinking glasses and dessert menus. “you’re sure you don’t need to, like, prepare or rest?” you ask. “i don’t want to mess with your schedule.”

he shakes his head, a quick, decisive movement. “you’re part of the schedule this weekend,” he says, like it’s obvious. “i train, i see you, i eat, i sleep. that’s it.” there’s that steadiness again, unflinching. “i’ll text you when i’m done at the training ground about dinner. if you want to leave halfway through, you leave. if you want to stay an extra day…” he trails off with a half-smile, not pushing the thought, just laying the possibility between you like another small, safe bridge.

you don’t know what to do with the little spark that flares in your chest at stay an extra day, so you tuck it away for later. “okay,” you say instead. “i’ll… be here.”

he nods, satisfied, then steps back from the window, away from you, toward the door. the distance feels more noticeable now that it’s growing again.

“i’m really glad you came,” he says, hand on the handle, and there’s nothing performative in it, just plain honesty. “i know it’s a weird ask. i appreciate it.”

you want to tell him it’s not like you had hundreds of better offers lined up, that your other plan for the weekend involved discounted wine and your duvet, but something about the way he’s looking at you makes you choose a different truth. “i’m glad i came too,” you admit. “i wanted to meet you. see if you’re… you know. as advertised.”

he laughs, sudden and delighted. “and?”

“and you’re very tall,” you say, deadpan.

that gets a proper grin, wide enough to change his whole face. “we’ll work on the rest,” he promises. “i’ll text you later.”

then he’s gone, the door closing with a soft click that seems too gentle for a man his size, leaving you alone in the huge, quiet room with the view and the echo of his handprint warm on your shoulder.

the restaurant is the kind of place with velvet banquettes and candlelight flickering off polished silver, everything soft and low and expensive in a way that makes you feel like you’ve stepped into someone else’s life. you’ve spent longer getting ready than you care to admit, coaxing your hair into something smooth, reapplying lipstick until it’s perfect, slipping into the best dress you own—something that always felt a little too much for anything you could afford in london, but here, under the golden lights, it feels almost modest. you catch your own reflection in the glass as erling ushers you to the table and, for a moment, you barely recognize yourself.

he’s already there when you arrive, standing up from the table so fast the white tablecloth flutters, a broad-shouldered silhouette in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and the top two buttons undone, collar open just enough to show the line of his throat. his hair is tied back, a few strands escaping as always, and there’s something about the way he grins when he sees you that makes all the nerves you brought with you dissolve like sugar in tea.

“you look…” he starts, trailing off as his gaze sweeps from your shoes to your face and lingers there. there’s a split second where he seems younger, almost shy, before the confidence returns. “incredible. i mean, really. wow.”

“thank you,” you say, smoothing your hands down the slip of your dress, trying not to look as giddy as you feel. “you clean up pretty well yourself.”

he laughs, a bright, delighted sound, and beckons you into the seat opposite, his hand hovering at your back as you settle. the waiter appears like clockwork, pouring sparkling water, offering menus, and erling glances at you for a silent nod before ordering steaks, medium-rare for him, medium for you, two glasses of an absurdly nice red. when the waiter leaves, you both exhale, a shared release, and for the first time since you arrived, manchester feels a little less enormous.

conversation comes easier than you expected. he asks about your journey—did you like the view from the plane, how was the car, did you get any sleep last night—and you find yourself telling him about the elderly couple you sat next to at the airport, about the little things that make up your every day. he tells you about training, about the new physio who’s obsessed with stretching, about the team whatsapp group and the endless parade of memes. he’s funny, genuinely funny, and he listens like every word matters, blue eyes locked on yours in a way that makes something flutter low in your stomach.

you talk about everything and nothing, the hours slipping by in a haze of laughter and warmth, and by the time the steaks arrive—seared perfectly, pink in the middle, served with sides you can’t pronounce—you’ve stopped thinking about the arrangement at all, stopped thinking about why you’re here or what you’re supposed to be doing. you’re just having dinner, and it feels real in a way you hadn’t dared hope for.

he watches you take your first bite, eyes bright with anticipation. “good?” he asks, and when you nod, sighing at the tenderness of the meat, he grins, pleased with himself. “knew this place was a winner. i don’t get to go out much, but when i do, i want it to be worth it.”

you smile at him over your wine glass, feeling the warmth all the way down to your toes. “it’s definitely worth it.”

he leans back, stretching his long legs under the table. for a minute, he’s quiet, watching you with a look you can’t quite read, something soft, a little searching, maybe even nervous.

then he clears his throat, setting his glass down with a little too much care. “so,” he starts, and the word hangs between you, heavier than anything else you’ve said all night. “i should probably talk about, you know. the reason we’re actually here.”

you set your fork down, pulse quickening, but his gaze steadies you. there’s nothing cold about him, nothing businesslike; if anything, he looks almost apologetic.

he keeps his gaze steady on you, the kind of open, attentive look that makes you feel seen in a way that’s almost dizzying, and when he finally speaks, his voice is gentle but sure, no hesitation, no awkwardness. “i’ve thought a lot about this,” he says, thumb tracing the rim of his wine glass, “and i don’t want there to be any confusion, or anything that feels weird for you. i like you—more than i was expecting, honestly. you’re clever, and you’re funny, and you’re beautiful, and i want you to know i mean that. i don’t want this to be some cold… transaction. i want it to feel good for both of us.”

he leans forward just slightly, elbows on the table, focus unwavering. “i want to spoil you. i want you to feel looked after, not just because i can, but because it makes me happy to see you happy. that means nice places, good food, trips, gifts—whatever you want, really. i don’t want you to worry about what’s too much or not enough. if you need anything, you just say. if you want to see me, you just tell me. i want you to feel like you can ask for things, and i won’t ever hold it over you.”

your cheeks burn, not from embarrassment but from the steadiness in his voice, the absolute lack of artifice. he watches the way you react, mouth curving in a little smile.

“as for the other side of it,” he goes on, quieter now, “if you want to sleep with me, i’d love that. i think you’re gorgeous. but you don’t have to. not tonight, not ever, not unless you want to. i want this to be fun. i want you to feel safe. you say no, it’s no. you want to sleep in your own bed, or just talk, or just eat good food and watch movies, i’m happy with that. anything else is a bonus.”

he’s still leaning in, and his knee bumps yours under the table, a light touch, not accidental but not demanding. “i don’t have a list of rules for you. i don’t want you to perform, i want you to be honest, and i’ll do the same. if you’re not comfortable or you want to stop, it stops. if you want to see someone else, that’s your right. if you want to come with me to paris or stay in london because you’re tired, both are fine. i’m not going to keep score. i just want company—your company.”

he lets the words settle, his eyes gentle and so blue they almost look unreal in the low light. “whatever you want from this, let’s build it together. i want to take care of you, but not control you. and if you ever feel weird, or it’s too much, or not enough, just say.”

he pauses then, waiting—not nervous, just open. “so, that’s it. that’s what i want. you, as you are. if you want me, too.”

you look at him, really look, and it’s impossible not to feel a little breathless. his hands are big and steady on the table, his jaw shadowed and strong, the open collar of his shirt showing the pulse in his throat. when he smiles, it’s soft, hopeful, almost bashful under all that composure.

you smile back, letting all your nervousness ebb away. “that sounds… really, really nice,” you murmur, and he grins, relief and something like triumph flickering across his face. the world outside the restaurant windows blurs into darkness, but here, with him, everything feels like it’s all going to work out.

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