𑣲 Erling Haaland ⋆

You’re sitting on the couch with your phone tilted at that very specific, deeply suspicious angle people only use when they’re doing something they absolutely do not want to get caught doing. The living room is quiet.

Too quiet.

The only sound is the soft, overly dramatic music coming from your screen as yet another thirst edit of Erling plays in slow motion. This one is particularly shameless. Close-ups of the fresh buzzcut from every possible angle.

The clean line above his ears. The way the short hair makes his jaw look sharper, his cheekbones more severe, his entire face somehow more intense than usual. You’ve already watched it twice. You’re on the third replay, fully locked in, when a shadow falls across the couch.

“Interesting,” a low voice says from directly behind you.

You freeze.

Erling is standing right there, one hand resting on the back of the couch, leaning down just enough to see everything on your screen with perfect clarity.

The new buzzcut makes his expression unfairly easy to read. He doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t even look surprised.

He looks entertained. Quietly, devastatingly entertained.

“That’s the fifth one,” he continues mildly, still watching the edit over your shoulder. “I left the room for maybe eight minutes. You’ve somehow turned my head into a full documentary series.”

He stays there for another few seconds, letting the video finish, before walking around the couch so he’s standing in front of you.

Arms loosely crossed over his chest. Buzzcut catching the light. Looking far too pleased with himself for someone who spent the entire previous week being compared to various kitchen items.

“I think I need a proper recap,” he says, voice calm and almost thoughtful. “Because the timeline is getting confusing and I want to make sure I have it right.”

He shifts his weight slightly, icy blue eyes fixed on you with that same unhurried patience.

“Seven days ago I walked into this room with a fresh buzzcut. Within the first thirty seconds you looked at me, paused, and said I looked like an egg. Not just any egg. A boiled egg. A peeled boiled egg that had been left on the counter too long. You said my head looked like it had lost a violent fight with a lawnmower.” He took a breather— oh, he wasn’t done, was he?

“You said I looked like a Premier League football that somehow grew a neck. You said the light bounced off my scalp so hard it could be used as a distress signal for planes. You said I looked like I paid a barber to give me the ‘just released from prison and already regretting it’ special. You said if someone threw me into a pot of water I would come out hard-boiled.”

Alright, damn, Eminem…

He nods slowly, like he’s delivering a formal presentation.

“You were very creative. I was almost impressed. Most people just say ‘nice haircut’ and move on with their lives. You committed to the bit. You really went the distance.”

There’s a short pause. His eyes drop to your phone, then back to your face. A tiny, polite smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“And now you’re here. On my couch. Watching slow-motion thirst traps of the exact same head. With music. And transitions. And what I’m fairly certain is a soft heart effect in the bottom corner. You’ve gone from public mockery to private film analysis in under a week. That’s not just a change of opinion. That’s a full character arc.”

He takes a small step closer, still completely calm, still looking like a man who has all the time in the world and zero intention of making this comfortable for you.

“I’m not even mad. I’m genuinely impressed by the commitment. Most people insult me and then forget about it. You turned it into a research project. You’ve studied the side profile. You’ve studied the front angle. You’ve studied the way the light hits the stubble. You’ve basically enrolled in a master’s programme called ‘Erling’s Tragic Egg Head and Why It’s Suddenly Working for Me.’”

His voice stays mild, but there’s a clear undercurrent of amusement running through every word.

“So don’t stop on my account. Keep scrolling. I’m actually curious now. Which one finally broke you? Was it the side profile where the fade is too clean? The one where I’m drinking water and the buzzcut makes me look like I own three yachts and a silent understanding of tax law? The one where I’m just standing there existing and somehow that’s enough to ruin your entire personality?”

He tilts his head slightly, buzzcut catching the light again.

“Or was it the slow-motion one where I smile for half a second and the internet decided that was enough content for a full edit with emotional piano music?”

Another pause. He watches you carefully, clearly enjoying every second of your silence.

“You’ve already called me a bald football. You’ve already compared my head to multiple breakfast foods. We are so far past shame it’s not even visible in the rear-view mirror. So go ahead. Rank them. Give me the official list. Which version of my egg head made you switch sides so fast?”

He stands there, completely comfortable, arms still loosely crossed, looking down at you like a man who has just won a game you didn’t even realise you were playing.

The room feels a little too quiet. The phone in your hand suddenly feels a lot heavier. And Erling, with his freshly buzzed head and that calm, devastatingly patient expression, looks like he could wait all night for an answer.

“I’m listening,” he adds softly. “Take your time. I’ve got nowhere else to be. And clearly neither do you… considering how many times you’ve rewatched the same three seconds of my scalp.”