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Aggie Beever -Jones & Jana Fernandez fanfics:

Poco a poco: One-shot

Something, something: One-shot

What’s Your Goal?: One-shot

Friendship fanfics:

Alexia Putellas x Jana Fernandez: Soft & Steady

Jana Fernandez fanfics:

We Own The Night: One-shot

Floor Eleven, Please: One-shot

Fast Fall In Slow Waters: One-shot

Leah Williamson fanfics:

Between the Lines (completed): Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Last part.

Soft Launch in Denim: One-shot

Don’t Want To See You At a Party: One-shot

The City That Held Me: One-shot

Loose Ends: One-shot

Stars Over Malahide: One-shot

Leila Ouahabi fanfics:

Pa’ Qué Me Invitan?: One-shot

It was late 2025. FC Barcelona x AMIRI formal wear shoot. Minimalist set. Controlled lighting. Too many people on set.

You were flown in from Los Angeles as part of the AMIRI styling team. London-born, LA-based, perpetually jet-lagged. Fresh off a seven-year relationship that ended in therapy and mutual Instagram unfollowing.

She had just ended something long-term too.

You both had that same look — polished exterior, soft bruising underneath.

“You from the UK?” she’d asked while you fixed her cuff.

“London,” you replied.

She tilted her head. “Ah. Explains the attitude.”

You blinked at her. “I’m being professional.”

“Sí, claro,” she smirked.

You did not smile.

She definitely noticed.

—

You didn’t exchange numbers that day.

You followed each other on Instagram instead. It was Alexia who followed first. How she found your Instagram account is something that still befuddles you.

It started harmless. A reaction to a story. A flame emoji. A sarcastic reply.

Alexia: You only drink natural wine? Qué fancy.

You: You only post gym selfies? Qué predictable.

Alexia: Oye.

You: Oye what?

Seen.

Then typing.

Then nothing.

It became a rhythm. Three-day silences. Midnight replies. Time zones as plausible deniability.

You told yourself it was harmless.

—

The photo appears on a Wednesday.

You’re in your LA apartment, 1:38 PM. Sunlight everywhere. You’re reviewing lookbooks for a campaign when her name pops up at the top of your screen.

alexiaputellas — 3m ago

You tap.

It’s the gym.

Neon lights reflecting against mirrors. Squat rack framing the shot. A kettlebell on the floor. She’s lying sideways, propped up on her elbow, phone in hand. Black sports bra. Black shorts. Calm expression like she just casually decided to destabilize you.

There’s no caption.

You stare for exactly seven seconds too long.

This is intentional.

You know it’s intentional because Alexia doesn’t post gym content without purpose.

You exit the story.

You re-open it.

You exit again.

You are 31 years old.

You respond.

You: Are you trying to recruit me to a Hyrox cult?

Seen.

Typing immediately.

Alexia: You think this is Hyrox? Qué falta de respeto.

You: It’s giving thirst trap.

Pause.

Typing.

Stops.

Typing again.

Alexia: Maybe.

You lean back into your sofa.

You: Bold strategy.

Alexia: I am captain. I make bold decisions.

You: On and off the pitch?

Three dots.

Disappear.

Reappear.

Alexia: Depends who is watching.

Your jaw tightens. You hate how effective she is.

You don’t respond.

Five minutes pass.

She sends another message.

Alexia: You didn’t say if you liked it.

You stare at the screen.

There it is. The shift.

You: You don’t need validation from me.

Alexia: I want it from you.

You swallow.

The playful DM dynamic has officially crossed into something warmer.

You: You looked good.

Three dots.

Alexia: Only good?

You roll your eyes.

You: Relax.

Alexia: No, no. I need clarity. You’re a stylist. Professionally speaking.

You laugh out loud.

You: Professionally? You were horizontal on the floor.

Alexia: It was for… core stability.

You: Sure.

She sends a voice note.

You hesitate before pressing play.

Her voice is lower than usual. Teasing. Soft Spanish cadence wrapped around English.

“Maybe I just wanted you to see I am working hard, eh? Maybe I thought… if I send something a little… how you say… provocative… you stop pretending this is casual.”

Your stomach flips.

You type.

Delete.

Type again.

You: Who said I’m pretending?

Seen.

Immediately typing.

Alexia: Ah.

Pause.

Alexia: So you admit something.

You stand up and pace your living room like this is a negotiation.

You: I admit that we’ve been flirting for three months and it’s getting inefficient.

She replies in under ten seconds.

Alexia: Inefficient? Dios mío. You are so London.

You: And you’re so dramatic.

Alexia: Sí.

You sit back down.

You: What are you actually doing, Alexia?

There’s a longer pause now.

Typing.

Stops.

Typing again.

Alexia: I liked seeing you on set.

Alexia: You were very serious. But when you laughed at something I said… I noticed.

Your chest tightens unexpectedly.

Alexia: And I thought maybe… there was something.

You stare at that word.

Something.

You: And the gym photo is part of the something?

Alexia: No.

Then another message.

Alexia: The gym photo is because I want to take you to dinner when you’re in Barcelona and I need you to stop acting neutral.

Silence.

Your heart does something traitorous.

You: You could have just asked.

Alexia: Where is the fun in that?

You laugh despite yourself.

You: Dinner sounds… less chaotic than kettlebell seduction.

Alexia: So you admit it was seductive.

You: You were literally lying on the floor.

Alexia: Exactly.

You shake your head.

You: Fine. It worked.

There’s a long pause.

Then:

Alexia: Good.

You wait.

Nothing.

Then she typed.

Alexia: +34 612 483 759. My number.

You blink.

Alexia: Now you have my number. Don’t abuse it.

You stare at the number.

You consider playing it cool.

You absolutely do not play it cool.

You saved the number in your contacts and replied via WhatsApp.

You: Hola. Is this your way of escalating?

The reply comes almost instantly.

Alexia: Sí.

Then another message.

Alexia: You are very hard to read. I needed… stronger tactics.

You smile.

You: You could have sent flowers.

Alexia: Too soft.

You: Poetry?

Alexia: Too cringe.

You: Gym floor thirst trap?

Alexia: Perfect balance.

You laugh into your empty LA apartment.

You: I’ll be in Barcelona in three weeks for a fitting.

There’s a longer pause now.

You imagine her reading it.

Imagining it.

Alexia: Three weeks is very long.

You: You survived three months of DMs.

Alexia: I was building strategy.

You: Of course you were.

Another voice note comes through.

You press play.

“I don’t want to build strategy with you,” she says quietly. “I want to see what happens when we stop being clever.”

The air shifts.

You sit still.

For once, neither of you are joking.

You type slowly.

You: Dinner. No strategy.

A beat.

Alexia: Dinner.

Then.

Alexia: But I will still dress well.

You smile.

You: I’d be offended if you didn’t.

Pause.

Alexia: And maybe… after dinner… we see if the thirst trap energy translates in person.

You lean back, pulse steady but warm.

You: Careful, Captain.

Alexia: Why?

You: You might find I don’t need neon lighting to destabilize you.

Three dots.

Stop.

Three dots again.

Alexia: Madre mía.

Then.

Alexia: Three weeks. Don’t disappear on me, London.

You look at her number saved in your phone now.

Alexia.

No surname.

Just Alexia.

You: I won’t.

—

On the other side of the world, in a Barcelona gym now empty except for cooling neon lights, Alexia checks her phone one more time before leaving.

She smiles to herself.

Bold decisions.

On and off the pitch.

And for the first time since her last relationship ended, the risk feels… fun.

Alba arrived early anyway.

She always did when she cared.

She stood when Y/N walked in, smiling automatically, already reaching for her bag like they might move on together afterward. The smile faltered almost immediately — not because Y/N looked upset, but because she looked resolved.

“Hey,” Alba said, cautious now.

“Hey,” Y/N replied.

They sat. The waiter came over to ask for their order - Y/N said coffee, to which Alba then asked for the same. When the coffee came a few minutes later, Alba wrapped her hands around the cup, grounding herself in warmth.

Y/N went straight to the point. She did not make small conversation to work up to what she’s about to proclaim. No softening of the blow.

“I need to end this,” she said.

Alba stared at her, a beat too long. “Okay,” she said slowly. “That’s… not what I expected.”

Y/N nodded. “I know.”

Alba swallowed. “Is this because of something I did?”

“No.”

“Then because of something you don’t want?” Alba pressed.

Y/N held her gaze. This time, she did not redirect.

“This is because of Alexia,” she said.

The name landed hard.

Alba’s breath caught visibly. “My sister.”

“Yes.”

Alba leaned back, as if space might help her understand. “You said it wasn’t about her.”

“I said I wasn’t ending things for her,” Y/N replied carefully. “That doesn’t mean she isn’t part of it.”

Alba’s jaw tightened. “So which is it?”

Y/N took a breath she did not need. “I can’t be with you while there’s something unfinished between her and me.”

Alba laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. “Unfinished?”

“Yes.”

“You slept with her,” Alba said, voice dropping. “That’s what this is?”

Y/N did not flinch. “No. It’s that I never left cleanly. And she never healed from it.”

“That’s not your responsibility,” Alba said, too quickly.

“It is if I’m standing in your life pretending it doesn’t matter.”

Alba shook her head, eyes bright now. “So you choose her.”

“I choose honesty,” Y/N said.

“That’s a nice way of saying the same thing.”

Y/N accepted that without argument.

Alba leaned forward, hands flat on the table now. “Do you love her?”

Y/N hesitated — just long enough.

Alba’s face crumpled. Not dramatically. Quietly. Like something collapsing inward.

“You let me believe this was about us,” Alba said. “You let me build something.”

“I did,” Y/N said. “And I’m sorry.”

“That doesn’t undo it.”

“I know.”

Alba stood abruptly, chair scraping back. “I wish you’d never swiped right.”

Y/N felt that land, sharp and clean.

“So do I,” she said. Not because she meant it — but because Alba deserved not to be alone in the regret.

Alba shook her head, eyes shining, voice steady only through effort. “I don’t hate you.”

“I know.”

“But I can’t be the person you walk away from on your way to someone else.”

“You won’t be,” Y/N said quietly. “That’s why I’m stopping now.”

Alba grabbed her coat, movements precise, controlled — the way people moved when they refused to fall apart in public.

“Don’t reach out,” Alba said. “Not to check on me. Not to make yourself feel better.”

“I won’t,” Y/N promised.

They stood there for a moment, two people holding incompatible truths.

Then Alba turned and walked out.

Y/N stayed seated until the door closed behind her. Only then did she let her shoulders drop, her breath finally leave her lungs in a way it hadn’t all morning.

Outside, the city moved as it always did.

Inside, something essential had been broken — not recklessly, not cruelly, but with intention.

————————

Alexia did not wait long.

They crossed paths three days later at — the Cupra office, late afternoon, Y/N did not know Alexia was there for a brand meeting.

Y/N was leaving a meeting, tablet tucked under her arm, mind already reorganising the next day, when Alexia stepped out from a side corridor and said her name.

“Y/N.”

Y/N stopped. She did not turn immediately. She set the tablet down on the nearest surface first, as if preparing for something that would require both hands free.

“Yes,” she said, finally facing her.

Alexia Putellas looked different up close in daylight — less guarded than at events, more exposed than she allowed herself to be on camera. There were shadows under her eyes Y/N hadn’t noticed before. Fatigue. Or something heavier.

“I need to talk to you,” Alexia said.

Y/N nodded once. “This isn’t a good place.”

Alexia’s jaw tightened. Silence stretched. People passed at the far end of the corridor, voices blurred, indistinct. Alexia exhaled sharply through her nose, then gestured toward an empty meeting room.

“Five minutes,” she said. “That’s all I’m asking.”

Y/N followed her inside and closed the door.

Alexia did not sit. She stood near the table, hands braced against the edge, as if grounding herself physically were the only way to keep from tipping forward.

“At my mother’s,” Alexia began, then stopped. Tried again. “What you said.”

Y/N waited.

“You said I only knew things from my bias,” Alexia continued. “What did you mean?”

The question was direct. Unshielded.

Y/N folded her arms loosely, not defensively, just containing herself. “I meant exactly that.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I can give you right now.”

Alexia laughed once, short and brittle. “You don’t get to drop something like that and then refuse to explain.”

“I do,” Y/N said quietly. “Because explaining it halfway would do more harm than saying nothing.”

Alexia stared at her. “You left,” she said. “That’s not a bias. That’s a fact.”

“Yes,” Y/N agreed. “It is.”

“And you didn’t say goodbye,” Alexia pressed. “You didn’t give me a reason. I woke up and you were gone.”

Y/N felt the memory press close — the room, the early light, the door — but she did not let it surface fully.

“You’re describing the outcome,” she said. “Not the context.”

Alexia’s voice dropped. “Then give me the context.”

Y/N shook her head. “I can’t.”

“Won’t,” Alexia corrected.

Y/N met her eyes. “Can’t.”

The distinction mattered.

Alexia pushed away from the table and paced once, then stopped. “You let me believe it was because I wasn’t enough,” she said, anger threading now through the hurt. “You let me build years of self-doubt on that silence.”

“I didn’t let you,” Y/N replied, and felt the truth of it ache. “I wasn’t there.”

“That’s the same thing,” Alexia snapped.

“No,” Y/N said. “It isn’t.”

They stood there, the air between them tight with things neither was naming.

“You broke things off with Alba because of me,” Alexia said. Not a question.

“Yes.”

Alexia flinched, visibly. “Then tell me why.”

Y/N closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again. “Because I won’t hurt her the way I hurt you.”

Alexia went still.

“You think this ends better?” she asked.

“I think it ends cleaner,” Y/N replied. “And right now, that’s all I can manage.”

Alexia looked at her as if trying to reconcile two versions of the same person — the girl she had loved, the woman standing in front of her now.

“You don’t get to decide what I needed,” Alexia said finally.

“You’re right,” Y/N answered. “But I get to decide what I can give.”

The five minutes had passed.

Y/N reached for her tablet, grounding herself in its weight. “I’m sorry,” she said — not as absolution, not as retreat, but as fact.

Alexia’s expression closed again, something old and protective reasserting itself.

“Then don’t say things you won’t stand behind,” Alexia said.

Y/N paused at the door. “I am standing behind it.”

She left before Alexia could respond.

————————

The invitation had arrived weeks earlier.

Y/N had approved the event schedule herself — a Cupra internal showcase folded neatly into a broader partnership calendar.

The venue was all glass and brushed metal, the kind of space that reflected people back at themselves whether they wanted it to or not. Lighting softened the edges. Music low enough to be ignored. Everything engineered to feel effortless.

Y/N arrived early, as she always did. She spoke to her team in concise bursts, reassured a nervous junior, accepted praise with a nod and moved on.

She did not look for Alexia.

She felt her anyway.

Presence announced itself differently when you weren’t pretending it didn’t matter. A shift in the room’s attention. A subtle recalibration of where eyes went, how bodies angled. Y/N registered it the way she registered temperature changes — not consciously, but immediately.

Alexia arrived with some of her FC Barcelona Femeni teammates - Mapi, Caro, Kika and Vicky.

Alexia moved through the space like it belonged to her by use rather than claim.

They did not greet each other.

They orbited.

At one point, Y/N found herself in conversation with a guest she barely recognised, nodding at intervals, offering the correct amount of interest. Over the guest’s shoulder, she caught sight of Alexia laughing — genuinely, briefly — at something someone had said. The sound travelled farther than it should have.

Y/N looked away first.

The programme ended smoothly. Applause. Apéritifs. The official part of the evening dissolved into something looser, warmer, less structured. Jackets came off. Glasses refilled. People relaxed into versions of themselves they preferred.

Y/N stayed longer than she had planned.

She told herself it was professional courtesy. Visibility mattered. Departing too early sent signals she didn’t want to manage tomorrow.

She was standing alone near the edge of the terrace, night air cutting the warmth just enough to be welcome, when Alexia approached.

Not abruptly.

Not cautiously.

She stopped beside her, close enough to share the view, far enough not to touch.

“You design the car interior well,” Alexia said, voice low. “They breathe.”

Y/N did not turn. “That’s the idea.”

Silence settled between them — not empty, just unfilled.

“I didn’t mean to corner you the other day,” Alexia said after a moment.

Y/N exhaled slowly. “You didn’t.”

Another pause.

“I think I did,” Alexia said. “I just… didn’t know how else to ask.”

Y/N turned then, meeting her eyes. The city reflected behind Alexia, fractured into light.

“You don’t need to ask tonight,” Y/N said.

Alexia’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “I know. But I needed to say something.”

Y/N nodded once. Acceptance.

The music shifted inside. Someone laughed too loudly. A door slid open and shut.

“I loved you,” Alexia said, very quietly.

The words landed without drama. No demand attached. No expectation of response.

Y/N felt her body register it before her mind did — a tightening at the base of her throat, a familiar ache resurfacing with precision.

“I didn’t stop,” Alexia added. “I just… put it somewhere I could survive.”

Y/N swallowed. “Alexia—”

“I’m not asking for anything,” Alexia said quickly, as if correcting herself. “I just needed you to know that it wasn’t small. That it wasn’t casual. That it wasn’t something I made up because I was young.”

Y/N held her gaze, steady despite the pull. “I know.”

Alexia’s eyes shone, unshed. “Do you?”

“Yes,” Y/N said. The truth of it felt heavy and exact.

They stood there, the space between them charged but held. Then Alexia reached out — not to pull, not to claim — and stopped, waiting.

Y/N closed the distance instead.

The kiss was careful. Brief. Recognition more than release. When they separated, neither of them pretended it hadn’t happened.

Y/N stepped back first.

“This doesn’t fix anything,” she said.

“I know,” Alexia replied.

“It makes it harder.”

“I know.”

Y/N nodded, grounding herself in decision. “Then we stop.”

Alexia searched her face, then nodded too. “Okay.”

They reentered the room separately.

Y/N left shortly after, offering polite goodbyes, reclaiming structure where she could find it. Outside, the night received her with familiar indifference.

As she walked toward her car, the kiss replayed — not as temptation, but as confirmation.

Distance, she understood now, was no longer discipline.

It was denial.

And denial had a shorter lifespan than she’d allowed herself to believe.

————————

They ran into each other where people went to disappear without committing to it.

A late-night place just off one of the quieter eateries — fluorescent lights softened by grime, menus laminated into permanence, food that arrived fast and tasted like it had saved someone more than once. It was nearly midnight. Too late for coincidence to feel innocent. Too early for the city to have decided what it wanted to be.

Y/N was halfway through a bowl of something hot and restorative when she felt it.

That familiar recalibration of space.

Alexia stood near the counter, jacket slung over one shoulder, hair damp as if she’d showered recently or run longer than planned. She looked tired in a way that stripped the polish off her public self — not undone, just human.

They saw each other at the same time.

Alexia hesitated. So did Y/N.

Neither turned away.

“Hi,” Alexia said, approaching slowly, as if giving Y/N time to change her mind.

“Hi,” Y/N replied.

Alexia stood there for a moment, the late-night hum swallowing the edges of whatever this was. Alexia glanced at the empty chair opposite Y/N.

“Can I?” she asked.

Y/N nodded.

They ate without ceremony. Talked around inconsequential things — training hours, work deadlines, the strange intimacy of being awake when most of the city had decided to rest. The tension didn’t ease, but it softened, rearranged itself into something manageable.

When they finished, neither reached for their phone.

Alexia broke the silence first.

“You don’t have to,” she said. “Come over, I mean.”

Y/N studied her face — open now, vulnerable in a way Alexia rarely allowed herself to be.

“I know,” Y/N said.

“But I want you to,” Alexia added, quietly.

The choice arrived fully formed.

“Okay,” Y/N said.

Alexia’s apartment was dark when they arrived, lit only by the city bleeding in through the windows. She didn’t turn on the overhead lights — just a lamp in the corner, enough to see each other without exposure.

They stood near the door, shoes still on, the distance between them measured in inches rather than metres now.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” Y/N said — not as denial, but as boundary.

Alexia nodded. “It means this.”

She reached out then, fingers brushing Y/N’s wrist — light, checking. Y/N closed the distance herself.

The kiss deepened quickly, not frantic, but hungry in a way that remembered itself. Alexia’s hands were warm, sure, moving like they knew where they were allowed to be even after all this time. Y/N responded with the same familiarity, the same restraint loosening in increments rather than collapsing.

They moved toward the bedroom without urgency, shedding layers as they went. Everything felt deliberate — pauses taken, eyes held, breaths shared. Alexia pressed her forehead to Y/N’s at one point, grounding herself there before continuing.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Alexia murmured.

Y/N shook her head. “I won’t.”

They undressed each other slowly, reacquainting themselves with skin that remembered more than words ever had. The intimacy wasn’t loud. It was careful, attuned — hands mapping reactions, mouths tracing familiarity that had never quite faded.

When they finally came together, it felt less like rediscovery and more like alignment — two people choosing the same moment without pretending it solved anything. Alexia held Y/N like she was anchoring herself, like the closeness mattered.

Afterward, they lay tangled in the sheets, breathing gradually evening out. Alexia traced idle lines along Y/N’s arm, not speaking, not asking.

Y/N stared at the ceiling, senses still attuned, body quieter now but not settled.

“This doesn’t change what I said,” Y/N murmured eventually.

“I know,” Alexia replied.

“And it doesn’t undo anything.”

“I know.”

Alexia turned onto her side, facing Y/N fully. “But it was real.”

“Yes,” Y/N said. “It was.”

They fell asleep like that — not entwined, not distant. Just close enough to acknowledge what they’d done without trying to name it.

In the morning, nothing would be simple.

But for now, in the space between midnight and consequence, they let themselves exist in something that didn’t ask to be justified.

—————————

Alba didn’t knock the way she usually did.

There was no sing-song rhythm to it, no warning call of Ale? through the door. Just a firm, utilitarian knock — the kind used when the person knocking assumed entry would be granted.

Alexia was in the kitchen, barefoot, coffee halfway made. Y/N stood near the window, shirt borrowed, city still settling itself after a night that hadn’t decided what it meant yet.

They both froze.

Alexia opened the door.

“Hey,” Alba said automatically — and then stopped.

Her eyes moved quickly, efficiently, the way they always did when she entered a room full of children and needed to understand everything at once. Shoes by the door that weren’t hers. Two cups on the counter. Y/N, still and unmistakable, standing where Alba had stood more than once herself.

The silence landed first.

Then the understanding.

“Oh,” Alba said.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was simply the sound of a word collapsing under its own weight.

“Alba—” Alexia started.

Alba raised a hand. Not angry. Not yet. “Don’t.”

Her gaze fixed on Y/N. Not accusatory — wounded.

“You,” Alba said quietly. “Here.”

Y/N felt the familiar instinct to shrink, to disappear inward. She resisted it, grounding herself in breath, posture, reality.

“Yes,” she said.

Alba nodded once, sharp. Then she turned to Alexia, and that was where the hurt sharpened into something else entirely.

“You knew,” Alba said. “You knew how I was.”

Alexia’s face drained of colour. “Alba, I—”

“You knew I was barely holding it together,” Alba continued, voice rising now despite herself. “You knew I was trying to be calm, to understand, to not make this about me. And you did this anyway.”

Alexia stepped forward. “I didn’t plan—”

“That’s worse,” Alba cut in. “That means you didn’t even think about me.”

The words hung there, devastating in their simplicity.

Y/N moved then, slow and deliberate. “This isn’t just on her.”

Alba’s eyes snapped back to her. “You broke up with me because of her,” she said. “And then you slept with her.”

Y/N remained silent.

Alba laughed — a short, broken sound. “God. I feel stupid.”

“You’re not,” Y/N said immediately.

“Don’t,” Alba snapped. “Don’t comfort me now.”

She turned away, pacing once, hands clenched at her sides like she was trying to keep herself from splintering.

“I thought,” Alba said, voice shaking now, “I thought at least my sister wouldn’t do this to me.”

Alexia’s eyes filled. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“But you did,” Alba said. “And you didn’t even look back.”

Silence pressed in again, heavier this time.

Y/N spoke carefully, aware that whatever she said here would stay said.

“I ended things because I didn’t want to lie to you,” she said. “And I didn’t come here to hide. This—” she gestured vaguely at the space between herself and Alexia, “—this is complicated. But it wasn’t meant to erase what you felt.”

Alba looked at her then — really looked — and something in her expression shifted. Not forgiveness. Not acceptance.

Understanding.

“I know,” Alba said quietly. “That’s the worst part.”

She wiped at her eyes with the heel of her hand, furious at herself for the tears. “I’m not angry because you chose each other,” she continued. “I’m angry because I was collateral.”

Alexia reached for her sister’s arm. Alba didn’t pull away — but she didn’t lean in either.

“I need space,” Alba said. “From both of you.”

She grabbed her bag, movements brisk, decisive. At the door, she paused, shoulders squared like she was bracing against weather.

“I don’t hate either of you,” she said. “But I need to not be in this.”

Then she left.

The door closed with a finality that had nothing to do with volume.

Alexia sank onto the edge of the sofa, elbows on her knees, head bowed. Y/N stood where she was, chest tight, the consequences finally landing in full.

Neither spoke.

Outside, the city went on — morning traffic, café shutters lifting, a dog barking impatiently somewhere below.

Y/N looked out the window again, watching Barcelona resume its practiced indifference.

—————————

They did not talk about Alba.

Not after the door closed. Not in the hours that followed. Not in the days after that arranged themselves into a pattern neither of them named.

Silence became the condition.

It wasn’t discussed or negotiated. It simply settled between them, heavy but functional, like a rule both understood instinctively. If they didn’t speak it, it could remain contained. If it remained contained, it could not yet become consequence.

They kept meeting.

At first, it felt accidental enough to believe.

A late night when neither of them wanted to go home yet. A text sent without punctuation. A “still awake” that meant “I am thinking about you and don’t want to admit it.”

They met for food because food gave hands something to do. They sat side by side instead of across from each other. They spoke about nothing that mattered and everything that did, circling the edges with careful familiarity.

When they touched, it was deliberate.

Never hurried. Never careless.

Alexia kissed her like she was relearning something she had once known by heart. Slower now. More attentive. As if the body could compensate for everything the mouth refused to say.

They undressed each other without ritual. No reverence, no apology. Just quiet acknowledgment. The guilt was there — present, pulsing — but it didn’t stop them. It sharpened things instead. Made every decision feel conscious, chosen.

Y/N noticed how Alexia watched her now.

Not possessively. Not with expectation. With something closer to vigilance. Like she was afraid to miss a signal she’d once misunderstood.

They slept together more than they had planned to.

Woke before dawn. Lay still afterward, bodies aligned without entanglement, breath evening out in tandem. Alexia would trace small, absent patterns on Y/N’s shoulder or wrist, never asking, never insisting.

In those moments, the past felt closer than the present.

They avoided Alba’s neighbourhood. Avoided places where running into her would require explanation. When her name surfaced — inevitably, occasionally — it was handled with care, like glass.

“She hasn’t texted,” Alexia said once, staring at the ceiling.

Y/N did not respond.

That was the agreement.

They told themselves this was temporary.

That it would exhaust itself. That desire sharpened by guilt always burned out faster. That they were old enough now to recognise patterns and end them before they became damage.

They were lying.

The meetings became less accidental.

A look held too long across a room. A pause after a professional exchange that invited more. An excuse that wasn’t necessary anymore because neither of them was pretending not to know what would happen next.

They crossed the city late at night, quiet streets absorbing them easily. Alexia’s apartment became familiar again — not like before, not innocent, but inhabited.

Sometimes they laughed. Sometimes they didn’t speak at all.

Sometimes Y/N left before morning. Sometimes she didn’t.

Each time, they returned to their lives as if nothing had shifted. As if Alba’s absence wasn’t a pressure point they both felt but refused to press.

Alexia grew quieter.

Not withdrawn — just thoughtful in a way that carried weight. She trained harder. Slept less. Held herself with the rigid discipline of someone trying to compensate for something unnamed.

Y/N watched it happen and said nothing.

She told herself this was restraint.

That staying silent was kinder than saying the wrong thing.

That control still belonged to her.

But late one night, as Alexia slept beside her, Y/N stared into the dark and understood something she had been avoiding:

They were not protecting Alba by keeping this unspoken.

They were protecting themselves.

And the longer the silence held, the more damage it was quietly storing for the moment it finally broke.

—————————

Alba’s absence did not announce itself.

It settled.

Alexia noticed it.

She grew sharper at the edges of her days. Training left her exhausted in ways it hadn’t before. She slept less, ate later, carried herself with the rigid precision of someone trying to outrun something internal.

They didn’t speak about Alba.

They did speak around her.

“She’s busy,” Alexia said once, scrolling through her phone without really looking. “School end-of-term.”

Y/N nodded. “That makes sense.”

Another lie filed neatly away.

Later that night, after they had fallen into each other again — after closeness had quieted the restlessness but not erased it — Alexia lay awake beside Y/N, staring at the ceiling.

“She was really hurt,” Alexia said softly.

Y/N didn’t move. “I know.”

“I should have protected her better.”

Y/N turned onto her side then, meeting Alexia’s eyes in the dark. “She’s not fragile.”

“No,” Alexia agreed. “But neither am I. And I still broke.”

The honesty in that unsettled something.

Y/N reached out, rested her hand briefly over Alexia’s wrist. Grounding, not consolation. Alexia closed her eyes at the contact, exhaling like she’d been holding her breath too long.

“I don’t want to lose her,” Alexia said.

“You won’t,” Y/N replied.

They both knew that wasn’t entirely true. Relationships didn’t disappear cleanly. They reconfigured. They left residue.

————————

Alexia didn’t bring it up immediately.

They were in Alexia’s apartment, the windows open to let the city cool itself into evening. Dinner sat half-finished on the table — food neither of them had been particularly hungry for, eaten more out of habit than need.

Alexia washed the plates while Y/N leaned against the counter, arms folded loosely, watching the familiar efficiency of her movements. The domesticity felt dangerous now — not tender, not aspirational. Loaded.

When Alexia dried her hands and turned around, she didn’t sit beside Y/N. She stayed standing.

“There’s something I keep circling,” she said.

Y/N’s body reacted before her voice did — a small tightening, quickly mastered. “You always circle.”

Alexia smiled faintly. “You always notice.”

She leaned back against the counter opposite Y/N, folding her arms in a mirror of her posture. Not confrontational. Just steady.

“When you say you left because you couldn’t stay,” Alexia continued, “that explains the decision. Not the urgency.”

Y/N looked away. Out the window, the city flickered with life that had nothing to do with them.

“It was complicated,” she said.

“It always is,” Alexia replied. “But this feels… incomplete.”

Y/N closed her eyes briefly. “Alexia.”

“I’m not asking you to relive anything,” Alexia said quickly. “I just need to understand what I’ve been carrying all these years.”

The phrasing mattered.

Y/N opened her eyes again. “What do you think you’ve been carrying?”

Alexia hesitated. “Rejection,” she said finally. “Shame. The feeling that I misread everything.”

Y/N nodded slowly. “You did misread it.”

Alexia’s breath caught. “Then help me read it correctly.”

Silence stretched between them — not hostile, but charged. The kind that demanded choice.

Y/N shook her head. “Not yet.”

Alexia didn’t argue. That was new.

She stepped closer instead, stopping well within personal space but not touching. “I’m not trying to trap you,” she said. “I’m trying to stop punishing myself for something I didn’t understand.”

Y/N felt the words land — not as accusation, but as appeal.

“You’re not being punished,” Y/N said quietly.

Alexia searched her face. “Then why does it still hurt?”

Because it never belonged to you, Y/N thought.

She didn’t say it.

“Some things hurt even when they aren’t yours to carry,” she said instead.

Alexia nodded slowly, accepting the non-answer for what it was. “Okay.”

She reached out then — not to pull Y/N closer, but to rest her fingers briefly against Y/N’s forearm. A touch that asked nothing and still meant everything.

“When you’re ready,” Alexia said.

Y/N swallowed. “I don’t know when that will be.”

“That’s alright,” Alexia replied. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The certainty in her voice startled Y/N more than any demand would have.

Later, as they lay side by side in the dark, not touching, Y/N stared at the ceiling and replayed the conversation with the kind of precision she usually reserved for systems that had failed.

Alexia wasn’t asking for absolution.

She was asking for truth.

And Y/N understood, with a clarity that settled deep rather than sharp, that the truth was no longer contained by silence.

————————

Miriam insisted.

Not loudly. Not with pressure. Just with the quiet authority of someone who had known both of them long enough to recognise when proximity had turned brittle.

“Come out,” she’d said over text. “Just drinks. No drama. I promise.”

Alexia agreed because she was tired of circling. Y/N agreed because she was tired of managing herself.

Miriam is someone Alexia is very close with. Close professionally, as Miriam ran Eleven - the foundation Alexia founded; and a close confidant - a bridge between Mollet de Valles and Barcelona.

When Miriam found out through Alexia that Y/N is back in her orbit - she jumped at the chance of organising a night out.

They met at a place that hadn’t changed since their early twenties — low ceilings, bad lighting, music that leaned nostalgic without meaning to. The kind of bar that carried memory without demanding it.

Miriam was already there, laughing, two glasses waiting.

“Finally,” she said, when they approached. “A reunion.”

Y/N smiled, easing into it despite herself. Alexia did too, the tension in her shoulders loosening incrementally as the night unfolded.

They talked easily, the three of them. About nothing that mattered. About everything that used to. Miriam told stories that blurred timelines on purpose, skipping over years like stones across water.

“You remember Mollet summers?” Miriam said at one point, grinning. “We thought we were so grown.”

Alexia laughed softly. “We were insufferable.”

Y/N felt the word Mollet settle low in her chest. She kept her face neutral, lifted her glass, took a careful sip.

Miriam leaned back, watching them with affectionate scrutiny. “You two,” she said, shaking her head. “Always serious. Even now.”

Alexia glanced at Y/N, something unreadable passing between them. “Some things don’t change.”

The alcohol was present, but not overwhelming. Enough to soften edges. Enough to let fatigue surface.

Later, Miriam disappeared into a conversation with someone she’d recognised from another life. Y/N and Alexia found themselves standing slightly apart from the crowd, sharing space without speaking.

Alexia leaned closer. “You okay?”

Y/N nodded. “Just tired.”

They left not long after — separate goodbyes, a shared glance that acknowledged the inevitability of what came next without naming it.

Alexia’s apartment was quiet when they arrived. Shoes kicked off by the door. Lights left low. The city humming faintly through the windows.

They didn’t touch at first.

Alexia poured water, handed Y/N a glass without comment. She drank it slowly, grounding herself, the way she always did when something felt too close.

“You don’t have to stay,” Alexia said.

Y/N nodded. “I know.”

They stood there, the space between them loaded with everything they hadn’t said all night.

Alexia broke first.

“Miriam mentioned Mollet,” she said. Not casually. Carefully. “You went quiet.”

Y/N’s throat tightened before she could stop it. She turned toward the window, putting the city between herself and Alexia’s gaze.

“It’s not my favourite topic,” she said.

“I know,” Alexia replied. “But it’s part of us.”

Y/N closed her eyes.

“Alexia,” she said. “Please.”

“I’m not trying to push,” Alexia said quickly. “I just—”

“You don’t understand why I left,” Y/N interrupted.

The words were out before she could contain them. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just there.

Alexia froze.

Y/N felt it then — the precise moment when control slipped, when something unrehearsed took its first breath.

“I couldn’t stay after that,” Y/N said, voice distant, as if she were speaking from somewhere else entirely.

Alexia turned fully toward her. “After what?”

The question was careful. Almost gentle.

Y/N realised too late what she had opened.

She shook her head. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Alexia didn’t move closer. Didn’t reach out. She simply waited.

“You don’t have to explain everything,” Alexia said. “Just… help me understand what I missed.”

Y/N pressed her fingertips against the cool glass of the window, grounding herself in sensation. The city below blurred into something abstract and forgiving.

“It wasn’t about you,” she said finally. “Not then. Not ever.”

Alexia’s voice dropped. “Then what was it about?”

Silence.

Y/N’s breath came shallow now, her body reverting to old discipline, old containment. She turned back toward Alexia, eyes steady but distant.

“I didn’t leave because I wanted to,” she said. “I left because staying wasn’t safe.”

The room went very still.

Alexia didn’t move.

That was the first thing Y/N noticed — the stillness. Not shock, not anger. A deliberate, arrested quiet, like a body deciding whether it was allowed to breathe yet.

“Safe,” Alexia repeated softly. Not questioning. Testing the word in her mouth.

Y/N’s spine pressed more firmly into the glass. The cold anchored her, kept her upright when instinct told her to retreat further inward.

“I shouldn’t have said it like that,” Y/N said.

Alexia shook her head once. “No. Don’t—” She stopped herself, recalibrated. “Don’t apologise yet.”

Yet.

The implication hovered between them, large and undefined. Alexia didn’t fill it in with narrative or accusation. She didn’t reach for names. She didn’t make it about herself.

That, more than anything, made Y/N’s chest tighten.

“How long,” Alexia asked carefully, “have you been carrying that alone?”

Y/N laughed under her breath — not humour, not hysteria. Just disbelief. “Always.”

Alexia swallowed. She sat down slowly on the edge of the sofa, elbows resting on her knees, hands clasped together like she was containing something volatile.

“I thought,” she said, and stopped. Tried again. “I thought you left because you were afraid of what we were.”

Y/N closed her eyes. The room tilted, not violently, just enough to make balance an effort.

“I was afraid,” she said. “Just not of that.”

Silence returned — altered now. No longer avoidance. Something closer to reverence.

Alexia looked up at her then, eyes searching but not demanding. “Did someone hurt you?”

The question was almost unbearably gentle.

Y/N felt the instinct to deflect rise — sharp, practiced — and pushed it down with conscious effort. She didn’t answer directly. She nodded once.

Alexia’s breath hitched, the sound barely audible. She looked away, jaw tightening, as if containing an emotion too large to be useful in the moment.

“I didn’t see it,” Alexia said. Not accusation. Not self-flagellation. Just fact.

“No,” Y/N agreed. “You couldn’t have.”

Alexia stood abruptly, crossed the room, then stopped herself short of touching Y/N. Her hands hovered for a fraction of a second before dropping back to her sides.

“Thank you,” she said instead, voice rough, “for telling me even that much.”

Y/N opened her eyes. “I didn’t plan to.”

“I know.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“I’m not going to ask for more,” Alexia said. “Not tonight. Not until you say you can.”

Y/N studied her face — the restraint, the care, the way Alexia was forcing herself not to rush toward repair.

“That’s new,” Y/N said quietly.

Alexia’s mouth curved faintly. “I’m learning.”

They didn’t touch again that night.

They sat on opposite ends of the sofa, the city breathing through the open windows, sharing the space without claiming it. When Y/N eventually stood to leave, Alexia walked her to the door without protest.

At the threshold, Alexia spoke once more.

“I was wrong about you,” she said. “About that summer. About what I thought you took from me.”

Y/N nodded. “You only had the part that made sense to you.”

Alexia met her gaze, eyes steady despite the emotion burning behind them. “I want to understand the rest. When you’re ready.”

Y/N didn’t answer.

She stepped into the hallway, the door closing softly behind her.

As she descended the stairs, the city reclaiming her in layers of sound and movement, Y/N felt something unfamiliar settle in her chest.

Not relief.

Not fear.

Exposure.

The truth had slipped — not fully, not cleanly — but enough to change the air.

And this time, Alexia hadn’t filled the silence with blame.

She’d made room.

Y/N didn’t know yet whether that would save her.

Only that it had made retreat impossible.

————————

Y/N woke early, body already alert, the city barely stirring beneath her window. Her phone lay face down on the bedside table. She did not reach for it. She knew there would be nothing there — not yet.

She moved through the routine she trusted when things threatened to surface too fast. Shower. Coffee. Clothing chosen for function, not feeling. The mirror reflected someone intact, if not entirely present.

She went to work and let the architecture of her day carry her. Meetings. Decisions. Small problems solved cleanly. Colleagues spoke to her with the same confidence they always had. No one noticed the shift because the shift was internal, and Y/N had always been good at keeping those invisible.

It was only when she stepped outside for air — Alexia has messaged her if she could drop by Cupra’s office.

Y/N replied yes.

Less than an hour later, Y/N found Alexia at Cupra’s cafeteria, nestled in a quiet corner.

They greet each other as Y/N made her way to the table where Alexia sat.

Alexia spoke first. “I didn’t want to text.”

Y/N nodded. “I appreciate that.”

They sat there for a moment, the late afternoon light flattening everything into honesty. No shadows to hide behind.

“I didn’t sleep,” Alexia said.

“Neither did I,” Y/N replied.

Alexia hesitated, then said, “I’m not going to ask you to explain today.”

Y/N studied her face — the restraint still there, but something steadier underneath it now. “Okay.”

“But I need you to know something,” Alexia continued. “What you said last night… it reframed everything.”

Y/N’s chest tightened. “Alexia—”

“No,” Alexia said gently. “Let me finish.”

She took a breath, grounding herself in the moment the way she did before matches.

“I thought I was carrying heartbreak,” she said. “Something mutual that ended badly. Now I understand that I was carrying ignorance. And I don’t want to keep doing that.”

Y/N looked away, the words pressing too close to the centre of her.

“I’m not asking you to relive it,” Alexia added. “And I’m not asking you to fix how I felt back then.”

“What are you asking?” Y/N asked quietly.

Alexia met her eyes. “To let me be careful with you now.”

The simplicity of it landed harder than any demand would have.

Y/N swallowed. “Care doesn’t undo the past.”

“No,” Alexia agreed. “But it can change the present.”

They stood in silence again — not the old silence, not avoidance, but something held deliberately open.

“Alba called me this morning,” Alexia said after a moment.

Y/N’s body tensed despite herself. “And?”

“She didn’t yell,” Alexia said. “Which somehow felt worse.”

Y/N nodded slowly.

“She said she’s not angry,” Alexia continued. “Just… tired. And sad. And done being in the middle.”

Y/N closed her eyes briefly. “That’s fair.”

“Yes,” Alexia said. “It is.”

Another pause.

“I’m not going to involve her in this,” Alexia said. “Whatever this becomes. Or doesn’t.”

Y/N opened her eyes again. “That’s not something you can control alone.”

“I know,” Alexia replied. “But I can control myself.”

The words echoed — control, restraint, choice — all the language Y/N had lived inside for years.

“I need time,” Y/N said finally.

Alexia nodded immediately. “I’ll take whatever time you give.”

Y/N almost smiled at that — not because it was comforting, but because it was honest.

————————

They crossed paths again three days later — Y/N had asked Alexia out for a quick supermarket run.

“Are you okay?” Alexia asked as they exited the supermarket. No subtext. No trap

“Yes,” Y/N said. Then, after a pause, “Not completely.”

Alexia nodded. “Thank you for telling me that.”

They stood there, the hum of the building settling around them. Y/N noticed how Alexia held herself now — less rigid, more present, like she had decided not to armour every feeling preemptively.

“I keep thinking,” Alexia said quietly, “that care doesn’t have to mean waiting forever.”

Y/N met her eyes. “What does it mean, then?”

Alexia hesitated. “Listening. Stopping when you say stop. Starting only when you say yes.”

The simplicity of it was almost unbearable.

Y/N exhaled slowly. “I don’t trust myself to know when yes is safe.”

Alexia stepped closer — not invading, just present. “Then let me help you notice.”

They didn’t kiss.

They didn’t need to.

They walked together instead, out into the evening, conversation light but threaded with awareness.

“You can come over,” Alexia said. “Or you can go home. Either way is okay.”

The choice was explicit.

Y/N felt it in her chest — not pressure, not pull, but possibility.

“I’m the one with groceries,” she said. “…and these peas need to be stored in the freezer. Maybe you come over to mine?”

Alexia’s smile was small, untriumphant. “Okay.”

This time, the intimacy unfolded differently.

No urgency. No guilt sharpening the edges. They talked first — about nothing, about everything. Y/N made tea instead of pouring wine. They sat close without touching for a long time, bodies adjusting to the permission of space.

When they finally did touch, it was with attentiveness that bordered on reverence. Alexia checked in without words — pauses, eye contact, breath held just long enough for Y/N to decide.

Y/N found herself answering yes not with silence, but with movement.

After, they lay side by side, sheets cool, windows open. The city breathed around them, unconcerned.

“This still doesn’t fix everything,” Y/N said softly.

Alexia turned toward her. “I know.”

“But it doesn’t feel like avoidance,” Y/N continued.

“No,” Alexia agreed. “It feels like choosing.”

Y/N closed her eyes, letting the word settle — not as promise, not as resolution, but as something real.

————————

It happened on a night that refused to be dramatic.

No alcohol. No music. No excuse to blame loosened edges. Just quiet, the kind that asked to be filled honestly or not at all.

Alexia was sitting on the floor, back against the sofa, sorting something mundane — training notes, maybe, or nothing that actually needed sorting. Y/N watched her for a moment before speaking, noting the way Alexia’s presence no longer felt like pressure but invitation.

“I need to tell you something,” Y/N said.

Alexia looked up immediately. Not startled. Attentive.

“Okay,” she said.

Y/N sat opposite her, knees drawn up, hands resting loosely in her lap. She didn’t pace it. Didn’t soften the entry.

“It wasn’t that I didn’t want to stay,” she said. “After Mollet.”

Alexia’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. She stayed silent.

“I didn’t leave because I was confused about us,” Y/N continued. “Or because I panicked.”

She inhaled slowly, deliberately.

“I left because I was raped.”

The word landed without ceremony.

Not hurled. Not whispered.

Placed.

Alexia’s breath left her in a single, sharp exhale. She did not move. Did not interrupt. Her eyes stayed on Y/N’s face, steady despite the shock rippling through her.

“It was Fernando…you might remember him,” Y/N said, voice even, distant in the way people became when recounting something that had already burned through them. “After I left you. He offered me a ride. I said no—” She stopped herself, shook her head once. “The details don’t matter.”

Alexia’s hands curled into fists against the floor.

“I didn’t know how to say it,” Y/N went on. “I didn’t have language yet. And I knew—” her voice caught for the first time, quickly steadied, “—I knew that if I stayed, I would disappear inside it. Inside shame. Inside fear.”

Alexia stood abruptly, then stopped herself — visibly forcing restraint — and lowered herself back down, closer now but not touching.

Silence followed — deep, heavy, reverent.

Alexia reached out slowly, deliberately, and rested her hand palm-up between them. She did not assume. She waited.

Y/N placed her hand in Alexia’s.

“I was wrong,” Alexia said, tears finally spilling despite her control. “About everything. About you. About that summer. About myself.”

“You weren’t wrong,” Y/N said quietly. “You just didn’t have the truth.”

Alexia bowed her head, pressing her forehead briefly to Y/N’s knuckles. “I didn’t protect you.”

“You couldn’t have,” Y/N replied. “But you can choose me now.”

Alexia looked up at her then — open, unguarded, resolute.

“I am,” she said. “If you’ll let me.”

Y/N nodded. “I am too.”

They didn’t make love that night.

They held each other instead — bodies aligned, breathing matched, the truth finally given a place to rest that wasn’t silence.

————————

They didn’t make a moment of it.

No candlelit reckoning. No speech prepared in advance. Just morning light slipping through the blinds, catching on dust motes and the edge of the table where Alexia’s keys lay exactly where she always left them.

Y/N woke first.

Her body registered the room before her mind did — the quiet hum of the city outside, the familiar weight beside her, the steady rhythm of breathing that no longer startled her awake. She lay still for a while, letting the sensation of after exist without commentary.

Alexia stirred beside her, a low sound of waking, one arm shifting instinctively to rest across Y/N’s waist. The touch wasn’t possessive. It was anchoring.

“Morning,” Alexia murmured, voice still rough.

“Morning,” Y/N replied.

They didn’t move right away. The truth of the night before sat between them — not heavy, not sharp, just present. No longer something hovering unspoken, but something that had been placed carefully on the table and left there in the light.

Alexia was the one who sat up first.

She leaned back against the headboard, hands resting loosely on her thighs, posture unguarded in a way Y/N hadn’t seen before. There was no urgency in her movements, no sense of bracing for impact.

“I’ve been thinking,” Alexia said.

Y/N waited. She’d learned the difference between thinking and circling now.

“I don’t want this to live in maybe,” Alexia continued. “Or in between. Or in something we keep justifying.”

Y/N’s chest tightened — not with fear, but recognition.

“I don’t want to hide,” Alexia said. “And I don’t want to pretend we’re being careful when we’re actually just afraid.”

She looked at Y/N then, fully, openly. No accusation in her eyes. No demand.

“I want to be with you,” she said. “Out loud. On purpose.”

The words landed cleanly.

Y/N felt them register not as pressure, but as structure — something solid enough to hold weight.

She sat up too, drawing her knees close, grounding herself in the present moment. She did not rush the answer. She didn’t need to.

“I can’t do half,” Y/N said. “Not anymore.”

Alexia nodded. “Neither can I.”

“There will be days,” Y/N continued, choosing precision over reassurance, “when I’m not okay. When memory isn’t linear. When I pull back.”

“I know,” Alexia said.

“And I won’t let you fix it for me,” Y/N added. “I don’t want to be carried. I want to be chosen.”

Alexia reached out then, stopping just short of touching Y/N’s knee — checking.

“Then let me stand next to you,” she said. “Not in front. Not behind.”

Y/N exhaled slowly. Something in her chest loosened that she hadn’t realised was still braced.

“I’m with you,” she said. “I’m not leaving.”

Alexia’s face softened — not relieved, not triumphant. Steady.

“Good,” she said quietly. “Because neither am I.”

They didn’t kiss immediately.

They sat there for a moment longer, letting the sentence settle into reality — not as promise, not as protection, but as fact.

When Alexia finally leaned in, the kiss was unhurried. Familiar without being nostalgic. Present without being overwhelming.

Afterward, they moved through the morning like people who had decided something fundamental.

Coffee made. Windows opened. Phones checked and set aside again. Alexia sent a message — short, deliberate — to someone Y/N didn’t ask about, and Alexia didn’t explain.

Later, as Y/N pulled on her shoes by the door, Alexia watched her with a small, thoughtful smile.

“You know,” Alexia said, “choosing doesn’t mean it gets easy.”

Y/N smiled back. “No. It just means it’s real.”

Alexia stepped forward, resting her forehead briefly against Y/N’s. “That’s enough for me.”

Y/N paused there, hand on the doorframe, grounding herself in the weight of the moment.

For the first time in a long while, staying didn’t feel like endurance.

It felt like alignment.

And that was how the rest of their life — not perfect, not untouched — quietly, unmistakably began.

—————————

Alba reached out first.

Not with a phone call. Not with something that demanded immediate presence or performance. Just a message — precise, deliberate, unmistakably hers.

Can we talk? Not to fix anything. Just to talk.

Y/N stared at the screen longer than she needed to. Long enough to feel the old instinct rise — to prepare, to brace, to catalogue possible outcomes. Long enough to recognise that instinct for what it was.

“Yes,” she typed. “Whenever you’re ready.”

They met in daylight.

A park near Alba’s school, benches warmed by the afternoon sun, the noise of children distant enough to feel like proof that life continued regardless of private fracture. Alba arrived on time. She looked well — not healed, not untouched, but steadier than Y/N had feared.

She sat beside Y/N, leaving a careful amount of space.

“I’m not here to interrogate you,” Alba said immediately. “Or to forgive you. Or to ask you to justify anything.”

Y/N nodded. “Okay.”

“I just needed to stop imagining,” Alba continued. “Because my imagination is… unkind.”

That earned a faint, tired smile from Y/N. “Mine too.”

They sat for a moment, watching a dog chase a ball with misplaced confidence.

“I know you’re with my sister,” Alba said finally.

“Yes,” Y/N replied.

Alba exhaled slowly. “She told me. Not details. Just… intention.”

Y/N waited.

“I was angry at first,” Alba said. “Not because you chose each other. But because I felt stupid for being in the middle of something that had a history I couldn’t see.”

“You weren’t stupid,” Y/N said quietly.

Alba shook her head. “Maybe not. But I was hurt.”

“I know,” Y/N replied. And meant it.

Alba looked down at her hands, fingers worrying at the seam of her sleeve. “I needed time to be hurt without turning it into blame.”

Y/N felt something loosen at the base of her chest. “That’s… fair.”

“I don’t hate either of you,” Alba went on. “I just needed space where I wasn’t measuring myself against something I never stood a chance with.”

Y/N swallowed. “I never wanted you to feel like that.”

“I know,” Alba said. “That doesn’t mean I didn’t.”

They shared a quiet look — not accusatory, not absolving. Honest.

“How are you?” Alba asked then. The question was careful, genuine.

Y/N considered it. “Better,” she said. “Still learning.”

Alba nodded. “She’s trying,” she said. “Alexia. In her own way.”

Y/N smiled faintly. “She is.”

“I’m glad,” Alba said. And then, after a pause, “I’m glad it’s you.”

The words landed softly but firmly.

Y/N looked at her, surprised. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I know,” Alba replied. “I want to.”

They sat a little closer after that — not touching, not retreating. The space between them no longer charged with unsaid things.

“I’m not ready to be… normal yet,” Alba added. “But I don’t want to disappear either.”

“You don’t have to,” Y/N said. “I’ll follow your lead.”

Alba smiled — small, sincere. “Good. Because I’d like to still exist in your life. Just… differently.”

Y/N nodded. “I’d like that too.”

When they stood to leave, Alba surprised her by leaning in and hugging her — brief, firm, intentional.

“Take care of her,” Alba said quietly.

Y/N met her eyes. “I will.”

As Alba walked away, shoulders squared, steps unhurried, Y/N felt the shift settle — not closure, not forgiveness, but something sturdier.

Continuation.

Later that evening, when Y/N told Alexia about the meeting, Alexia listened without interruption, hands folded loosely in her lap.

“She’s stronger than I give her credit for,” Alexia said.

“Yes,” Y/N agreed. “But she shouldn’t have to be all the time.”

Alexia nodded, the concern still there — quieter now, layered with relief.

Bittersweet, Y/N thought.

But healing rarely arrived without it.

And this time, it wasn’t something they were managing in silence.

It was something they were learning to carry together.

—————————

Y/N found herself back in Mollet when Eli invited her over for dinner. Y/N knew it was not just dinner.

Apparently, Alexia has shared Y/N’s number with her mother; when Eli asked her daughter if she could have a private meetup with Y/N.

Y/N arrived with bread she hadn’t been asked to bring and the quiet awareness that kitchens were places where Eli spoke plainly because there was always something to do with her hands.

The apartment smelled warm — oil, garlic, something slow and deliberate on the stove. Eli stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair clipped back with the same practicality Y/N had come to recognise as care.

“Sit,” Eli said, nodding toward the table. “You look like someone who hasn’t eaten properly.”

Y/N smiled faintly. “You’re not wrong.”

They moved around each other easily — Eli plating, Y/N setting the table without being told. It felt domestic in a way that wasn’t performative. Lived-in. Earned.

They ate for a while in companionable quiet.

Eli watched Y/N the way she always did — not scrutinising, just attentive, as if noting weather patterns rather than flaws.

“I spoke to Alba,” Eli said eventually.

Y/N’s body tensed, then settled. “How is she?”

“Still hurt,” Eli replied. “Still herself.”

Y/N nodded. “I’m relieved she’s talking to you.”

“She always does,” Eli said. Then, after a beat, “She’s talking to Alexia again too. Slowly.”

That eased something Y/N hadn’t realised was braced.

Eli set her fork down, hands folding together deliberately. “I want to say something,” she said. “And I don’t want you to interrupt me.”

Y/N met her gaze. “Okay.”

Eli inhaled once, steadying herself. “I’m happy for you and my daughter,” she said. “I see how Alexia is with you. I haven’t seen her like that in a long time.”

Y/N absorbed that quietly.

“But,” Eli continued, voice gentle but firm, “I am also a mother to another daughter who was hurt. And that doesn’t disappear just because love finds its way where it’s always been going.”

Y/N swallowed. “I understand.”

Eli nodded. “I know you do.”

She reached across the table then, resting her hand briefly over Y/N’s. The touch was grounding rather than affectionate.

“You don’t owe me details,” Eli said. “I know enough to know you survived something that should never have happened. And I know enough to see that you’re trying to live honestly now.”

Y/N felt her throat tighten. “Thank you.”

Eli squeezed her hand once and let go. “What I need from you is not guilt,” she said. “It’s care. For both of my daughters. Even when that care looks different for each of them.”

“I can do that,” Y/N said quietly.

“I believe you,” Eli replied.

They finished dinner without ceremony. Eli wrapped leftovers automatically, pressing a container into Y/N’s hands at the door like a benediction disguised as practicality.

—————————-

They didn’t announce anything.

No post. No interview. No carefully worded statement to frame the optics.

They simply stopped hiding.

Alexia’s hand found Y/N’s at a café where no one was supposed to notice. Y/N stood beside Alexia at an event where her role was clear and unambiguous. They arrived together. Left together.

People clocked it the way they always did — first as curiosity, then as fact.

There was speculation. There always was.

But nothing was corrected. Nothing was fed.

What they had didn’t need defending.

At home, life softened.

Shared groceries. Keys left on the same hook. Alexia learning which days Y/N needed quiet without explanation. Y/N learning when Alexia needed motion — a walk, a late drive, the physical release of moving forward.

Sex became something else again — not reclamation, not repair.

Just intimacy.

Sometimes playful. Sometimes slow. Always negotiated in a language they now trusted.

————————

Alba didn’t vanish.

She re-entered their orbit gradually, on her own terms. A group lunch. A message about something inconsequential. An invitation that didn’t require emotional labour to accept.

She started seeing someone new — casually at first, then with a brightness Y/N recognised as genuine.

“You don’t have to look guilty,” Alba said once, catching Y/N’s expression. “I’m not rebuilding myself from ruins.”

Y/N smiled, relieved.

Alba was still protective of herself. Still careful. But no longer defined by what had hurt her.

That mattered more than forgiveness ever could.

—————————

One evening, months later, they sat on the balcony as the city cooled into night. Alexia’s arm draped loosely around Y/N’s shoulders. Y/N’s bare feet tucked under her.

Nothing urgent. Nothing unresolved.

“You’re still here,” Alexia said quietly.

Y/N smiled. “I am not going anywhere.”

The city hummed below them — imperfect, uncontained, alive.

The past still existed.

But it no longer dictated the terms.

What they kept now was deliberate.

And that — finally — was enough.

————————————————————————

The city moved with purpose. Buses exhaled at stops. Cyclists threaded gaps with aggressive precision. Someone shouted into a phone. Someone else laughed, sharp and bright, already late for something.

Y/N walked quickly but not hurriedly. There was a difference. Hurry suggested panic; speed suggested choice.

She liked routes with options—parallel streets, multiple crossings, doors she could take if necessary. She had mapped this walk months ago and still revised it occasionally, not because it needed improvement, but because she preferred not to let patterns fossilise.

At the crossing, she stopped without stepping too close to the curb. Habit, not fear. She waited for the signal even when others crossed early. Predictability had its uses.

Her reflection flickered briefly in a shop window—dark hair pulled back, coat cut cleanly, face composed into something neutral enough to pass unnoticed. She did not slow to examine it. Windows were for seeing through, not for seeing yourself.

At the office building, she let herself be carried in with the others, badge out, door unlocking with a muted click. The lobby smelled faintly of citrus cleaner and over-roasted coffee.

“Morning,” someone said, uninvested.

“Morning,” she replied, matching tone, already moving.

Her desk sat where it always did: not near the windows, not buried in the middle. A position with sightlines. She set her bag down, powered up her screen, scanned overnight messages.

There were no surprises. She preferred it that way.

Design briefs. Client feedback. A meeting moved by fifteen minutes. The day arranged itself into blocks of manageable attention.

At ten-thirty, she stood and made herself tea. The kitchenette was crowded, bodies too close, conversations overlapping. She waited for a lull rather than reaching across someone else’s space.

When it came, she moved decisively, kettle on, mug placed, bag steeped exactly as long as necessary. She did not like her tea forgotten.

A colleague leaned against the counter, scrolling. “You’re always so organised,” she said, half-admiring, half-accusatory.

Y/N smiled politely. “It saves time.”

“Must be nice,” the woman said, though she didn’t sound as if she meant it.

Y/N returned to her desk before the conversation could continue.

She worked through the morning with focus that felt less like effort and more like alignment. Problems presented themselves. She solved them. She did not linger.

At lunch, she walked again—out into the city, into noise and anonymity. She ate standing up, food unremarkable, nourishment reduced to function. A park bench nearby was crowded; she did not consider sitting.

When she returned to the office, the afternoon settled in without resistance.

At five forty-five, she shut down her screen, gathered her things, and left.

No one stopped her. No one asked where she was going.

Outside, the light had shifted, the city loosening into evening. She walked home along a different route than the one she’d taken that morning, passing a street she rarely used.

It was narrower. Quieter. A bakery halfway down released a smell that tugged unexpectedly at something she did not name.

She did not slow.

By the time she reached her building, the feeling had already been filed away as inconsequential. She unlocked her door, stepped inside, and locked it behind her with a practiced turn of the key.

Inside, the flat was cool and orderly. Shoes aligned by the door. Surfaces clear. The air smelled faintly of detergent and nothing else.

Y/N set her bag down and stood still for a moment, listening.

The city murmured beyond the walls, distant and contained. Traffic. Voices. Life happening elsewhere.

She moved again, because movement was easier than reflection.

London did not ask questions.

That was why she stayed.

————————-

She met him at a gallery opening she hadn’t planned to attend.

A colleague had an extra ticket. Someone cancelled last minute. It was raining, and staying home would have required deciding what to do with the evening. Going required less effort.

His name was Thomas. He worked in publishing. He was kind in a way that did not demand response—attentive without being curious, interested without being intrusive.

They spoke about books first. Not the kind that mattered deeply, but the kind that made conversation easy. He listened well. He laughed at the right moments. He did not stand too close.

When he asked for her number, it felt procedural rather than charged.

“Yes,” she said, because there was no reason not to.

They went on dates that followed a predictable rhythm. Dinner. A drink. Walking along the river because walking was neutral ground. He learned her preferences quickly and respected them without comment.

She appreciated that.

He did not touch her without warning. When he did, it was brief and cautious—a hand at her elbow, fingers brushing the small of her back as they crossed a street.

She let it happen.

They slept together after the fourth date, which felt like an appropriate interval. The night was unremarkable in a way she found reassuring. There were no expectations layered onto it, no urgency to translate physical closeness into meaning.

In the morning, he made coffee badly and apologised for it.

“It’s fine,” Y/N said, and meant this is manageable.

They did not linger in bed. Lingering implied intention.

Over the weeks that followed, they settled into something that resembled a relationship if observed from a distance. Messages exchanged regularly. Plans made a few days in advance. A rhythm that did not accelerate on its own.

Thomas asked questions, but they were the kind that could be answered safely.

“What do you like about your work?”

“What do you do to relax?”

“Do you prefer the city or the countryside?”

She answered honestly, within limits.

He did not ask about her childhood. He did not ask about her family beyond surface details. He did not ask why she sometimes went still when his hand lingered too long.

When she pulled away once—just slightly—he adjusted immediately, no offence taken.

“Sorry,” he said.

“It’s fine,” she replied, because it was.

She liked him. Or rather, she liked the way being with him did not disrupt anything else. He fit neatly into the architecture of her life, occupying space that had been intentionally left flexible.

One evening, sitting across from her at dinner, he studied her with mild curiosity.

“You’re very self-contained,” he said.

She lifted her glass. “Is that a criticism?”

“No,” he said quickly. “Just… an observation.”

She nodded. “People say that.”

“Does it bother you?”

She considered. “It’s accurate.”

He smiled, accepting the answer as complete.

The end came quietly.

They were walking along the river again, the lights reflecting off the water in broken lines. Thomas slowed, then stopped altogether.

“I don’t think you need me,” he said, not accusing, just stating.

Y/N turned to face him. She did not feel surprised.

“I enjoy you,” she said carefully.

“I know,” he replied. “But that’s not the same thing.”

She did not argue. Arguing would have implied a desire to convince.

“I don’t think this is going anywhere,” he continued. “And I don’t want to stay somewhere I’m… adjacent.”

Y/N nodded. “That’s fair.”

He searched her face, perhaps looking for regret, or disappointment, or something more dramatic.

There was none.

They hugged—briefly, politely. No promises made. No bitterness exchanged.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” he said.

“So do you,” she replied, because that was the appropriate response.

She walked home alone, the evening unchanged by the conversation. The city received her without comment.

Inside her flat, she removed her coat, placed her shoes neatly by the door, and washed her hands.

She did not feel loss.

She felt confirmation.

Romance, she thought, was manageable as long as it did not ask for depth. As long as it did not require surrender.

She turned off the light and went to bed, confident once again in the structure she had built.

Nothing had been risked.

Nothing had been broken.

And nothing, she told herself, had been avoided.

———————-

The project announcement came buried in an email thread that had already lost its urgency by the time Y/N opened it.

Barcelona. Six months, minimum. Client-side immersion.

She read the message twice, not because it surprised her, but because she wanted to be sure there was nothing ambiguous about it. There wasn’t. The language was clear. The timeline sensible. The opportunity framed as progression rather than disruption.

Her manager leaned over the partition later that afternoon. “You’re the obvious choice.”

Y/N glanced up. “Because I speak the language.”

“And because you don’t romanticise places,” he added. “We need someone who won’t get distracted.”

She nodded once. “When would I go?”

“As soon as you’re ready.”

Readiness, she had learned, was not an emotional state. It was logistical.

That evening, she walked home along her usual route and mentally itemised what the move would require. Lease termination clauses. Storage options. Which books to bring and which to leave. The process calmed her. Movement always did.

Barcelona, she told herself, was not Mollet.

Barcelona was large. Anonymous. Full of people who did not watch you closely enough to remember what you had once been.

She accepted the assignment the next morning.

Packing took three evenings.

She worked methodically, placing items into boxes with careful consideration. Objects that earned their place did so by utility, not sentiment. Clothes she hadn’t worn in a year went to charity. Books she could replace were left behind.

Her flat grew emptier without becoming hollow. She liked that.

On her last night in London, she stood by the window longer than usual, watching the street below. Someone argued softly near a cab. Someone else laughed, leaning into a friend. The city carried on without her, unperturbed.

That, she thought, was how it should be.

———————

Barcelona greeted her with heat and movement.

The airport was loud, efficient, familiar in a way that felt disconcerting rather than comforting. She collected her luggage and moved through the terminal with practiced ease, Catalan and Spanish slipping back into place without effort.

The taxi driver talked. She responded when required, politely, minimally. The city unfolded outside the window—avenues wider than she remembered, buildings taller, sharper, less forgiving.

Her temporary apartment sat in a neighbourhood chosen for convenience rather than charm. Third floor. Secure entry. Balcony she did not plan to use.

Inside, the space was clean and impersonal. White walls. Neutral furniture. A view of a street that never quite slept.

She unpacked only what she needed.

That first night, jet lag tugged at her, but she did not fight it. She showered, changed, and lay down with the window cracked just enough to let the sound of the city in.

Voices drifted up. Music somewhere distant. A motorbike revving too loudly.

Her body registered the environment without commentary.

Barcelona was not a return.

It was a relocation.

————————

Work began immediately.

The client offices were bright, designed to impress without revealing too much. Meetings ran long. People gestured expansively. Language switched mid-sentence. Y/N followed without difficulty, adjusting her cadence, her register, her presence.

She was careful with Catalan.

She used it when necessary. When it served clarity. She did not linger in it.

During a lunch meeting, someone mentioned a Cupra partnership, gesturing vaguely as if the name itself carried weight.

“Big faces attached,” a colleague said. “You’ll probably recognise some of them.”

Y/N nodded without comment, focusing on her notes.

Recognition was not the same as interest.

In the evenings, she walked the city the way she always did—observational, efficient. She chose routes that were busy enough to be impersonal. She avoided places that felt too familiar, streets that curved in ways that echoed older paths.

Once, she found herself near a small square that reminded her of another one, years ago. The sensation arrived fully formed and unwanted.

She turned down a different street without breaking stride.

At home, she cooked simply and ate standing at the counter. She read briefs, revised designs, refined systems meant to guide behaviour without revealing intention.

Her life reassembled itself quickly, efficiently.

Barcelona accommodated her without curiosity.

That, she decided, was a relief.

And if the city carried ghosts, it did so quietly—buried beneath scale, movement, and the comforting illusion that enough distance could turn any place into neutral ground.

————————

Lucia called on a Sunday afternoon.

The name on the screen appeared without warning, as if the phone itself had decided to be unkind. Y/N watched it ring once, twice, then answered.

“Hola,” Lucia said, voice unchanged by years or distance.

“Hola,” Y/N replied, careful.

“You are in Barcelona,” Lucia stated.

“Yes.”

“You did not say.”

“I didn’t need to.”

A pause. Lucia did not fill silences. She let them do their work.

“You should come to Mollet,” Lucia said finally. Not a request. Not a command. An observation framed as inevitability. “You are close.”

Y/N looked around her apartment—the clean lines, the borrowed furniture, the temporary order. Close was a relative term.

“It’s not necessary,” she said.

Lucia exhaled, slow. “Nothing is necessary. We do things anyway.”

“I’m busy,” Y/N added, because it was a language Lucia respected.

Lucia considered this. “Busy is not a reason. It is a condition.”

Y/N smiled faintly. Lucia would not be redirected easily.

“I’ll come another time,” Y/N said. “When the project settles.”

Lucia’s bracelets clicked faintly on the other end of the line. Y/N could picture the movement exactly.

“You always choose later,” Lucia said, not unkindly.

“It works.”

“For whom?” Lucia asked.

Y/N did not answer immediately. She did not need to. Lucia already knew the shape of the silence.

“Very well,” Lucia said at last. “You know where the door is.”

“Yes,” Y/N replied.

The call ended without ceremony.

Y/N set the phone down and stood at the counter, hands flat on the surface, grounding herself in pressure and fact. Mollet existed. It always would. Proximity did not create obligation.

That evening, she walked longer than usual, letting the city exhaust itself around her. When she returned, she noticed—without commentary—that she had taken a route that curved subtly away from the north.

———————-

The email arrived without urgency.

Y/N saw it between two others—one a calendar change, the other a routine approval request—and opened it because it was next, not because it demanded attention. The subject line was precise. No exclamation points. No softening language.

She read it once. Then again, slower.

Job Offer: Head of Design, Cupra - Permanent.

The body of the message was formal, measured. Salary band stated cleanly. Reporting lines clarified. Scope defined without embellishment. The role included stewardship over brand partnerships—automotive, culture, sport—where design would be less about objects and more about posture.

At the bottom, a signature block. A request for confirmation.

Y/N leaned back in her chair and looked through the glass wall of the meeting room, where the city arranged itself into moving parts. Traffic flowed. Pedestrians crossed with intent. Barcelona did not pause for decisions.

She did not feel the pull people expected to feel when something big happened.

The move was framed internally as continuation, not departure. The six months she had spent in Barcelona had been provisional by design—temporary housing, temporary routines, temporary distances. Permanence was simply a removal of friction.

At home that evening, she made a list.

Lease transfer. Storage contract adjustment. Updated residency paperwork. A note to HR about timelines. Practicalities assembled themselves into order.

She did not call anyone.

There would be time for announcements later—when the decision had settled into fact and no one expected enthusiasm.

On the balcony she rarely used, the city hummed. A neighbour’s music drifted up, uninvited but not unwelcome. Y/N stood with her hands resting on the rail, gaze unfocused, letting the noise exist without meaning.

Later, as she prepared for bed, she caught her reflection briefly in the mirror—older than she had been in Mollet, sharper at the edges, expression set into something reliable.

She did not linger.

When she lay down, sleep came quickly, efficiently, as it usually did. The city outside continued to move, indifferent to the recalibration of one life within it.

In the morning, she would go to work.

Nothing, she assured herself, had changed—except the scale.

————————

The briefing arrived as a deck, not a conversation.

Y/N preferred it that way.

She reviewed it alone first, standing at the long table in her office rather than sitting. Pages advanced with a controlled flick of her finger. The structure was familiar: objectives up front, visuals heavy, language aspirational in places where certainty would have been more honest.

CUPRA × FC BARCELONA FEMENÍ

In the group briefing later that morning, the room filled quickly. Comms sat closest to the screen. Partnerships leaned forward, already imagining reach. Someone from legal joined late and apologised.

Y/N stood near the back, tablet in hand, unremarkable unless you knew to look.

“High-level first,” the Partnerships lead said, clicking through slides. “This is a cornerstone relationship. Heritage meets future-forward design.”

Y/N watched the room, not the screen.

People nodded when they were supposed to. Smiled at the right moments. The choreography was familiar.

“We’re proposing a flagship event,” Comms continued, “with player attendance. Controlled media access. Clean visuals.”

A hand went up. “Which players?”

The slide changed.

Names populated the screen in neat columns.

Y/N felt the shift before she identified it. A subtle tightening at the base of her throat. The pen in her hand stilled.

She corrected immediately, rolling her shoulders back, redistributing weight to her heels. The reaction collapsed into nothing.

Alexia Putellas sat in the centre column, highlighted only because the template demanded a focal point.

There was no image attached yet. Just a name. Black text. Sans serif.

“Captain will anchor the visuals,” someone said. “She’s the face, obviously.”

Obviously.

“From design’s side,” she said when the pause came — not loud, not soft, exactly calibrated to carry — “we’ll need clarity on movement. Where players enter, where they pause, where they’re never required to linger.”

A few heads turned. This was her domain.

“We’re not staging a press conference,” she continued. “We’re building an environment. That means protecting flow.”

“If we want the space to feel open,” she added, “we have to decide where it isn’t.”

Notes were taken. Someone nodded, thoughtful.

The meeting moved on.

By the end, action items were assigned. Timelines confirmed. The event was real now — dates, constraints, deliverables.

As people filed out, the Partnerships lead stopped her near the door. “We’ll need you present on the day,” he said. “Just to oversee.”

Y/N nodded. “For installation and flow.”

“Right,” he agreed. “You won’t be front-facing.”

“No,” she said, and felt the truth of it settle. “I won’t.”

Back in her office, she closed the deck and archived it without renaming the file. She did not open the slide again. There was no need.

She turned to the window instead, watching the street below reorganise itself around a temporary obstruction — a delivery truck parked poorly, pedestrians adjusting without complaint.

————————

The space was finished an hour before it needed to be.

Y/N liked that margin. It allowed the environment to settle into itself, to reveal stress points before bodies arrived to test them. She walked the perimeter slowly, tablet tucked under her arm, eyes tracking movement paths rather than surfaces.

Matte black structures absorbed light instead of reflecting it. Entry points were staggered, not symmetrical — an intentional disruption that prevented clustering. Sightlines were angled so no single position dominated the room.

Good.

She adjusted one stanchion by a few centimetres. The change was barely visible, but it softened a bottleneck near the main display. People would pass through without noticing they’d been guided.

That was the point.

“Five minutes,” someone from events said quietly, appearing at her side.

Y/N nodded without looking at them.

She stepped back toward the edge of the space, where glass met structure and she could see without being seen. The room filled gradually — staff first, then invited guests, then the soft swell of anticipation that came with something public and polished.

The players arrived together.

Y/N felt it before she saw them.

She lifted her gaze, tracking the group as they moved through the entrance she had designed for exactly this purpose — wide enough to avoid spectacle, narrow enough to prevent dispersal.

They wore neutral tones, tailored but practical. Athletes first, brand representatives second. The way they walked told her more than the way they looked: grounded, assured, unperformative.

And then she saw her.

Alexia Putellas moved slightly ahead of the others, not by intention but by gravity. Older than the last time Y/N had seen her. Sharper at the edges. The same economy of movement, honed now by years of scrutiny and expectation.

Alexia’s posture was open but guarded, shoulders relaxed, eyes scanning the room with practiced neutrality. This was not curiosity. It was assessment.

Y/N stayed still.

She did not step forward. She did not retreat. She let the distance remain exactly as designed — enough to observe, not enough to engage.

Alexia’s gaze passed over her once without recognition.

That, Y/N realised, was worse than acknowledgement would have been.

She felt the reaction register low in her body — a brief, unwelcome heat beneath the ribs — and corrected for it immediately. Weight redistributed. Breath regulated. Expression unchanged.

Professional.

Comms moved in quickly, smiling, gesturing, ushering the players toward the designated flow. Cameras appeared but did not dominate. The room functioned as intended.

Y/N watched hands more than faces.

Alexia’s hands moved constantly — small adjustments, unconscious grounding. Fingers brushing a teammate’s arm, resting briefly at her own hip, closing around a glass she did not drink from.

Still careful, Y/N noted. Still precise.

A design flaw revealed itself near the far display when a guest lingered too long, disrupting circulation. Y/N moved without hesitation, intercepting an events coordinator and murmuring a correction.

The guest drifted on. The space recovered.

When she looked back, Alexia was closer now — not to her, but nearer than before. Within the inner ring of the room. Within range where recognition might become inevitable.

This time, their eyes met.

It lasted less than a second.

Alexia’s expression did not change — not outwardly. But something tightened, imperceptible to anyone not watching for it. The warmth cooled. The openness narrowed.

Recognition landed cleanly.

Alexia looked away first.

Y/N did not follow her with her eyes.

She made a note on her tablet instead, hand steady, handwriting controlled. Flow holds under density. No adjustment needed.

Around them, the event continued exactly as planned. People moved where they were meant to move. Conversations layered and dispersed. Nothing broke.

From the outside, it would have looked like success.

From where Y/N stood — just inside the boundary she had drawn for herself — it felt like pressure, newly applied.

She did not leave early.

She did not stay late.

She remained exactly where her role required her to be: present, unseen, contained.

———————-

The formal introductions happened late.

She stood near one of the structural columns, tablet tucked under her arm, listening without appearing to.

“Head of Design,” someone said nearby, gesturing in her direction. “She’s overseeing spatial and experiential integrity.”

The phrasing made her faintly tired. It wasn’t wrong. It was just decorative.

Alexia turned at the sound of it.

This time, there was no mistaking recognition.

Her gaze landed on Y/N with precision — not surprise, not confusion, but a stillness that suggested the name had arrived moments before the face caught up. Her expression closed by degrees, shutters lowering carefully.

“Alexia,” the Comms lead said brightly, already bridging the gap. “This is Y/N.”

Y/N stepped forward because the moment required it. Not quickly. Not reluctantly. Exactly on time.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, tone neutral, professional, in Spanish — a deliberate choice. Public language. No intimacy allowed.

Alexia held her gaze for a beat longer than necessary.

“Likewise,” Alexia replied.

Her voice was even. Controlled. The same voice Y/N had heard once in interviews she never watched in full.

There was no smile.

They shook hands.

The contact was brief, correct, unremarkable. Alexia’s grip was firm, practiced — a handshake given a hundred times before. Y/N felt the absence of warmth more keenly than its presence.

Alexia released her first.

“Well done on event,” Alexia said, gesturing vaguely around them.

Praise, offered cleanly. Nothing personal. Nothing owed.

“Thank you,” Y/N replied.

A pause opened between them — not awkward, exactly, but deliberate. A space neither of them moved to fill.

Someone laughed nearby. A camera shutter clicked and moved on.

Alexia inclined her head slightly, a polite dismissal masquerading as courtesy. “I won’t keep you.”

Y/N nodded. “Enjoy the evening.”

Alexia turned away without another glance, already absorbed back into the orbit of teammates and handlers.

Y/N remained where she was.

From a distance, it would have read as mutual respect. Two professionals intersecting briefly, then returning to their roles. Nothing remarkable enough to linger on.

Inside, Y/N catalogued the exchange with the same precision she applied to design flaws.

No accusation.

No warmth.

No acknowledgement of the past.

She accepted the coldness without resistance. She had expected it. Had prepared for it, even.

What unsettled her was not Alexia’s restraint.

It was how easily she understood it.

Y/N adjusted her stance, redistributed her weight, and refocused on the room. A group near the secondary display had begun to cluster again. She made a note to flag it to events before it became noticeable.

The night continued.

Alexia did not seek her out again.

Y/N did not follow.

Between them, something old and unresolved held its shape — invisible, intact, and very much present — while the event around it functioned exactly as designed.

—————————

It happened on a Tuesday.

Not an event day. Not a meeting. Not anything that could be framed as inevitable. That was what made it worse — the way coincidence stripped her of preparation.

Y/N had stopped at a small café two streets from her apartment, the kind that served coffee strong enough to discourage conversation. She stood at the counter, phone face down, attention loosely held on the barista’s movements.

She heard the voice before she saw her.

It was different out of context — lower, unprojected, stripped of the cadence used for rooms and microphones. Familiar in a way that bypassed logic.

“Un café solo, sisplau.”

Y/N’s body reacted without permission. A tightening, immediate and precise. She corrected it by shifting her stance, grounding herself through the soles of her shoes.

She did not turn.

Alexia stood at the far end of the counter, cap pulled low, jacket zipped up against nothing in particular. No entourage. No handlers. Just a woman ordering coffee like she belonged to the city instead of being claimed by it.

When Alexia turned, their eyes met.

This time there was no buffer of glass or role or design intent. No excuse for not recognising one another. The space between them was narrow enough to feel deliberate, wide enough to keep from touching.

Alexia’s expression hardened instantly.

Not anger. Not surprise.

Withdrawal.

Her gaze flicked over Y/N the way it had at the event — cool, assessing — but this time there was no professional courtesy to soften it. The warmth shut down entirely.

“Hi,” Y/N said, because silence would have been an act.

Alexia inclined her head a fraction. “Hi.”

Nothing else followed. No question. No acknowledgement beyond the minimum required by politeness.

The barista slid Alexia’s coffee across the counter. She took it, fingers closing around the cup like an anchor.

“Enjoy,” Y/N said, automatically, gesturing vaguely at the drink. The phrase meant nothing. It was reflex.

Alexia’s mouth tightened. “I will.”

She stepped aside to let someone pass, creating distance with intention. When she walked past Y/N toward the door, she did not slow. She did not look back.

Cold, Y/N thought — not wounded.

Deliberate.

Y/N waited until Alexia had gone before collecting her own coffee. The barista smiled, unbothered by the moment that had passed unnoticed between two strangers.

Outside, the street resumed its rhythm. Alexia disappeared into the flow of pedestrians, her presence absorbed by the city with practiced efficiency.

Y/N did not follow her.

She stood for a moment longer than necessary, letting the encounter settle into classification: unplanned, unresolved, contained.

Then she walked home.

————————

That night, the city pressed close.

Y/N lay on her sofa with the window open, the low hum of traffic threading through the room. She scrolled idly, attention half-engaged, the way she allowed herself to be only when nothing important was at stake.

Her thumb paused.

A familiar interface. A face that made her stop without knowing why.

Dark hair pulled back. A grin that was open, unguarded. Eyes that looked like they belonged to someone who laughed easily.

Alba, 26.

Y/N frowned slightly.

There was something recognisable there — not memory, exactly, but proximity. A sense of having seen this face somewhere adjacent to importance.

She studied the photo again. Casual. Unstaged. Nothing about it suggested performance.

She swiped right without overthinking it.

The match came immediately.

Y/N exhaled softly, surprised despite herself.

A message popped up almost at once.

Alba: Hi 🙂

Alba: You look familiar… but in a good way

Y/N smiled faintly. Of course.

Y/N: Familiar is usually dangerous territory

Y/N: But I’ll allow it

Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.

Alba: Fair

Alba: Are you new in Barcelona or just very good at hiding?

Y/N considered the question. Then answered honestly, within limits.

Y/N: Recently moved

Y/N: Still figuring out what I want to be seen for

A pause.

Alba: I like that answer

Alba: Coffee sometime?

Y/N hesitated — not because of the invitation, but because of the echo it carried. Coffee. Accidental proximity. The city’s smallness asserting itself again.

She told herself — firmly — that this was unrelated. That resemblance was coincidence. That familiarity did not imply connection.

Y/N: Sure

Y/N: As long as it’s not somewhere crowded

Alba: Deal

Alba: I hate crowds

Y/N glanced at the screen, then set the phone aside.

For now, Alba happened to be just a woman with a familiar smile and an easy way of speaking. Someone outside the careful architecture Y/N had built around herself.

—————————

They met on neutral ground.

A café near the edge of Gràcia, far enough from anything fashionable to avoid performance, small enough that conversations stayed where they were placed. The tables were close but not intimate, the kind of closeness that encouraged people to mind their own business.

Alba arrived early.

Y/N noticed immediately — not because of urgency, but because Alba sat with the ease of someone accustomed to waiting without resenting it. She wore jeans and a light jumper, hair pulled back loosely, a tote bag slung at her feet that looked like it had carried books and snacks and something small that had once been sticky.

“Hi,” Alba said when Y/N approached, smiling in a way that did not ask to be mirrored.

“Hi,” Y/N replied, and meant it.

They ordered coffee without ceremony. Alba added a pastry at the last second, apologetic but unapologetic. “Occupational hazard,” she said. “I work with five-year-olds. If I don’t eat when I can, I forget.”

“Five-year-olds are unforgiving,” Y/N said gravely.

Alba laughed, delighted. “They really are.”

It came out easily after that.

Alba taught kindergarten at a public school nearby. She spoke about it the way people spoke about things they loved without needing them to sound impressive — stories folded into observation, humour threaded through patience.

“They think I know everything,” Alba said, stirring her coffee. “Which is stressful, because I definitely don’t.”

“You fake it,” Y/N said.

“I redirect,” Alba corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Y/N smiled, genuinely this time.

She spoke about her work too, but selectively. Systems. Structures. Why she liked solving problems that didn’t announce themselves as emotional. Alba listened with interest that felt real, not performative.

“That makes sense,” Alba said at one point. “Kids are the same. You don’t fix the feeling — you fix the environment. The feeling usually follows.”

Y/N paused, caught off guard by the alignment. “That’s… exactly it.”

They talked longer than either had planned to. The café emptied and refilled around them. At some point, Alba suggested a walk, gesturing vaguely toward the street.

“I always walk after coffee,” she said. “It helps me think.”

Y/N nodded. “I do too.”

Barcelona unfolded around them as they moved — side streets, uneven light, the city softening as the afternoon slipped toward evening. Alba walked with her hands in her pockets, occasionally kicking at the pavement like someone who didn’t mind where she was going as long as she was moving.

“You’re new here,” Alba said eventually. Not a question.

“Recently,” Y/N replied.

“Do you like it?”

Y/N considered. “I like how it doesn’t pretend to be simple.”

Alba grinned. “That’s very diplomatic.”

They crossed a small square where children chased pigeons in collapsing circles. Alba slowed, watching them with an expression that was fond without being indulgent.

“Do you ever miss London?” Alba asked.

Y/N shook her head lightly. “I miss anonymity. Not the place.”

“That tracks,” Alba said.

They walked on.

It was near the end of the route — when the light had turned warmer, the city easing into evening — that Alba asked the question.

She did it casually, like she was commenting on the weather.

“Can I ask you something a bit weird?”

“You can ask,” Y/N said. “I might not answer.”

Alba laughed. “Fair. Do you know anything about me?”

Y/N blinked. “Anything?”

“Like,” Alba gestured vaguely, smiling but watching her carefully now, “before we matched. Did you recognise me?”

Y/N thought back to the swipe. The familiarity. The sense of adjacency without context.

“No,” she said truthfully. “You looked… familiar. But not in a way I could place.”

Alba exhaled, relief clear and unguarded. “Good.”

Y/N glanced at her. “Good?”

Alba grimaced slightly. “Sometimes people swipe because of… associations. Not because of me.”

“Associations,” Y/N repeated, neutral.

“My sister,” Alba said, still casual, but the word carried weight. “She’s… well. Very visible.”

Y/N’s step did not falter.

“Oh,” she said, and meant only I understand the concept, not the implication.

Alba studied her face, searching for recognition, recalibration, disappointment.

There was none.

“People assume things,” Alba continued. “About me. About access. About proximity.” She shrugged. “It gets old.”

“I imagine,” Y/N said.

They walked a few steps in silence.

“I’m glad you didn’t know,” Alba said finally. “It means this is… clean.”

Y/N nodded. “I prefer clean.”

Alba smiled at that — softer now, something less guarded. “Me too.”

They reached the corner where they would part, the city still moving around them, uninvested in their small alignment.

“This was nice,” Alba said.

“Yes,” Y/N replied. “It was.”

Alba hesitated, then leaned in and kissed her cheek — light, unclaimed, easily withdrawn.

“Next time,” Alba said. Not a question.

Y/N smiled. “Next time.”

As she walked home alone, Y/N catalogued the evening with careful honesty.

The conversation had flowed. The humour had landed. The company had felt uncomplicated in a way that was rare.

And yet — somewhere beneath that ease — the city’s smallness pressed closer, patient and inevitable.

——————————

It began with repetition.

Coffee that turned into lunch. Lunch that stretched into walking. Walks that ended with Alba’s shoulder brushing Y/N’s arm, accidental at first, then less so. They learned each other in increments that felt safe—favourite streets, shared irritations, jokes that landed without explanation.

Alba laughed easily. Y/N noticed how often she tried to make others comfortable before herself, the instinct sharp and practiced. Kindergarten teachers, Y/N learned, carried entire rooms without announcing it.

They sat on benches with ice cream melting too quickly. They watched dogs being walked with more enthusiasm than dignity. They talked about films Alba loved because children loved them too, and films Y/N admired for refusing to explain themselves.

Somewhere in the middle of the third date, Alba tilted her head and said, lightly, “You don’t make long-term plans.”

It wasn’t an accusation. It was an observation.

Y/N smiled the way she did when something landed too close to accuracy. “I make plans,” she said. “I just don’t extend them.”

Alba accepted that answer without pushing, but the look stayed—curious, careful. As if she were holding something fragile and deciding where to place it.

By the fourth date, they were seated at a small restaurant tucked between two streets that pretended not to connect. The light was low. The food unpretentious. Alba had chosen it because the owner knew her and would not interrupt.

“Can I tell you something?” Alba asked, halfway through dessert, spoon resting in the bowl.

Y/N nodded. “You can tell me anything.”

Alba smiled at the phrasing, then went serious. “I grew up in Mollet.”

The word arrived with more weight than it deserved. Y/N kept her expression neutral, attentive.

“My dad died when we were young,” Alba continued, voice steady. “It was… fast. After that, it was my mum. Eli. She held everything together. Still does.”

She spoke about school mornings and packed lunches, about being the younger sister to someone who had always been watched, even before the watching turned global. About learning early how to be normal on purpose.

“People think it’s glamorous,” Alba said, shrugging. “It’s just… loud.”

Y/N listened without interrupting. She felt the city tilt, subtly, like a map being rotated.

“I have a grandmother in Mollet,” Y/N said, when Alba paused. She hadn’t planned to say it. The truth emerged cleanly, unadorned. “Lucia.”

Alba’s eyebrows lifted. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“That’s… small,” Alba said, laughing softly. “Barcelona gets tiny when it wants to.”

Y/N smiled, careful. “It does.”

They paid and stepped outside together, the night warm and forgiving. Alba slipped her arm through Y/N’s, casual, unclaimed. Y/N let it stay.

They were laughing about something inconsequential—children’s logic, maybe—when the street ahead shifted.

Alexia appeared from the doorway beside them, jacket over one shoulder, phone in hand. Not searching. Not expecting.

Recognition hit like a held breath released.

Alexia saw them at the same time.

Her gaze moved from Alba to Y/N and stopped there, expression closing in stages—surprise, calculation, restraint. The city seemed to contract around them, narrowing to the width of the pavement.

“Alba,” Alexia said.

“Ale,” Alba replied, easy, affectionate. “We were just leaving.”

Alba turned to Y/N, smiling, unaware of the fracture she was standing on. “This is my sister.”

Alexia Putellas looked at Y/N as if the introduction had rearranged something fundamental.

“Nice to meet you,” Y/N said, because language still worked, even when balance did not.

Alexia’s mouth tightened, then relaxed into something that resembled politeness. “Likewise.”

Alba squeezed Y/N’s arm. “We met on Tinder,” she added, cheerful, oblivious. “Small world, right?”

“Yes,” Y/N said softly. “It is.”

Alexia’s eyes flicked to Alba’s hand on Y/N’s arm, then away. “Mamá’s going to call you,” she said to Alba, voice controlled. “She saw you parked badly.”

Alba groaned. “She always knows.”

They stood there a moment longer than necessary, the city moving around them, indifferent. Then Alba kissed Alexia’s cheek and tugged gently at Y/N’s sleeve.

“Text me,” Alba said. “We’ll finish this conversation later.”

Y/N nodded. “Later.”

As Alba walked ahead, Alexia lingered half a step behind.

“You didn’t tell me,” she said, quietly.

“I didn’t know,” Y/N replied, equally so.

Their eyes met—years, silence, and misunderstanding compressed into a look that did not soften.

“Goodnight,” Alexia said.

“Goodnight,” Y/N answered.

They separated cleanly, like people practiced in distance.

Y/N walked home alone, the city no longer wide enough to pretend coincidence.

————————

They chose somewhere quiet.

Not hidden — just removed enough from the city’s main arteries that conversations didn’t have to compete. A small bistro with tables set too close together for secrets but far enough apart for honesty. Alba liked places like this, Y/N had learned — spaces where things happened without ceremony.

They ordered without looking at menus. Alba trusted the kitchen. Y/N trusted Alba’s confidence.

For a while, the evening unfolded easily. Alba talked about her students — the way one of them insisted on wearing a firefighter’s helmet all day because it made him feel brave, the way another cried if her lunch was cut the wrong way.

“They’re very serious people,” Alba said, smiling. “They just haven’t learned how to pretend otherwise yet.”

Y/N smiled back. “That sounds exhausting.”

“It is,” Alba said. “But it’s also… grounding.”

Y/N nodded, though she did not comment. Grounding was a word people used differently.

They ate slowly. Alba reached for Y/N’s hand once, briefly, fingers warm, checking rather than claiming. Y/N let it happen, then gently disengaged when the plates arrived. Alba didn’t comment. She noticed anyway.

It was between courses — when the wine had softened the room without loosening it — that Alba asked.

She did not preface it. She did not hedge.

“Are you someone who leaves?”

The question landed cleanly, without accusation.

Y/N did not answer immediately. She took a breath she did not need, buying herself a moment to choose accuracy over comfort.

“I don’t plan ahead,” she said finally. “Not emotionally.”

Alba studied her face, attentive. “Is that the same thing?”

Y/N considered. “For me, yes.”

Alba leaned back slightly, absorbing that. “Do you ever want more time? With someone, I mean.”

“I like things that are honest,” Y/N replied. “And sometimes honesty means not promising what you can’t deliver.”

Alba’s smile was still there, but it had thinned. Not disappointment — recalibration.

“That makes sense,” Alba said. “I think I just… like to know where I’m standing.”

Y/N nodded. “I try not to stand anywhere too long.”

They sat with that, the city humming outside, unbothered by the small shift at their table.

Alba’s phone buzzed then.

She glanced at the screen and sighed, affectionate rather than irritated. “Speak of the devil.”

She answered without moving away.

“Hey,” Alba said. “Yes, I’m eating. No, I’m not forgetting. Because I’m with someone.”

Y/N kept her gaze on the table, the condensation ring beneath her glass.

Alba laughed softly. “No, you don’t need to worry. I’m fine.”

A pause.

“Yes, I’ll call you later,” Alba added, tone patient now. “I promise.”

She hung up and rolled her eyes. “Sorry. My sister checks in like I’m still twelve.”

Y/N smiled faintly. “That’s… attentive.”

“It’s annoying,” Alba said, then softened. “But I know it comes from somewhere good.”

Y/N did not respond. The name did not need to be spoken for its weight to be felt.

They finished dinner without rushing. Alba paid despite Y/N’s protest and waved it off easily.

Outside, the night was warm, the streetlights forgiving. They walked side by side, close but not touching, the space between them newly aware of itself.

At the corner where they would part, Alba stopped.

“I don’t need you to be anything you’re not,” she said. “I just want to know what I’m stepping into.”

Y/N met her eyes. “I won’t disappear without saying goodbye.”

Alba smiled — grateful, but not reassured. “That’s something.”

She kissed Y/N then, light and lingering enough to ask a question without demanding an answer.

“Text me when you get home,” Alba said.

“I will,” Y/N replied.

As she walked away, Y/N felt the familiar tightening settle in — not panic, not regret, but awareness.

Temporary, she told herself.

But the word felt less stable now, thinner at the edges.

And somewhere else in the city, she knew without knowing how, a boundary had shifted — not broken, just pressed — by hands that were not hers.

————————

It happened quietly.

Not in declarations or gestures that demanded recognition, but in accumulation — the way proximity became assumed rather than requested. Alba started arriving with no agenda, no framing, as if Y/N’s space had been filed somewhere in her internal map as available.

She came over after work with her hair still damp from a rushed shower, shoes kicked off by the door without asking. She sat on the floor to grade worksheets, back against the sofa, red pen tapping absently against her knee.

“You don’t have snacks,” Alba observed one evening, peering into the cupboard.

“I have food,” Y/N replied from the kitchen.

Alba smiled. “Different category.”

She went out and returned twenty minutes later with a bag of things Y/N hadn’t bought since university — crackers shaped like animals, juice boxes, chocolate that came individually wrapped. She stocked the cupboard without ceremony, humming softly to herself.

Y/N watched from the counter, something tightening and loosening at once.

They fell into a rhythm that felt unplanned but persistent. Alba cooked sometimes, narrating as she went, explaining which dishes worked with children and which were aspirational but unrealistic.

They spent evenings like that — Alba talking, Y/N listening, the city dimming outside the windows. Alba would curl her legs beneath her, lean her head briefly against Y/N’s shoulder, then straighten again as if checking herself.

The touches grew more frequent, still light, still retractable. Alba kissed Y/N hello now. Kissed her goodbye longer than necessary.

Y/N did not stop her.

She did not encourage her either.

Once, Alba left a jumper behind. Another time, a book. Then a spare toothbrush appeared in the bathroom cup without discussion, pink and practical, like it had always been there.

Y/N noticed all of it.

She said nothing.

On a Sunday afternoon, they walked through a market, Alba’s hand slipping easily into Y/N’s. She talked about her students again — one of them had learned to write her name that week, another had finally stopped biting.

“They’re learning how to stay,” Alba said, thoughtful. “That’s the hardest part. Realising things don’t disappear if you stop holding them.”

Y/N said nothing.

Later, on the sofa, Alba traced idle shapes on Y/N’s arm, her touch absentminded, affectionate. She looked up suddenly, eyes sharp despite the softness.

“You’re very good at letting things happen,” Alba said.

Y/N met her gaze. “So are you.”

Alba smiled, but it didn’t quite land. “I’m good at choosing.”

Y/N did not correct her.

That night, as Alba slept beside her — not tangled, not claiming — Y/N lay awake longer than usual. She listened to Alba’s breathing, even and unguarded, and felt the familiar calculation rise instinctively.

Temporary, she thought.

But the word no longer felt like a boundary.

It felt like a warning.

In the morning, Alba kissed her cheek before leaving, promised to text, forgot her scarf again.

Y/N stood in the doorway after she’d gone, the flat altered in small, undeniable ways. Evidence without accusation.

She understood then — with a clarity that had nothing to do with fear — that Alba was not moving closer by accident.

She was choosing.

And Y/N, by not stopping her, was choosing too — even if she refused to name it that way.

————————

Y/N met her on a Wednesday afternoon she hadn’t planned to be meaningful.

She was leaving a small stationery shop near Alba’s school, paper bag tucked under her arm — a practical errand, nothing more — when Alba waved from across the street, already mid-conversation with a woman who stood with the calm posture of someone used to being waited for.

“Hey,” Alba called. “Come meet my mum.”

There was no preamble. No softening.

Y/N crossed the street because that was what one did when introduced to inevitability.

Eli Putellas looked exactly like someone who had raised two daughters alone without making it anyone else’s business. She was smaller than Y/N had imagined, hair cut short and sensible, eyes alert in a way that suggested nothing escaped her for long.

“This is Y/N,” Alba said, cheerful. “I’ve told you about her.”

Eli smiled — not politely, not expansively. Precisely. The kind of smile that was an invitation and a test at once.

“I know,” Eli said. Her voice was warm, Catalan rounded and gentle. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Likewise,” Y/N replied, automatically.

They stood there for a moment, the street moving around them, children spilling out of the school gates in noisy clusters. Eli observed Y/N the way she might observe a room she was entering for the first time — quietly, thoroughly.

“You work nearby?” Eli asked.

“Yes,” Y/N said. “In design.”

Eli nodded, as if that explained more than it did. “Alba says you’re very… organised.”

Alba laughed. “I said controlled.”

Y/N smiled faintly. “Both can be true.”

Eli’s eyes flicked to Alba, amused. “They often are.”

They walked together toward a café on the corner, the decision made without discussion. Eli ordered tea. Alba ordered something sweet and justified it immediately. Y/N ordered coffee and noticed that Eli watched the exchange rather than participating in it.

At the table, Eli asked ordinary questions — where Y/N was from, how long she’d been in Barcelona, whether she liked it. Questions that sounded casual but were arranged carefully, like stepping stones placed across moving water.

Y/N answered truthfully, selectively.

When Mollet came up — because it always did, eventually — Y/N felt the word settle differently this time. Not as a memory. As a point of convergence.

“My grandmother lives there,” Y/N said.

Eli’s eyebrows lifted, just slightly. “Lucia?”

“Yes.”

Eli nodded, recognition clear. “She’s formidable.”

“That’s generous,” Y/N said. “Most people say terrifying.”

Eli laughed, genuine and unguarded. “That tracks.”

The conversation drifted. Alba spoke about work, about children, about a parent-teacher meeting that had gone sideways. Y/N listened. Eli listened more.

At one point, Eli turned to Y/N directly.

“Are you good to my daughter?”

The question was gentle.

It was also exact.

Y/N did not answer immediately. Not because she was unsure — but because the truth required care.

“Yes,” she said finally. “I am.”

Eli studied her face, searching for the shape beneath the words. Whatever she found there seemed to satisfy her, because she nodded once and reached for her tea.

“That’s enough for me,” Eli said.

Alba blinked. “Mamá.”

Eli smiled. “I didn’t ask if you were perfect.”

The afternoon ended without ceremony. Hugs exchanged. Promises made vaguely, without dates.

As Y/N walked home alone, she replayed the question — not the answer.

Are you good to my daughter?

It wasn’t an accusation. It wasn’t a warning.

It was a standard.

One she had met, she thought. One she intended to keep meeting.

And yet, as she unlocked her door and stepped inside, the thought arrived unbidden, unwelcome in its clarity:

Being good was not the same as staying.

And for the first time since Barcelona had begun to narrow around her, Y/N wondered whether that distinction would hold.

————————

It happened without announcement.

No threshold crossed, no moment framed as this is different now. Intimacy arrived the way Alba did — naturally, insistently, as if it had always been on its way and had simply caught up to them.

They were in Y/N’s flat, the windows open to let the heat move through instead of settle. Alba had cooked, barefoot in the kitchen, music low and badly chosen, swaying as she chopped vegetables with the confidence of someone used to feeding others.

Y/N watched from the doorway longer than necessary.

“You’re staring,” Alba said without turning.

“I’m observing,” Y/N replied.

“Same thing,” Alba said, smiling.

After dinner, they didn’t clear the plates right away. Alba leaned back in her chair, kicked her foot gently against Y/N’s ankle.

“Come here,” she said, not asking.

Y/N went.

The kiss was unhurried. Alba’s hands warm, certain, sliding to Y/N’s waist like they already knew the route. Y/N responded without calculation this time — not because she had stopped measuring, but because the answer arrived before the question.

They moved to the bedroom without discussion. Clothes discarded in pieces, pauses taken and released. Alba touched her like someone curious but unafraid, like someone who expected to be answered rather than tolerated.

Y/N let herself be known in increments.

Later, they lay side by side, sheets tangled, the fan stirring warm air across their skin. Alba traced slow, idle lines along Y/N’s arm, not possessive, just present.

“This feels… good,” Alba said quietly.

“Yes,” Y/N agreed.

Alba turned onto her side, propped on one elbow. She studied Y/N with a softness that did not ask permission to exist.

“Mamá likes you,” Alba said, conversational. “She doesn’t like many people.”

Y/N’s mouth curved faintly. “I noticed.”

“She thinks you’re steady,” Alba continued. “Serious. Someone who doesn’t make promises lightly.”

Y/N did not correct her.

“And Alexia,” Alba added, after a pause, voice lighter than the content deserved, “is less convinced.”

Y/N’s body registered it before her face did — a small tightening, contained immediately.

“About me?” she asked.

Alba nodded. “She hasn’t said anything outright. She never does. But she’s… watchful.”

“That’s understandable,” Y/N said.

Alba frowned slightly. “Is it?”

“She’s your sister.”

“That doesn’t mean she gets veto power.”

Y/N turned onto her side then, facing Alba fully. “She’s allowed to be wary.”

Alba searched her face, something flickering there — not suspicion, not doubt, but awareness.

“You’re very calm about this,” Alba said.

“I don’t think calm means indifferent.”

Alba smiled, reassured by the distinction. She leaned in and kissed Y/N again, slower this time, deeper. As if closing the subject by choosing something else.

Later, when Alba slept, her arm heavy across Y/N’s waist, Y/N lay awake.

The intimacy lingered — not as alarm, not as regret, but as consequence. Something that could not be undone by reframing.

Eli approves, she thought.

Alexia is wary.

The balance felt precarious in a way that had nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with time.

Y/N stared at the ceiling, listening to the city breathe.

Temporary no longer felt like a boundary she controlled.

It felt like a question she would soon be forced to answer.

—————————

The overlap was unavoidable.

Cupra had scheduled a site walk-through Barcelona’s training complex — for a VR show. And Y/N had to be there.

She arrived early.

Neutral clothing. Hair slicked back with the same precision she brought to everything else. She walked the perimeter, noted sightlines, marked where a temporary barrier would need reinforcement.

When voices approached from the far end of the corridor, she knew who it would be before she saw them.

Alexia walked ahead of the group, hands in the pockets of her jacket, expression unreadable. No entourage. No performance. Just a captain doing what captains did — showing up, taking stock, holding space.

Y/N did not leave.

She adjusted her stance and continued marking measurements as if nothing had changed.

They stopped two metres apart.

Not close enough to touch. Not far enough to pretend coincidence.

Alexia spoke first.

“You don’t need that barrier,” she said, gesturing to Y/N’s notes without looking directly at her. “Players don’t pass through that area.”

The rest of the group hovered — sensing tension without context, unwilling to step into it. Someone cleared their throat. Someone else checked their phone.

Alexia looked at her then.

Really looked.

Not like at the event. Not like in the café.

This look was sharper, closer to accusation than assessment.

“You’re crossing lines,” Alexia said quietly.

Y/N did not raise her voice. “I’m within scope.”

“Professionally,” Alexia added.

Y/N met her gaze. “That’s the only capacity in which we’re speaking.”

Alexia’s lips pressed together. For a moment, something almost surfaced — a word, a memory, a question that had been waiting far too long.

She swallowed it.

“Alba gets attached,” Alexia said instead.

The words landed harder than Y/N expected — not because they were cruel, but because they were protective. Misplaced, but sincere.

“I’m aware,” Y/N said.

“And you don’t,” Alexia continued, tone controlled now, colder. “That’s what worries me.”

Y/N felt the familiar instinct to retreat, to deflect, to make the moment smaller than it was. She resisted it.

“You don’t know what I do,” she said evenly.

Alexia laughed once — short, humourless. “I know exactly what you do. You arrive. You settle. You leave.”

The corridor seemed to narrow around them.

“That’s an assumption,” Y/N replied.

“It’s a pattern,” Alexia countered.

Y/N held her gaze. Years pressed between them, unspoken and misread.

“This conversation isn’t appropriate,” Y/N said finally.

Alexia nodded, as if she had expected that. “Then neither is what you’re doing.”

She turned away then, dismissing the moment with the same authority she brought to the pitch.

The group resumed moving. The space breathed again.

Y/N finished the walkthrough without error. She made adjustments where needed. She signed off on placements and timelines. She did not falter.

Only later — alone, in her car, hands steady on the wheel — did the impact arrive.

Not guilt.

Not fear.

Recognition.

Alexia was not angry because she misunderstood.

She was angry because she believed she understood too well.

And Alba — warm, open, choosing — stood directly in the path of that belief.

Y/N started the engine and pulled into traffic, the city swallowing her easily.

For the first time in years, she did not tell herself this would resolve on its own.

She knew better now.

Temporary was no longer a word she could hide behind.

It was a reckoning waiting to happen.

———————

Alba noticed before Y/N said anything.

She always did.

It was the way Y/N took off her shoes and lined them up too carefully by the door. The way she washed her hands longer than necessary, standing at the sink as if there were instructions she had to follow in the right order or not at all.

“You saw her,” Alba said from the sofa.

It wasn’t a question.

Y/N dried her hands, folded the towel, placed it back on its hook. She did not turn around immediately.

“Yes,” she said.

Alba shifted, drawing her legs up beneath her. She watched Y/N with the same attentiveness she used with her students when something mattered and needed space to arrive on its own.

“At work?” Alba asked.

“Yes.”

A pause.

“And?” Alba prompted, gently.

Y/N leaned against the counter, finally meeting her eyes. “And it was… tense.”

Alba exhaled through her nose, not surprised. “She’s been like that all week.”

“With me?” Y/N asked.

“With everything,” Alba replied. “But yes. With you.”

She picked at a loose thread on the cushion, then looked up again. “Did something happen between you two? Before?”

Y/N felt the instinctive tightening — the reflex to compress truth until it was manageable. She forced herself not to lie.

“We knew each other,” she said. “A long time ago.”

Alba nodded slowly, absorbing that. “How long ago?”

“Before London,” Y/N replied.

That answer landed heavier than dates would have.

Alba tilted her head. “That’s… not nothing.”

“No,” Y/N agreed.

They sat in silence for a moment, the city murmuring through the open window. A motorbike passed. Someone laughed in the street below. Life continuing with infuriating indifference.

“Does it have anything to do with me?” Alba asked finally.

The question was careful. Brave.

Y/N did not answer immediately. She chose her words with the same precision she brought to design — aware that what she left out mattered as much as what she said.

“It has to do with history,” she said. “And misunderstanding.”

Alba frowned. “That sounds like it has to do with people.”

“Yes,” Y/N said quietly.

Alba studied her, something like hurt flickering and then steadying into resolve. “I don’t like being the thing people circle around without telling.”

“I know,” Y/N said. “And I’m not trying to make you that.”

“Then what are you trying to do?” Alba asked.

Y/N opened her mouth, then closed it.

The truth sat there, fully formed and unhelpful.

“I’m trying,” she said instead, “to not cause damage.”

Alba smiled sadly. “Sometimes that’s the same thing.”

She stood, crossed the space between them, and rested her forehead briefly against Y/N’s shoulder — a gesture that was affectionate without being reassuring.

“I don’t need everything,” Alba said. “But I need enough.”

Y/N closed her eyes for a moment, allowing the contact, grounding herself in it.

“I’ll tell you what I can,” she said.

Alba nodded. “That’s all I’m asking.”

They stayed like that for a moment longer, suspended in something fragile but intact.

When Alba pulled back, she kissed Y/N lightly — not possessive, not tentative. Just present.

“Come to bed,” Alba said. “We can sleep on it.”

Y/N followed her, but sleep did not come easily.

Lying beside Alba, listening to her breathing even out, Y/N stared into the dark and understood with quiet certainty that something had shifted beyond repair.

————————

Eli invited them to dinner the way she did everything else: without drama, without qualifiers, as if the decision had already been made and the only question was timing.

“Come over tomorrow,” Alba said, relaying the message as she leaned against Y/N’s kitchen counter, barefoot, phone balanced between shoulder and ear. “Yes, she’s here. Yes, she’s eating. No, you don’t need to make extra.”

She listened, smiled, rolled her eyes affectionately.

“Yes, Mamá. Tomorrow.”

She hung up and looked at Y/N, bright, open. “She wants to cook.”

Y/N nodded once. “Of course.”

There was a faint tightening in her chest, familiar and contained. Dinner meant walls. History. Fewer exits.

“She likes you,” Alba added, as if that settled something.

Y/N forced a smile. “I know.”

They arrived just after eight.

Eli’s apartment was warm in the way homes became when someone had learned how to live in them after loss — not pristine, not cluttered, but arranged around use rather than display. The kitchen smelled of garlic and oil, something simmering patiently.

Eli kissed Alba’s cheek, then Y/N’s, the latter gesture gentle but intentional. “You’re thin,” she observed. “Sit. Eat.”

Y/N did as she was told.

For a while, the evening unfolded easily. Alba talked about her class. Eli asked about work, listened without interrupting, nodded at the right moments. Y/N spoke carefully, aware of how much space her words occupied.

Then the door opened.

Alexia arrived without announcement.

She stood just inside the doorway for half a second longer than necessary, as if calibrating the room before entering it fully. Training jacket still on, hair damp, the smell of the outside clinging to her.

Her eyes went immediately to Y/N.

The temperature shifted.

“Ale,” Alba said, surprised but pleased. “You’re early.”

“Finished sooner,” Alexia replied, voice neutral.

She greeted Eli with a kiss, murmured something affectionate. Then she sat, opposite Y/N, placing herself directly in the line of sight she had spent weeks avoiding.

The table was suddenly too small.

Conversation resumed — because it had to. Eli asked Alexia about training. Alexia answered in clipped sentences. Alba tried to bridge the gap with humour that landed unevenly.

Y/N ate. Chewed. Swallowed. Her body did what it was supposed to do.

At some point, Eli stood to fetch more bread. The movement left the three of them alone at the table, a triangle drawn too tightly to ignore.

Alexia set her fork down.

“So,” she said, eyes fixed on Y/N. “How long is this supposed to last?”

Alba blinked. “Alexia.”

“I’m asking,” Alexia said, not looking at her sister. “It’s a reasonable question.”

Y/N felt the familiar urge to disappear inward, to make herself smaller than the space demanded. She resisted it.

“I don’t think this is the forum,” she said calmly.

Alexia laughed once, sharp. “You never do.”

Alba straightened. “What does that mean?”

Alexia finally turned to her. “It means she’s good at keeping things contained. Convenient. Temporary.”

“That’s not fair,” Alba said, heat rising. “You don’t know her.”

Alexia’s gaze snapped back to Y/N. “I know exactly who she is.”

Silence pressed in.

Eli returned to the table, bread basket in hand, and paused. She did not speak. She waited.

Alexia continued, momentum carrying her now.

“She doesn’t stay,” Alexia said. “She never has.”

Y/N’s hands tightened briefly in her lap, unseen.

Alba shook her head. “You’re projecting.”

“No,” Alexia said. “I’m remembering.”

The word landed with force.

“You want to know why I don’t trust her?” Alexia asked Alba, voice unsteady now, the restraint finally cracking. “Because she left. After we—”

She stopped. Swallowed. Then said it anyway, the words tumbling out with years of pressure behind them.

“After we slept together. It was the first time for me. And the next morning she was gone.”

Alba stared at her.

“What?” she whispered.

The room seemed to tilt. Y/N felt her vision narrow, the edges blurring as if the walls had moved closer. Her body shut down with practiced efficiency — breath shallow, pulse controlled, everything drawn inward to survive the moment.

Alexia stood abruptly, chair scraping back. “She didn’t say goodbye. She didn’t explain. She just disappeared. And I spent years thinking it was because I wasn’t enough.”

“Alexia,” Eli said quietly.

But Alexia couldn’t stop now.

“So forgive me,” she said, voice shaking, eyes bright with something dangerously close to tears, “if I don’t want my sister learning that lesson.”

Alba’s face crumpled, confusion and hurt colliding. “Is that true?” she asked Y/N. “You never told me—”

Y/N stood.

The movement was slow, deliberate, as if she were stepping out of a deep pool.

“That’s your version,” she said, voice flat, distant, each word placed with care. “Not the whole of it.”

Alexia froze.

“What does that mean?” Alba demanded.

Y/N shook her head once. “It means you don’t know what you think you know.”

Eli watched her closely, eyes sharp, absorbing the shape of the retreat even as it happened.

“I’m leaving,” Y/N said.

“Sit down,” Alba said, panicked now. “Please.”

Y/N met her gaze — truly met it — and something in her expression softened, briefly, painfully.

“I can’t,” she said. “Not like this.”

She turned to Eli. “I’m sorry.”

Eli nodded once. “I believe you.”

That, more than anything, nearly broke her.

Y/N picked up her coat and moved toward the door. Alexia did not follow. Alba did not move. The space between them had become impassable.

At the threshold, Y/N paused, hand on the frame, grounding herself.

“You think you were abandoned,” she said, without turning back. “But you only ever saw the part that was safest for you to see.”

Then she left.

The door closed softly behind her.

————————————————————————

Y/N stepped through, her suitcase bumped over the threshold and the sound echoed in a way she didn’t like—too hollow, too loud for the size of the air. She adjusted her grip and kept walking.

Her grandma, Lucia stood in the entryway with the posture of a woman who did not ask permission to exist in her own space. She was smaller than the house warranted, which made her feel larger, not less. Silver hair swept back. A linen shirt. Gold bracelets that clicked softly when she moved her hands.

“Ya has llegado,” Lucia said, not quite a question.

“I’ve arrived,” Y/N returned automatically in English, because her brain defaulted to it when she was tired. Then she corrected herself as if the language itself had been a breach of etiquette. “Sí. Ya.”

Lucia’s mouth quirked. It could have been affection. It could have been amusement. With Lucia, the difference didn’t matter much; both felt like being seen.

“Vine,” Lucia said, and turned without waiting.

Y/N followed, cataloguing the house as she went. Not admiring it—she had seen enough big houses to know they were not automatically impressive—but reading it the way she read anything unfamiliar: for exits, for patterns, for what it was trying not to tell her.

There were too many doors.

Not in a haunted way. In a practical way. Double doors. Side doors. A door tucked under the stairs that probably led to a pantry. A door to the left that opened into a room with heavy curtains and furniture arranged like it expected an audience. A door to the right that led deeper in, where the light shifted cooler.

“Your room is upstairs,” Lucia called, her voice carrying with no need to raise it. The house gave it to her, the way it would give anything to someone who belonged.

Upstairs meant stairs. Stairs meant a landing. A landing meant a window. Y/N’s gaze went there without her permission, checking the glass, the lock, the angle.

She could feel Lucia’s eyes on her back, brief and sharp as a pin. Lucia did not ask why. Lucia had never been the kind of woman to ask questions when answers were dangerous.

At the top of the stairs, the air smelled faintly like lemon oil and something older—paper, wood, sun-baked stone. The hallway ran long and straight, with portraits that watched like they were bored.

Lucia opened a door and stood aside.

The room was simple compared to the rest of the house: a bed with a white cover, a wooden dresser, a desk by the window. The window looked out over the garden and, beyond it, the town in its quiet Sunday shape. In the distance, church bells did not ring. Nothing announced her arrival.

Lucia set a key on the dresser.

“I don’t lock my doors,” Lucia said.

Y/N’s fingers hovered over the key anyway. “Right.”

Lucia’s bracelets clicked. “But you do.”

Y/N let out a small breath that might have been a laugh if anyone else said it. “It’s not personal.”

“Everything is personal,” Lucia replied, and said it like a fact, not an accusation. “You have eaten?”

“On the plane.” This was a lie. The plane had been late and the food had looked like something that had once been bread and then regretted it.

Lucia’s eyes narrowed, unimpressed by bad deception. “Downstairs. Fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen,” Y/N echoed, because it was easier than arguing with a woman who did not negotiate.

Lucia left. Her footsteps were steady and unhurried down the hall. When she was gone, the silence filled the room like water.

Y/N set her suitcase down and stood still for a second, listening.

Y/N did not unpack immediately. She opened the wardrobe first and checked the back wall, as if there might be something there that needed to be found before it found her. Nothing. She checked the window latch. Secure. She crossed to the door and tested the handle, then closed it gently and turned the lock.

Only then did she lean back against the wood and let her head rest there.

Downstairs, voices drifted faintly from somewhere—staff, perhaps, or a radio. The smell of cooking rose, warm and uncomplicated. For a moment, Y/N felt an ache so sharp it was almost ridiculous. Hunger, she decided. That was all.

She washed her hands in the en-suite bathroom, scrubbing as if she had something to remove that wasn’t visible. Then she went downstairs.

Lucia was already seated at the kitchen table. The kitchen, unlike the rest of the house, looked lived in. A bowl of fruit. A stack of mail. A vase of herbs that made the air smell green. The table was heavy wood, scarred in places where time had rubbed itself into the surface.

On the counter sat a plate of tortilla, sliced thick, and bread that looked like it had been made by someone who respected bread. There was olive oil and salt. Tomatoes cut open, red and shining.

Y/N’s stomach made a quiet sound of betrayal.

Lucia poured her a glass of water without speaking.

“Gracias,” Y/N said, automatically.

Lucia watched her take the first bite the way she might watch someone enter a room—measuring, assessing, not unkind.

“How long this time?” Lucia asked.

Y/N chewed, swallowed. “Two months. Maybe three.”

Lucia’s eyebrows lifted. Maybe was a word Lucia disliked.

“My father’s in and out,” Y/N added, because it was the simplest explanation, and also the least personal. “Work’s… flexible.”

Lucia made a sound that was neither approval nor disbelief. “And your mother?”

Y/N’s hand paused over the bread. She kept her expression calm, careful. “Busy.”

Lucia’s gaze did not soften. It sharpened. “Busy is a choice.”

Y/N smiled faintly, because that was safer than answering. “Everything is personal,” she said, borrowing Lucia’s earlier line like a shield.

Lucia’s mouth twitched again. “Good. You learn quickly.”

There was a beat of silence that could have become something tender. Lucia did not step into tenderness. She pushed a plate closer instead.

“Tomorrow,” Lucia said, “you will go into town. You will not hide in this house like a ghost.”

Y/N blinked. “I wasn’t planning—”

Lucia lifted her hand, palm outward. Not harsh. Final.

“You will go,” Lucia repeated. “You are young. People will look. Let them.”

Y/N considered arguing, then remembered that Lucia didn’t care about being persuaded.

“Fine,” she said, and took another bite. “I’ll go be looked at.”

Lucia’s bracelets clicked, almost pleased. “Good girl.”

Y/N almost choked.

Lucia watched her with a calm satisfaction that felt, absurdly, like victory.

———————

The next morning, Y/N walked.

So she walked down the drive, past the cypress trees, through the gate that sighed again, and onto the road that led into Mollet de Vallès.

The sun was already bright, heat sitting on the town like a hand. The air smelled of dust and citrus and something metallic from the train tracks in the distance. Cicadas were loud enough to feel like an opinion.

Y/N kept her pace even. Not fast. Not hesitant. A pace that suggested she belonged anywhere she chose to stand.

She could feel eyes before she saw faces. It was an old sensation: being measured, being filed away into categories people found useful.

The first glance came from an older woman watering plants outside a small building. The woman’s gaze slid over Y/N, paused on her face, her hair, the line of her brows, then flicked away as if refusing to be caught staring.

The second was a group of teenagers near a café, loud and relaxed. One of them elbowed another. A laugh. A whisper that Y/N didn’t catch, and didn’t need to.

Y/N didn’t mind being looked at, exactly. She minded being decided upon.

She passed the bakery and the smell of bread made her stomach soften, a reluctant kindness. She passed a newspaper stand and saw a photo of a football team on the front page—young girls, muddy knees, arms around each other. The headline was in Catalan. She read it automatically, then looked away as if the words had heat.

At a crosswalk, Y/N crossed when the cars stopped.

The town square wasn’t large, but it was busy in the way small towns were busy: everything happened in public, and that public was intimate. A man leaned on a doorway smoking. A couple argued softly beside a fruit stand. Someone’s radio played a song she didn’t recognise.

Near the corner, a group of boys—older teens, maybe eighteen—stood clustered around a motorbike. They were laughing too loudly, the kind of laughter meant to carry.

One of them glanced up and followed her with his eyes. Another did too. Their attention was casual, automatic, like turning towards a loud sound.

Y/N kept walking. She felt the weight of their gaze on her back like a hand that wasn’t touching.

“Eh,” one of them called, voice bright with performative friendliness. “You’re Lucia’s granddaughter, no?”

Y/N slowed, turned slightly. Not fully. Enough.

She looked at him and let her expression remain neutral. He was handsome in a way that would have been impressive if she’d been impressed by that sort of thing. Dark hair. A grin that suggested he thought people liked him for it.

His friends watched. Waiting.

“I’m her granddaughter,” Y/N confirmed in Catalan, accent edged with London on the vowels.

His grin widened. “We’ve heard.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Y/N said, and kept her voice polite as a blade. “This is a small town.”

A few of his friends laughed—at her, with her, unclear. The boy with the grin pushed off the motorbike, as if he might step closer, and then didn’t. He held the moment like it belonged to him.

“You need anything,” he said, easy. “Directions. Help. Whatever. You ask.”

Y/N’s mouth curved, faint. “I’m walking in a straight line,” she replied. “I think I can handle it.”

One of the boys snorted. The grinning boy’s eyes narrowed, amused rather than offended.

“Sharp,” he said, like it was a compliment.

“It’s a survival skill,” Y/N returned, still pleasant.

Then she turned and walked away before the moment could become something else.

She didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. She could feel their eyes follow her until the space between them was too wide.

At the café ahead, the shade under the awning was a relief. She sat at an outside table without asking permission, because she had learned long ago that looking like you belonged somewhere was half the battle.

A waiter approached. “¿Qué quieres?”

“Un café con leche,” she said, then added, “por favor,” because she wasn’t rude. She was simply not soft.

While she waited, she watched the square with the detached attention of someone in a cinema. A woman with a stroller. A man carrying boxes. Two girls around her age walking shoulder to shoulder, laughing as if laughter was weightless.

Somewhere behind her, a door opened and closed. The sound made her shoulders tighten for half a second before she corrected it, relaxing deliberately.

The coffee arrived. The cup was warm in her hands. Warmth was something you could hold without risk.

She took a sip and let her eyes drop to the saucer, as if there was something worth studying there.

From across the square, someone shouted a name—Miriam!—and a girl turned, hair swinging, grin wide. She waved, loud, unashamed.

Y/N watched her, and the corner of her mouth lifted despite herself.

Miriam’s energy was like a door that didn’t lock. A hallway that didn’t end. A person who stepped into your space and made you feel like it had always been hers.

Y/N finished her coffee slowly, then stood and walked towards the fruit stand where she’d seen Miriam last summer. Halfway there, she passed the boys again. The grinning one looked up. Their eyes met.

He lifted his chin slightly, as if acknowledging a shared secret: I’ve noticed you.

Y/N did not give him the satisfaction of reacting. She kept walking.

————————

Miriam found her first.

Y/N didn’t see her coming. One moment she was reaching for a peach at the fruit stand, testing its softness with gentle pressure, and the next there was an arm thrown around her shoulders with the kind of confidence reserved for people who assumed they were welcome everywhere.

“Y/N.”

Y/N’s hand stilled on the peach. She didn’t flinch—she simply paused, recalibrating. Then she turned her head and let the smile come, measured and real.

“Miriam,” she said, and allowed herself to sound pleased, because she was.

Miriam pulled back just enough to look her over. Her eyes were dark and bright, the kind of eyes that took inventory for affection, not judgment.

“Madre mía,” Miriam breathed. “You’re taller.”

“I’m exactly the same height,” Y/N replied.

Miriam clicked her tongue. “No, no. You look taller. Maybe because you’re looking down on all of us now, rich girl.”

“Lucia is rich,” Y/N corrected calmly. “I’m just a nepo…”

Miriam laughed, loud enough that a couple of people turned to look. She didn’t care. She never had.

“You’re still funny,” Miriam said, pleased. “Come. Walk with me.”

Y/N let herself be guided. Miriam’s hand stayed on her arm like a claim, like a declaration to the town: She’s with me.

As they walked, Miriam talked. About nothing and everything. About who had moved away. About who had broken up. About the heat.

Y/N listened more than she spoke, slipping in dry comments that made Miriam bark out laughter.

“And you?” Miriam asked finally, as if she’d been circling the question on purpose. “London. Your father. Your mother. How have you been?”

“Surviving,” Y/N agreed, because it was true and meaningless.

Miriam narrowed her eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the best one I’ve got.”

Miriam studied her face with the blunt intimacy of a friend. Then, unexpectedly, she softened.

“Okay,” Miriam said, quieter. “No interrogation. But you’re here now.”

“I’m here,” Y/N echoed.

Miriam’s grin returned like a switch flipped. “Good. Because I’m having people over tonight.”

Y/N’s instincts bristled. People meant eyes. People meant questions. People meant the town’s appetite.

Miriam saw it and rolled her eyes. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Look like you’re planning your escape route.”

Y/N’s mouth twitched. “It’s a hobby.”

“It’s annoying,” Miriam said, then bumped her shoulder gently. “Tonight. My house. Just friends. Music. A bit of drinking. Nothing insane.”

“I don’t really—”

“Please,” Miriam interrupted, making the word dramatic. “For me. Also, Lucia will haunt you if you don’t go out like a normal person.”

Y/N glanced at Miriam, amused despite herself. “Lucia doesn’t haunt. She appears.”

“Exactly.” Miriam wagged a finger. “So. Tonight.”

Y/N weighed it. Temporary, she reminded herself. A party did not change anything. A party was a few hours. A party was noise and easy laughter and then home to a room with a lock.

“Fine,” she said. “But if it’s terrible, I’m leaving.”

Miriam beamed as if Y/N had promised to donate a kidney. “Deal.”

As they reached the corner near Miriam’s street, a group of girls ran past chasing a ball, bare legs flashing, laughter bright. The ball rolled towards Y/N. She stepped aside automatically, letting it pass, then stopped it with the inside of her foot with a neat, thoughtless touch.

One of the girls stared, surprised.

Y/N nudged the ball back with the same casual precision.

“Thanks!” the girl called, grinning, and ran after it.

Miriam looked at Y/N with sudden interest. “Since when can you do that?”

Y/N blinked, as if waking. “Do what?”

“That.” Miriam gestured vaguely at the street, at the ball, at the ease of it. “You did it like—like you’ve done it a thousand times.”

Y/N shrugged, too quickly. “It’s a ball. It’s not complicated.”

Miriam’s eyes narrowed in a way that said she didn’t believe her for a second. Then Miriam, in her merciful way, let it go.

“Tonight,” Miriam repeated, pointing two fingers at her eyes and then at Y/N. “Don’t disappear.”

Y/N’s smile held, but something in her chest tightened, small and quiet.

“I won’t,” she said.

She did not add: Not yet.

Miriam kissed her cheek and ran off towards her house, shouting over her shoulder about what time, what music, who would be there, as if logistics could keep people from leaving.

Y/N watched her go, then turned back towards Lucia’s street. The sun had shifted. The shadows were longer. The town looked the same, but she felt—subtly, inexplicably—as if something had moved into place.

Temporary, she told herself again, and walked home.

Behind her, somewhere in the square, laughter rose from the cluster of boys by the motorbike. She didn’t look back.

She didn’t need to.

——————————

Miriam’s house was already loud when Y/N arrived.

Not loud in the sense of chaos—just occupied. Music leaked through open windows, something old and rhythmic that sounded like it had been chosen by committee. Voices overlapped in the yard. Laughter ricocheted off walls that had learned to expect it.

Y/N paused at the gate long enough to register exits.

Front door open. Side door ajar. Backyard accessible through the kitchen. Fence low enough to climb if necessary.

She stepped inside.

The air smelled like beer, citrus, and perfume applied with optimism. Someone brushed past her shoulder without apology. She adjusted automatically, angling her body away from contact without seeming to.

“Mira quién ha venido,” Miriam announced from somewhere near the kitchen, as if Y/N were a scheduled attraction.

Y/N lifted her hand in a brief wave that said I acknowledge your existence but do not require your attention. It worked on most people. A few glanced, curious. A few more kept talking.

She scanned the room without hurry. The furniture had been pushed back to make space, but the space had been immediately reclaimed by bodies. Friends of Miriam’s, friends of friends. Familiar faces from last summer, softened by time. New ones layered over them.

Near the far wall, she saw the boys from the square. The motorbike grin stood out even in the low light. He lifted his bottle in her direction when he noticed her, a casual salute.

Y/N gave him a nod that was polite and noncommittal, then looked past him.

That was when she saw her.

At first, it was only a posture.

A girl leaning against the wall near the hallway, half-turned away from the room. She wasn’t trying to take up space. She wasn’t trying to disappear either. She existed in a narrow margin between attention and retreat.

Dark hair pulled back loosely. Not styled, just contained. Shoulders relaxed but alert, like someone used to being jostled and choosing when to respond. She held a drink she wasn’t drinking, fingers resting around the glass as if it were an anchor.

Someone said her name nearby. Y/N didn’t catch it.

She didn’t need to.

There was a gravity to the girl’s stillness that felt deliberate. Not practiced—instinctive. Like the pause before a breath.

Y/N looked away, mildly irritated by her own interest. Attraction, she had learned, was an unreliable narrator. It filled in gaps with fantasy and called it intuition.

She moved towards the kitchen instead.

Miriam intercepted her halfway, breathless and glowing. “You came!”

“I said I would,” Y/N replied. “This is me following through.”

Miriam shoved a cup into her hand. “Drink.”

Y/N looked at it. “What is it?”

“Something,” Miriam said cheerfully. “Alcoholic.”

Y/N took a small sip. It tasted like fruit and regret. “I see.”

Miriam leaned in conspiratorially. “Be nice. People have been asking about you.”

“I’m flattered,” Y/N said dryly. “And alarmed.”

Miriam laughed and bounced away, already distracted.

Y/N set the cup down on a counter and reclaimed her hands. She felt lighter without it.

She drifted through the room, listening more than speaking. Conversations skimmed her like water over stone. She offered a comment here, a smile there. Enough to be present without being pulled in.

At some point, someone brushed her elbow. She shifted instinctively, stepping back into the narrow space by the hallway.

“Sorry,” a voice said immediately. Female. Close. Careful.

Y/N looked up.

The girl from the wall stood in front of her now, closer than before but still not invading. Up close, her features were softer than Y/N had expected. Strong brows, yes—but eyes that held a question rather than an answer.

“No problem,” Y/N said, automatically.

They stood there for a beat too long.

The girl cleared her throat. “Miriam’s house is… crowded.”

“It appears to be popular,” Y/N replied.

The girl’s mouth twitched. “That’s one way to put it.”

There was a pause, tentative but not uncomfortable.

“I’m Alexia,” the girl said, and extended her hand as if the decision had required courage.

Y/N looked at the hand before taking it. The grip was firm, brief, respectful. No squeeze. No lingering.

“Y/N,” Y/N replied, because that was the name she was using here, and because this felt like the kind of moment where names mattered.

Alexia nodded, like she was storing the information carefully. “You’re Lucia’s granddaughter.”

Y/N exhaled softly through her nose. “I was hoping it wouldn’t travel this fast.”

Alexia smiled, a real one this time. It transformed her face in a way that felt unguarded. “It’s Mollet. News travels faster than trains.”

“That explains a lot,” Y/N said.

Someone called Alexia’s name from across the room. She glanced over her shoulder, then back.

“I should—” she began, then stopped. “Do you want to… not stand here?”

Y/N considered the hallway, the proximity, the sound spilling from the living room. “I would enjoy not standing here.”

Alexia laughed, a quick, surprised sound, and gestured towards the back door. “Outside?”

They slipped through the kitchen and into the yard, where the noise dulled and the air cooled slightly. A few people stood scattered near the fence, smoking, talking in low voices. The space felt breathable.

Alexia leaned against the wall, hands tucked into the pockets of her jeans. Y/N stood a step away, not because she needed the distance, but because it felt correct.

“So,” Alexia said, tilting her head. “English?”

Y/N blinked. “Is it that obvious?”

“Your accent does this thing,” Alexia said, gesturing vaguely near her mouth. “It goes somewhere and comes back.”

Y/N smiled despite herself. “That’s the most accurate description I’ve heard.”

Alexia grinned, pleased. “I’ve been told I’m observant.”

“Have you?” Y/N asked lightly.

Alexia shrugged, a little embarrassed. “Sometimes.”

They fell into an easy rhythm after that. Not flirting—conversation. Books first. Films. An argument about whether it was possible to enjoy something deeply and still critique it mercilessly.

“You can love something and still want it to be better,” Y/N said.

Alexia nodded immediately. “Exactly. People think criticism means you don’t care.”

“It usually means the opposite,” Y/N replied.

Alexia studied her for a moment, eyes thoughtful. “You say that like you’ve had to explain it before.”

Y/N met her gaze steadily. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”

Another pause. This one felt different—charged, but not heavy.

From inside, the music shifted. Laughter spiked. Someone shouted something obscene and was met with cheers.

Alexia glanced back at the door. “Do you want to go back in?”

Y/N considered the warmth of the wall against her back, the way the air moved freely here. The fact that Alexia hadn’t stepped closer, hadn’t pressed.

“I’m good,” she said.

Alexia smiled, relieved. “Me too.”

A shadow fell briefly across the yard as someone stepped outside, then moved away. Y/N registered it without turning.

“Fernando,” Alexia said absently, nodding towards the gate. “He’s always looking for fresh air.”

Y/N followed Alexia’s glance. The boy from the motorbike leaned against the fence now, phone in hand, half-listening to someone else. He looked up when he noticed them, raised his brows in a silent greeting.

Alexia lifted her chin in response. No warmth. No tension. Familiarity, uncomplicated.

Y/N gave him a polite smile that did not invite conversation, then turned back to Alexia.

“I’m glad you came,” Alexia said suddenly, like the thought had surprised her on its way out.

Y/N felt the words land somewhere careful and unguarded. She did not deflect them immediately, which was itself a choice.

“So am I,” she said.

The quiet that followed was not awkward. It felt like a held breath.

Somewhere in the house, Miriam shrieked with laughter. The sound carried, bright and careless.

Alexia shifted her weight, hands still in her pockets. “We could… walk,” she said, tentative. “Later. When it’s less crowded.”

Y/N considered the suggestion, the movement implied, the open air. Walking was safe. Walking was familiar.

“Okay,” she said.

Alexia’s smile returned, slower this time. “Okay.”

They stood there a moment longer, not touching, not rushing back inside. The night settled around them gently, as if it had been waiting.

Y/N told herself, firmly, that this meant nothing.

She had learned not to trust beginnings.

But as they rejoined the party, the noise closing around them again, she caught herself cataloguing the sound of Alexia’s footsteps beside her.

—————————

They left an hour later.

Not together, exactly—not in a way that would invite comment—but with a shared glance that functioned as agreement. Alexia slipped a jacket from the back of a chair. Y/N retrieved her bag from where she had left it by the kitchen counter. Miriam was distracted, mid-story, hands flying. No one noticed the subtraction.

Outside, the night had cooled into something breathable. The streetlights cast soft halos on the pavement, turning the road into a sequence of illuminated islands.

Alexia gestured vaguely down the street. “This way.”

Y/N nodded and fell into step beside her.

They didn’t speak at first. The sound of the party dulled behind them, laughter dissolving into distance. Their footsteps synced without effort—an accident, she told herself. People always found rhythms. It meant nothing.

The town at night felt smaller, more honest. Windows glowed with domestic light. A television murmured behind a curtain. Somewhere, a dog barked once and then stopped, corrected by habit.

“Sorry,” Alexia said suddenly.

Y/N glanced at her. “For?”

“For the party,” Alexia clarified. “It’s… a lot.”

“It’s exactly what it looks like,” Y/N replied. “That’s almost impressive.”

Alexia laughed quietly. “You’re not from here.”

“Was it the way I didn’t pretend to enjoy the drink?” Y/N pretended.

“That,” Alexia admitted. “And the way you looked like you were mapping exits.”

Y/N arched a brow. “You noticed that?”

Alexia shrugged, a little self-conscious. “I notice things.”

“Observant,” Y/N said. “You mentioned.”

They walked past the bakery. The smell of sugar lingered faintly, even this late. Y/N slowed without meaning to.

Alexia noticed. “You like it?”

“I like the idea of it,” Y/N said. “Bread is aspirational.”

Alexia snorted. “That might be the strangest thing anyone’s said about bread.”

“I stand by it.”

They turned onto a quieter street, the one that led away from the square and towards the older houses. The light here was softer. The road narrower.

Alexia glanced at Y/N, then away again, like she was calibrating something. “How long are you here?”

Y/N felt the question settle. It wasn’t intrusive. It was practical. She appreciated that.

“Two months,” she said. “Maybe three.”

Alexia nodded. “Summer, then.”

“Summer,” Y/N echoed, noncommittal.

They passed a low wall topped with ironwork. Alexia rested her hand on it briefly as they walked, fingers trailing along the metal.

Y/N clocked the movement before she could stop herself. The casualness of it. The lack of tension. Alexia’s hand moved like it belonged to her, like it trusted the space it occupied.

“So,” Alexia said, glancing sideways. “London.”

“Yes.”

“You miss it?”

Y/N considered. The question was simple. The answer was not.

“I miss specific things,” she said finally. “Bookshops that smell like dust. Buses at night. The way no one looks twice at you.”

Alexia hummed. “People look here.”

“They do,” Y/N agreed.

There was no self-pity in the statement. Just fact.

Alexia kicked a pebble out of her path. “You get used to it.”

“Do you?” Y/N asked.

Alexia thought about it. “Sometimes.”

They walked on.

The silence between them was not empty. It felt curated. Each pause arrived naturally and left when it had said what it needed to.

“Do you play?” Y/N asked suddenly.

Alexia blinked. “Play?”

“Football,” Y/N clarified, nodding towards a distant pitch barely visible under weak floodlights. “I saw the paper this morning.”

Alexia’s shoulders tensed, just slightly. Then she relaxed them, a practiced move. “Yes.”

“Seriously?” Y/N pressed, gentle.

Alexia hesitated, then nodded. “I want to.”

The way she said it—careful, almost protective—told Y/N everything she needed to know.

“That’s good,” Y/N said.

Alexia glanced at her, surprised. “That’s it?”

Y/N shrugged. “Wanting something seriously is already a lot of work.”

Alexia smiled, small and sincere. “You sound like my mother.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Y/N said.

They reached a fork in the road. Alexia slowed.

“This is me,” she said, pointing down the left path. A row of modest houses. One light still on.

Y/N nodded. “I’m further up,” she replied, gesturing the other way. “Lucia’s place.”

Alexia’s eyebrows lifted. “Of course.”

They stopped, facing each other now. The space between them felt deliberate. Not charged—attentive.

“Well,” Alexia said. “I’m glad you came tonight.”

“So am I,” Y/N replied, because it was still true.

Alexia shifted, uncertain, then extended her hand—not for a shake this time, but palm up, open. An offer.

Y/N looked at it. The lines of the skin. The steadiness. The fact that Alexia hadn’t assumed anything.

She placed her hand in Alexia’s.

The contact was brief. Warm. Alexia’s thumb brushed her knuckles once, unintentionally—or perhaps not. Then Alexia let go immediately, as if holding on longer would have been rude.

“Goodnight,” Alexia said.

“Goodnight,” Y/N echoed.

Alexia turned and walked away, footsteps light, unhurried. She didn’t look back.

Y/N watched her until the street bent and Alexia was gone from view. Only then did she resume walking, her pace unchanged.

The night felt different now. Not heavier. Not lighter.

Just… noticed.

When she reached Lucia’s gate, it opened with the same familiar sigh. Y/N stepped through and closed it behind her, the sound final but not sharp.

Inside the house, everything was quiet.

She locked her door, as she always did, and leaned back against it for a moment longer than necessary.

————————-

The days did not announce themselves.

They arrived without ceremony, each one sliding into the next with the kind of ease that made time feel cooperative. Morning light filtered through Lucia’s house in predictable patterns. The kitchen smelled of coffee and cut fruit. Y/N walked into town because walking gave shape to the hours.

Somewhere in the middle of the week, Alexia began to appear without arrangement.

Not waiting. Not calling ahead. Just there—at the edge of the square, outside the bakery, leaning against the low wall near the pitch with the absentminded posture of someone who belonged to the place she occupied.

Their meetings were never framed as plans.

“You’re here,” Alexia said the first time it happened, surprise softening her voice.

“I am,” Y/N replied, as if the explanation were self-evident.

Sometimes they walked. Sometimes they sat on the steps of the old library, knees angled but not touching, books open between them like neutral territory. Sometimes they said very little and let the quiet do the work.

Alexia read with focus, brow faintly furrowed, lips moving almost imperceptibly as if the words required rehearsal. Y/N noticed this and did not comment on it. Some habits felt like gifts you weren’t meant to unwrap.

They talked about films more than books, at first. Films were easier. You could disagree about them without revealing too much.

“I don’t understand why everyone loves it,” Alexia said one afternoon, gesturing at the DVD case between them. “It’s sad in a way that feels… manipulative.”

Y/N considered. “I think it’s sad because it doesn’t pretend to fix anything.”

Alexia tilted her head. “That’s worse.”

“Honest, though.”

Alexia smiled reluctantly. “You’re annoying.”

“I’ve been called worse,” Y/N said.

“Recently?”

“Frequently.”

Alexia laughed, quick and unguarded, then seemed faintly surprised by it. She pressed her lips together, as if containing something.

They learned each other in pieces.

Alexia liked early mornings when the pitch was empty and the air still held onto coolness. She liked order—not because she was rigid, but because it made room for freedom later. She spoke about football the way some people spoke about faith: carefully, with an awareness of how fragile belief could be.

Y/N listened and asked questions that were precise without being invasive. She never asked why. She asked how.

How long had Alexia played. How often she trained. How she knew when she’d played well.

Alexia answered everything except the last one.

“I just know,” she said finally, shrugging. “You feel it.”

Y/N nodded, accepting the limit. She was good at that—at recognizing the edges of what people were ready to give.

In return, Y/N offered fragments of herself that felt safe.

She talked about books she’d loved as a child, the ones that had taught her how to be alone without being lonely. She talked about cities like they were people—London was impatient, Paris indulgent, Barcelona observant.

She did not talk about her parents unless asked directly. She did not talk about why she was here beyond what was necessary. Alexia did not push.

Sometimes, they ran into people Alexia knew.

“Hey,” someone would say, and Alexia would lift her hand in acknowledgment. There were introductions—names exchanged, small talk navigated.

Fernando appeared this way once, crossing the square with a group, nodding at Alexia as he passed.

“Hey,” he said, easy. “You’re still around.”

Y/N registered the comment and filed it away without reaction. Still around implied expectation. It implied temporariness mistaken for habit.

“For now,” Y/N replied, polite and neutral.

Fernando smiled, unbothered. “Good. See you.”

Alexia waited until he was gone before rolling her eyes. “He thinks he’s charming.”

“Is he?” Y/N asked mildly.

Alexia shrugged. “He’s not my type.”

The word lingered longer than it needed to.

They resumed walking.

As the week edged forward, proximity increased in increments too small to argue with.

Their shoulders brushed occasionally, accidental and quickly corrected. Once, Alexia reached for a book at the same time Y/N did, their fingers grazing for half a second too long.

They both froze.

Alexia withdrew immediately. “Sorry.”

Y/N’s pulse had spiked and settled in the same breath. “It’s fine.”

They didn’t mention it again.

Lucia noticed before anyone else did.

“You are walking more,” she observed one evening over dinner, spearing a piece of tomato with precise intent. “And you are smiling when you return.”

Y/N swallowed. “Correlation isn’t causation.”

Lucia’s mouth curved. “It often is.”

Y/N did not argue. She rarely did when Lucia was right.

On one afternoon thick with heat, they ended up sitting on the low wall near the pitch, legs dangling.

Alexia kicked at the dirt absently. “You don’t talk much about what you want.”

Y/N turned her head slightly. “Neither do you.”

Alexia smiled. “That’s fair.”

A ball rolled towards them from the pitch, scuffed and aimless. Y/N stopped it with her foot automatically, the movement smooth, unthinking.

Alexia noticed.

“That was… good,” she said, brows knitting.

Y/N nudged the ball back towards the field with a controlled tap. “It’s just coordination.”

Alexia didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t push.

Instead, she stood and stretched, arms over her head, shirt lifting slightly at the waist. The movement was easy, unselfconscious.

Y/N looked away a beat too late.

They walked back towards town as the sun dipped, conversation sparse and comfortable. At a crossing, Alexia hesitated, then placed her hand lightly on Y/N’s elbow to guide her away from an oncoming cyclist.

The touch was brief. Necessary. Nothing more.

Y/N’s body reacted before her mind could catch up—a sharp, involuntary stillness, then release.

Alexia noticed.

“You okay?” she asked, concern immediate, unmasked.

“Yes,” Y/N said, quickly. Too quickly. Then, correcting, “Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”

Alexia studied her face, searching for something she couldn’t name. Then she nodded, accepting the explanation because that was what Y/N had offered.

They didn’t speak about it again.

That night, in her room, Y/N lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling, listening to the house settle.

She thought about how easily the days had aligned themselves. How they had stacked without effort. How familiarity had crept in under the guise of coincidence.

Temporary, she reminded herself, the word quieter now, less convincing.

———————-

It happened without occasion.

There was no music, no wine, no charged evening designed to make the moment feel inevitable. It took place in the middle of an afternoon that had begun like all the others—sun too bright, air too still, time unambitious.

They were sitting on the steps of the old library again, the stone warm through their clothes. Alexia had arrived with a book tucked under her arm, hair damp from a shower, the faint scent of soap trailing behind her like something unintentional.

“You’re early,” Y/N observed.

Alexia shrugged. “Training ended sooner.”

She said it casually, but there was satisfaction under it. Y/N clocked that too—how Alexia spoke about football only when she felt safe doing so.

They sat with a practiced ease now, close enough that their knees nearly aligned. The book between them rested open, ignored. It had become a prop more than an activity, something to justify proximity.

Y/N leaned back on her hands, stretching her legs out in front of her. The stone pressed solidly against her palms. Grounding. Real.

Alexia watched her for a moment, then mirrored the movement, sitting back, legs extended. Their shoes almost touched.

Almost.

“You always sit like that,” Alexia said, thoughtful.

“Like what?”

“Ready to get up,” Alexia replied. “Even when you’re resting.”

Y/N smiled faintly. “Old habit.”

Alexia nodded, as if that explained everything.

They fell quiet again. Not the curated silence of early acquaintance, but the unguarded kind—the sort that didn’t rush to fill itself.

From inside the library, a chair scraped. A cough. The muffled turning of pages.

Y/N reached for the book without thinking, intending to close it before the light shifted and made reading difficult. Alexia did the same, their hands colliding lightly over the page.

They both froze.

The contact was minimal—knuckles brushing, fingers overlapping just barely—but the stillness that followed gave it weight.

Alexia was the first to move.

“Sorry,” she said, pulling her hand back immediately, as if she’d crossed an invisible line.

Y/N’s hand remained where it was for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. She felt the absence of warmth more acutely than the contact itself.

“It’s fine,” she said, and meant nothing is wrong, not nothing happened.

Alexia nodded, but didn’t reach for the book again. Instead, she clasped her hands loosely in her lap, like she was keeping them occupied.

Y/N closed the book and set it beside her.

A breeze cut through the steps, lifting loose strands of Alexia’s hair. She tucked them back without thinking, the movement practiced, familiar.

Y/N watched her hands again.

She shouldn’t have.

The thought arrived fully formed and too late to stop.

Alexia shifted, turning slightly towards her. “Can I—”

She stopped.

Y/N turned her head. “Can you?”

Alexia hesitated, then lifted her hand slowly, deliberately, giving Y/N time to move away. She did not assume permission. She waited for it.

Alexia’s fingers hovered near Y/N’s wrist, not touching. The pause stretched, fragile and intentional.

Y/N felt the moment expand.

She could step back. She could laugh it off. She could redirect the energy into something manageable—words, movement, distance.

Instead, she did nothing.

Alexia’s fingers closed gently around her wrist.

The touch was careful. Anchoring. No pressure beyond what was needed to exist.

Y/N’s breath caught—not sharply, not dramatically—but enough that she noticed it.

Alexia felt it too. She still didn’t move.

“Is this okay?” Alexia asked, quietly.

The question mattered.

“Yes,” Y/N said, and the word landed cleanly, without hesitation.

Alexia’s thumb brushed once, light as punctuation.

That was all.

She let go almost immediately, as if prolonging it would break something.

Neither of them spoke.

The world resumed around them—the distant hum of a car, the murmur from inside the library, the scrape of someone’s shoe against stone.

Y/N stared straight ahead, cataloguing sensations the way she always did when something threatened to tip from manageable into meaningful.

Warmth. Residual pressure. Her pulse, steadying.

Alexia cleared her throat. “I—” She stopped, then smiled faintly, embarrassed but not regretful. “Sorry. Again.”

Y/N turned to look at her then.

Alexia’s face was open, unguarded in a way that felt rare. There was no expectation there. No claim. Just a quiet acknowledgment of what had happened.

“Don’t apologize,” Y/N said.

Alexia blinked. “I don’t have to?”

“No,” Y/N replied. “You asked.”

Alexia smiled properly this time, relief softening her shoulders. “Good.”

They sat like that for a while longer, closer now in a way that didn’t require explanation. Their knees touched briefly when Alexia shifted, and neither of them corrected it.

When they finally stood, it was unspoken but mutual.

They walked back towards town, steps slower than usual. At one point, Alexia reached for Y/N’s hand—not fully, not grasping—just letting her fingers brush against the back of Y/N’s knuckles as they walked side by side.

Y/N didn’t pull away.

She adjusted her stride so their hands aligned naturally.

The contact remained light. Temporary. Easily broken.

And yet, when they reached the place where their paths diverged, Alexia didn’t let go right away.

“See you tomorrow?” Alexia asked.

Y/N nodded. “Tomorrow.”

Alexia released her hand then, gently, as if setting something down rather than losing it.

As Y/N walked home alone, the sensation lingered—not on her skin, but just beneath it, like a memory her body had decided to keep.

She unlocked her door, stepped inside, and locked it again out of habit.

That night, she did not lie awake cataloguing exits.

She lay still, wrist warm where Alexia’s hand had been, and told herself—carefully, deliberately—that this, too, was manageable.

———————-

Lucia did not comment immediately.

That, more than anything, was how Y/N knew.

Lucia read the paper at the table, glasses perched low on her nose, lips pursed in quiet disapproval at headlines that failed to meet her standards.

Y/N sat across from her, posture easy, movements precise. She ate. She drank her coffee. She did not rush.

Lucia folded the paper.

“You were late,” she said, calmly.

Y/N glanced at the clock on the wall. “Not particularly.”

Lucia lifted an eyebrow. “For you.”

Y/N accepted the correction without argument. “I walked.”

Lucia’s gaze sharpened. “You always do.”

It was not a question.

Y/N spread olive oil across her bread with deliberate care. “It’s good for circulation.”

Lucia snorted softly. “You were not raised by fools.”

They ate in silence for a moment. Outside, a car passed. The sound of it lingered longer than necessary, then faded.

Lucia leaned back in her chair, studying her granddaughter with the frank appraisal of someone who had earned the right to do so.

“You smile differently,” Lucia said.

Y/N looked up. “I smile?”

Lucia waved her hand. “You always smile. This is… inefficient.”

“I didn’t know smiles had metrics.”

“They do when you are trying to convince yourself,” Lucia replied.

Y/N held Lucia’s gaze steadily. If there was a challenge there, it was a familiar one.

“I’m fine,” Y/N said.

Lucia nodded, as if she had expected that answer. “Of course you are.”

She stood and began clearing the table without waiting for assistance. Y/N joined her automatically, stacking plates, moving with practiced synchronicity.

“You are seeing someone,” Lucia said, as if commenting on the weather.

Y/N rinsed her cup. “I’m walking with someone.”

Lucia dried a plate with slow, deliberate motions. “Ah. So it has not yet become dangerous.”

Y/N’s mouth curved faintly. “You make it sound inevitable.”

Lucia set the plate aside and turned fully to face her. “Everything worth anything is.”

There was no warning in her tone. No prohibition. Just fact.

Y/N looked down at her hands, damp from the water. She dried them carefully.

“She’s kind,” Y/N said, and the admission surprised her with its ease.

Lucia’s expression softened—not into sentiment, but into recognition. “That is not the same as safe.”

“I know.”

Lucia reached out and, for the first time that morning, touched Y/N—two fingers briefly to her wrist. The contact was light, grounding.

“You do not owe me details,” Lucia said quietly. “But you owe yourself honesty.”

Y/N met her eyes. “I’m being honest.”

Lucia held her gaze for a long moment, searching for cracks, for evasion. Then she nodded once.

“Good,” Lucia said. “Then be careful.”

“I always am.”

Lucia’s lips pressed together. “That is what concerns me.”

Later, Y/N walked into town as usual. The sun sat high, heat gathering without urgency. At the square, Alexia waited by the low wall, hands tucked into her pockets, hair escaping its tie.

“You’re late,” Alexia said, smiling.

Y/N felt the smile answer before she could stop it. “For me?”

Alexia laughed. “For you.”

They fell into step together, the ease of it no longer surprising.

As they walked, Y/N thought of Lucia’s hand on her wrist. Of the word dangerous. Of the way Alexia had asked before touching, as if permission were not assumed but essential.

She told herself—firmly, reasonably—that Lucia noticed everything.

That was not the same as knowing everything.

And yet, as Alexia’s shoulder brushed hers, uncorrected, Y/N felt the quiet certainty settle deeper:

This was no longer something happening around her.

It was something she was already inside.

————————-

It did not feel planned.

If anything, it felt like the opposite—like a sequence of small, reasonable decisions that happened to lean in the same direction until resistance would have required explanation.

They had walked longer than usual, past the places that had already become familiar. The pitch, empty now. The bakery, shuttered. Streets narrowing into residential quiet where the lamps were fewer and the dark less theatrical.

Alexia slowed as they reached a low stone wall near the edge of town, the one that overlooked a patch of uneven ground and, beyond it, nothing in particular.

“Do you want to sit?” she asked.

Y/N considered the wall, the height, the absence of anyone else. The question was neutral. An invitation, not an insistence.

“Yes,” she said.

They climbed up easily, legs dangling on the other side. The stone was cool through the fabric of her clothes, a relief after the heat of the day. Crickets stitched sound into the dark. Somewhere far off, a train moved, the noise brief and distant enough to be ignorable.

They sat close, closer than before. Not touching—not yet—but aware of the space narrowing.

Alexia exhaled slowly, like she’d been holding something back all evening without realizing it. “I like this,” she said, almost to herself.

“This?” Y/N asked.

Alexia gestured vaguely—at the night, the quiet, the absence of interruption. “This. When it’s just… this.”

Y/N nodded. “It’s uncomplicated.”

Alexia smiled. “Exactly.”

They fell quiet again. The kind of quiet that didn’t demand commentary. Y/N let her gaze drift, counting lights in distant windows, grounding herself in the ordinary.

Alexia shifted beside her, knee brushing Y/N’s thigh.

The contact was brief. Accidental.

Neither of them moved away.

Alexia’s hand rested on the stone between them, palm down, fingers relaxed. It was close enough that Y/N could feel the warmth of it without touching.

Y/N did not look at it.

She looked straight ahead and said, “We don’t have to—”

“I know,” Alexia replied immediately, turning slightly towards her. “I know.”

The interruption was gentle, reassuring rather than defensive.

Y/N swallowed. The words she hadn’t finished saying dissolved, unnecessary.

Alexia hesitated, then lifted her hand slowly, deliberately, as she had before. She did not close the distance immediately. She waited.

Y/N turned her head this time. Met her eyes.

Alexia’s expression was open, careful. There was want there, yes—but it was restrained, attentive. It asked rather than assumed.

Y/N nodded once.

Alexia’s fingers brushed hers.

The contact was light, exploratory. When Y/N didn’t pull away, Alexia let her hand settle fully over Y/N’s, palm to palm. The fit felt easy, as if their hands had been waiting for instruction.

Y/N exhaled, long and slow.

Alexia’s thumb traced a small, absentminded arc against the back of her hand. Not insistently. Not repetitively. Just enough to register presence.

They sat like that for a while, hands joined, shoulders angled closer. The night folded around them, unremarkable and vast.

Alexia spoke first, voice low. “We can stop.”

Y/N’s mouth curved faintly. “You keep saying that.”

“I want you to know,” Alexia said. “Not just say it.”

“I know,” Y/N replied. And she did.

She leaned in first.

The movement was subtle—a closing of distance measured in inches rather than intention. Alexia noticed immediately, breath catching just enough to be perceptible.

Their foreheads touched.

Alexia’s free hand lifted, hesitated, then rested lightly at Y/N’s waist, fingers splayed, respectful. She waited again.

Y/N placed her own hand over Alexia’s, anchoring it there.

The kiss, when it came, was unhurried.

Alexia’s lips were warm, tentative, meeting Y/N’s with care rather than hunger. There was no rush to deepen it, no pressure to turn it into something else. They kissed like they were listening to each other breathe.

Y/N registered details without judgment: the softness of Alexia’s mouth, the way she adjusted instinctively when Y/N shifted, the steady grounding of her hand.

Nothing in her body recoiled.

Nothing went distant.

That, more than anything, felt significant.

When they broke apart, it was mutual, a shared decision to pause rather than a need to escape.

Alexia rested her forehead against Y/N’s, eyes closed. “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” Y/N said, and the word came easily.

They stayed like that for a moment longer, breathing the same air, before Alexia pulled back slightly.

“My place is close,” Alexia said, carefully. Not an invitation disguised as suggestion. Just information. “My family is out of town.”

Y/N considered the sentence as it was offered. The proximity. The implication. The option to decline without consequence.

“Yes,” she said again, and felt the choice settle.

They walked together, hands linked now without self-consciousness. The town slept around them, unaware and unconcerned.

Alexia’s house was modest, lights low. She unlocked the door and stepped aside, waiting.

Y/N entered first.

Inside, the air was cool, familiar in its ordinariness. A couch, a small table, framed photos she did not inspect. Alexia closed the door behind them but did not lock it.

She turned, uncertain again, as if the threshold required recalibration.

Y/N closed the distance this time without hesitation.

Their kisses deepened gradually, guided more by attention than urgency. Alexia followed Y/N’s lead, hands never straying without permission, always responsive rather than directive.

When they moved to the bedroom, it was without ceremony. Shoes left by the door. Lights left low. Everything remained grounded in choice.

Y/N narrated actions to herself as she always did—this, then this—keeping herself present. Alexia moved with a reverence that felt unstudied, as if respect were instinct rather than performance.

They undressed each other slowly, checking in without words. A pause here. A look there. A question answered by stillness rather than speech.

The bed creaked softly as they settled into it. The sheets were cool. Alexia’s skin was warm.

Y/N focused on what was real: breath, weight, contact. Alexia’s hand in hers. The steadiness of her voice when she murmured Y/N’s name like it mattered.

It did.

The intimacy unfolded without drama. No urgency. No need to prove anything. Just two bodies negotiating space with patience and care.

When it was over, they lay side by side, close but not entangled. Alexia’s arm rested lightly across Y/N’s waist, easy to remove if needed.

Y/N did not move it.

Alexia shifted slightly, pressing a soft kiss to Y/N’s shoulder. “You okay?”

Y/N smiled into the pillow. “I am.”

Alexia relaxed at that, tension easing out of her frame. Soon, her breathing slowed, evened out.

Y/N lay awake a little longer, eyes open in the dim. She listened to the quiet sounds of the house, the familiar settling, the ordinary reassurance of structure.

This, she told herself, was safe.

This was simple.

This did not change anything.

Eventually, sleep took her—not because she surrendered to it, but because nothing in her needed to stay alert.

In the early hours of the morning, before light had fully decided to arrive, Y/N woke.

Alexia slept beside her, face unguarded, hair falling into her eyes. The sight tightened something in Y/N’s chest, sharp and brief.

She moved carefully, disentangling herself without waking Alexia. She dressed quietly, each movement precise. Shoes in hand. Bag retrieved.

At the door, she paused.

She did not look back.

The door closed behind her with a soft, final sound.

Outside, the morning air was cool, forgiving. Y/N started walking, the town still asleep around her.

———————-

Alexia woke to light where there should have been warmth.

It took her a moment to understand what was wrong. The room looked the same—curtains half-drawn, dust caught in the early sun, the faint outline of furniture familiar and unthreatening. The sheets were rumpled in the way they always were after sleep shared by two people who hadn’t known how to keep to their own sides.

She reached out without opening her eyes.

Her hand met cool fabric.

Alexia opened her eyes fully then, scanning the bed with a frown that was more confusion than alarm. The other side was empty. Undisturbed enough to suggest it hadn’t been warm for some time.

She pushed herself up on one elbow, looking around as if Y/N might be elsewhere in the room—by the window, in the doorway, standing quietly as if movement itself were something to be cautious of.

Nothing.

Alexia swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. The floor was cold under her feet. She didn’t mind. She crossed the room, checked the bathroom. Empty. The mirror showed only herself, hair flattened by sleep, eyes still soft with it.

She frowned slightly at her reflection, as if it might explain something.

In the kitchen, the quiet was complete. No kettle. No cup left out. No note on the counter that said I’ve gone to walk or back soon or anything else that would give shape to absence.

The door was closed.

Unlocked.

Alexia stood there for a moment longer than necessary, one hand resting on the back of a chair. She did not move. She did not sit.

Eventually, she checked the time.

Early. Too early to read into anything. Too early for conclusions.

She dressed slowly, movements methodical. Training clothes. Shoes. Hair pulled back with the elastic she kept by the door.

Outside, the street was already awake in its quiet way. A woman sweeping. A man unlocking his shop. Ordinary life continuing with no regard for whatever significance Alexia thought the night before might have held.

She walked, because walking felt like the right response.

By the time she reached the square, she had told herself three separate versions of the same story: that Y/N had left early, that she hadn’t wanted to wake her, that it meant nothing beyond preference.

All of them felt reasonable.

None of them settled.

At the bakery, the woman behind the counter greeted her as usual. Alexia nodded back, ordered out of habit, then realized she wasn’t hungry.

She didn’t see Y/N.

She checked the street near the library, the steps still empty, the stone warm already. She glanced towards the pitch, then away again, as if looking too long might make the absence more pronounced.

Later, when she ran into Miriam, the question came again—louder this time, edged with confusion.

“We shared a night,” Alexia said, keeping her voice even. “Y/N was gone when I woke up.”

Miriam frowned. “Does not sound like her to just disappear.”

Alexia opened her mouth, then closed it.

“Maybe,” she said.

The word felt heavier than it should have.

—————————-

By the second day, Alexia moved through it with the same careful neutrality she used on the pitch when a match slipped out of control. She trained. She nodded when spoken to. She did not volunteer explanations she didn’t have.

By the end of the week, Alexia met up with Miriam.

They sat on the low wall near the pitch, the one that had become habit. Miriam swung her legs, restless.

“She didn’t say anything to you?” Mariam pressed.

Alexia shook her head. “No.”

“Nothing at all?”

“No note. No message.”

Mariam frowned, chewing on her lip. “That’s… weird.”

Alexia resisted the urge to defend Y/N against the word. “She didn’t owe anyone an explanation.”

Mariam glanced at her sharply. “You sound like you’re convincing yourself.”

Alexia exhaled. “Maybe.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the sound of a ball being kicked echoing faintly from the other end of the pitch.

“I saw Fernando yesterday,” Mariam said eventually.

Alexia stiffened without intending to. “Yeah?”

“He asked if I knew where she went,” Mariam continued. “Said he thought she’d still be around.”

Alexia frowned. “Why would he think that?”

Mariam shrugged. “No idea. He said he offered her help with her car the morning she left.”

Alexia’s attention sharpened. “What help?”

“A ride, I think.” Mariam waved a hand. “Her car broke down somewhere outside town.”

Alexia nodded slowly, fitting the information into the version of events she’d already been telling herself. Practical. Reasonable.

“Did she take it?” Alexia asked.

Mariam hesitated. “I think so. Fernando said he dropped her near the station.”

Alexia absorbed that in silence.

“That’s it?” she asked after a moment.

“That’s it,” Mariam confirmed. “He didn’t seem bothered.”

Alexia nodded again. She did not ask Mariam to elaborate. There was nothing to press against.

That night, Alexia lay awake longer than usual.

She replayed small details, unhelpfully precise: the way Y/N had paused before answering questions, the way she had watched people instead of joining them, the way she had always positioned herself with an exit behind her.

At the time, Alexia had read those things as personality.

Now, they rearranged themselves into something less clear.

Summer pressed on, indifferent.

Alexia trained harder. She told herself it was discipline, not distraction. The pitch remained the same. The routines held.

Only the walking changed.

She no longer took the longer routes through town. She stopped checking the steps by the library.

————————————————————————

Alexia stiffened, stepping aside. “Gracias.”

Mapi grinned, clocking the tension instantly. Her eyes flicked between you both. “Interrupting something?”

“No,” Alexia snapped.

“Yes,” you said at the same time, deadpan.

Mapi’s grin widened. “Ay, this is going to be good.” She winked at you both, dropped the bottle in Alexia’s hand, and sauntered out, humming a love song under her breath.

Alexia sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Another time,” she muttered, before walking away.

Wednesday

After training, you left the gym with your bag slung over your shoulder. The hallway was quiet—until footsteps caught up to you.

“Y/N,” Alexia’s voice.

You slowed, heart thudding. “Yes?”

She hesitated, mouth opening, closing again. Her eyes darted to the glass doors at the end of the hall, where Irene and Marta had just stepped through, mid-conversation.

“I can’t now,” Alexia said quickly, frustrated.

“Then don’t call my name,” you replied, moving past her. Your tone was calm, but your pulse roared in your ears.

Friday

Evening again. The building is emptying. You were scribbling the last notes of the week when Alexia walked in, determination etched across her face.

“No interruptions this time,” she said firmly.

“Good,” you replied without looking up. “Because I’m nearly done.”

She crossed the room in two strides. “Y/N, I need to—”

The door burst open.

“Capitana, physio!” It was Salma, breathless, clutching her ankle. “Twisted in the last drill.”

You were on your feet immediately, instincts taking over. “Sit.”

Alexia stepped back, jaw tight. Watching as you crouched in front of Salma, calm, gentle, all your focus on the player in front of you.

It was another near-miss. Another swallowed moment.

Sunday

By the weekend, the tension was unbearable. The whole squad could feel it.

Patri nudged Aitana during warm-up: “They’re going to explode.”

Aitana nodded grimly. “Soon.”

And they were right.

That evening, when the building was finally quiet, Alexia found you again. The same doorway. The same charged air.

“No interruptions,” she said, almost pleading.

You set down your clipboard slowly, looking her straight in the eye. “Then say what you came to say, Alexia.”

The physio room was silent but for the faint hum of the AC unit. Your clipboard lay forgotten on the counter. Alexia stood in front of you, every inch of her taut with frustration, her jaw set, eyes burning.

“I’ve been cruel,” she said again, sharper now, “but I need to know—why didn’t you tell me?”

Your chest tightened. “Tell you what?”

“That you’re married.” The word landed like a slap. “That you walk into cafes in London and sit down with your husband while I—” Her voice cracked, anger and hurt tangled together. “While I was stupid enough to think you were different.”

You inhaled slowly, fighting to keep your voice even. “Alexia—”

“No.” She shook her head, stepping closer. “Don’t ‘Alexia’ me. You let me—” Her hands curled into fists, searching for words. “You let me think you were open. That I mattered. And all the while you were—what? Playing house in London?”

The sting hit sharp, but you didn’t flinch. “I wasn’t playing house. I was ending one.”

That silenced her for a moment. Her brows furrowed.

“My husband,” you said, voice steady, “is my estranged husband. We’ve been separated for nearly two years. The meeting in London was about our divorce papers. Nothing more.”

Her breath hitched, eyes searching yours as though she wanted to believe it but couldn’t allow herself to yet.

“You think I wanted this?” you pressed, tone sharper now. “That I wanted to carry the weight of a dead marriage into a new job? Into a team I respect? Into the eyes of someone I—” You stopped yourself, pulse hammering. “I didn’t tell you because it wasn’t your business. Because it doesn’t change the work I do here.”

Alexia’s hands dropped to her sides, trembling. Her anger was cracking, giving way to something heavier—shame.

“I thought…” She trailed off, voice quieter now. “I thought you were lying to me. That you wanted me chasing shadows.”

“I wasn’t,” you said. “I was just trying to keep one part of my life from bleeding into another. To do my job. To keep it clean.”

Silence swelled between you. The kind of silence that holds everything—anger, grief, understanding, fear.

Finally, Alexia whispered, “I was so cold to you.”

“Yes,” you said simply. “You were.”

Her eyes shone, though no tears fell. She turned away, pacing once, twice, before stopping with her back to you.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” she admitted, voice breaking.

You closed your eyes briefly, then opened them again, steady. “Start by not assuming the worst of me.”

When she finally turned back, her expression was raw—anger drained, replaced by shame and something fragile.

For the first time in months, the wall between you wasn’t just cracked. It was shattered.

But neither of you knew yet what would rise from the pieces.

The week after the confrontation was colder than January in the Pyrenees.

You and Alexia existed in parallel lines — always close, never intersecting. In the gym, you checked her band angles with clinical precision, speaking only when necessary. She answered in clipped syllables. On the pitch, she focused on drills so intently she might as well have been alone. In the cafeteria, she sat at the opposite end, her laughter too sharp, as though overcompensating for something she couldn’t name.

The squad felt it. How could they not? The air in the building was thick with everything unsaid.

Patri tried to lighten the silence, cracking jokes at every meal. Aitana gave her best unimpressed looks across the table. Mapi exaggerated sighs whenever you and Alexia avoided eye contact, muttering “pathetic” under her breath. Marta and Irene exchanged quiet glances, wordless but weighted. Even the youngsters — Vicky, Sydney, Clara, Aicha — tread carefully, whispering instead of shouting, sensing that something fragile hovered in the room.

If anyone asked you directly, you brushed it aside. “Work is work. Everything’s fine.”

But the word fine rang hollow, even in your own mouth.

For Alexia, silence was punishment. Not yours — hers.

She replayed your words every night. I was ending one. She heard her own cruelty like an echo she couldn’t mute. Playing house in London?

And worse than the guilt was the way you never cracked. You treated her with the same professional steadiness you gave everyone else. Not colder, not warmer. Just level. It gnawed at her because it meant you didn’t need her forgiveness — and maybe didn’t want her presence either.

She tried, at first, to keep away. To give you the distance you’d always said you wanted. But every time she watched you laugh with Mapi, or quietly encourage Vicky, or steady Salma’s ankle with patient hands, something in her ached.

She had to do something.

It was small. Almost pathetic.

One evening, you found a cortado waiting on the counter in the physio room. No note, no explanation. Just the exact way you always ordered it: strong, short, no sugar.

You blinked, glanced around. The room was empty.

Later that night, as you were leaving, Alexia passed you in the hall. She didn’t say anything — but her eyes flicked briefly to the empty cup in your hand.

The corner of your mouth twitched. Not a smile. Not yet. But not nothing.

By the following week, the squad had clocked the subtle change.

“Capitana brought you coffee, eh?” Mapi announced loudly in the locker room.

Alexia glared daggers. “I did not.”

“She did,” Patri stage-whispered to Aitana.

Caro rolled her eyes. “Children.”

Marta hid a smile behind her water bottle. Irene sighed, but her gaze softened when she looked at you — as if to say: finally, maybe, a crack of light.

One evening, after most had left, Alexia lingered again in the doorway of the physio room. Not speaking. Just there.

You kept writing your notes, refusing to break the silence.

But when you finally looked up, she was still watching — not with anger this time, not with shame, but with something quieter. Something closer to hope.

And for the first time, you didn’t look away.

The following week

The physio room was quiet. You were finishing notes, the steady scratch of pen against paper the only sound.

You felt it before you saw her. That same gravity in the doorway.

“Y/N,” Alexia said softly.

You looked up, expecting another silent vigil, another almost. But she stepped inside this time. Hoodie loose, hair damp, shoulders taut with tension.

“I can’t keep standing here,” she admitted, voice rough. “I have to say it.”

You set your pen down slowly. “Then say it.”

She exhaled, like she’d been holding her breath for weeks.

“I was cruel to you. Cold. Sharp. I thought—” Her voice faltered. “I thought you lied to me. That you wanted me to…” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I was wrong.”

Her hands flexed uselessly at her sides. “You didn’t owe me your story. And still I punished you for not giving it. I hurt you when you’d done nothing to deserve it. And I hate myself for that.”

The words tumbled out, jagged, unpolished. Not captain-polished, not media-trained. Just Alexia, raw and human.

You let the silence stretch before you answered. “You did hurt me.”

Her eyes flinched. “I know.”

“But,” you continued, “I also understand why. You thought you were protecting yourself. You misread the silence.”

Her breath caught at that, eyes darting up to meet yours.

“Silence is what I needed,” you said gently. “To keep work clean from everything else. But you… you heard it as rejection. Or lies.”

Alexia swallowed hard. “I hear it differently now.”

The tension in the room shifted, softened.

You stood, stepping closer, folding your arms loosely. “So. What now?”

She gave a half-laugh, shaky. “I don’t know. I only know I don’t want to be across a wall from you anymore.”

You studied her face, the sincerity there, the shame and hope tangled together.

“Trust,” you said at last, “doesn’t rebuild in one night. You’ve cracked it. But cracks can be bridges, too. If we let them.”

Her lips parted, eyes wide with something like relief. “You’d let them?”

“Maybe,” you said softly. “If you prove it wasn’t just words.”

For the first time in months, Alexia smiled — small, tentative, but real.

“Then I’ll prove it,” she said simply. “Every day, if I have to.”

You didn’t smile back, not fully. But your mouth softened. “We’ll see.”

The air between you was still heavy, but no longer suffocating.

When she left the room that night, she glanced back once. And for the first time, you didn’t look away.

It was Marta, of course, who nudged it along.

“She’s trying,” Marta murmured to you one afternoon in the cafeteria, eyes flicking toward Alexia, who sat across the room pretending not to look over.

“I noticed,” you said.

“So notice louder,” Marta replied, sipping her tea with maddening calm.

Two days later, Alexia caught you as you left the physio wing. “Y/N,” she said, voice hesitant. “Do you… want coffee? Not with the team. Just—” She broke off, frowning at herself. “Just us.”

You hesitated. Boundaries had been your lifeline. But there was something raw in her expression, a kind of unpolished honesty you hadn’t seen in months.

“All right,” you said finally.

You chose somewhere anonymous, tucked in a side street of Gràcia where nobody cared about famous faces. The tables were small, the light warm, the barista more interested in his crossword than his customers.

Alexia arrived five minutes early, hair tied back, plain hoodie, no armour.

For a while, you spoke about nothing — coffee beans, the weather, the crowded metro. Small talk, safe talk. Then silence stretched, and Alexia finally leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“I need you to know something,” she said quietly. “Football is the only place I’ve ever felt completely sure. But outside of it…” She trailed off, searching. “Outside of it, I’m not as strong as people think. When I thought you lied, I panicked. I pushed you away because it was easier than—than admitting I wanted something I couldn’t name.”

Her eyes lifted to yours, unguarded. “I don’t want to be that person again. Not with you.”

You studied her across the table, the way her hands twisted the coffee cup, the way her shoulders hunched like she was bracing for impact.

“Alexia,” you said softly, “you don’t have to prove strength by pretending you’re unbreakable. Not here. Not with me.”

Her lips parted, something like relief flickering in her expression. “You mean that?”

“Yes.” You sipped your coffee. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll forget how cold you were. Trust isn’t rebuilt in one speech.”

“I know.” She nodded, firm. “That’s why I’ll keep showing up. Even when it’s uncomfortable.”

For the first time in months, you saw her smile without edges — small, tentative, but real.

When you left the café, the evening air was cool, the city alive around you. Alexia walked you part of the way, hands shoved in her pockets, close but not touching.

At the corner, she paused. “Gracias, Y/N. For giving me another chance to… be human.”

You tilted your head, considering her. “We’ll see what you do with it.”

Her laugh was quiet, almost shy. “Fair enough.”

As you walked away, you realised the air between you no longer felt suffocating. It wasn’t clean yet, not healed. But it was lighter. And that was a start.

Saturday Afternoon

It started with a chance. Or maybe Alexia had planned it — you weren’t sure. You were browsing in a tucked-away bookshop in Gràcia when you heard her voice behind you.

“Didn’t think I’d find you here.”

You turned. Alexia stood a few steps away, hair down, a soft sweater replacing the usual hoodie. She held a book loosely in one hand, as though she’d only picked it up to justify being in the aisle.

“Everyone needs a distraction,” you said.

Her lips tilted. “Even you?”

“Especially me.”

She followed you through the shelves, not pressing, just there. At the counter, she offered to pay for your books. You refused. She smiled anyway.

Outside, the winter sun was fading. “Coffee?” she asked. This time it felt less like an olive branch, more like a rhythm.

You went.

Later that week, after training, she asked if you wanted to see her place. Not in a reckless way — she offered it like a safehouse.

The balcony overlooked the city, lights scattered across the sprawl like scattered jewels. You leaned against the railing; she joined you, silent for a long time.

“I miss Jana,” she said suddenly.

You glanced at her. “She misses you too.”

Alexia nodded. “I tell myself I’m used to losing people. But it still hurts.”

She didn’t cry, but her voice was thick. For a long while, neither of you spoke. Then you said quietly: “Missing someone means they mattered. That’s not weakness.”

Her hand tightened on the railing, knuckles pale. “You always say things like that. Simple. But they cut through.”

You smiled faintly. “Maybe that’s my job too.”

It was Alba who answered the door, hair tied back, warm grin on her face. “Careful,” she warned. “My dog likes to test people.”

Moments later, a golden blur came skidding across the tiles — Alba’s rescue mutt, ears too big for its head, tail wagging like a metronome. You crouched instinctively, letting it sniff your hand before scratching behind its ears.

Alexia appeared a second later, shaking her head with mock exasperation. “She usually makes people work harder for it.”

“She knows I have good hands,” you teased.

Alba snorted. “Now you’ve done it. You’ll never get rid of her.”

Alexia leaned against the wall, watching you with an expression softer than you’d seen in months. “I think we like you,” she murmured.

You glanced up, catching the slip. But you didn’t call her on it.

Monday Morning

It was subtle at first. Alexia walked into the physio room, and instead of nodding curtly and sitting at the far end, she paused by your table.

“Bon dia,” she said. Not clipped. Not cold. Just warm enough.

You returned it calmly. “Morning.”

Patri looked up from her band work, eyes flicking between you both. Aitana raised an eyebrow at her and mouthed, did you hear that?

The air shifted.

During rondos, Mapi spotted it immediately. The way Alexia passed you a ball after you’d jogged across the sideline to return one. The way your lips twitched, just slightly, at something she muttered under her breath.

“Ohhh,” Mapi drawled, stopping mid-pass. “So the glacier melts!”

Alexia shot her a look sharp enough to slice glass. “Juega, Mapi.”

Mapi grinned. “Juegamos, sí. But we also observe. And I observe… warmth.”

The group cracked up. Even Ewa smirked.

You bent to tie your shoe, deadpan: “Careful, Mapi. Observers often pull hamstrings.”

That got the loudest laugh of all — even from Alexia, who tried to hide it behind her hand.

At lunch, Vicky and Sydney sat across from you, whispering to each other in that not-quiet way teenagers think is stealth.

“She smiled at Alexia,” Vicky said.

“She never smiles at Alexia,” Sydney countered.

“She does now,” Vicky insisted, eyes wide.

Clara leaned in. “Do you think they—”

Aicha cut her off, shaking her head. “Don’t. Not our business.”

Still, they kept sneaking glances between you and Alexia at the far end of the table, their curiosity sparking like static.

After training, Irene caught you in the hallway. “Things feel… lighter,” she observed.

You arched a brow. “Do they?”

“They do,” she said simply. Then, after a beat: “Don’t let her rush. She’s learning to slow down.”

It was advice without pressure, delivered in Irene’s steady, no-nonsense tone. You nodded, grateful.

Later that evening, Marta texted you a single line: She’s smiling again. Don’t underestimate what that means.

Friday Evening

It was meant to be casual: Marta’s idea, carried out by Patri’s persistence, fuelled by Mapi’s insistence that “normal people eat together once in a while.” A team dinner in the city, no media, no cameras. Just food and noise.

The restaurant was tucked into a side street in El Born, low-lit, with mismatched chairs and walls lined with photographs of old Barça line-ups. Long tables were pushed together; plates clattered, laughter rose and fell, wine poured.

You arrived late, the clipboard finally set aside after a long week. The only open seat was beside Alexia. Of course.

You hesitated. She looked up, meeting your eyes, and instead of the guarded steel of the last months, her expression was soft. She nudged the chair out with her foot.

“Sit,” she said. Not sharp. Not commanding. Just warm.

So you did.

Conversation swirled. Kika held court with a ridiculous story about trying to cook calçots in her flat. Salma and Vicky laughed so hard they nearly knocked over their glasses. Even Ewa cracked a smile when Clara tried to mime the whole disaster.

Beside you, Alexia leaned in once or twice, adding quiet remarks only you could hear. You rolled your eyes at one; she grinned. It felt easy, unforced.

At one point, the waiter set down a plate in front of you — not what you’d ordered. Before you could correct him, Alexia did. “She asked for the grilled sea bass,” she said smoothly, gesturing to the right dish.

The table went silent for a beat. Then Mapi slapped the table dramatically.

“She remembers your order? Dios mío.”

Groans and laughter erupted around the table.

Patri leaned across, smirking. “Careful, Y/N. Next she’ll start stealing food off your plate.”

You shook your head, cheeks warm. “Professional hazard,” you muttered.

But Alexia only smiled, unbothered by the teasing.

The group spilled out into the cool night, laughter echoing down the street. Players paired off toward taxis and cars. Eventually, it was you and Alexia, walking the same direction.

“You handled that well,” she said, hands tucked in her pockets.

“The teasing?”

She nodded. “Mapi doesn’t let go once she smells blood.”

“I noticed,” you said dryly.

She laughed — a soft, genuine sound. “But you didn’t run. You stayed.”

You glanced at her, the city lights catching her face, softening the sharp edges. “It wasn’t so bad.”

For a moment, you both walked in silence, the kind that wasn’t heavy anymore. The kind that felt like possibility.

———————————————————————