Lamine Yamal

His Slides, Your Heels

The rain started with one drop.

Then two.

Then, all at once, enough for you to look up at the sky and groan.

“No.”

Lamine glanced at you. “What?”

“My shoes.”

Not your hair.

Not your makeup.

Not the fact that you were both about to get soaked.

Your shoes.

He looked down at the delicate heels on your feet, then back at the rain darkening the pavement.

And apparently made a decision.

“Take them off.”

You laughed.

“No.”

“Take them off.”

“Lamine, I’m not walking barefoot in the rain.”

“You’re not.”

You frowned. “Then what am I doing?”

He was already slipping his slides off.

You stared.

Then stared harder.

“You cannot be serious.”

“Put these on.”

“Those are massive.”

“They’re slides.”

“They’re going to fall off my feet.”

“Better than ruining your heels.”

You looked down at his slides sitting beside your tiny shoes.

The difference was ridiculous.

Your foot would practically disappear inside them.

“No.”

Lamine crouched.

You immediately knew you’d lost.

“Lamine—”

“Foot.”

“What?”

“Give me your foot.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“And you’re standing in the rain arguing while your shoes get wet.”

That got you moving.

You lifted one foot reluctantly.

His hand wrapped around your ankle, warm and steady despite the rain, while the other carefully undid the tiny buckle.

He pulled the heel off.

Then paused.

Actually inspected it.

Like checking for damage.

You stared down at him.

“It has three raindrops on it.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re insane.”

“Other foot.”

The second heel came off.

Both fit easily into one of his hands.

Of course they did.

He held them together by the straps, palm almost completely covering the soles, while nudging his slides toward you with his foot.

“Put them on.”

You slid your feet inside.

And immediately burst out laughing.

They were enormous.

Your toes barely reached where they were supposed to.

Lamine looked down.

His mouth twitched.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re laughing.”

“I’m not.”

“You literally are.”

He turned his head away.

Which somehow made it worse.

“Lamine.”

Nothing.

“Look at me.”

He finally looked down again.

You took one exaggerated step and nearly walked straight out of his slide.

That did it.

He laughed.

Actually laughed.

“You look ridiculous.”

“These are YOUR shoes!”

“Exactly.”

You shoved his chest.

He caught your wrist, still smiling.

Then the rain came down harder.

His expression changed instantly.

Your heels.

He looked at them.

Then at the rain.

Then opened his jacket.

You blinked.

“What are you doing?”

He tucked both heels underneath it.

Against his shirt.

Protected from the rain.

You just stared.

“Lamine.”

“What?”

“You’re putting my shoes inside your jacket.”

“So?”

“You’re getting soaked.”

“They’re not.”

“That is not the point.”

“It is to me.”

And there he was.

Hair already damp.

Socks getting wet because he’d given you his shoes.

One arm holding his jacket closed over your heels like they were some priceless artifact he’d been tasked with protecting.

You almost couldn’t believe him.

“Just give them to me.”

“No.”

“I can hold them under my dress.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll drop one.”

“I will not.”

“You dropped your phone twice today.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“My phone doesn’t have a heel.”

He stared at you for a second.

Then started laughing again.

“You know what I mean.”

“I really don’t.”

You tried reaching into his jacket.

His hand immediately caught yours.

“No.”

“You are being ridiculous over a pair of shoes.”

“They’re your favorite.”

You stopped.

“…How do you know that?”

Lamine gave you a look.

You wore them often.

Sure.

But you’d never actually told him they were your favorite.

“They’re the ones you keep in the box.”

Your expression softened slightly.

He continued walking like he hadn’t just exposed himself.

“And you clean them yourself instead of leaving them with the others.”

You stared.

“And you got annoyed when someone stepped on them last month.”

Now you were smiling.

“You remember that?”

He shrugged.

“Obviously.”

Obviously.

As if cataloguing your favorite heels somewhere in his brain was the most normal thing in the world.

You looked down at his soaked socks.

Then at the oversized slides swallowing your feet.

Then at his jacket, where your shoes were being kept completely dry while the boy wearing it was getting wetter by the second.

“Your socks are ruined.”

“I have more socks.”

“You also have more slides.”

“Exactly.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It does.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“You have one pair of those.”

You went quiet.

Lamine glanced down at you.

Smug.

Because he knew he’d won.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Mhm.”

You waddled another few steps in his giant slides.

He immediately put a hand around your waist when one nearly slipped off.

“Careful.”

“Maybe because someone gave me boats for shoes.”

“They fit.”

“They absolutely do not fit.”

“You’re walking.”

“Barely.”

Another slippery step.

This time Lamine sighed.

And before you could ask what was wrong, his arm slid around your waist properly.

Then lifted.

“Lamine!”

Your feet left the pavement just enough for him to reposition you against his side.

You grabbed his shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

“You can’t walk in them.”

“I told you that ten minutes ago!”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“And now I believe you.”

You glared.

He smiled.

So now the situation was somehow worse.

Lamine walking through pouring rain in wet socks.

Your heels hidden safely beneath his jacket.

His giant slides dangling loosely from your feet.

And half your weight supported by the arm around your waist because apparently he’d decided your comfort was more important than his dignity.

You looked at him for a long second.

“You really adore me, don’t you?”

That finally got him.

His smile disappeared.

His ears went pink.

Even in the rain, you could see it.

“What kind of question is that?”

Barefoot Means His Problem Now

The second your heels came off, Lamine became unbearable.

Not because he minded carrying them.

That part he actually seemed suspiciously happy about—both shoes hooked over two fingers, swinging lazily beside his leg while his other hand stayed at your waist.

No.

The problem was that now you were barefoot.

And apparently, in Lamine’s mind, that made the entire outside world a personal threat.

“Wait.”

You stopped mid-step.

“What?”

He stared at the pavement in front of you.

There was a tiny patch of gravel.

Not broken glass.

Not something sharp.

Gravel.

You looked at him.

Then at the ground.

Then back at him.

“Lamine.”

“Go around.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“It’ll hurt.”

“It’s literally three little stones.”

“Exactly.”

You almost laughed.

“You play football professionally and you’re scared of three stones?”

“I’m not the one walking on them barefoot.”

His hand settled more firmly around your waist, gently steering you two steps to the left.

Around the apparently lethal gravel.

“There,” he said.

You stared at him.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Keep walking.”

And you did.

For approximately ten seconds.

Then his hand suddenly pressed against your stomach, stopping you again.

“What now?”

“Glass.”

Your heart jumped.

“Where?”

Lamine pointed.

Nearly a meter away, close to the curb, was something that might have been a tiny piece of glass.

Nowhere near you.

You slowly looked up at him.

“I wasn’t even walking there.”

“You could’ve.”

“I was walking straight.”

“You change direction all the time.”

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“When you see dogs.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

Unfortunately, he had evidence.

So you continued.

Except now you started noticing him noticing everything.

His eyes weren’t on the people around you anymore.

They were constantly flicking toward the pavement.

A puddle.

He moved you around it.

A rough patch of concrete.

His palm guided you toward the smoother side.

Some leaves gathered near the curb.

“No.”

“They’re leaves.”

“Could be something underneath.”

You stopped completely.

“Are you conducting a safety inspection?”

Lamine looked down at you like you were being difficult.

“You took your shoes off.”

“Because my feet hurt.”

“Exactly.”

“That doesn’t mean I suddenly have newborn feet.”

His mouth twitched.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

You shoved his shoulder.

He barely moved.

Instead, his hand caught yours immediately.

And then he kept holding it.

Your heels dangling from his other hand.

Your fingers swallowed inside his.

His attention still frustratingly split between you and whatever terrible dangers might be hiding on the sidewalk.

Then—

“Ow.”

It was barely anything.

A tiny pebble.

You stepped on it wrong and immediately lifted your foot, more startled than hurt.

But Lamine stopped so abruptly you nearly walked into him.

“What?”

“I’m fine.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“You said ow.”

“Because I stepped on a pebble.”

His face changed.

Not dramatically.

Just enough for you to know you had made a terrible mistake.

“Lamine—”

“Come here.”

“I’m fine.”

He was already crouching down.

Right there.

In the middle of the pavement.

You stared at his back.

“Absolutely not.”

“Get on.”

“Lamine.”

He looked over his shoulder.

“Get on.”

“You’re not carrying me because I stepped on one pebble.”

“Yes, I am.”

“That is insane.”

“You took your heels off because your feet hurt, and now the ground hurts too.”

“The ground does not hurt.”

“You literally said ow.”

“I regret telling you.”

“You didn’t tell me. I heard you.”

He crouched lower.

You remained stubbornly standing behind him.

People were walking past.

Somebody definitely recognized him.

You could already imagine someone taking a picture of Lamine Yamal crouched on a sidewalk with your heels hanging from one hand while waiting for you to climb onto his back.

“I can walk.”

“Okay.”

He started standing.

For one victorious second, you thought you’d won.

Then he turned around.

Handed you your heels.

Bent slightly—

and simply picked you up instead.

Your feet left the ground.

“LAMINE.”

He laughed immediately.

One arm beneath your knees, the other around your back, completely ignoring you hitting his shoulder.

Like a Trophy

It started because your feet hurt.

Nothing dramatic.

You were only halfway through saying, “I think these heels are actually trying to kill me,” when Lamine stopped walking.

“Take them off.”

You looked at him. “Here?”

“Yeah.”

“There are people everywhere.”

“And?”

Of course.

You should’ve known better than to argue once he got that little crease between his brows.

So you slipped one heel off, then the other, immediately sighing when your feet finally touched the ground.

Lamine watched the entire process with suspicious satisfaction.

Then held his hand out.

You placed both heels into it.

And immediately had to look twice.

Because somehow they looked even tinier there.

He slipped two fingers through the ankle straps effortlessly, letting the shoes hang from his hand like they weighed absolutely nothing.

Your delicate little heels.

Swinging from the fingers of a boy whose palm could practically cover one whole shoe.

You stared.

Lamine noticed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re looking at my hand.”

“I’m looking at my shoes.”

He glanced down at them.

Then deliberately spread his fingers a little wider, making the size difference even more ridiculous.

A smug smile appeared.

“Oh.”

“Don’t.”

“They’re tiny.”

“They are normal-sized heels.”

“For who?”

You smacked his arm.

Lamine laughed, catching your waist with his free hand before you could move away.

And that was how you continued walking.

Barefoot.

His arm comfortably around you.

Your heels dangling from his other hand.

Except Lamine looked almost… proud about it.

That was the embarrassing part.

He wasn’t trying to hide them behind his leg.

Wasn’t carrying them awkwardly.

Wasn’t acting like you’d burdened him with your things.

If anything, he kept swinging them slightly as he walked, entirely unbothered by anyone seeing.

Like It’s Something Precious

You only handed him your heel because you needed both hands for a second.

“Hold this.”

That was it.

But when you looked back at Lamine, he wasn’t even looking at you anymore.

He was staring at the shoe sitting in his palm.

Your entire heel looked almost absurd there—thin little straps spilling between his fingers, the sole barely stretching from the base of his palm toward his fingertips. His hand could practically close around the whole thing.

You narrowed your eyes. “Why are you looking at it like that?”

Lamine slowly turned it over.

Then back again.

His thumb brushed over the tiny buckle.

“This is actually your shoe?”

You blinked. “…Yes?”

“It’s so small.”

“Lamine.”

“No, look.” He spread his hand behind it as if presenting evidence. “My hand is basically the same size.”

You reached for it, already embarrassed. “Give it back.”

Except he lifted his arm just slightly.

Not enough to genuinely keep it from you.

Just enough to make you glare.

And that stupid little smile appeared.

“Cute.”

“My shoe?”

His eyes finally moved from the heel to you.

And his expression changed.

Softer.

“No.”

Oh.

You immediately stopped reaching.

Lamine looked down at the heel again, turning it carefully between his fingers as though it were somehow fragile. Expensive. Something he’d been trusted not to damage.

Which was ridiculous.

It was just a shoe.

Yet something about it had apparently gotten to him—the tiny buckle, the delicate straps, how completely it disappeared against his hand.

Something so unmistakably yours sitting there.

When you tried taking it again, his fingers curled protectively around the straps.

“I’ll carry it.”