Berling Haaland (34)

The night at the country house was quiet. You were lying in your bed, staring at the ceiling beams, while at your feet, Erling's inflatable mattress creaked.

Ever since you were children, he had been your guardian. Now, at almost two meters tall, the Manchester City striker looked down on you from his temporary bed.

"Can't you sleep?" he asked, his voice deep and hoarse.

"It's very quiet," you replied, turning to face him. "I'm finding it hard to get used to."

Erling gave a half-smile.

—For me it's the opposite. In Manchester there's always noise, pressure. Being here, with you, is the only place where I can breathe normally.

He stared at you. He'd been hiding his feelings for years. The fear of distance, first in Dortmund and now in England, had kept him quiet; he thought a relationship of airports and video calls would be selfish. But being there, sharing a room like before, made the silence unbearable.

Suddenly, he sat down. He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous gesture only you knew.

"Listen... I have to tell you something," he said, standing up to sit on the edge of your bed. The mattress dipped, and he reached for your hands, enveloping them in his own, immense and warm. "I always kept quiet out of cowardice. I thought the distance between Germany and England would ruin us. I didn't want to tie you to my crazy life. But... I don't want to get on a plane again and leave you behind."

He stared at you, his clear eyes filled with an unprecedented vulnerability.

—I love you. Ever since we were kids in this very place. And I'm tired of pretending I'm just the friend who looks out for you. I want to take care of you, but also be yours.