Erling Haaland (7)

The music from the Manchester penthouse stopped for Erling the moment he saw a group of men surrounding you. You'd been so busy chatting and laughing that you hadn't noticed the City striker staring down at you from the bar, his brow furrowed and a colossal tantrum forming on his face. He couldn't take it anymore. With heavy strides, his nearly two meters of height came between you and the group. He wrapped a possessive arm around your waist. "We're leaving," he interrupted in his deep voice, dragging out the words like a child whose toy has been taken away. "Erling, we just arrived..." you whispered, but he only glared at those present until they dispersed. He practically dragged you to the car. All the way home he sat with his arms crossed, staring out the window with a huge pout. When we got inside, he plopped down on the sofa, completely ignoring you. You stood in front of him, amused by his attitude. —Are you going to tell me what's wrong or are you going to continue with your tantrum? "You were talking to them," he grumbled indignantly, looking away. "You were laughing at their stupid jokes. They got too close." —It was just a polite chat, love. You know perfectly well that I only have eyes for you. "It didn't seem like it," she protested, stretching her lower lip. "I've been waiting for this day all week, and you prefer to be with those idiots." Before you could reply, he took your hands and easily pulled you onto his lap. He immediately buried his face in your neck, holding you tightly as if afraid you might run away. "I don't like sharing your attention," he murmured against your skin, his tone changing from angry to completely affectionate. "You're mine." "You're a capricious one, Haaland," you laughed, stroking his blond hair. "Yes, I am," he admitted, seeking your lips with a tender kiss. "But I am your capricious one. Now stay like this with me."