When Arthur got home that evening, his mind was still orbiting around one name—Cristiano Ronaldo. The idea had rooted itself deep in his thoughts, refusing to let go.

Every angle he played in his head—tactics, finances, timing—seemed both thrilling and impossible. He had seen enough of the Portuguese winger to know genius when he saw it, and now, after facing him up close, Arthur couldn't stop thinking about what it would mean to bring such brilliance to Leeds.

He was halfway through loosening his tie, and walking toward the kitchen from the solfa, when he heard it—a soft, rhythmic sound of footsteps behind him. Light, deliberate, and familiar.

His lips curled into a smile even before he turned around. There were only two people in the world who had the key to his house, and one of them was sitting right there.

Without looking back, he said in that half-teasing tone of his, "When did you come home, honey? You should've told me, I would've picked you up."

Before he could get another word out, a pair of slender arms slipped around his neck, and the scent of her perfume—something floral and warm, faintly Mediterranean—drifted up around him. He felt the soft press of her body against his back, the warmth that immediately calmed the stress lingering from a week full of press conferences, tactics meetings, and sleepless nights.

Then came her voice—light, amused, full of that playful mischief he could never quite resist. "That's what you say to your girlfriend who's been away for months?"

Arthur grinned and turned slightly, still pretending not to be disarmed. "I was just saying what came to mind," he said, then added cheekily, "though… have they gotten bigger?"

Shakira let out a soft gasp of mock outrage. "Unbelievable! That's your first observation?" she said, playfully flicking his ear. Then, lowering her voice, she added with a grin, "And yes, they have. And whose fault do you think that is?"

Arthur chuckled and finally turned fully around to face her. The sight of her made him stop for a moment. Her hair was loose and golden, catching the late afternoon sunlight spilling through the windows. There was a glow to her that wasn't just from happiness—it was something gentler, deeper.

He leaned in and kissed her cheek, murmuring, "Welcome home, love. You finished work so soon?"

"More like they forced me to," she said with a smile, then placed her hands lightly over her stomach. The tiny curve beneath her dress was barely visible unless you were looking for it, but Arthur saw it instantly.

It still felt surreal. Three months in, and the reality of it—, the thought of being a father still hadn't fully settled.

He guided her to the couch, but Shakira, being Shakira, didn't sit next to him. Instead, she sat on him, curling up in his lap with that easy confidence that always made him laugh.

The kiss she gave him then wasn't rushed or casual—it was long and deep, the kind that felt like coming home after a lifetime away. When they finally parted, both of them were breathless.

"I needed that," she said softly, resting her head against his shoulder.

Arthur smiled and brushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead. His hand drifted instinctively to her belly, tracing gentle circles. "I missed you too," he said, his voice low and sincere. "Now that you're back, you're not going anywhere until the baby's here. I'll hire a couple of maids to take care of you."

Shakira giggled, looking up at him. "I love it when you get all serious," she teased. "But don't worry, I won't be going anywhere in this condition. The media would tear me apart if I even tried to travel. Speaking of which…"—she tilted her head with a sly smile,"when are we announcing it?"

Arthur kissed the curve of her neck. "Whenever you want, babe. I'm with you, whatever you choose."

Her smile softened, that mischievous glint replaced by something tender. "You're too good to me," she murmured. "But I still hate you a little. My body's sore all the time, and my nose can smell everything in a five-mile radius."

Arthur laughed quietly, pressing his forehead against hers. "How about I make it up to you with a massage? A proper one. I have to take care of my child's mother, don't I?"

Shakira smirked. "Your massages always seem to focus on very specific areas."

"Untrue," Arthur said with mock offense. "I am a man of medicine, anatomy, and precision."

"Uh-huh," she said, eyes twinkling. "And your hands are wandering exactly where right now?"

Arthur looked down, caught red-handed—or rather, red-palmed—and smiled sheepishly. "You know me too well."

She laughed and took his hands, putting them under her shirt so he was touching them directly . "Did I say I don't want it?"

Arthur chuckled and kissed her again, his laughter muffled against her lips. His hands were busy kneading and massaging her plump breasts. She sighed and leaned against him, enjoying his care.

After while, her breathing became heavier as her body was sensitive. She turned towards him. " Bedroom. Now."

Arthur didn't need to be told twice. He picked her up gently and carried her to bed . She looked at him heatedly. " So this was your plan? It worked."

He leaned in to kiss her. "You're the one who asked for it. "

She smiled. " Be gentle. We can't be wild as usual." Arthur chuckled. "Yes ma'am."

there were no more words—just the sound of quiet laughter, affectionate whispers, and the kind of peace that comes from simply being where you're meant to be.

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the curtains, spilling gold across the sheets. Arthur woke first. Years of coaching had trained his body to rise early, even when he didn't want to. For a while, he didn't move—he just lay there, watching her. Shakira was asleep beside him, her breathing slow and steady, her hand resting lightly over his chest.

He brushed his fingers through her hair, tracing down to her cheek. "Good morning, love," he whispered.

She stirred, half-smiling without opening her eyes. "Mmm… good morning, dear."

Arthur smiled. "You can sleep more. I'll make you breakfast."

Her eyes fluttered open, amused. "I can still move, you know," she said with a sleepy laugh. "Don't be so tense. You already have enough stress managing that circus called Leeds United."

Arthur laughed quietly. "That's just business. You're my woman. I want to do this for you. Besides"—he added with a grin—"I can always make Alan and Diego work overtime."

Shakira laughed again, shaking her head. "You really are impossible."

"Only for you," he said, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead before slipping out of bed.

From the kitchen came the sound of clattering pans and the faint scent of toast and eggs. Arthur wasn't the world's best cook, but he was trying—and the effort alone made Shakira smile when she heard him humming some half-forgotten tune while trying to operate the coffee machine.

She came out eventually, barefoot, wearing one of his shirts that hung loosely over her. Arthur glanced up and nearly dropped the spatula.

"I told you to rest," he said.

"And I told you I'm not made of glass," she replied, smiling.

He sighed dramatically. "Yes, but you're carrying a masterpiece."

She laughed and walked over, resting her chin on his shoulder. "You're sweet when you're overprotective," she whispered. "But if you keep treating me like a porcelain doll, I might just start breaking things to remind you I'm still me."

Arthur grinned, flipping the eggs. "Fair enough. But breakfast is non-negotiable."

She reached over, stole a piece of toast from his plate, and winked. "Then I'll allow it."

They ate together by the window, the morning sun lighting up the small kitchen. There was no press, no noise, no chaos—just two people, coffee mugs between them, quietly laughing about burnt toast and baby names.

At one point, Shakira looked up at him and said softly, "You know, you'd make a great father."

Arthur smiled, his eyes softening. "I hope so," he said. "Because I already feel like the luckiest man alive."

And for once, the man who strategized every moment of his life—who lived between tactics boards and transfer plans—allowed himself to simply sit back and feel.

For that morning, there was no Ronaldo to chase, no Ferguson to outwit, no press to handle.

There was only Shakira, sunlight, and the faint promise of a future that already felt perfect.

*****

The next few weeks unfolded in a rhythm Arthur had never experienced before — a rhythm slower, gentler, and somehow fuller than the constant pulse of football. Between matches, press conferences, and late-night tactical meetings, he began to find himself rushing home not to rest, but to see her.

It became his new ritual. After the roar of the crowd faded, after the floodlights dimmed and the journalists stopped shouting questions at him, he would step into the quiet of their home, where everything smelled faintly of jasmine and home-cooked meals. And there, without fail, Shakira would be waiting — sometimes on the couch with a blanket draped over her legs, sometimes curled up reading baby books or scrolling through nursery designs on her tablet.

He would drop his keys onto the counter, take off his jacket, and she'd smile at him like the whole world had slowed down just to make space for that moment.

"Rough day?" she would ask, already knowing the answer.

Arthur always laughed softly. "Every day's rough when you're trying to teach twenty grown men not to pass backward in the final third."

That line became their little joke. It never failed to make her laugh, and he never got tired of saying it.

Despite how much the football season demanded from him, Arthur made sure his evenings were hers. He would cook for her whenever he could — even though the kitchen looked like a war zone when he was done — and the maids would secretly clean up behind him, smiling at how bad their boss was at chopping vegetables.

Sometimes they stayed up late watching movies, Shakira resting her head on his chest, his arm loosely around her shoulders. Other nights, she'd convince him to listen to some of her new song drafts, humming softly while he gave half-serious critiques. "You know," he'd tease, "you could sing the ingredients on a cereal box and it would still go platinum."

She'd nudge him with a pillow. "Flattery doesn't work every time, Mr. Morgan."

"Doesn't it?" he'd say, leaning close.

It was a domestic calm neither of them had really known before — her, always on tour, caught in the glare of the world's cameras; him, always in the chaos of sport and competition. Together, they found something that felt a lot like peace.

Of course, the peace outside their walls was shorter-lived.

It started with a few whispers in the tabloids — a couple of grainy paparazzi shots of Shakira leaving her studio weeks earlier, then nothing. A month passed, and suddenly the questions grew louder.

"Where's Shakira?"

"Why did she cancel her European tour?"

"Health issues? Secret project? Or… something else?"

Every morning, Arthur saw the headlines when he went out to buy coffee, though he made sure to keep them away from her. Still, he knew she was aware. He could tell by the way she sometimes paused while scrolling her phone, or how she would sigh quietly when one of her songs came up on TV.

One evening, while Arthur was sitting in his study reviewing match footage, Shakira walked in. She was wearing one of his shirts again — her favorite thing to wear at home — and her hair was loosely tied up. Her bump had grown a little since the week before. Subtle, but noticeable.

She leaned against the doorway for a moment before speaking. "The media's getting worse," she said softly. "They're starting to say I've had surgery. Some think I'm in rehab. It's getting ridiculous."

Arthur looked up from his laptop, his expression calm but concerned. "They'll always talk," he said, closing the screen. "You can't stop them."

"I know," she admitted, walking over to sit on the armrest of his chair. "But… I hate that they're making up stories. I hate that it's you they're starting to drag into it too."

He smiled faintly and leaned back, his hand finding hers. "Let them. They'll run out of things to say eventually."

"You really don't care?" she asked, half-teasing but half-serious.

Arthur shrugged. "I care about you. The rest? It's noise. You tell me what you want to do, and I'll back you up."

That quiet certainty in his voice — the way he said it like a promise — made her heart melt a little more every time. She cupped his cheek and smiled. "You always say that."

"Because it's always true," he said.

Shakira leaned down, her fingers brushing his jaw. "You're too good to me."

Arthur chuckled. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

Instead of answering, she kissed him — slow, deliberate, full of warmth. It wasn't the hurried kind of kiss they used to steal between her tours or his press obligations. It was different now — softer, heavier with meaning.

When they finally broke apart, Shakira rested her forehead against his and whispered, "I think I'll wait a little longer. Maybe a few more weeks before we announce it."

Arthur nodded. "Whatever you decide, I'll support it. You're the one living under that spotlight, not me."

She smiled and traced a small circle on his chest with her finger. "I'm lucky to have you, you know."

Arthur smiled, pulling her closer. "No, love. We're both lucky. I found you before the world could drive you crazy."

She laughed quietly. "Too late for that."

He grinned and kissed her again, this time on the forehead.

The days continued like that — slow, ordinary, and somehow beautiful in their simplicity. Arthur would wake early, kiss her lightly before heading to the training ground, and she would wave him off from the kitchen window. Sometimes he'd come home with flowers, other times with baby clothes he'd picked out himself — often hilariously wrong sizes that made Shakira laugh until she cried.

At night, they would sit on the balcony, her head against his shoulder, watching the lights of the city flicker in the distance. She'd talk about music and motherhood, about her dreams and fears. He'd listen — really listen — offering that quiet, steady reassurance that had come to define him.

One night, she said softly, "Do you ever get scared?"

"Of what?"

"Of all this. Of being a father. Of… changing."

Arthur thought for a moment. The night air was cool, and the faint hum of traffic filled the silence. "Yeah," he said finally. "All the time. But then I look at you and it stops mattering. Because whatever comes, I'll handle it with you."

She looked up at him, her eyes glistening faintly in the dim light. "You know, sometimes I think I met you at the perfect time," she whispered. "When I needed someone to remind me that life isn't all headlines and tours and cameras."

Arthur smiled, brushing his thumb against her cheek. "And I met you when I needed someone to remind me that football isn't the whole world."

For a while, they said nothing — just sat there in the quiet, wrapped in each other's warmth.

When Arthur returned to the club the next day, even Alan noticed the change in him. He was calmer, more patient, even during training. "You've been smiling a lot lately, boss," Alan joked.

Arthur smirked. "Blame Shakira."

"Should I tell the players to thank her too?" Alan said with a grin.

Arthur only laughed. "You'd be surprised how much balance a bit of love brings."

And maybe that was true. Because somehow, amid the chaos of football, contracts, and the looming dream of signing Ronaldo, Arthur had found something rare — a quiet corner of happiness that kept him grounded.

A week later, as he came home from another long day at the club, Arthur opened the door to find Shakira sitting at the piano in the living room, softly humming a new melody. She turned when she heard him, her face lighting up.

"Hey, you're home early."

He smiled. "Couldn't wait."

She stood and met him halfway, her hand instinctively going to her stomach as he pulled her close.

"Still thinking about when to announce it?" he asked.

Shakira nodded thoughtfully. "Maybe next month. Maybe sooner."

Arthur smiled and kissed her . "Whenever you're ready, love."

She looked at him with that same glow she had the night she returned. "You really mean it, don't you?"

"I always mean it."

And as they stood there, her head resting against his chest, the world outside could spin however it liked — because inside that quiet house, between laughter, whispered

promises, and the soft sound of her heartbeat, Arthur had already found the only victory that truly mattered.