Lamine Yamal

You’d lived in Germany for a year and a half — stable job, good pay, gorgeous apartment with heated floors. When your close friend asked for a favour — again — you almost said no. “Just a few German lessons,” he said. “He’s new, doesn’t speak much, and you’re the only multilingual genius I trust.” You rolled your eyes. “Fine. But no more kids. I’m not babysitting.” “Come on,” he laughed. “He’s easy to deal with.”

That first day, you expected a scrawny 16‑year‑old. Instead, you saw a tall man — at least 6’2”, broad shoulders, a too‑perfect smile. “Hi,” he said in a deep voice. “You’re the tutor?” You blinked. “I—uh—yes. Come in.” Your friend had done this on purpose. “I’m Lamine,” he said.

During the lesson, he listened, asked questions, pronounced things well. He didn’t glance at your legs when you crossed them. The second and third classes followed. You noticed how he leaned too close when reading, said your name slowly. On the third day, you asked, “How old are you again?” “Nineteen,” he replied, no shame — and it looked like he was waiting for you to choke on your tea. Which you did. “I told your friend. They just didn’t tell you,” he said calmly.

You muttered, “I’m going to kill them.” He laughed, and your stomach fluttered. Minutes before the fourth lesson, you fluffed pillows and checked your reflection — just habit. The doorbell rang. He stood there — hoodie off, shirt hugging his frame. “Hey,” he said smoothly. “You ready for me?” You blinked. “For the lesson, yes.” He raised a brow. “Of course.”

He sat, spread his notebook. His hand brushed yours when reaching for a pen.

“I’ve been practicing,” he said, looking up. “Really?” “Mhm.” He leaned in, lowered his voice. “Ich will dich besser kennenlernen.” You froze. You knew what that meant. “Did your friend teach you that?” “No,” he said, with a dangerous glint. “I looked it up.” Of course he did. You’re screwed, and you know it.