"Two minutes," Sara-Maria says as she peers inside the oven.
"Cool," Marco replies from the kitchen table. She said she'd make some baked waffles using the silicone waffle moulds he got for Christmas. He hasn't tried them since he normally uses his waffle maker, which is more practical. He watches her as she takes the strawberry jam from a shelf, calm and collected as usual.
She wasn't last night, though. Not that he's complaining. She was initially still reserved and holding back. It can be because of her lack of experience, which he thinks is very sweet in a way, so he never pushed her out of her comfort zone too much, as well as always tried to be gentle with her.
But last night she wasn't holding back. She was... intense and needy, and sexy as fuck. And while he can't argue that he loves that—who in the right mind would complain about mind blowing sex?—Marco can't help feeling that something seems off.
Is she hiding something from him?
"There you go," she says, placing a plate of two perfect, golden brown waffles in front of him.
"Thank you," he says with a smile, but his appetite has apparently left him. She seems to notice his lack of enthusiasm.
"What is it? You said you were hungry," she says, frowning slightly. Instead of replying, Marco pulls her closer until she sits down on his lap. "Marco, what's wrong?" she asks, wrapping her arms around his neck.
"Shouldn't I ask you the same thing, love?" he says softly, looking into her eyes. The way she licks her lips in a slightly nervous manner tells him his instinct isn't wrong.
"I think you should eat, before the waffles get cold," she says, avoiding his eyes.
"That's what the microwave is for," Marco says patiently. "Sara-Maria, I can feel that something is wrong. Something is bothering you."
She looks back at him, saying nothing. Silence falls between them, but Marco doesn't try to break it. She can have as much time as she needs. Finally she lets out a deep breath and says, "Yesterday, when I was in the shop, there were people who—" she doesn't finish her sentence because all of a sudden Marco's phone rings.
He reaches for his phone in annoyance. The name on the screen shows that it's Marcel. Why the fuck does he call this early in the morning? "It's okay. You should answer him," she says. Marco nods, but when she makes a move to stand up from his lap, he holds her still.
"Stay here," he tells her softly before pressing the answer button. "What, Marcel? Isn't eight o'clock too early to annoy someone?" he says, half-joking.
"Have you checked your Instagram?" Marcel's voice is far from joking, making Marco feel instinctively alarmed. Even more so when he feels Sara-Maria's body stiffen against him. She can hear what Marcel said.
"No. Why? What's wrong?" he asks cautiously.
"Do it, mate," Marcel replies.
"Fine, I'll put you on speaker." Marco does it and opens his Instagram app. As soon as it opens the amount of notifications makes him frown. He's used to people leaving comments on his pictures, but not this much. He begins to read some of the comments. "What the fuck..."
"My thoughts exactly," he hears Marcel say. "Mine is also flooded with similar comments and questions. Robin's too. They've found out about you and Sara-Maria, mate."
Marco looks at Sara-Maria. She doesn't look surprised... which can only mean that she already knows about it. "Yeah. Listen, Marcel, thanks for letting me know. Can I call you later?"
"Sure. Is Sara-Maria there?"
"I'm here," she replies.
"Sara-Maria, it'll be fine. It's always like that when Marco got a new girlfriend," Marcel says, attempting to lighten up the mood. "It'll die down after a while."
She smiles, but the smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Thank you, Marcel."
After Marcel hangs up, Marco puts his phone back on the table. There's another silence, as Sara-Maria absently trace Marco's collar with her fingers. "You already know about this," he says quietly, breaking the silence.
She gently nods. "Some came to the shop yesterday. And some sent me messages on Facebook."
He tries his best not to cringe. It's not hard to guess what kind of messages they sent her. "That's why you were—different last night," he murmurs, mostly to himself.
She looks at him, her fingers stop playing with his collar. "Yeah... I needed some kind of assurance that you were here... that you were mine," she says softly. "But I'm fine now, trust me. Those are just words. I know this will happen sooner or later."
"You should've told me yesterday."
"I didn't want to make you worry."
Marco doesn't know what to say. He racks his brain to find the most suitable words to say to her; that he is sorry, and how he wishes there's something he can do so she won't have to get through this. But the truth is—he can't. There's nothing he can do to stop it.
She must know that because she caresses his face gently, smiling at him, a smile that's kind and understanding... a smile that says she doesn't blame him. "Your waffles have gone cold," she says, "I'll go and heat them—"
"I love you," Marco blurts out, his heart races as he realises what he just said.
Her eyes slightly widen as she parts her lips, and no words come out. Marco holds her gaze. Does he mean what he said? Isn't he just feeling emotional, and rushy, or even... guilty? But as he looks deeply into her eyes, he knows that it's not the case.
"I really do," he goes on, gently caressing her cheek with his thumb. He sees her eyes become misty behind her glasses and when she blinks, he can feel a wet drop on his fingers. She still doesn't say anything, and he doesn't rush her. He just... waits.
"I love you, too, Marco," she finally says, almost inaudibly.
Marco's face breaks into a smile. That's all he needs to hear.
~*~
Sara-Maria opens the fridge and puts the eggs inside, as well as butter and milk. Then she rummages the shopping bag, looking for the vanilla extract and baking powder and then placing them on the shelf. Marco has gone to training two hours ago, and she's having a day off since today is Sunday.
She felt like baking a cake earlier. And Marco has actually a lot of baking tools like baking moulds, springform pans, electric mixer and even food processor amongst others—although he doesn't use them much, she thought with a smile. But he doesn't have some of the basic ingredients like baking powder and cinnamon, that's why she decided to buy them, as well as some staples like milk, flour and eggs.
As she places takes a mixing bowl from one of the cupboards, she notices that she's still smiling. Oh well, it's hard not to smile when she thinks of Marco... of what he told her this morning.
He loves her.
And she loves him. She has never loved someone this much that it still amazes her how she can love him so much in such a short period of time. For a person who's very logical, it's not a logical thing to do, no. But, God... she loves him.
The sound of her phone shakes her off her reverie. Oh dear, it's Bea. She called Sara-Maria when she was in the supermarket earlier, and Sara-Maria told her she'd call her later when she was home. She should know that Bea would call her again this soon; her sister is that impatient, yeah.
"Bea, I'm barely home," Sara-Maria says, answering the phone; blushes a little as she thinks that technically this is Marco's place, not hers. "I was about to call you."
"Whatever," Bea says. "Why didn't you reply to my message on Facebook yesterday?"
"I haven't seen it," Sara-Maria says truthfully. She must have missed it amongst the—other messages. "Sorry. Where are you?" The last time Sara-Maria talked to her, she was in London.
"At home," Bea replies. "How is Marco Reus doing?" Sara-Maria doesn't need to see her to know that she's grinning.
"So, you know," Sara-Maria says quietly. She wonders who hasn't found out. "Does Alissa know, too?"
Bea snorts. "Of course she does, she's the one who told me. Sweetheart, you've been all over Twitter. And Instagram to say the least," she says. "Marco Reus, eh? Not bad. So, Miss Proper digs bad boys after all, I'm pretty surprised," Bea says again, teasingly.
"He's not... like that," Sara-Maria responds, leaning on the kitchen counter. She can hear Bea laugh on the other side.
"Oh, really? Not even in bed?" she taunts her again. When her sister doesn't reply Bea chuckles and says, "Why didn't you tell me about him?"
"It's complicated. I thought I'd wait until I see you, since this isn't something I want to discuss over the phone."
"Well, tough luck, sis," Bea says. "Now spill it out."
Sara-Maria sighs and then tells her everything, from the moment they met when he made her drop her phone in the river until yesterday when she found out that his fans knew about them. "And this morning he said that he loves me," she says, can't help smiling a bit.
"Really? And you believe that?"
"I do."
She hears Bea take a deep breath. "You love him, don't you? Spoilsport, what have you gotten yourself into? He's a high profile footballer, whom you've only known for less than two months. Have fun with him, shag him senseless if you want to. But don't—put yourself in a situation where you're likely to get hurt," she says, her voice is now full of concern.
"Marco won't hurt me," Sara-Maria says softly, yet defiantly. He has never given her a reason to doubt that his feelings for her are real.
"Sara-Maria—"
"Bea, trust me," she cuts her off. "I know he won't."
She can imagine Bea characteristically roll her eyes. "Fine, don't tell me I didn't warn you."
Sara-Maria smiles. "I won't."
But her smile falters as she hears what Bea says next. "Mum also knows about it. She overheard me talk to Alissa on the phone today, sorry. Even if she didn't I'm sure she'd find out soon. That's why I called you—to give you a warning."
"Do you think she'll be okay with it?" Sara-Maria asks uncertainly, although she knows what the answer is.
"With you dating a famous footballer who has lots of tattoos and a cheeky attitude? Fat chance," Bea replies matter-of-factly. Sara-Maria gulps. Bea is being honest, as usual, and she knows her sister is right. "You know how mum is; she can be pretty judgemental," Bea adds.
"I know."
There's silence for a second before Bea says again, in a more cheerful tone, "Look, Spoilsport, maybe it's not that bad; if you can convince mum that he's serious with you, and that he's not as bad as his reputation."
"Yeah," Sara-Maria replies, trying to be more optimistic. "If mum gets to know him, maybe she'll warm up to him."
"So, when will you come home?" Bea asks.
"Next weekend. Will you be there?"
"I think so. I have two photo-shoots in Paris next week, but I think I can be home next weekend. I'll see you at home then."
"Sure," Sara-Maria says. "Can you tell mum that I'll call her later?"
"No problem," Bea replies. "He's better worth it, though."
"He is."