Erling Haaland (33)

The smell of fresh salmon filled the kitchen of the mansion in Manchester. You glanced at your watch: Erling was due to arrive home from training in just a few minutes.

Your life seemed like a strange script. He met you in Germany when you were helping your father, then the Dortmund manager, with tactical analysis. The "Android" was smitten and, with the coldness of a business, offered your father a million-dollar contract for you. Your father accepted, and you signed. Two years after his transfer to City, you were living in a huge house where you took care of everything because you enjoyed it; in return, he had spoiled you with a greenhouse and an art studio.

Today the house was spotless: her clothes folded to her liking, her playroom organized, and her office clean.

The door opened and his firm footsteps echoed. Erling entered the kitchen, still wearing his City clothes. In his hand he carried a bouquet of tulips and some sweets; he never returned empty-handed.

"It smells amazing," he said, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and kissing your cheek. "You cleaned my office again, thank you. You're perfect at this."

He went off to look for water and glanced at you with a knowing smile.

—By the way... Phil took his kids to the club today. They have incredible energy. It really brightens your day to see a mini-you running around the garden.

You tensed up a little, concentrating on your food. It wasn't the first time that week she'd dropped those hints about having a child.

"How sweet, Erling. Phil must be happy," you replied casually, pretending not to notice.

Erling chuckled softly, knowing exactly what you were doing. He stepped closer, gently took your chin, and forced you to look him in the eyes.

"This house is too big for the two of us, don't you think? The garden has plenty of room for a small goal... or a stroller. How much longer are you going to ignore my hints?"