cee :)

Your quick overnight bag is packed by the door, and she’s fighting to get everything back into her suitcase, the newest medal to her collection clinking against the case's structure as she forces the top down to zip it. Careless with the gold thing, already possessing too many to give it a spare thought. 

“Relax, we have twenty minutes.”

“Last time we had twenty minutes and then suddenly we were late.” Alexia gives you a pointed look, hands on her hips as she stares you down. “Who paid the fee?”

“I wonder why that was.” You smirk at her. “And yes, it was you who paid the fee. Because you’re the one on an athlete’s salary, fucking me around the continent every other week.” 

She scoffs, but the corner of her mouth gives her away.

The hotel room around you is entirely anonymous. There’s charcoal curtains blocking the grey morning light, two empty coffee cups sitting on the bedside tables, and an armchair in the corner of the room now cleared of the clothes that were thrown on it last night. 

It’s a room with history that no one will ever know, designed to be forgotten the second the keycard is left at reception. The only kind of space that actually works for this.

Alexia finally wins the battle with her suitcase zipper with a quiet, irritated exhaling of air through her nose. She drops her hands, leaving the bulging bag at the door, and walks over to where you’re leaning against the desk.

Her hands find your hips, an easy habit now, her fingers settling on to the familiar curve like muscle memory. Her touch is firm as she steps closer enough that your lower back is pressing against the wood. She smells like the generic hotel body wash mixed with the extortionate perfume she brings every time.

“I’m the one that battled the bags,” She says, her voice still carrying that slight rasp from finally falling asleep far too late. “Least you could do is keep track of the time.”

“I am keeping track,” You reply, your hands trailing up casually over her ribs. “I just don’t panic every time a clock hits the hour.”

“It’s not panic. I’m just used to respecting schedules.” 

You raise an eyebrow at her. “I respect schedules when they mean I get a good night’s rest.”

A small, slightly cocky smile touches her lips. “You weren’t complaining about my schedule a few hours ago.”

You try to fend off the pink tinge that finds its way onto your cheeks, but there’s not much you can do to stop it and it only encourages her smugness.

“A few hours ago, you weren’t standing over me with a suitcase.”

The brunette rolls her eyes, but her grip on your waist doesn’t loosen. Her thumbs press gently against your hips, moving up and down again and again in a slow rhythm that’s built over months in random cities. Taking in the contented proximity before real life starts again.

Alexia opens her mouth to offer another quick retort about making her flight, only for the words to stall before they can leave her lips.

Her hands stay anchored to your waist, but her expression subtly shifts. The dry amusement fades out of her eyes, replaced by something more considered. Her gaze drops down to your lips for a split second, then drifts back up to hold your eyes.

You can tell right away that there’s a thought sitting on her tongue– something unscripted that she hadn’t planned on saying, hovering right on the edge. 

“What is it?” You ask, tilting your head slightly.

She hesitates, her the movement of her thumbs becoming absentminded circles as she thinks.

For someone who seems to move through her life with absolute certainty, whose life is measured in quick decisive moments, the tiny pause feels uncomfortably long and sticks out like a sore thumb.

“Come over to my apartment this week.” She says eventually.

The words are uttered quietly, they land gently between you, but they hit with the weight of a brick. The air in the room shifts a little. 

You blink, pausing like you’re waiting for a punchline. “What?”

“On Wednesday. When we’re both back in Barcelona,” Alexia elaborates, her voice steadying as she talks even though her fingers tighten on your waist again. “Come to my apartment. Before the team flies to Lisbon.”

The sound of someone walking by outside the door fills the room as you process her words.

In eight months, her home has never come up. It’s never been an option. Not once.

Your entire existence together lives in four walls like the ones you stood between now– hotels in Bilbao, Paris, Manchester. Places where the sheets get washed by strangers and no one leaves even just a toothbrush behind.

Something tugs in your chest. You look at her, searching for the joke, but her mouth is set in a rigid line. There’s a tightness around her eyes and an almost invisible twitch in her jaw that wasn’t there two minutes ago.

You take it for her usual caution, the relentless paranoid privacy of someone whose name is printed on thousands of shirts and who gets followed by paparazzi on a yacht off the coast of Ibiza. You don’t look any deeper than that.

“Are you sure?” You ask, the teasing edge dropping from your voice. “You’ve never asked.”

“I’m sure,” She says softly. She doesn’t look away, but there’s something unsure in her eyes that makes your heart swell. You think for a brief second that perhaps the feelings there match the ones in your own. “I want to see you one last time before the final. Without a hotel checkout hanging over us.”

A smile pulls at your mouth before you can stop it. You nod once. “Okay. Wednesday.”

Something in her shoulders drops, the hard line of her spine giving way just a fraction, like a weight off her chest. She leans in almost immediately afterwards, her hands pulling you flush against her as her mouth finds yours.

It’s not the urgent, restless, celebratory and endorphin-filled kiss from last night. It’s firm and lingering, her lips dragging against yours with a deliberate slowness that makes your hands find the back of her neck on instinct.

It feels different.

You don’t look any deeper into that, either.

When she pulls back, her eyes linger on you, the familiar tilt returning to the corner of her mouth at the look on your face. 

“Right,” You say, clearing your throat and tapping her chest lightly to break the spell. “You really do have to go now if you don’t want a late fee and a missed flight.”

Alexia nods, leaning in one last time to press a quick, softer kiss to your lips.

“I’ll see you back in Barcelona,” She murmurs against your lips before stepping back and finally letting her hands fall from your hips. “Three days.”

“Three days.” You echo, biting back a smile. Her face is doing the same.

“Bye, cari.”

You stand by the desk still, and watch her grab the suitcase by the door, the gold medal clinking once more against the frame before she opens the door.

She lingers in the hallway, waiting for you to say goodbye.

With a light roll of your eyes and a faint blush, you obey. “Bye, Alexia.”

The brunette gives an unexpectedly soft smile in place of her predicted grin, before she slips out in the carpeted hallway.

The door clicks shut behind her, leaving you alone in the quiet room. You stare at the empty doorway for a long moment, your chest fluttering with a feeling you know you shouldn’t have.

And half an hour later, sitting with an espresso in the hotel restaurant, you can’t help the smirk that breaks across your face when your phone lights up with a screenshot from Alexia– a bank notification for a late checkout fee, followed by a single eye-roll emoji.

— 

When Wednesday arrives, focusing on anything at your desk feels like a losing battle.

Your laptop screen displays a half-finished report you’ve been staring at for two hours, but your brain is stuck entirely on a timer that seems to be ticking down at half-speed. Every time your phone screen lights up on the desk next to your keyboard, an involuntary flutter hits your chest before you even check the notification.

She’s been texting in short sporadic bursts since she woke up. Brief check-ins between physio reviews, training, and tactical meetings that slowly weave a web of anticipation through your workday.

Alexia [09:14] Morning. I’ve had two coffees already and I’m still tired. This day is going to drag on too long until tonight.

You [09:22] That’s what happens when you stay up arguing about hotel checkouts.

Alexia [09:25] Worth it. Still on track for tonight?

You [11:46]  Unless my boss realises I’ve done nothing productive and just stared at the same word doc for two hours, yes.

Alexia [11:48] Good.  Send me a text when you’re leaving the office.

You’d leaned back in your chair, staring down at her last message.

A wave of hesitation washed over you for the briefest second. 

Eight months of absolute secrecy, unwritten rules, and polished hotel rooms made the idea of stepping into her actual life feel surreal.

Risky? Maybe.

No, surely not.

You’d typed out a teasing reply, testing the waters, half-expecting her to pull back or turn it into a joke.

You [13:15] So we’re really doing this? No hotel keycards tonight? Should I be honoured or concerned that I’m finally seeing your mysterious athlete’s bachelor(ette?) pad?

Her response hadn’t come immediately.

Minutes had ticked by– five, ten, fifteen, twenty – long enough for a tiny knot of doubt to form in your stomach. You’d almost convinced yourself that you’d pushed a boundary she wasn’t ready to cross, that the invitation in Huesca had just been a fleeting moment of post-win sentimentality she now regretted.

Then your phone had finally buzzed.

Alexia [13:49] Honoured. Code for the front gate is 4092. Top floor, door on the left.

An address pin.

Alexia [13:50] Don’t make me regret it.

You’d stared at those messages for a long moment, your thumb running up and down the edge of your phone case.

It was odd seeing her address spelled out in monochrome text.

Your mind had archived her in transient spaces for so long. 

Dim lighting of a suite in Paris. Crisp white sheets in Manchester after an unexpected loss for her. Muffled sound of traffic below a balcony in London. The outline of her in front of a window that overlooked the view of Barcelona. 

Places where you’d lay awake in the middle of the night, indulging in the warmth of your body pressed close to hers, listening to her even breathing, wondering what she was like when she wasn’t living out of a suitcase. Wondering if the easy and unspoken warmth between you was just an illusion created by a temporary room, or if it’d survive out in the real world.

Well, you were about to find out.

At 5:30PM, you shut your laptop with a hasty click, completely abandoning the rest of your email inbox.

You [17:31] Leaving work now. See you at 7 x

The walk from your office through the early evening heat of Barcelona carries a light but restless energy. On the way to the metro, you find yourself ducking into a small wine shop tucked away on a side street. You browse the wooden shelves with a slow focus, eventually picking out an expensive Priorat white.

It’s an irrational purchase, and you know it.

Alexia won’t touch a drop of alcohol four days out from a Champions League final – her discipline on that front is terrifyingly rigid, you’ve come to learn– but the bottle feels like a necessary prop.

It’s a domestic gesture. A wordless declaration that tonight isn’t just about a quick turnaround before a flight; it’s about sitting on a sofa (or laying in her bed), pouring a glass, and finally existing without an alarm set for checkout.

She’ll have an alarm set for training, and you’ll have your own set for sneaking out in time to get ready for work. But that feels... like a life, not an alibi.

You’re standing on the pavement outside her building a little before seven, the glass bottle heavy in the canvas bag slung over your shoulder.

The building is sleek, private, understated. A place designed for people who pay extra to never be looked at too closely. It looks a little like some of the hotels you’d found yourselves in, and you shake your head with a huff of laughter.

You punch in the four-digit code at the main gate, the wrought-iron lock clicking open with a soft mechanical buzz.

Your thumb absently traces the canvas strap on your shoulder as you step into the marble-lined foyer and head toward the lift. Your heart is doing that annoying flutter against your ribs; though, this time, it’s not a result of the adrenaline of a hotel hallway, but something warmer, softer, and infinitely more dangerous.

You press the button for the top floor, watching the numbers light up one by one. It ends at the top floor quickly with an imperceptible chime. 

The silence up here is exclusive and unbothered by the city below as you step out into the tiled floor corridor. You soon find the door on the left and pause for a beat, letting out a quiet breath to steady the pace of your heart.

Then, you raise your hand and knock. Three short taps.

Footsteps sound from the other side almost immediately, a little too quick to be classed as unhurried, before the door swings inward.

And there she is.

Alexia stands in the doorway framed by the warm glow of her hallway. She’s completely stripped of her usual armour; no official club or national team travel wear, no designer clothes that indicate a victory’s deserved night-out. She’s wearing a soft oversized t-shirt that hangs loose over her shoulders, paired with low-slung sweatpants. Her now mostly brunette hair is pulled back into a loose bun, a few stray strands framing her face.

The midfielder looks remarkably soft. Unpolished. Content. Seeing her like this, grounded in her own sanctuary, pulls the air right out of your lungs.

A smile tugs at her lips as her eyes sweep over you. “You made it.” 

“I made it,” you echo softly, stepping across the threshold after she moves back to give you space.

The door clicks shut behind you, sealing the rest of the world outside. 

It’s a similar feeling to the hotels, shrinking your lives to this one shoebox and taking you far away from anything that could harm or disrupt it. But it’s so different, already, and it’s something akin to addiction if you were brave enough to name it.

Before the quiet tension can stretch too far, you reach into your bag and pull out the cool bottle of white. You hold it out between you like an offering.

“I brought wine,” You say, a slight sheepish smile touching your mouth. “I know you don’t drink during the season, especially three days out from a final, but… it felt necessary.”

Alexia looks down at the bottle, a low breathy chuckle escaping her chest. Her eyes crinkle at the corners as that familiar cockiness returns to her face.

“Let’s fix you a glass, then.” She drawls, before turning.

She leads you down the hallway, her sock-covered feet silent against the floor. The apartment opens up into a fairly expansive kitchen– sleek marble countertops, floor-to-ceiling windows showing the fading light over Barcelona.

You glance around inquisitively as she reaches into a cabinet and pulls out a single wine glass, before she takes the bottle from your hands. Her fingers brush against yours in what feels like a purposeful point of contact that sends a spark straight up your arm. 

There’s a few things that you notice which stand out. The sheer amount of jackets and shoes by the door (surely there’s not enough days in the year for that many shoes), the ajar dishwasher door showing off the packed appliance yet to be unloaded. 

Photos of her and her family and football achievements littering the walls and shelves, though a few frames missing off their hooks; probably in the process of changing the photos over, considering how often she gains titles.

“How was your day?” She asks, drawing your attention back to her. She works the corkscrew with practiced precision, the soft pop of it echoing in the open space. She looks up through her lashes as she sets the cork on the counter. “Did your boss catch you staring blankly at that document?”

You lean your hip against the edge of the marble island, watching her as a sly and knowing smile takes over your mouth.

“We don’t do that.” You state simply, tilting your head at her.

Alexia pauses, the neck of the bottle hovering just above the rim of the glass. She raises an eyebrow, her gaze locking onto yours. “We don’t do what?”

“Small talk about our workdays,” You answer, crossing your arms as the smile turns amused. “That’s not us.”

A dangerous smirk spreads across her own face. 

She pours a generous splash of the pale white wine, then settles the bottle down with a deliberate tap against the counter.

“We’re in my flat now,” She says, her voice low as she picks up the glass and steps slowly around the corner of the island until she’s standing directly in front of you. “We can do whatever we want.”

She holds the glass out to you, her eyes never leaving yours.

You take it from her, the cool glass contrasting with the heat radiating off her skin. You bring the rim to your mouth, taking a deliberately slow sip under her watchful eye. The white is crisp and dry.

Alexia’s eyes track the movement, watching your throat work as you swallow.

“Well?” She prompts, voice dropping another octave as her eyes fall back to your lips, tongue darting out to lick her own. “Is it good?”

“Very.” You reply, holding her stare.

Her gaze darkens. A sudden focus lands across her features that instantly wipe away the casual air of the kitchen, momentarily draped in silence.

She steps an inch closer, closing the distance until her body envelops you, her hand coming up to rest gently against the side of your neck. Her thumb presses right over your racing pulse. 

“Let me have a taste,” She murmurs against your cheek.

Before you can react, her mouth is on yours.

She’s unhurried as she tastes the faint wine on your tongue. But it is possessive in a way that makes your knees go weak, her fingers tightening at the nape of your neck as she pulls you flush against her.

You just manage to blindly reach back and set your glass down on the marble before Alexia’s other hand finds your waist.

Without breaking the kiss, she spins you slowly, her touch firm as she begins guiding you backward out of the kitchen and leads you down the dark hallway toward her bedroom.

The wine sits alone and forgotten in the kitchen for a while. An expensive domestic gesture that turned out to be entirely unnecessary, of course– serving as little more than an easy segue to the inevitable. 

Her apartment settles into a subdued silence in contrast to the charged energy that’d filled it the second you stepped in earlier. 

And in the bedroom, the duvet is dragged lazily halfway up your hips, leaving the rest of your skin exposed to the cool drift of the air conditioning, white linen twisted around your ankles in a chaotic mess.

Alexia lies on her side facing you, her head propped against a pillow, her breathing gradually returning to its steady baseline after the storm of the last hour.

One of her hands rests heavily against your inner thigh, her thumb tracing mindless shapes over the sensitive skin there. A calm pressure that keeps you grounded next to her.

She lets out breathless huff of air through her nose, her eyes tracking the rise and fall of your chest in the dim light filtering through the gap in the curtains.

“You left your glass,” She mumbles into the silence, her voice raspy with tiredness and satisfaction.

You offer an amused exhale, turning your head on the pillow to look at her. Her hair has completely tumbled out of its updo, strands scattered across her shoulders and clinging to the damp skin at her temples.

“I was a little distracted,” You reply, your hand trailing aimlessly down her arm, your fingertips catching on the subtle dip of her waist before settling against her hip. “Hardly my fault.”

Her attention drops to the movements of your fingers against her skin as a tiny grin tugs at one corner of her lips. She shifts closer, sliding her knee up between yours until your thighs are pressed flush together under the crumpled duvet. 

“You’re easily led,” She teases, her gaze lazily making its way back up to your eyes.

“By you? Always.” You reply, an answer that brings a smile to her face. “I don’t hear you complaining about it.”

“Never.” She whispers, leaning forward to initiate the slowest kiss of the night. After she pulls away, there’s a sheen to her lower lip that your eyes get caught on as she speaks again. “Your bank account might complain if you buy a bottle every time you come over though.”

“Oh, so this is gonna be a frequent thing now, is it?” You jest, though you ignore the jump your heart does at her words.

“Mm,” Alexia hums, her hand, a little heavy from the exhaustion in her limbs, lands on your cheek and her thumb runs along the bow of your lips. “I hope so.”

The helpless grin that takes over your face is the type that reaches your eyes and warms your chest until it feels almost tight.

It’s a reaction you’d usually try to hide or brush off behind a smirk, but Alexia misses it entirely. Her dark lashes flutter closed as her hand slips down from your cheek to rest against your collarbone. She’s not asleep, just letting the weight of the day and the comfort of her own room sink into her bones.

You stay still under her, letting your breath even out so you don’t disturb her.

Her words replay in your mind to decorate the silence, the three words heavy with promise. I hope so.

Such a simple offhand phrase, but it sets off a cascade in your mind. 

No more suitcases waiting by the door or careful countdown to bus departures and flights. No more tense walks down hallways at ungodly hours of the morning, hoping no teammates spots you leaving her suite. 

The idea of this– of her– not being restricted to meaningless cities and single rooms feels absurdly good. It feels like grounding something that was only ever meant to float. 

You let your fingers trace a feather-light line up her forearm, taking in the soft movements of her chest. 

“You know,” she slurs a little. “I could get used to not having to worry about a rushed checkout in the morning.”

You look at her, taking in the unarmoured lines of her face in the darkness of her bedroom.

“Don’t lie,” You whisper with a fond smile as you brush a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “You have a training alarm set for seven to worry about it instead.”

Alexia rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t deny it. Instead, she pulls you impossibly closer, burying her face into the crook of your neck with a contented exhale, her hand sliding down further to grip your waist under the sheets.

“Quiet,” She grunts against your skin. “Let me pretend for a little longer.” 

A soft laugh escapes you, your hand moving to rest against the small of her back. You don’t push it. Because for once, laying in her apartment, in the city you both live in, there is no reason to bring up travel plans and schedules. 

So you just stay wrapped up in each other, breathing in the stillness of her bedroom.

It feels so much like those late nights around Europe. The same hushed whispers in the dark and the same easy shift of her weight against yours. 

And yet, everything is subtly skewed. The mattress is firmer, and most definitely more expensive. The air smells like an actual life instead of generic hotel linen. There’s a framed print on the wall instead of lifeless commercial art. 

You don’t think you could ever go back to just hotel rooms again. She’s spoiled you now; ruined you for anything else but this.

You indulge in it, until she lets out a dramatic, drawn-out sigh against your neck after a long while.

“I have to shower.” She grumbles, though she doesn’t actually move a muscle for another thirty seconds.

“Off you go then,” You tease, tapping her hip. “I’m not carrying you there.”

“Come with me.” She requests, punctuating it with a kiss to your neck.

“Not a chance,” You grin, sinking deeper into the pillows. “I’m way too comfortable right now.”

Alexia finally moves, lifting her head to give you a playful look. “Lazy.” 

“Exhausted.” You correct her.

She rolls her eyes but grins nevertheless, leaving a kiss to your forehead before tossing the crumpled duvet off her legs as she sits up on the edge of the bed. As she stands, stretching her arms over her head, long lean muscles moving under her skin, you look up at her from the mess of sheets.

“Hey,” You call out quietly. “Can you grab me my clothes? Or at least something to put on?”

Alexia pauses, turning her head to look back at you. A slow smile stretches across her lips, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes with its usual warmth.

“Hold on.”

She disappears into the ensuite, then emerges a few seconds later holding a plush cream robe. She walks back to the bed and tosses it down beside you.

You reach out, feeling the thick, ridiculously soft material between your fingers.

“Look at you,” You tease, sitting up and looking at her as you slide your arms into the sleeves. “You even brought me a dressing gown like the ones at the hotels. You athletes with your traditions.”

The smile stays fixed on her face, but it goes noticeably tight at the corners. A rigid stillness settles into her shoulders, her jaw clenching for a fraction of a second before she recovers.

“Just wear it,” She mumbles, her voice slightly flatter than before. “I won’t be long.”

You don’t think twice about the shift, pulling the belt tight around your waist as Alexia walks back into the bathroom. The shower hums to life in the ensuite, the rush of water hitting tiles filling the room.

With a pleasantly tired sigh, you sink back into the soft mound of pillows on her side of the mattress. The cotton of the robe smells of lavender and fabric softener, a stark contrast to the stiff white terrycloth of the hotels’.

You lay there in the quiet for a while, staring up at the ceiling as your pulse slowly settles. The room is muted, bathed in the ambient glow of the moon outside the window. Then your eyes drift idly around the space, taking in the details you hadn’t paid attention to when she’d pulled you through the door well over an hour ago.

Opposite the foot of the bed, a TV hangs sleek against the wall. To the left, a wall of built-in, floor-to-ceiling wood wardrobes stretches into the shadows, housing an enviable collection of clothes you’ve only ever seen packed tightly into designer duffels and suitcases.

On the adjacent wall, a set of floating shelves displays a curated mess of her actual life: a stack of books, a few random trinkets, a couple player of the match awards, and a small framed photo resting near the edge.

You tilt your head, straining your eyes in the low light to make out the dark shapes in the picture. It’s a shot of two women laughing on what looks like a sunlit boat, their arms thrown around each other’s shoulders. You can barely discern the features in the gloom, but you mentally fill in the blanks.

It’s probably her sister, Alba.

The one she occasionally brings up when talking about family dinners back in Mollet and making jokes about how little she cares about football.

A quiet thought slips into your mind. Maybe you’ll meet them one day. Soon?

The second the thought takes root, you catch yourself with a self-deprecating huff against the pillow. You shake your head, rolling onto your side. Slow down. You’ve been in her apartment for three hours.

Smothering the thought before it can get too big, you reach over to the nightstand and pick up your phone, the screen illuminating your face to pass the time as she showers. 

Five minutes pass by.

And then a distinct click echoes down the hallway. 

The front door opens.

You freeze. Your thumb hovers motionless above the glowing phone screen, the sound of your own breathing suddenly sounding far too loud in the room.

Across the bottom of the bedroom door, a bright strip of yellow light cuts through the darkness as the hallway light flicks on.

Footsteps follow– keys jingling, shoes dragging across floorboards, a coat dropping onto the entryway bench.

A pit drops instantly into your stomach. Your heart begins a violent thud against your ribs, the peacefulness of five minutes ago vanishing in a single second.

A cleaner? An assistant? A teammate? A friend? Her sister?

A woman’s voice calls out into the flat. It sounds awfully casual and at ease.

“Alex?”

The shower is still running in the ensuite, the muffled rush of water meaning Alexia clearly hasn’t heard a thing. You sit up in the bed, the fabric of the cream robe bunching around your waist as you pull the belt tighter with trembling hands. 

Panic spikes through your veins, your mind frantically searching for a plan, a hideout, a joke, anything– but you’re completely trapped, sitting in the middle of the bed that’s suddenly lost it’s comforting allure.

The footsteps grow louder. Unhurried, and heading straight toward you.

“Alex, I came back early from Madrid. I wanted to surprise y–”

The bedroom door swings wide open. A hand reaches out and flicks the light switch.

The room is followed with the momentarily blinding overhead light. You wince, squinting through the glare, your eyes locking onto a woman standing in the doorway. Her hair is darker than Alexia’s and windblown as she holds a small overnight bag, keys still between her fingers.

She halts mid-step. 

Her eyes drop to you, sitting in the middle of the disheveled bed, tangled in the duvet.

A sharp gasp hitches from the woman’s throat, her body jerking back an inch in sheer shock. Her face pales, her eyes widening as they sweep over the messy sheets, the clothes strewn over the floor, and then back to your frozen, wide-eyed form.

For two agonising seconds, neither of you breathe. The only sound in the entire apartment is the oblivious rush of the shower still running.

“Who the fuck are you?” 

The woman’s voice whips through the room, sharp and laced with disbelief.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out except a pathetic hitch of air. Your tongue feels like lead against the roof of your mouth. “I—I’m—”

“Is she fucking you?” The woman interrupts, the words spitting out of her with raw, jagged fury. Her eyes scan the bed, the damp sheets, the robe.

You flinch at the bluntness of it, a suffocating heat rushing up your neck. You hesitate for half a second, paralysed, before giving a slow and horrified nod.

The brown-haired woman lets out a bitter scoff, slapping both hands over her face.

“I don’t fucking believe it. Fuck!” She shouts into her palms, her shoulders hitching as she takes a ragged step back toward the doorframe.

The pieces fall together with a violent crash in your brain. It’s a sickening realisation that makes your skin crawl.

The packed dishwasher, clearly too much for one person. The missing frames in the lounge, the photo on the floating shelves of the boat. The way Alexia had gone rigid when you teased her about the dressing gown. Shit, was it hers?

“You’re–” Your voice cracks, barely above a whisper. “You’re her girlfriend?” 

The woman drops her hands, letting out a laugh that is entirely devoid of humour– a scathing sound that cuts right through you.

“Three years.” She snarls, her eyes flashing with tears she’s fiercely trying to hold back. “I’m her girlfriend of three years.” 

“I had no idea!” You gasp out immediately. “I swear to you! I had no idea she was in a relationship!”

“Right,” She snaps back instantly, tone dripping with venom. “You didn’t notice the photos in the living room? You didn’t notice half the clothes in the wardrobe that aren’t hers? You just walked into her flat and thought you were the only woman to exist?”

You stay silent. 

The nausea hits you so hard you feel like you might throw up right in front of her. You feel like you’re part of a completely different life now. 

Fuck, you are. You already have been living a different life. Caught up in cross-continent thrill, oblivious to the world Alexia really lived in. 

How could you have been so fucking blind.

The woman takes a long, shaking breath, rubbing the back of her neck as her chest heaves. She stares at you, reading the genuine horror written across your pale face.

“You really didn’t know?”

You nod frantically, tears of sheer mortification pricking at the corners of your eyes. 

“Yes! Yes, I swear to you. I promise on my life I had no idea. I’m–I’m not that kind of person.” You beg her to understand, plead for her to hear your guilt and regret. “I would never, ever willingly do this to anyone. I’m so sorry. I am so, so sorry.”

The profuse apologies spill out of you like a broken valve but they do nothing to extinguish the fire.

Her expression cracks, the anger giving way to an abrupt wave of emotion that makes her voice tremble.

“You’re in my bed,” She spits out, the words breaking slightly as she gestures at you. “You’re laying in my bed, wearing my robe, after fucking my girlfriend.”

Every word feels like a physical slap.

You pull your arms tight against your chest, feeling smaller and more disgusted with yourself than you ever have in your entire life.

You want to strip the robe off right now, you want to melt into the floorboards, erase the last eight months of your life completely. 

The last year, actually. There’d been that night in Bilbao, too. What you thought was a one-off, only to pick right up where you left it at a bar in Madrid in September.

She opens her mouth again, her lower lip trembling. “How long– how long has this even–”

The bathroom door opens. The water had gone off at some point in the last few seconds.

Alexia steps out into the bedroom, dressed in her own white robe, steam billowing out behind her as she rubs a small towel through her damp hair.

“Hey, do you want to g–”

She stops dead in her tracks.

The towel drops from her hands, hitting the floor with a soft thud. Her eyes dart from you, cowering on the bed in the matching cream robe, to the woman standing in the doorway with tears spilling fast down her cheeks.

The colour drains from her face in a second. She closes her eyes, pinching the bridge of her node tightly, a silent exhalation escaping her as the full gravity of the scene hits her. 

She opens her eyes again, a fearful look on her face. 

“Isabel,” Alexia breathes out, her voice barely audible. 

She sounds regretful. Full of remorse. You hate that you panic at the sound of it given the situation you’re in. You’re the other woman. Not her girlfriend. Not anything remotely meaningful to her it seems.

Isabel doesn’t even look back at her. Her glossy eyes remain locked on you, a sickeningly sweet, terrifyingly flat smile spreading across her face.

“I think you need to leave.” Isabel tells you.

You nod instantly, already throwing the duvet off your legs. “Okay, okay.”

“Gather your clothes,” Isabel adds, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper that leaves no room for error. “Go change in the bathroom down the hall. And get the fuck out of my life.”

You don’t hesitate for even a millisecond.

You scramble off the bed, grabbing your crumpled pile of clothes off the floor with shaking hands. You don’t dare look at Alexia for even a fleeting moment as you rush past them both and head down the corridor.

Almost as soon as the bathroom door shuts behind you, the shouting begins. You try to tune it out as you dress, politely folding the gown and placing it on top of the laundry basket like it might rectify your mistake. 

You catch some of Alexia’s pleas, defenses, apologies, excuses, as you head out the bathroom and dart toward the front door.

You glance back toward the bedroom with tears in your eyes, your head a mess, your heart beating between guilt and something you’re too ashamed to admit. You look at the bottle of wine and the half-filled glass still sitting on the kitchen counter, and can’t raise your hand in time to muffle the sob that breaks out.

Then, you step out into the corridor you’d walked earlier that evening with such a delicate and thriving anticipation. And now, you close the door behind you, swallowing the sound of another woman’s heart breaking over a life you never knew you were stealing. 

—

sooo. that was a lot lol. i know there's some heavy and unfavourable themes in this, and they will be a main part of the plot if i were to write a series from here. the series would be about navigating alexia and r's complex feelings and emotions following the lies and betrayal and newly discovered affair etc. it'll feature flashbacks, more backstory about it all, etc etc. the purpose of it being a series will be navigating how they end up getting together (alexia and r) given what's happened. it won't be easy and it won't be quick. that's why i want to write this story because (as much as i despise cheating and would never put myself in this situation) purely from a writing fiction side of it i think it'd be fun to explore the emotions and such.