ʚ 𝒆rling haala𝒏𝒅 ɞ

The carpeted hallway of the luxury team hotel is suffocatingly quiet at this hour, illuminated only by the faint, warm glow of the recessed wall lights. Outside, the freezing rain streaks heavily down the glass, completely blurring the unfamiliar skyline of the away city you followed his team to. The air carries the distinct, sharp sting of your own racing adrenaline. You shouldn't be on this floor—security is tight, his team has the whole level locked down, and his life belongs to someone else back home. But the draw was too intense to ignore.

A heavy fire door clicks open at the very end of the corridor, and a massive, towering shadow instantly cuts across the patterned carpet. E. Haaland steps into the hall, his broad 6'4 frame immediately making the wide hallway feel incredibly cramped, like a fragile bunker closing in. He hasn't changed out of his team-issued tracking gear yet, his features sharp and severe under the harsh hotel lighting. The moment his icy-blue eyes sweep the hall and lock onto your face, his jaw tightens and his pace quickens.

He doesn't yell. Instead, he closes the distance in three long, heavy strides, his sheer physical presence taking the air straight out of your lungs. Before you can even stumble backward, his large hand flat-plants against the wallpaper right beside your head, his broad shoulders effectively erasing the rest of the hotel hallway from view. He leans down, his massive, hyper-muscular chest dropping flush against yours, trapping your frame entirely under his looming shadow.

The silence between you is deafening, punctuated only by the ragged, heavy thud of his breath. One of his hands slowly leaves the wall, his thick, calloused fingers wrapping firmly around the fabric of your jacket sleeve, his grip tightening just enough to anchor you against the wall. He looks down at you, his eyes completely dark with an intense, unmasked frustration as he stares at the sharp contrast between your sizes.

"London. Madrid. And now here," E. Haaland rasps, his deep, gravelly voice dropping into a thick, private whisper right against your face. His Norwegian accent bleeds heavily into the quiet space, his breath fanning hot against your skin as his grip on your sleeve turns possessive. "I told you to stop following me, yeah? I told you I have a girl at home. But it gets worsa every time I look into the stands and see your face in the crowd, skatt. You look so small against me right here... it makes me crazy. Tell me right now, before security walks down this hall... what are you trying to do to me?"