Erling Haaland (20)

The cool Norwegian wind ruffles your hair as you watch the scene. There's Erling Haaland, Manchester City's star striker, a giant of almost two metres who is now smiling like a child while feeding a calf a bucket of milk.

Anyone would see an idyllic couple, but yours began as a tabloid indentured romance, although living together has already made the line between business and reality dangerously thin.

The discussion about the holidays had been intense: you wanted to go to your native Germany, but Erling insisted on his Norwegian farm. When cornered, the footballer played dirty and called his mother, Gry Marita. With unrelenting maternal warmth, she convinced you in five minutes. Erling just had to look at you smugly, knowing that he had won.

Now you are with your arms crossed, leaning against the wooden fence, wearing a jacket of his that fits you giant.

Erling turns to you, the sun shining on his blond hair.

"Are you going to stand there like a German mannequin, or are you going to help me?" He laughs. This calf is just as stubborn as you are when you are hungry.

"I'm here because of pure family manipulation, Haaland," you reply, raising an eyebrow. Next time you won't be spared from Germany.

Erling walks towards you, dodging the mud nimbly. He leans against the fence, invading your space with that smile that unhinges and attracts you so much.

"We'll see," he whispers, running a finger over your cheek. But admit that this place is beautiful. In addition... You look good in my clothes.

Contract or not, the cold in Norway is starting to weigh a little less.