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“I love you.”
Three words, spoken softly into the stillness of the enclosed room. So earnest. So gentle. So honest.
Arda heard Dean loud and clear, who was sitting just beside him on the bed, barely a breath away. So close. Too close. And yet, his words felt distant, as if Arda wasn’t meant to hear them. As though those words have no place in this room, in this time, and in his world. It was merely three words, and still, they twisted in his stomach like poison, stirring something disorienting and unfamiliar.
The air of the room is cold, and yet he’s burning either from the warmth of being wanted or from the shame that he couldn’t find the courage to reject him. He couldn’t tell. He didn’t want to. He wasn’t ready to face any of this—not Dean, not himself. It was suffocating.
The words became a jumbled mess in Arda’s mind, mixed with thoughts he couldn’t, or refused to, name. He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t think of a proper response. As if every language he knew vanished into oblivion.
But he had to say something, anything.
Arda cleared his throat and let out a nervous chuckle. “Are you drunk?” he tried to joke, though his voice betrayed him. His eyes didn’t dare to meet Dean’s; he feared that he couldn’t look at him the same way anymore. Like returning his fervent gaze would drown him in sin.
Silence hung heavy in the air. Until Dean let out a dry laugh, “Yeah, I am. Totally hammered.”
Arda’s lips twitched—almost a laugh, almost a sigh of relief—hoping that maybe it was all just a joke. That it didn’t mean anything. But deep down, he knew: he’ll subconsciously start questioning, imagining, the what-ifs that never had the chance to become something more.
And when he finally looked straight into Dean’s eyes, what stared back at him wasn’t amusement—it was devastatingly sincere. He wanted to look away. To run. But he felt frozen in place.
Dean held his gaze. “But I’m lying. I just wanted to give you the courage to face me.” He smiled gently. “I’m sober, Arda.”
“Then, why… why would you say that?”
“Because I wanted you to know that I love you. That I want you.” Simple. Direct. Pierced right through him.
“No.” Arda’s voice cracked. “This isn’t right.”
Every word of Dean’s confession sounded like a prayer. And yet to accept it, to believe it, to indulge in it, felt immoral, as if he were standing before something holy and shameful at the same time.
Arda never once thought of Dean as a possible romantic partner, nor did he allow himself to. Never once thought it was possible, or let alone permissible. But now, cornered by Dean’s feelings, he was wavering.
A side of him wanted to indulge, to test the waters, to believe that maybe the lingering touches, the stolen glances, and quiet moments shared during training, in empty hallways, in the long bus or plane rides, actually meant something more.
Maybe, tonight, in this dimly lit hotel room, he’ll have the answers to the questions that have been haunting him since they met.
To why his heart stumble at the sound of his name on Dean’s lips.
To why he can’t stop smiling like a fool when Dean’s around.
To why his body instinctively lean toward Dean’s touch, again and again, like it’s chasing the warmth it never knew it craved.
And, lastly, and just recently.
To why he wanted more than he was allowed to when Dean confessed.
But then he thought of home. Of the people.
His family. His teammates. His friends.
A wave of guilt and shame came crashing—cold, heavy, and unforgiving.
Would they still look at him the same way?
Dean broke the silence, his voice careful but light. “Look, Arda… I didn’t mean to stress you out by saying that. You don’t have to answer. Or do anything, really.”
“I just… needed to let it out, y’know? Before we go off on vacation and all that.” He gave a small shrug, trying to play it off casually.
He stood up from the bed, stretching slightly as if to relieve the pressure from his shoulders.
Then, with a soft chuckle, he ruffled Arda’s hair. “Rest well, Arda. I know you had a tough match.”
Seriously, that act and voice of tenderness he's wearing right now affect Arda more than he wants to admit. His heart ached, wanting nothing more than to make him stay and make him feel that warmth over and over again.
However, Arda could simply let him go, watch him exit the door like nothing happened, pretend like he heard nothing tonight, and convince himself that it was his brain playing tricks on him.
It was the obvious choice—the right choice.
He could only try to tell himself that he doesn’t reciprocate Dean’s feelings in any way. That he shouldn’t feel bad because the fault lies with Dean. The one who loved beyond that of a friend between them was Dean, not him.
He probably even hated him.
He hated the music Dean listened to. It sounded nothing like the songs he used to listen to; he couldn’t stand it at all. But what he hated more was when Dean would offer him one of his earbuds, and he’d take it without any second thought. And then, somehow, all he could pay attention to was Dean—his breath, his closeness—with the music simply fading in the background.
He hated how stupidly tall he was, how he had to tilt his chin up just to meet his eyes. And he hated it even more when Dean leaned down to his face to hear him—so close, far too close for comfort… Yet, Arda never pulled away.
He hated the jokes Dean cracked, how stupidly childish and utterly nonsensical they are. But what he hated even more was how, despite the foolishness of his jokes, he made everything lighter for Arda, how his worries would simply slip away unnoticed.
He loathed how Dean made this summer feel like something more.
How the unbearable summer heat had turned into a warmth he didn’t want to admit he’d come to seek and chase. A warmth that would linger in his mind long after the season passed.
Now, this very night, he came crashing into his hotel room like it was nothing—like he hadn’t just upended Arda’s world in barely a month by simply being there. He laid his feelings bare, uninvited. It was loathsome. Distasteful.
And yet… it was irresistible, so gratifying to hear. Like he’s been longing to hear it.
He watched Dean’s back as he was about to leave. Suddenly, Arda hated that too. He hated that he was leaving him. And what he hated even more was how desperately he wanted him to stay, to be by his side.
Dean Huijsen was an anomaly in Arda's world—a wrong piece in a jigsaw puzzle, a stray note in a symphony, a disruption to everything Arda was raised to believe was right. He didn’t belong, and yet, somehow, he fit too well.
With him in his world, Arda was nothing but a contradiction given physical form. A boy torn between want and denial. Torn between the fear of sin and judgment—and the aching need to fulfill his buried desires.
Without a word, he moved impulsively and desperately.
Before Dean could reach the doorknob, Arda caught him. He tightly wrapped his arms around his body, intensely and foolishly. As if letting him go would be the end of everything for him.
He felt Dean had stopped moving and his grip loosened, but his hands lingered, warm and grounding, as he gently turned Dean to face him.
Their gazes found one another, unwavering. Ambivalence, that was Arda now. A storm of remorse, recklessness, guilt, and elation was brewing within him.
He felt Dean’s hand reach toward him, fingers brushing the hem of his shirt before settling gently at the small of his back. It was that warmth—that warmth he’d linger over, seek unknowingly. A warmth only Dean could offer.
When you go to Madrid, you’d be carrying the pride of the nation. May Allah bless and guide every step you take.
Arda swallowed hard. Words that once fueled his pride and purpose slowly suffocated him over time. Words that once spoke to him like he was the chosen one—special, blessed, meant to carry not just talent, but also virtue. Afraid of letting anyone down, the young boy he once was carried those words of expectations like scriptures, following them without fail. A master plan etched into him before he even understood who he wanted to be: to be sinless, to be great, to be a man.
There was no room for anything beyond those. And definitely no room for this.
“I love you.”
His mind replayed words uttered minutes ago.
It was the three words that had no place in his plans, no place in the plans others had laid out for him. Such a common phrase, one he’d heard from girls before. But when it came from Dean, it unraveled him completely in no time.
Because it’s Dean—and somehow, that was enough to deviate, to be lured into a plethora of unwanted, hidden temptations.
Before he could even think, his hands found their way on Dean’s shoulders. He rose onto his toes, drawn in by something he could no longer fight.
Their lips met with unabashed roughness. It was far from beautiful. It was sloppy and disoriented, as if every emotion swirling within him had found its way to his lips, through that kiss. Destructive. Clumsy. Raw. An act of affection tangled with self-loathing and fear. He knew, somewhere deep inside, that he had done it—an act he would hide in a place of darkness where light would never dare to come.
And yet, when he felt Dean’s lips respond, he held on. He tightened his grip on Dean’s shoulders, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. He chose closeness, even though he could’ve pulled away at any moment. He could’ve pretended it was just the heat of the moment, that his head still couldn’t think straight after the terrible loss in the Club World Cup. A convenient lie. But he didn’t say it.
Instead, he deepened the kiss, his tongue pressing forward, brushing against Dean’s. He stepped further into the fire, even when every voice in his head warned him he'd burn for it.
Despite the protests of his mind, he stayed. And so did Dean.
Dean’s arms circled around Arda’s waist, pulling him in, steadying him. Arda instinctively held onto his hair, fingers brushing into the strands. He returned Arda’s brusque kiss, not with the same fevered urgency, but with a terrifying gentleness—like he knew exactly about the fragility of this moment and still decided to cradle it in his hands.
With careful movements, Dean steadily guided Arda backward until his back met the cold wall, anchoring him deeper in the moment. His lips moved against Arda’s with care and silent yearning, tongue slowly pushing deeper as he memorized every part of him tonight: the soft shape of his mouth, the lingering taste of menthol from the hotel’s toothpaste, and the faint hitch in his breath. Like Arda was disentangling, and Dean was trying to hold on to every piece of him before it completely slipped away.
He met Arda’s avalanche with a merciful warmth, melting the glaciers in his heart built from years of expectations and fear. A quiet tenderness that, without a single word, told him: I’m not going anywhere.
And then, they broke apart, gasping for air, cheeks flushed, and hearts struggling to catch up.
As a child, Arda was always taught never to let desire get the better of him. To keep it buried and controlled. He had followed that rule for twenty years—dutifully, obediently. And yet, here he was, breaking it with trembling hands, burning lips, and welled-up eyes.
Those watery eyes of his met Dean’s—wearing a look unreadable to him, yet strangely affectionate. The world turned hazy, tears rising fast. Fear wrenched at his chest at the realization:
He had really done it
And he had done it with a boy.
No amount of prayer could absolve him. No amount of water could wash this away. No sacred verse could ever unwrite what he’s just done.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, lightly pushing Dean away. Although he wasn’t sure for whom the apology was.
To Dean, for kissing him so suddenly and so desperately?
To his loved ones, for crossing a line they never wanted him to?
To everyone, for not being the man they thought he was?
To the boy he once was, who believed he could never betray his God and the people who believed in him?
“Don’t be.” Dean softly cupped his cheeks, wiping away the tears that had slipped down Arda’s cheek. The contact made Arda’s heart skip a beat. He shivered—subtle, but still enough for Dean to notice.
“I…” Arda faltered. “This is messed up,” he muttered.
“Why?”
“Dean, we literally kissed… Our lips had dirtied each other.” He bit the inside of his cheek, as if the taste of Dean still lingered in his mouth. “How is that not weird?”
“It’s not weird,” Dean said, calm and certain, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“Why not?”
Dean shrugged. “Because I said so.”
Arda blinked at him. “You really think it’s that simple?”
Dean looked at him, steady. “It can be. If we want it to be.”
“I… I don’t know.”
As if sensing his turmoil, Dean asked softly, “Did you feel scared?” Then he added, “Are you scared?”
“No…? Yes…? I mean…” Arda trailed off. His eyes flickering, searching for clarity, for courage. But in the end, he looked away.
He was scared. But he also wanted it. Every second of it.
Dean pursed his lips, trying to find the right words. “People kiss all the time.”
“They do it because they can.” Arda exhaled sharply. “Because they’re not gonna be plastered all over tabloids for it.”
“I’d be glad to let everyone know we kissed each other,” Dean suddenly said, like it was some punchline, half-smile tugging at his lips.
Arda blinked, blankly staring at Dean. Not knowing how to react, or maybe, not wanting to entertain whatever that was supposed to be.
Dean noticed the lack of reaction and stiffly scratched the back of his nape. “I mean... only if you want it and if you don't, it's cool. Haha. I don’t mean that. Just a joke. You can forget about it,” he chuckled, very, very awkwardly.
Dean tried to recover. “It’s just… I mean, it’s normal and stuff, right? For football players like us to kiss.”
Arda squinted at him. “No, it’s not.”
“Don’t you kiss someone like… your teammates?” Dean sounded like he was grasping at anything to make it make sense. At this point, Arda couldn’t tell if he was joking around or simply losing it.
“That’s not—” Arda shook his head, sighing. “That’s different. I don’t kiss them like that. And definitely, not on the lips.”
“On the lips…” Dean echoed, brows furrowing as he tried to remember something.
Suddenly, he smacked a fist into his open palm like a lightbulb went off. “Oh! Mr. Xabi... I think he’s done that before.”
Arda blinked. Oh, that picture.
He remembered it quite vividly. A blurry old photo someone in the team dug up from the internet and sent to their group chat, which made the team spend an entire afternoon talking, or more like, gossiping about it behind their coach’s back. Though no one really had the guts to ask Xabi directly.
Still, it was too far-fetched.
Arda almost laughed. Dean seemed way too eager to prove that their kiss (or the more accurate term: making out) was just a regular thing football players did all the time.
“Okay, no,” Arda disagreed immediately. “This is different. They never did it like we did. No saliva. No teeth. No tongue.”
“How are you so sure?” Dean argued.
“Because…” Arda wasn’t sure. There was always the possibility that some players in the past had done the same, or perhaps, even more. Just hidden. Buried.
Still, all he could say was, “Because it’s not normal…”
“Says who?”
“Practically everyone,” Arda muttered.
Dean looked at him, unwavering. “It’s what others think of you that you’re afraid of. Not of the kiss. Not of me.” His voice shifted, suddenly serious, but still laced with that all too familiar warmth.
Arda swallowed the lump in his throat. Dean perfectly read him like an open book. Laying bare the turmoil, the emotions, he never dared to say aloud.
Arda’s gaze flickered. “I am,” he admitted. “But I’m also confused.”
Faintly, he added, “You’re the first guy I’ve ever kissed.”
“You’re mine too.”
“I don’t want people to know.”
“They wouldn’t.”
“What if they eventually do?”
A beat of silence.
“If they do, we’ll fall together.”
Arda can’t tell if those words were sweet, cruel, or terrifying. Maybe all three. But he knew what they meant—that Dean wouldn't leave him.
Dean carefully closed the gap between them, not out of impulse like Arda had, but with longing. He tenderly cupped Arda's cheeks, guiding his gaze to meet his eyes. His thumb brushed over his lips, then moved to smoothly caress his skin.
“Can I?” he whispered, voice low.
Arda simply nodded, words stuck in his throat.
Their lips met once again, this time, slow and steady. With every sensation, time seemed to slow down. And Arda, held onto it—to the moment, to the kiss, to Dean.
Dean eventually pulled away, a faint string of saliva still connecting them. Both of them were breathless and flustered. Their gazes met—eyes so feverish and so full of demands. They wanted more. So much more.
Dean broke the silence, “Just tell me if you want to stop.” Arda didn’t say anything. Letting him get closer, and closer, and much closer. Arda felt his other hand trail down to the hem of his shirt, slipping underneath, his fingertips slowly caressing his bare skin. Blood rushed to his face, skin flushing beneath the warm contact.
Then, Dean started peppering his neck with gentle kisses but grew more passionate and forceful with each contact until they left faint marks on his skin. His fingertips wandered—slowly, reverently—over places sacred, places meant to be hidden. Arda was exposed, vulnerable… yet wanted. And somehow, that was enough. Enough to be led astray.
He was burning, like the damned. He was drowning from want. And God, he was hard.
He felt like crying. Like dying. His mind throbbed, heart pounding, blood rushing hot beneath his skin. His hands were sweating profusely, unable to do anything but cling so desperately to Dean.
“What’s wrong?”
This.
“Nothing.”
He let himself get lost in the moment, farther and farther—until the point of no return.
For where would the man who strayed from the path of goodness ever go from here? It’s nowhere. But, Arda knows that tonight, he’s willing to follow the only path he sees—the path that leads him straight to the arms of the boy in front of him.
