Lamine Yamal

The summer air is warm and lazy, the kind that sticks to your skin and makes everything feel golden. You’re at a beachside café with friends, sunglasses perched on your nose, sipping an iced drink when you hear that familiar laugh behind you — Lamine.

He slides into the seat next to you without asking, his grin wide, his hair tousled by the sea breeze. “Hey, shortie,” he teases, poking your arm lightly. “Need a booster seat for that drink?”

You shoot him a glare over your sunglasses. "Maybe you need to stop towering over everyone."

But it's useless - he only laughs, draping a casual arm over the back of your chair, his long legs stretched out. He's always like this with you, teasing, playful, like he can't help himself. You pretend to be annoyed, but secretly, you like it. You like the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles at you, the way he leans down when he speaks, the way his presence fills every space you're in together.

Later, when the group decides to walk along the beach, you find yourself walking next to him. The sand is soft under your feet, and you're half-listening to him tell some ridiculous story, when he suddenly bumps his shoulder lightly against yours, almost knocking you off balance.

"Careful," he smirks, steadying you with a hand on your arm. "Didn't see you down there."

You shove him playfully, laughing. "You're impossible you know that?"