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CIELA December, 2014

Three days spent at home, and I still couldn't quite believe Alexia was a real human. This was my real house, and the life I had left eight months ago was a real one. Of course, over that time I'd been back, but I hadn't been fully present, while I was here.

I'd spent the last eight months chasing a championship across half the world, from Bahrain and Abu Dhabi, to here at home in Barcelona. Each circuit had blurred into the next until all I could remember was the screaming of the engines and the smell of burning rubber. It had been eight months of taking every opportunity that anyone would throw my way to try to make something worthy.

Abu Dhabi had been the culmination of everything, eight months of work boiled down to one race. Crossing that finish line first and clinching both the race and the GP2 championship in one was a perfect and almost impossible moment. I'd stood on that podium with champagne dripping down my race suit, photographers shouting my name, and all I could think about was getting home to her.

To Alexia. My wife.

Even now, walking through the fluorescent-lit aisles of our local supermarket on a Thursday evening, the word still felt like magic on my tongue. We'd been married for three months, and even though we'd gone from running wild on the beach, I'd catch sight of her, her dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, wearing my old racing jacket, and still my heart would stutter.

She was real. She was mine, and I was finally, finally home.

"We need bread," Alexia called over her shoulder, holding the basket with one hand while checking the shopping list on her phone with the other. "And cheese, the good kind, not the plastic stuff. That is where I draw the line."

"Whatever you want, Ale." I trailed behind her, content just to watch the way she moved through the world, even in something as mundane as grocery shopping. She'd been training hard with the Barcelona, trying to prove herself worthy, and I could see it in the lean muscle of her shoulders, the new sense of confidence set in her spine.

We were both chasing dreams that felt so impossibly far away. Both twenty years old, both broke as hell, but both stubborn enough to believe we could make it anyway.

The supermarket was quiet for a Thursday evening, just a handful of other shoppers wandering the aisles with the glazed expressions of people trying to remember what they'd come for. Alexia moved ahead of me, turning down the bakery section, and I hung back for a moment, just watching her. The fluorescent lights caught the gold of her skin, the curve of her neck as she bent to examine something on the lower shelf.

God, I'd missed her. I'd just missed this, the ordinary, beautiful mundanity of just being together.

I rounded the corner and found her standing in front of the cake display, her hand hovering over a chocolate cake with dark ganache frosting. She was staring at it with the kind of longing usually reserved for championship trophies or sold-out stadiums.

I couldn't help myself. I came up behind her, slipping my arms around her neck and pressing a kiss to her cheek. She smelled like the coconut shampoo she always used and that perfume she always wore, simply because I'd once mentioned it was my favourite.

"Just get the cake, Ale," I murmured against her skin.

She leaned back into me but shook her head. "We can't, Cece."

"We can. One, athletes still eat cake." I kissed her cheek again, feeling her smile beneath my lips. "Two, don't worry about the cost of it."

I couldn't see her face fully, but I could feel her rolling her eyes, "Cece ..."

"I was going to tell you later, but I'll just tell you now." I reached past her to check the price tag, keeping one arm wrapped around her shoulders. "I got a bonus for winning the championship. It's meant to go toward funding my next racing seat, but I'm sure they won't mind if I spend..." I squinted at the small print. "Six euros of it on a cake."

Alexia turned in my arms, her brown eyes searching my face. "Cece."

"Get the cake, Ale." I kissed her properly this time, soft and sweet, tasting the protest on her lips. "Whatever you want."

"You got a bonus?"

"Not a huge one, but enough that we don't have to worry about a cake, Ale. Enough that we can have one night of not counting every euro."

"If it's meant for your next race seat ... "

"It will still be fine. I promise." I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Get the cake, Ale. We will be the height of class, eating it straight out of the box with a fork."

She bit her lip, still hesitating, and I could see her doing the math again. She was calculating what six euros could buy, how many meals we could stretch it into, all the practical considerations that had become second nature to both of us.

So, I kissed her. Right there in the middle of the supermarket, with the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead and some pop song playing through the speakers. I kissed her until I felt her relax against me, until I could feel the tension in her shoulders ease, and her kiss me back as her hands came up to cup my face.

When we finally pulled apart, she was smiling. "The chocolate one?"

"The chocolate one," I confirmed, reaching past her to grab it from the display. "Get that fancy cheese you were talking about, too. We're celebrating, remember?"

"Your championship," she said softly, something like awe in her voice.

"Our championship," I corrected, because it was true. Every pole position, every overtake, every victory, she'd been there for all of it, even when she was thousands of miles away. "None of it happens without you, Ale. You know that."

She ducked her head, but I caught the flush that spread across her cheeks. Even after all these years, I could still make her blush.

We finished our shopping in comfortable silence, adding bread, cheese, and wine to our basket, along with strawberries, grapes, and the little chocolate-covered almonds Alexia loved so much. At the checkout, I paid with my card, which for once had more than five euros on it, and the same usual spike of anxiety became non-existent.

Small victories. We were building our lives one small victory at a time.

Outside, the November air was crisp and cool, and the sun had already started to set, even though it was barely six o'clock. November in Barcelona meant the tourists were mostly gone, the beaches returned to the locals, and the air had that crisp quality that made everything feel sharper.

Alexia linked her arm through mine as we walked towards our spot. The walk to the beach took about ten minutes down winding streets we'd known our whole lives.

Our spot was tucked away at the end of a rocky outcrop, only accessible if you knew where to look. We'd found it when we were eight years old, two skinny kids with scraped knees and big dreams, and it had been ours ever since.

The place where we'd had our first kiss at fifteen. The place where we'd gotten married three months ago, just our family and close friends, sharing our vows as the sun shone over the Mediterranean.

It was ours. It would always be ours.

Alexia led the way down the familiar path, sure-footed on the rocks, and I followed with the picnic blanket, watching the way the fading sunlight caught in her hair. Every now and then, she'd turn in the right direction, which would cause her hair to go from a soft brown to a beautiful golden colour.

The rocks were rough beneath our feet, worn smooth in places by decades of waves and weather. We spread out the blanket on our usual spot, a flat section of rock that overlooked the beach below, and Alexia immediately wrapped herself in the second super thick blanket as she shivered.

"It's freezing," she complained, yet she was still smiling.

"Come here." I settled beside her, pulling her against my chest and wrapping yet another blanket around both of us. She fit so perfectly in my arms, like she'd been designed specifically for this purpose. "Better?"

"Better," she agreed, tilting her head back to kiss my jaw.

We unpacked the food slowly, in no rush to do anything other than just be together. The chocolate cake sat between us, along with the bread, cheese, and a random assortment of fruit. We ate with our fingers and some shitty plastic forks, feeding each other bites and laughing when Alexia got chocolate on her nose.

"Tell me about Abu Dhabi," she said eventually, her head resting on my shoulder. "The real version."

So, I did. I told her about the pressure of knowing that one mistake could cost me everything. About the way my hands had been shaken before the race and how I'd had to grip the steering wheel just to keep them steady. I told her about the moment I'd crossed the finish line and realised I'd actually done it. Not only had I won the race, but I also won the championship and simultaneously proved to everyone who'd ever doubted me that I belonged there.

"I wanted you there so badly," I admitted, my voice rough. "Standing on that podium, all I could think about was how you should have been there to see it."

"I watched," Alexia said softly. "I watched every lap, Cece. I was screaming so loud the girls thought something bad had happened."

I laughed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "I could still feel it. I swear I could feel you watching."

We fell into silence after that, the comfortable kind that only came from knowing someone your entire life. The sun was setting properly now, painting the sky in shades of orange, pink, and purple, as the waves crashed against the rock and the sand below us in a rhythm as familiar as my own heartbeat.

Alexia shifted in my arms, turning to face me, and then she was kissing me. It was slow and deep, and I could taste the chocolate and the wine. I kissed her back, my hands tangling in her hair, and for a while there was nothing but this: her lips on mine, her body pressed against me, the blankets cocooning us against the breezy November chill.

"I love you, I'm so proud of you." she whispered against my lips

"I love you too, so much, Ale. So much." I whispered back

We stayed like that for a long time, kissing and talking and kissing some more, until the sky had gone fully dark and the stars were beginning to appear overhead. This was what I'd missed most during the season, not the big moments, but these quiet ones when it was just us existing together against the world. The simple pleasure of being together and having nowhere else to be with nothing else to prove.

Eventually, I pulled away, an idea forming in my mind. A perfect idea. "Dance with me."

Alexia blinked at me. "What?"

"Dance with me." I was already climbing down the rocks toward the beach below. "Come on, Ale!"

"You're insane!" she called after me, but I could hear the faint laughter in her voice.

"Come dance with your wife!" I shouted back, the sand soft underneath my shoes. The beach was empty, just us, the waves, and the darkening sky. I felt the sudden need to move, to celebrate, to feel the joy of this moment in my entire body.

I heard Alexia climbing down behind me, muttering something that was probably uncomplimentary, but she was still there, standing right in front of me on the sand with her hair wild and her eyes bright.

"There's no music," she pointed out. She had a small smile on her face, but she was trying her hardest to look completely unimpressed with me.

"So?" I pulled her close, wrapping both my arms around her neck. "We don't need music."

We didn't. We swayed together on the empty beach, moving to a rhythm only we could hear, and it was perfect. Alexia was laughing, her head thrown back, as I spun her around with the sole purpose of hearing her laugh harder. We were young and in love, and we were being a little bit ridiculous, but I wouldn't have changed a single thing about it.

"You're such a dork," Alexia said, but she was smiling so wide her cheeks must have hurt.

"Yes but ... I'm your dork," I corrected, gently bumping my nose against hers.

"Yes ... you're my dork," she agreed. She picked me up, threw me over her shoulder as she spun around.

"ALEEEE. ALEEEE. NOOOO!"

My protests were ignored and were quickly drowned out by the laughter. I accepted my fate and just held on to her back as tight as I could. Alexia spun us around until she misplaced her footing on the sand, and both of us went tumbling to the ground. She tried to cushion our lands the best she could, and with the help of the soft sand underneath us, neither of us was hurt.

We both just rolled over, looking up at the dark night sky, both of us laughing at the antics. After a second, Alexia looked at me, took the side of my face in her hand, and pulled me back into a kiss.

We were still kissing when I heard the faint sound of a phone ringing from up on the rocks.

"Is that yours?" I asked against her lips.

"No," Alexia murmured, trying to pull me back into the kiss, but the ringing continued as an insistent, annoying noise in the background. A reluctant groan left my throat as I pulled away.

"I should check mine."

I got up off the sand and climbed back up the rocks and found my phone lit up in the darkness. Unsaved number. I almost didn't answer most unknown callers because I'd learnt most of the time they were either scammers or salespeople, but something about that call just made me answer it.

"Hello?"

"Ciela Lloris?" A man's voice spoke down the phone. It was a distinctive accent, definitely European, but I found it hard to pinpoint the exact location. Whoever or whatever it was sounded vaguely familiar.

"Yes."

"Hi Ciela it's Toto Wolff. I also have Claire Williams on the line with me as well."

My brain completely short-circuited. Toto Wolff.

Toto Wolff, the team Principal of Mercedes, and Claire Williams. The same Claire Williams who was practically the team principal of the Williams F1 team. Both of them were on the phone ... TO ME. Not only were they calling my personal number on a Thursday night while I was having a picnic with my wife.

"I ... yes ... erm ... Hello. Hi."

Smooth, Ciela. Really fucking smooth. Very professional.

"Hello, Ciela." That was Claire's voice now, very British, and impossibly posh. "We hope we're not interrupting anything important."

"No, I ... no. Not at all." I was lying through my teeth. They were absolutely interrupting something important, but you also don't tell the principals of F1 teams that they were interrupting your date night.

"Excellent. Well, first of all, we both just wanted to reach out personally to congratulate you on your GP2 championship win at the weekend. An absolutely dominant season, you should be very proud."

"Thank you," I managed, my heart hammering against my chest so hard it was threatening to leave my chest. "That's ... thank you so much."

Toto was next to speak, "We don't want to waste any of your time, so I'll get straight to the point. Ciela, the reason we're calling is that we've been watching you. Not just this season, but for quite some time now. I've been observing you, the way you conducted yourself, the way you have developed as a driver, the way you've handled pressure, and ... it's impressive. It's very impressive."

I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. Toto Wolff had been watching me.

"I've seen some of the best racing I've witnessed in a long time from you this season," he continued. "The way you managed that championship fight, the consistency, the race craft. You've something special, Ciela. You have a future in this sport. A very, very good future."

"Thank you," I whispered because what else could I say? It was all I could say because if I even tried to say anything else, I couldn't trust the words that would come out.

"I want you in Formula One," Toto said very straight to the point, and those six words caused my entire world to tilt sideways.

I sat down hard on the rock, and suddenly, my legs failed in their ability to hold me up. Formula One. Toto Wolff wanted me in Formula One. HOLY SHIT WHAT WAS GOING ON.

"But I need to be honest with you about the situation," he continued. "At Mercedes, we currently have Lewis Hamilton and Nico Rosberg. They're both exceptional drivers, but they are both in airtight contracts. They're fighting ... I'm sure you've seen the news, but we can't simply break those contracts. Not yet. Not for at least another year, possibly two."

"I understand," I said, though I wasn't sure I understood anything anymore.

"That's where I come in," Claire said. "Williams has had some difficult seasons in recent years. We're currently in the process of a significant restructuring, which also includes our driver lineup. Toto and I have been in discussions for some time now, and we've come to an arrangement that we believe could benefit everyone involved."

"What Claire is saying," Toto interjected, "is that we've struck a deal. Williams will take you as a driver for the 2015 season. It gives Mercedes time to work through our contract situations. It also gives Williams the talent and fresh perspective they need to rebuild, but most importantly, it gives you time to learn Formula One, to develop, to understand the politics and the pressure and everything that comes with racing at this level."

I had completely forgotten how to do the basic function of breathing. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. Formula One. Williams. Mercedes. This wasn't real. This couldn't be real. This was a scam call ... I'd simply answered the phone to another scam caller.

"You'll have a year, but most likely two, to prove yourself," Toto continued. "To show the world what I've already seen ... that you're championship material. Then, when the time is right, we'll bring you up to Mercedes."

"Ciela?" Claire's voice was gentle. "Are you still there?"

"I'm here," I whispered. "I'm just ... this is ... "

"It's a lot to take in," she said kindly. "We understand that, but we do need an answer relatively soon. We're looking to announce our driver lineup at the beginning of the New Year, and we'd very much like you to be part of that announcement."

Alexia had climbed back up the rocks and was sitting beside me, her brow furrowed in concern. "What's going on? Cece, who is it?"

I held up a finger in front of her face, which just caused her to frown deeper, but she did stay quiet. That lasted for about three seconds. Then she was tugging on my sleeve and pointing at my phone as she mouthed "Who?" with increasing urgency.

I placed my hand over her mouth, trying to focus on what Toto and Claire were saying. Alexia's eyes went wide with surprise and slight outrage, and then, because she was Alexia and couldn't help herself, she licked my palm.

"Alexia!" I hissed, pulling my hand away from her face, wiping it down the leg of her jeans. She smirked at me, completely unapologetically, and settled beside me on the blanket.

"I'm so sorry," I said into the phone, my face burning. "You were saying?"

"I was saying," Toto continued, and I could hear the amusement in his voice, which did make me feel slightly better, "that this is an incredible opportunity, Ciela. Williams is a legendary team with a proud history. Yes, they've struggled recently, but they have the resources, the expertise, and now, if you accept, they have a driver to turn things around with."

"We'd be thrilled to have you," Claire added. "Truly. We've been following your career closely, and we believe you're exactly what Williams needs right now. Someone young, hungry, and above all else, someone talented. Someone who can help us rebuild and remind the world what this team is capable of."

Alexia was gripping my arm now, her eyes huge, sensing that something massive was happening. I could feel her vibrating with the effort of staying quiet.

"So," Toto said. "What do you say, Ciela? Would you like to drive for Williams F1 next season?"

Formula One. They were offering me Formula One.

I could feel the emotion being held back in my throat, and the tears that were building up behind my eyes weren't helping that either.

Every dream I'd ever had, every sacrifice I'd made, every moment of doubt and fear and desperate hope, it all came down to this. The last couple of years of endless emails and enquiries I'd sent to try and get some sponsorship for literally anywhere, of Alexia and me scrounging together every last penny we had, so I could chase this wild dream I had, that had no promise of a reward on investment in the end. It had all come down to this. We were getting our return on investment.

One simple question, which had an even simpler answer.

"Yes," I said, the word tumbling out before I could second-guess it. "Yes. Absolutely would love to ... yes."

"Excellent. We're very pleased to hear that, Ciela. Welcome to Formula One." I could hear the smile in Toto's voice.

"Welcome to Williams," Claire added warmly. "We're going to do great things together, I'm certain of it."

"Thank you," I managed. "Thank you so much. Both of you."

"Now, there will be contracts to review, media obligations to discuss, and testing schedules to arrange. We'll be in touch with all the official formalities in the coming days, but for tonight, just celebrate. You've earned this, Ciela. Congratulations." Claire said in a professional but still warm tone.

"Thank you," I said again because I couldn't seem to say anything else. "Thank you."

"We'll speak soon," Toto said. "Enjoy your evening."

With that, the line went dead.

I lowered the phone slowly, staring at it as if it might explode. My hands were shaking. My entire body was shaking. The tears in my eyes were no longer being held back.

Every emotion was running through my body at full speed. Every race since I was six years old. Everything I'd not done, not attended, everything big and small that I missed. The years of stress of money for a racing seat, the stress of finding that racing seat. I'd finished GP2 this season, but I had no idea where I was going next. The Porsche Super Cup had been my most viable option, but at the minute, that had come with no promises.

I'd just been given my promise, and for the first time in my life, I wouldn't be paying to race, but instead I'd be paid.

"Cece?" Alexia's voice was small, uncertain. "What was that? What just happened?"

I just turned to look at her. She was going to be okay. I knew whatever number was at the end of that contract was going to be more money than I had seen in my entire life, and I knew that she was going to be okay. She wouldn't have to stress, our rent would be paid, we wouldn't have to worry about how we were going to afford food and anything else we need to just survive. She was going to be okay.

Alexia was doing what she loved, she was playing for Barcelona, she was defending the badge she'd grown up loving, and she was amazing at it. The only problem was the pay. She didn't do it for that, but I knew it stressed her out. She was so supportive of me, but I was absorbing money we didn't have.

I was about to live my dream with this opportunity, but I was also about to provide for her. I could give her the life she deserved.

As I kept looking at her, I could feel the smile spreading across my face, so wide it hurt.

"You're looking at the next driver for Williams F1," I said slowly, trying my best to keep my emotions at bay.

For a moment, Alexia just stared at me.

"WHAT? ... WHAT?"

I didn't trust my words; all I could do was nod at her, and suddenly she was launching herself at me, wrapping her arms around my neck and nearly knocking us both over. I caught her laughing, and then we were both laughing and crying, and I wasn't sure where I ended, and she began.

"Formula One," Alexia breathed against my neck. "Cece, you're going to be a Formula One driver."

"I'm going to be a Formula One driver," I repeated, and saying it out loud made it real. Made it true.

We stayed like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other. I was just crying. Alexia was crying.

"I'm so proud of you," she whispered, pulling back to cup my face in her hands. "So, so proud. You're going to be amazing."

"I'm terrified," I admitted.

"Good." She kissed me softly. "That means you care. That means you'll work hard. That means you'll be fucking brilliant."

I kissed her back, pouring everything I felt into it, the joy, the fear, the overwhelming love I had for this woman who'd believed in me when no one else had.

When we finally pulled apart, I felt something wild and reckless rising in my chest. Before I could think better of it, I was on my feet, scrambling down the rocks to the beach below.

"Cece?" Alexia called after me. "What are you doing?"

I hit the sand running, my arms spread wide, and I screamed into the night: "I'M A FORMULA ONE DRIVER! ... NEARLY!"

My voice echoed off the rocks and was carried away in the wind, as I ran along the empty beach like a kid. I was laughing and crying and shouting, and I didn't care who heard me.

"I'M GOING TO RACE IN FORMULA ONE!" I yelled to the waves.

When I finally stopped, I was a bit breathless and dizzy. I looked back at the rocks, and Alexia was sitting there wrapped in the blanket, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite name. Awe, maybe. Love, definitely. Pride.

She was looking at me like I'd hung the moon, and in that moment, I felt like maybe I could.

I jogged back to the base of the rocks. "Come down here," I said, breathless. "Come celebrate with me."

Alexia just shook her head, that soft smile still on her face. "I'm good here. Watching you."

So, I stood there on the sand, looking up at my wife, and let the reality of it all wash over me. In a few months, I'd be racing in Formula One. I'd be living a dream I'd barely let myself believe in. Everything was about to change.

Yet this ... Alexia, this beach, this love, this would stay the same. This would always be home.

"I love you," I called up to her.

"I love you too, Formula One driver," she called back, and the joy in her voice made my heart soar.

I stood there for a moment longer, the waves at my back and my future stretching out before me like an open road. Then I climbed back up the rocks, back to Alexia, back to the blanket and the remains of our picnic and the life we were building together.

Formula One could wait until tomorrow.

Tonight was ours.

--- --- 

The cold English December morning air bit back at everything as we pulled through the gates of the Williams F1 factory in Grove. I'd been awake since four, just staring at the ceiling of our hotel room, wondering how on earth this was real and how on earth we'd actually got here. All while Alexia slept peacefully and completely unbothered beside me, the only sound I could hear was her breathing, which was steady and even. Now, as the security guard waved us through with a knowing smile, my hands trembled against the steering wheel.

"You're gripping that like it's going to fly away," Alexia said softly, her hand finding mine.

I loosened my fingers, watching the white knuckles fade back to their normal colour. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry." She squeezed my hand gently with the purpose of reassuring me, like she always did, "Just breathe."

The factory loomed ahead of us; all glass and steel and impossibly clean lines. I'd seen it in photographs, of course. Every racing driver knew what Grove looked like, but seeing it in person, knowing I was about to walk through those doors not as a visitor but as a driver, made my chest physically tighten in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.

I parked in the visitor's section, my little rental car looking absurdly out of place among the sleek vehicles scattered throughout the lot. For a moment, neither of us moved. The engine ticked as it cooled. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear the whir of machinery as the team prepared for a new season.

"This is real," I whispered.

Alexia turned to look at me, and there was something in her eyes, pride, yes, but also a fierce protectiveness that made my throat tight. 

"This is real," she confirmed. "You ready?"

I wasn't. I didn't think I'd ever be ready for this, but I nodded anyway, as we stepped out of the car into the cold.

The woman who met us at reception was named Sarah, and she had the kind of efficient warmth that immediately put me at ease. Or tried to, anyway. Nothing was going to truly settle the butterflies that had taken up permanent residence in my stomach. The only thing keeping me from hitting the ground was the firm grip I had on Alexia's hand.

"Welcome to Williams Racing," she said, shaking both our hands. "We're so excited to have you here, Ciela. Shall we start with a tour?"

The next two hours passed in a blur of sensory overload. Sarah led us through the factory floor first, and I felt my jaw go slack despite my best efforts to at least try and appear professional. The space was beautiful with it's all white walls and bright lights and the sharp, clean smell of carbon fibre and machinery. Mechanics in team kit moved with practiced precision around partially assembled cars. I could see the distinctive Williams livery on components scattered across workbenches, that blue and white that would soon be my colour too.

"This is where the magic happens," Sarah said, gesturing broadly. "They are working on next year's car now, and you'll spend a lot of time down here once testing starts."

I nodded, not trusting my voice one bit. My eyes tracked over everything: the tools that were scattered everywhere, the computer screens displaying data I couldn't begin to interpret, the carbon fibre monocoque suspended in a rig that looked like something from a science fiction film. This was where they were building the car that would carry me around circuits across the world at speeds that still seemed impossible, even after years of racing.

Alexia's hand found the small of my back, which snapped me out of my overstimulated daze with a gentle pressure that said I'm right here. I glanced at her and found her watching me with a soft smile, like she was memorising my expression. At the moment, all I felt was just overwhelmed.

We moved through the engineering offices next, just rows of desks with multiple monitors, with engineers hunched over keyboards or gathered in small groups around whiteboards covered in equations and diagrams. Some looked up as we passed, offering nods or small waves. I wondered if they knew who I was. If they'd been told about the girl who'd be driving their car, the one who had to prove she deserved to be here.

The wind tunnel facility made me stop in my tracks. Through the observation window, I could see a scale model of what I assumed was next year's car, suspended in the tunnel with sensors bristling from every surface. The technology here was staggering, millions of pounds worth of equipment dedicated to shaving tenths of seconds off lap times.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Sarah said.

"It's..." I trailed off, shaking my head. "I don't have words."

Behind me, I heard Alexia's quiet laugh. When I turned, she was looking at me with such open affection that I felt heat rise to my cheeks despite the cool air of the facility. They had just put a child in her ultimate playground, and Alexia knew it.t.

The simulator room was next, and here I felt something shift in my chest, a flutter of recognition, of home. I'd spent countless hours in simulators, from the basic setup in my parents' garage when I was fourteen to the more sophisticated rigs at my other teams, but this was completely different. This was a full-motion simulator with a real Williams chassis, surrounded by screens that would recreate every circuit on the calendar with exacting detail.

"You'll be spending a lot of time here," Sarah said. "Getting familiar with the tracks, testing setups, working with the engineers on race strategy."

I stepped closer, running my fingers along the carbon fibre of the chassis. It was cool and smooth under my touch, and for the first time since we'd arrived, I felt something other than overwhelming awe. I felt somewhat ready for whatever the next twelve months were going to throw my way.

"Can't wait," I murmured.

The boardroom was on the top floor, all glass walls and a long table that could seat twenty people easily. When we arrived, it was already half-full. Claire Williams stood at the head of the table looking immaculate in her navy suit, her expression warm but still the height of professional. Around her were faces I recognised from photographs, senior team members, media directors, legal advisors. The people who made Williams Racing function.

The only person who was bringing me any sort of comfort was position in the corner, almost hidden behind the media team, was Alexia. She had positioned herself right at the back after the initial introductions, holding all of my stuff. She caught my eye and gave me a small nod, and I felt some of the tension ease from my shoulders.

"Ciela," Claire said, moving forward to shake my hand. Her grip was firm and confident. "Welcome. Officially, this time."

"Thank you," I managed. "For this opportunity and for believing in me to do it."

"We believe in talent," Claire said simply. "And you have it in spades. Now, shall we make this official? The contract was already laid out on the table, pages and pages of legal text that my lawyer had reviewed a dozen times. I'd read through it myself until the words blurred together, but seeing it here, in this room, with all these people watching, it felt different. More real. More terrifying.

I sat down, and someone placed a Williams Racing pen in my hand. It was heavier than I expected, the team logo etched into the silver barrel. My hand hovered over the signature line.

This was it. The moment everything changed.

I thought about my parents, who'd sacrificed so much to get me to karting tracks when I was barely tall enough to reach the pedals. About my brothers, who'd never once made me feel like racing wasn't for girls. They teased the hell out of me, but every time a driver or a parent had complained about me, they swooped in like my own personal bouncers. About every coach and team principal who'd taken a chance on me as I climbed through the junior ranks.

Most of the time, I thought about Alexia. My Ale, who was standing in the corner of this boardroom, who'd been there through every victory and every crushing defeat, who'd held me when I cried after losing championships and celebrated with me when I won them. I also thought about everything she's also given up to get me here. Collecting together every penny we had just to fund my seat last year. The stress she'd been under was just about making rent payment, and whether we could even afford the basics of food. That all stopped when I signed that line. She was going to be okay. She could focus on football and not have to worry about anything else because we would have the money to do whatever we wanted.

I signed my name.

The room rippled with polite and gentle applause. Cameras flashed as the media team captured the moment for press releases and hoped for the history books. Ciela Lloris signs with Williams Racing. The sixth woman to compete in Formula One. The first in over twenty years.

Claire shook my hand again, and this time there was something more personal in her smile. "Welcome to the team," she said. "We're going to do great things together."

I wanted to believe her. God, I wanted to believe her so badly. I had to prove that that's all I had to do was prove it.

The team kit felt strange against my skin. I'd worn racing suits before, obviously for years of them, in various colours and with a variety of sponsor logos, but once again this was different. The Williams blue and white, the Martini stripes, the weight of what it represented.

I studied myself in the mirror of the changing room. The fireproof underlayer, the team polo, and the cap with the Williams logo embroidered in white. I looked like a Formula One driver. I looked like I belonged here.

The doubt that had existed in my head all day whispered once again that looks could be deceiving.

When I walked back toward the boardroom, I spotted Alexia in the corridor, checking something on her phone. She looked up as I approached, and her face broke into a grin.

"Look at you, proper F1 driver now." she said. 

I plucked the cap off my head and placed it on hers instead, adjusting it so it sat at a weird angle. She laughed with a full-bodied laugh. A sound that never failed to make me smile as she pulled me in for a quick hug.

"Very stylish," I said, stepping back to admire my handiwork.

"I should get one of these," she said, adjusting the cap. "Supportive WAG merch."

"I'll get you a whole wardrobe," I promised.

The media obligations stretched on for hours. Photos of me signing the contract, even though I'd already signed it. Photos of me in the team kit, standing in front of Williams Racing banners. Photos of me in the garage, pretending to work on a car. Short video interviews for the team's social media channels, where I tried to sound confident and grateful and not at all like I was terrified of disappointing everyone.

"How does it feel to be joining Formula One?" the media officer asked, camera pointed at my face.

"It's a dream come true," I said, and it was true, the thing I had been working toward since I was six years old. "Williams is an incredible team with an amazing history, and I'm honoured to be a part of it. I can't wait to get started."

"You're making history as the sixth woman to race in F1, and the first in over two decades. How does that feel?"

There it was. The question I'd been dreading and expecting in equal measure.

"It's a huge responsibility," I said carefully. "But I'm not here because I'm a woman. I'm here because I can drive. I want to prove that on the track."

The media officer smiled. "We're all looking forward to seeing what you can do."

Through it all, Alexia was there. Sometimes in my line of sight, sometimes just out of frame, but always present. I'd catch her eye between takes, and she'd give me a thumbs up or pull a silly face to make me laugh. The media team probably hated it. Here they were trying to centre shot, and here she was making me laugh. What they didn't know was that she was the reason I could breathe through this, the anchor keeping me from floating away into panic.

By the time we finished, the winter sun was already setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. Sarah walked us back to the car, chatting about next steps, the seat fitting in January, the first test in February, and the media launch before the season started.

"Get some rest," she said as we reached my rental car. "You've earned it. And congratulations again, Ciela. We're thrilled to have you."

I thanked her, slid into the driver's seat, and waited until we'd cleared the gates before I let out a long, shaky breath.

"You okay?" Alexia asked.

"I don't know," I admitted. "Ask me again in a few hours."

The drive to London took just under two hours, the motorway stretching out before us in the gathering darkness. Alexia had connected her phone to the car's speakers and put on a playlist of our favourite songs; it was nothing too energetic, just comfortable background noise that filled the silence without demanding attention.

I drove on autopilot, my mind replaying the day in fragments. The factory floor. The contract under my hand. The weight of the team kit. The camera flashes. The questions about being a woman in F1, as if my gender was more interesting than my lap times.

"You're thinking too loud," Alexia said eventually.

I glanced at her quickly, then back at the road. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Just... talk to me. What's going on in that head of yours?" She asked, calmly.

"Everything," I said. "Nothing. I don't know. It doesn't feel real yet."

"It will," she said. "Just give it some time."

"What if I'm not good enough?"

The question slipped out before I could stop it. The raw and vulnerable emotions sat in the darkness of the car. Alexia was quiet for a moment, but I could feel her looking at me.

"You are good enough," she said finally. "You wouldn't be here if you weren't. Cece, you won every race last season, bar one."

"You have to say that. You're my wife." I said flatly as I kept my eyes on the road.

"I'm your wife, which means I'm legally obligated to tell you when you're being an idiot," she countered. "Right now, you're being an idiot. Ciela, they didn't sign you out of charity. They signed you because you're fast, because you're talented, and above all else, you deserve to be there."

I wanted to believe her. I wanted it so badly it hurt.

"Okay," I whispered.

"Okay," she echoed, and her hand found mine on the gearstick.

The hotel was in Mayfair, all marble floors and crystal chandeliers, and the kind of understated luxury that whispered old money. It was fancier than anywhere we'd normally stay, but this felt appropriate somehow. It wasn't every day you signed a Formula One contract, even if my mind was working against me on that bit.t.

We checked in, dropped our bags in the room, and headed back out to find dinner. The restaurant Alexia had chosen was an Italian restaurant that was tucked down a side street. It had warm lighting and the smell of garlic and fresh bread wafting out every time the door opened. We ate pasta, drank wine, and talked about everything except racing, focusing instead on the start to her season with Barcelona and the Christmas plans with our families.

It was normal. Blissfully, perfectly normal.

Once we'd finished, we walked back to the hotel through the decorated streets of London, the Christmas lights illuminating the path. I felt the weight of the day settling back onto my shoulders in the silence. The reality of what I'd done, what I'd committed to, what was expected of me now.

Back in the room, Alexia started running a bath while I stood at the window. I was completely zoned out as I looked out over the London skyline. The city glittered below us, millions of lives being lived in those buildings, and somewhere out there were people who'd be watching me next season, judging me, some of them waiting for me to fail.

"Bath's ready," Alexia called from the bathroom.

The tub was enormous, one of those deep soaking tubs that could easily fit two people. Alexia had already stripped down and was settling into the water with a contented sigh. I followed suit, sinking into the heat and letting it seep into my muscles. The bathroom smelled like the hotel's expensive bath products, that typical floral and clean smell.

I positioned myself against Alexia's chest as her arms came around me automatically. This was familiar. This was safe. This was my home, no matter where we were.

She'd brought the wine bottle from the fridge, and we passed it back and forth, drinking straight from the bottle like we were teenagers sneaking alcohol instead of adults in a luxury hotel.

"Very classy," Alexia murmured against my hair. "Even in a posh hotel, we're still the height of sophistication."

I laughed, but it came out shaky. The wine was making me warm and loose, and the defences I'd been maintaining all day were starting to crumble.

"Hey," Alexia said softly, feeling the shift in my body. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Ciela."

The way she said my name made me melt for her every time. It was gentle and firm, but she could see right through me, and it just broke something open in my chest. I set the wine bottle on the floor next to the tub before I pressed my palms against my eyes.

"I'm terrified," I whispered, every vulnerability coming to the surface.

"I know."

"No, I mean ... " I dropped my hands, staring at them as I floated them on the top of the water. "I'm terrified, Alexia. Claire is counting on me to help bring Williams back. Toto made this whole deal happen because he thinks I can prove I deserve the Mercedes seat eventually. I'm the sixth woman to ever race in Formula One. The first in over twenty years. Do you understand what that means?"

"Tell me," she said quietly.

"It means I can't just be good. I have to be perfect. If I fail, it's not just me failing; it's proof that women don't belong in F1. That we're not fast enough, we're not strong enough, we're not good enough. Every mistake I make will be magnified. Every bad race will just be further evidence that they shouldn't have taken a chance on me."

My voice was rising, the panic I'd been suppressing all day finally breaking free. "It's not just about being a woman. It's about proving I deserve to be there at all. There are hundreds of drivers who'd kill for this seat. Drivers who've been racing longer, who have more experience, who are probably better than me. What if I get out there and I'm just... not good enough? What if I can't handle the car? What if I can't keep up with the other drivers?"

"Ciela ... "

"What if I disappoint everyone? Claire, Toto, our family, you ... "

"Stop." Alexia's arms tightened around me, and she pressed her lips to my temple. "Stop, cariño. Just take a second and breathe."

I realised I was shaking, my breath coming in short gasps. Alexia held me tighter against her chest as one of her hands moved to my chest, over my heart.

"Feel that?" she murmured. "That's you. That's your heart, beating strong. You're here. You're real, and you're not alone in this."

"I'm so scared," I whispered, the tears slowly beginning to fall down my face.

"I know, and that's okay. You'd be crazy not to be scared. This is a huge opportunity. This is everything you've worked for your entire life, but I need you to listen to me, Ciela, listen to me." She turned me slightly so I could see her face, her eyes serious and full of something that looked like fierce pride. "You are good enough. You are fast enough. You are strong enough. Whatever happens out there, whether you win every race or struggle to score points, I will be right here. Always. Do you understand me?"

A lot more tears were sliding down my cheeks now. "What if I fail?"

"Then you fail," she said simply. "And we'll deal with it together, but Ciela, you're not going to fail. You're going to get in that car, and you're going to drive like you always do, with everything you have. Some days that will be enough for a podium, and some days it won't be enough for points, but that's racing. That's life. None of it ... none of it will change who you are or what you're worth."

"You really believe that?" I whispered.

"I really believe that," she said. "I believe in you. I always have. From the first time I saw you race, I knew you were special. Not because you're a woman in a male-dominated sport, though that's part of your story, but because you're you. You're talented and determined and brave enough to chase this dream even when it terrifies you."

I turned fully in her arms and buried my face in her neck. Alexia just held me while I cried. Not the pretty, delicate tears seen in movies, but instead the ugly, gasping sobs of someone who'd been holding too much in for too long.

"I've got you," she murmured, over and over. "I've got you, cariño, and I'm not going anywhere."

Eventually, my tears stopped, and my breath had returned to a semi-normal rhythm, my hiccups subsiding. The water had gone lukewarm, and Alexia just reached over to drain some and add more hot water. We stayed there until our fingers pruned and the wine bottle was empty, but Alexia held me until the fear had dulled.

"Thank you," I said finally, my voice still hoarse.

"For what?"

"For ... everything."

Alexia kissed my forehead, then both my cheeks, and finally the tip of my nose. "That's what I'm here for. That's what we do, what we've always done. We face the scary things together, remember?"

"Together," I echoed quietly.

"Always," she promised.

We eventually dragged ourselves out of the bath and into the enormous hotel bed, our bodies tangled together under the expensive sheets. Through the window, I could still see the lights of London glittering in the distance, a city that never quite slept.

I'd signed my Formula One contract. I was going to race in F1. I was going to make history, whether I wanted that responsibility or not, and whatever happened if that history was good or bad, Alexia would be there. Standing at the barriers, watching from the garage, waiting for me to come home at the end of every weekend.

I fell asleep with her heartbeat steady against my ear as I lay on her chest, and for the first time all day, I felt like maybe, just maybe, I could do this.

The fear was still there. The pressure was still there. The weight of expectation and representation and proving myself was still there, but so was she.

--- ---

March, 2015

The Australian sun was beaming down across Melbourne. I sat in the garage at Albert Park, sweat already beading down my back despite the cooling fans positioned around the car. My first Formula One qualifying session. My first time trying to put my Williams on a grid in a place that mattered.

I'd thought I was ready. I'd done the testing; I'd studied the car, learning everything there was to know. I'd spent hours working with the engineers until the technical specifications blurred together in my mind. Yet sat here, watching the other cars flash past on the monitors, I realised that nothing could have prepared me for this. Not even every qualifying session I'd done before.

"Radio check, Ciela," Lucas, my engineer, said as his voice crackled through the headset.

"Loud and clear," I managed, my voice steadier than I felt.

The car felt different from how it had in testing. It felt heavier somehow, although I knew that was impossible. The steering was responsive but not quite intuitive yet. I was still learning the language, still figuring out where the limits were and how hard I could push before the car pushed back.

Q1 came and went in a blur. I could feel the car sliding under me through the high-speed sections, could feel myself lifting off the throttle a fraction too early, braking a fraction too late. The margins in Formula One were measured in thousandths of a second, and I was losing tenths.

When the session ended, I sat in the car for a moment, staring at the steering wheel. P17. Seventeenth out of twenty cars. I'd qualified ahead of three people, and two of them were in cars that had no business being anywhere near the points.

"Good effort, Ciela," my engineer said through the radio, but I could hear the disappointment he was trying to hide. "We'll analyse the data and come back stronger tomorrow."

I didn't say anything back, I just let the disappointment settle as I climbed out of the car, pulled off my helmet. The cameras were already there, I simply smiled for the photographers, gave the right answers to the journalists who asked how it felt to be racing in Formula One.

"It's an incredible experience," I said. "Obviously not the qualifying result we wanted, but it's my first race. We'll learn from this and push forward tomorrow."

Professional. Composed. Not at all like the girl who wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear. I was a big story. Claire and the team had put a lot of faith in me to do something magical and bring Williams back from the cliff edge they were on, and today it felt like I'd been the one to drive them off it.

Sunday just brought more of the same. The race day was nothing short of absolute chaos.

Melbourne always had a reputation preceding it. In the first race of the season, everyone was still finding their rhythm, and cars were still being understood.

Three drivers didn't even make it to the start line, due to technical issues that had them now watching from the garage. Four more retired during the race, their cars giving up, making contact, or simply not being fast enough to continue.

In the end, I kept the car on the track to finish eleventh.

On paper, it looked almost respectable. I'd gained six positions from my starting spot, but I knew the truth, and so did everyone else who understood anything racing. I hadn't gained those positions through skill or speed. I'd gained them through other people's misfortune.

In the garage after the race, the team congratulated me. "Great drive," they said, the disappointment still on everyone's faces, which just made it hang in the air even heavier.

I smiled and thanked them and went through the motions of the post-race debrief. We analysed my lap times, my sector speeds, and the places where I'd lost time to the others. The data was damning. I was slow. Not catastrophically slow, but slow enough that it mattered. Slow enough that everyone could see I wasn't ready for this.

I could feel the looks happening around me. 'We've brought this girl in, and she doesn't even know the first thing about driving a car quickly enough.'

That night, in the hotel room, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling while Alexia talked to me as she made dinner. She spoke about training and how all our family had gathered early this morning to watch the race. I kept sneaking glances at her as she spoke, her face bright with pride even though I'd given her nothing to be proud of.

I was listening to what she was saying, but I wasn't engaged in the conversation. Alexia was simply talking to me, which I really didn't mind. Instead, my mind was a million miles away in a hole I'd stupidly gone down.

Ciela Lloris Diaz P11 in her debut. Not exactly setting the world on fire.

Williams new wonder girl has left us all wondering what she's doing here.

Six women have raced in F1. Five of them proved they didn't belong. Looks like Ciela will be number six.

Williams wasted a seat on her. They could have had a real driver instead.

--- --- 

Malaysia was even worse.

The heat was oppressive, and the humidity made it hard to breathe even before I got in the car. The Sepang Circuit was fast, demanding, and completely unforgiving of mistakes. The only trouble I had was that I made plenty of mistakes.

P14 in qualifying. P16 in the race.

I'd lost a position from my starting spot. I'd actively gone backwards while everyone else fought forward.

In the post-race interviews, I kept my composure. "Not the result we wanted. We're still learning, still finding our feet. We'll be better in China."

I didn't believe the words coming out of my mouth, and I could see in the journalists' eyes that they didn't believe a word of them either.

China was more of the same. P15 in qualifying, P15 in the race. At least I'd held position this time and hadn't gone backwards. Small microscopic wins.

Next was Bahrain. A night race with the circuit lighting up like a jewel in the desert. I loved night races, always had, there was something so magical about racing under lights. Something that reduced the world to the track ahead and the cars around you.

Even with a belief in magic, magic couldn't make me any faster.

P15 again.

Four races, and my best finish was eleventh, and that was only because half the field had retired. The thing that had struck fear into me was happening right in front of me. I was failing. Publicly and spectacularly failing.

The media was starting to notice. The questions in press conferences became sharper, more pointed. "Ciela, you were brought in as a promising talent, but the results haven't shown that yet. What's going wrong?"

"We're working on it," I'd say. "It's a learning process. Formula One is a huge step up from anything I've done before."

"Do you feel the pressure of being the first woman in F1 in over twenty years?"

"I try not to think about it. I'm here to race, not to make statements."

Once again, that was a lie. Everything I did was a statement. Every poor qualifying session, every race where I finished outside the points, it was all evidence that women didn't belong here, and more importantly, that I didn't belong here.

The worst part was the team's patience. They were so kind and supportive, and so, so understanding. "It takes time," Claire told me after Bahrain. "You're learning one of the most complex cars in motorsport. Give yourself grace."

I didn't want grace. I wanted to be fast. I wanted to prove that I deserved this seat, that Toto's faith in me wasn't misplaced, that I wasn't just a diversity hire or a publicity stunt. I wanted to prove what Alexia kept saying, that I was good enough, and maybe not even just good, but in fact, I was actually great at this.

At night, alone in the different hotel rooms around the world, I'd replay the races in my mind. Every corner where I'd been too slow, every overtake I'd failed to make, every opportunity I'd missed. The mistakes piled up like stones, building a wall between who I was and who I needed to be.

Alexia called every night, her voice a lifeline across the distance.

"How are you holding up?" she'd ask.

"Fine," I'd lie.

"Ciela."

"I'm struggling," I'd admit. "I don't know what I'm doing wrong. I feel like I'm driving as hard as I can, but it's not enough. It's never enough."

"You're being too hard on yourself."

"Am I? Because the results say otherwise. Four races, Alexia. Four races and I haven't scored a single point."

"It's early in the season. You have time."

Yet time felt like it was running out. Every race that passed without improvement was another nail in the coffin of my Formula One career. I could feel the doubt creeping in against and it wasn't just from the media or the fans, but from the team. They were too professional to say it, but I could see it in their eyes. The question they were all asking: Did we make a mistake?

--- ---

May, 2015

The Spanish sun hit differently when you were coming home to prove yourself.

Behind me, I heard my mum's laugh was bright and clear. My dad was talking to Xavier about something, their voices a low rumble of Spanish that usually would have comforted me. Santiago was somewhere near the paddock entrance, probably already scouting out the best spots to watch from. Alexia's whole family had come, her mum, Alba, and even her Abuela, who never travelled anymore but had insisted on being here.

Everyone had come to see me race. Everyone had come to see me finally prove I belonged here.

The pressure was suffocating.

"You okay?" Alexia appeared at my side, her hand finding mine automatically. She was wearing sunglasses, but I could feel her eyes on me, reading me the way she always could.

"Yeah," I lied. "Just ... taking it in."

She squeezed my hand. She knew I was lying. She always knew.

The paddock was already buzzing with activity despite the early hour. Cameras were everywhere, and it felt more than usual. The media had been building this narrative all week: Struggling rookie returns to home circuit. Can she finally deliver?

I'd stopped reading the articles after the third one questioned whether I was "mentally strong enough" for Formula One.

We walked through the paddock together, and I felt every eye on us. I'd gotten used to those looks over the past four races.

P17, P16, P15, P15.

The numbers haunted me.

"Ciela!" One of the Williams engineers waved us over. "We need you for a quick briefing before FP1."

I nodded, but my throat felt tight. Alexia's hand slipped from mine as I followed the engineer toward the garage, and I immediately felt the loss of that safety.

The briefing was technical, full of data and tire compounds and fuel loads, but all I could think about was the fact that my entire family was here. That everyone had taken time off work, had travelled all just to watch me race. All of that just to watch me potentially fail again.

"Ciela? Did you get that?" Lucas was looking at me expectantly.

"Yeah," I said quickly. "Yeah, I got it."

I hadn't gotten it. I had no idea what he'd just said.

Friday practice sessions were a blur. I was off the pace and struggling to find the rhythm I needed. The car felt wrong, or maybe I just felt wrong in the car; I didn't even know anymore. Every radio message from Lucas felt like a reminder of how far behind I was.

"Box, box. We need to make some changes."

Changes. Always changes. Nothing was working.

That night, as I lay in bed next to Alexia in our Barcelona apartment, I stared at the ceiling and tried to breathe through the anxiety that was building in my chest like a storm.

"Talk to me," Alexia said softly. She was on her side, facing me, her hand resting on my stomach, tracing the lines of my abs.

"I don't know if I can do this," I whispered. The admission itself felt like a failure.

"You can."

"You don't know that."

"I do." Her voice was so certain and so steady. "You're in your head, Ciela. You're overthinking everything. You can drive with your eyes closed, but you're just too in your head to realise it."

"Because everything matters," I said, and my voice cracked. "Everyone is here. Everyone is watching. If I fail again ..."

"You won't." She said softly

"You can't promise that."

She was quiet for a moment, her thumb tracing circles on my skin. "No ... I can't promise you'll get the result you want, but I can promise that no matter what happens, I'm here. I will always be here. Your family is here because they love you, not because they need you to prove anything."

I wanted to believe her. I really wanted to believe her, but the pressure was already crushing me, and qualifying wasn't even until tomorrow.

Saturday morning arrived too quickly.

I went through the motions of breakfast with my family at a café near the circuit. My mum kept touching my arm, my dad kept telling stories to make me laugh, and my brothers kept teasing me the way they always had. Alexia sat beside me, her leg pressed against mine under the table, her hand planted firmly on my knee as a constant reminder that she was there.

I could barely taste the food, and I could barely focus on the conversations happening around me.

All I could think about was qualifying. About the fact that this was my last chance to prove I deserved to be here. Four races of failure. Four races of disappointing everyone who'd believed in me. Claire had taken a chance on me. Toto had vouched for me and got me a seat with a completely different team than the one he managed, and currently, I'd repaid that faith by being consistently, embarrassingly off the pace.

"You're going to be brilliant today," Eli said, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. "We're all so proud of you already."

The words were meant for comfort, but they just made the pressure in my chest even tighter. They were proud of me already, which meant they still believed I could do something worth being proud of. Which meant I could still let them down.

"Thanks," I managed, forcing a smile.

Under the table, Alexia's hand squeezed my knee tightly. That girl knew me too well.

My driver's room at the circuit was small and quiet, acting as a temporary sanctuary from the chaos of the paddock. I'd come here hours before qualifying was supposed to start, needing space, needing silence, needing to think.

Yet the silence was making everything worse.

I paced the small room, my footsteps echoing off the walls. Three steps to the wall, turn, three steps back. Again, and again, and again. My hands were shaking slightly, and I clenched them into fists, trying to stop the tremor.

You can do this. You have to do this. Everyone is counting on you.

What if I couldn't? What if today were just another failure? What if I went out there and qualified P17 again, or worse? What if I proved, definitively, that I didn't belong here?

I was the sixth woman to ever race in Formula One. The first in over twenty years. Every time I got in that car, I wasn't just representing myself, I was representing every woman who had ever tried to get this far and every who'd ever been told she couldn't do this. Every girl who dreamed of racing. Every person who'd fought to get me here.

I was failing every single one of them.

My chest felt tight. I sat down on the small couch, trying to breathe properly, but the air wouldn't come right. Shallow breaths, quick and insufficient. My heart was starting to race, that familiar acceleration that meant panic was coming.

No. Not now. Not before qualifying.

My body wasn't listening. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat and in my ears as it drowned out everything else. The room felt smaller suddenly, the walls closer. I tried to stand up, but my legs felt weak, unsteady.

I thought about Melbourne. The chaos of my first race, the way I'd been swallowed up by the madness of it all. P17 to P11, and only because half the field had retired. It wasn't a real result. Everyone knew it.

Malaysia. The heat, the humidity, the way I'd struggled to keep the car under control. P16. Worse than Melbourne.

China. P15. Bahrain. P15.

Four races. Four failures.

You don't belong here. They were right to doubt you. You're not good enough. You never were. You were never going to be good enough.

The thoughts were coming faster now, a cascade of self-doubt and fear that I couldn't stop. My vision was starting to narrow, tunnel vision creeping in from the edges. The room was spinning slightly, or maybe I was spinning, I couldn't tell anymore.

I couldn't breathe. Why couldn't I breathe?

My hands were shaking violently now, and when I looked down at them, they seemed far away, like they belonged to someone else. The nausea hit suddenly, a wave of it that made me lean forward, head between my knees, trying desperately not to be sick.

This is it. You're going to pass out. You're going to pass out before qualifying even starts, and everyone will know. Everyone will see that you can't handle this.

I was on the floor now, though I didn't remember getting there. My back against the wall, knees pulled up to my chest, trying to make myself smaller, trying to disappear. The panic was a living thing inside me, clawing at my chest, stealing my air, and drowning me from the inside out.

You're going to fail. You're going to disappoint everyone. Your mum, your dad, your brothers. Alexia. God, Alexia. She believes in you so much, and you're going to prove her wrong. You're going to prove everyone wrong.

The walls were closing in. The room was too small, too hot, too everything. I couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything except sit there and feel myself falling apart.

I was going to DNF before the race even started.

Then suddenly the door opened.

I didn't look up. I couldn't look up. Whoever it was would see me like this, a broken, pathetic pile on the floor. It was everything everyone thought I was anyway.

"Cece."

Alexia's voice cut through the panic like a knife through water.

I heard her cross the room quickly, and I felt her drop to her knees beside me. Her hands found my face. She was still gentle, but in a firm, tilting motion, until I had no choice but to meet her eyes.

"Hey," she said softly. "Hey, look at me. Just look at me."

I tried to speak but couldn't. My breath was coming in short, sharp gasps that hurt my chest.

"I know," Alexia said. "I know, but you're okay. You're going to be okay." She moved to sit beside me, her back against the wall, and pulled me against her. One arm around my shoulders, while the other hand found mine as she laced our fingers together. "Breathe with me. Can you do that? Just breathe with me."

She started breathing deliberately, slowly, and I tried to match her rhythm. In for four counts, hold for four, out for four. Again. Again.

It felt like it took forever, but gradually my breathing started to slow. The panic was still there, still clawing up my throat, but Alexia's presence was something solid to hold onto in the chaos.

"That's it," she murmured. "You're doing so well. Just keep breathing."

We sat like that for a long time. Minutes, maybe. Hours. I didn't know. Time felt strange, but slowly, slowly, the panic started to recede. My heart rate began to slow. The tunnel vision eased, and slowly the room stopped spinning.

I was left feeling hollowed out, exhausted, like I'd just run a marathon.

"I can't do this," I whispered finally. My voice was hoarse, broken. "Alexia, I can't. I'm going to fail again. Everyone is here, and I'm going to disappoint them, and I just ... I can't."

"Yes, you can," she said firmly. Not harsh, but firm with the utmost certainty.

"You don't understand ... " The tears started again, not with the level of panic as before, but instead with all the emotion I'd been holding in for the past three months.

"I do understand." She shifted slightly so she could look at me properly. Her eyes were intense and focused entirely on me. "I understand that you're terrified. I understand that the pressure feels impossible but Ciela, you are so much stronger than you think you are."

"I'm not," I said, and tears were starting to fall fast now. "I'm not strong. I'm falling apart. Look at me ..." I gesture up and down my body, which was curled up as small as I could make myself in her arms. "... I'm falling apart before qualifying event starts."

"You're human," Alexia said. "You're allowed to be scared. You're allowed to feel this, but you can't let it win." She wiped my tears away with her thumb, so gently that it made me want to cry harder. "Listen to me. Are you listening?"

I nodded.

"Forget everyone outside," she said. "Forget your family, forget the media, forget Claire and Toto and everyone else. Forget all your fancy engineering technical terms and the data and everything else that's cluttering up your head."

"But ... " She placed her finger over my lips to stop me talking.

"Just listen." She pulled me closer, and I let myself sink into her warmth and steadiness. "We're at home right now. We're in our apartment, and you're talking me through a lap on the simulator. I'm trying to beat your lap time, and you're teaching me how to do it. That's all this is. Can you do that for me?"

I blinked, confused. "What?"

"Close your eyes. We're at home. I'm on the simulator, and I'm asking you how to drive this track. Walk me through it. Not with all the technical stuff, just simple. Just the track."

"That would never happen," I said, a weak attempt at humour. "You'd never beat my lap time."

"Humour me anyway."

I closed my eyes. Tried to picture it—our apartment, the simulator setup in the corner of the living room, Alexia sitting in the seat looking at me expectantly.

"Okay," I said slowly. My voice was still shaky, but I was trying. "Okay. So ... the start-finish straight is long. You're going to be at full throttle, and you need to brake late for turn one. It's a right-hander, and it's tighter than it looks."

"Okay," Alexia said encouragingly. "What's next?"

"Turn two is immediately after. It's a left, and you need to get the car rotated early, or you'll run wide. Then there's a quick right-left chicane which turns three and four. Don't try to be a hero there, just get through cleanly. Don't overcomplicate it, just stick to the racing line."

I kept going, walking her through the entire lap. Not thinking about tire compounds or fuel loads or optimal racing lines. Just the track. Turn by turn. Simple reference points. The way I'd explain it to someone who'd never driven it before.

When I finished, I opened my eyes. Alexia was smiling at me.

"Good," she said. "That's all you're going to do in qualifying. That's it. You're not going to think about the other cars, or the pressure, or anything else. You're just going to drive the track the way you just described it to me. Simple. Clean. One turn at a time."

"But ... "

"No buts." She cupped my face in her hands. "You know this track better than anyone. You've driven it a thousand times. You're not going to overthink it. You're not going to let the panic win. You're just going to get in that car and drive. Can you do that?"

I wanted to say no. Wanted to tell her it wasn't that simple, that there was so much more to it than that, but looking into her eyes, seeing the absolute faith she had in me, I found myself nodding.

They were the same eyes I'd met when I was six. The same eyes I'd told that I was going to be an F1 driver. The same eyes that had sat in the heat, the sun, the rain, and the cold just to watch me drive a go-kart in circles. They were the eyes that had always been there.

"Yeah," I whispered. "Yeah, I can do that."

"Good." She kissed my forehead softly with a lingering kiss. "I believe in you. I've always believed in you. Now you just need to believe in yourself."

We sat there a while longer, her arms around me, my head on her shoulder. The panic had subsided, leaving me tired but calmer. The visualisation had worked, or maybe it was just Alexia's presence, her unwavering certainty that I could do this.

Maybe it was both.

"We should probably get you to the garage," Alexia said eventually. "Qualifying starts soon."

I nodded, but I didn't move yet. "Thank you," I said quietly. "For... for this."

"Always," she said simply. "That's what I'm here for. Besides, you've always done the same for me. It's what we do."

Walking to the garage felt different this time. Alexia walked beside me, not saying anything, just there. A solid, steady presence that kept me grounded. My hand was holding hers so tightly that I risked breaking it.

The garage was organised chaos with engineers checking data, mechanics making final adjustments, all the hum of activity that came before a qualifying session. I went through the pre-session routine on autopilot: suit up, helmet on, climb into the car.

This time, as I settled into the seat, I didn't let myself think about the pressure. Didn't let myself think about my family in the back of the garage, or the media watching, or the four races of failure behind me.

I thought about Alexia's voice. About the simple track layout she'd made me walk through, and about taking the track one turn at a time. That's all I had to do ... one turn at a time.

The engine fired up, and I felt that familiar roar straight in my chest. The heating blanket came off the truck, the mechanics moved away, and I was guided out of the garage, but one of them gave me the signal to go.

Just the track. Just the turns. One at a time.

The first flying lap, I was still tentative. I was still finding the rhythm, still settling into the car, but I kept Alexia's words in my head ... one turn at a time.

The second lap was better. I could feel the car responding, feel myself starting to trust it. Turn one, brake late, get it rotated. Turn two, early apex. The chicane is clean and smooth.

By the third lap, I just felt something click in my head and in the car.

I forgot about everything else. The other cars on track didn't exist. The pressure didn't exist. It was just me and the circuit, the way it had been when I was karting as a kid, when racing was pure and simple and joyful.

I pushed harder, finding the limits of the car and dancing right up to them. Every turn was instinctive, muscle memory. Each one felt rather than overthought. The simplified track layout Alexia had made me visualise was there in my head, a clear map that kept me focused.

Lap after lap, I got faster. More confident. More certain. Q1 came and went, and I didn't fall with it. Instead, I went again, I just kept it simple, and it got me into Q3 for the first time. At the end of it all, the radio crackled to life.

"P5, Ciela. P5 in qualifying. Excellent job." Lucas voice echoed through my helmet, and for the first time, I could hear the true pride in her voice.

I couldn't speak for a moment. P5. My best qualifying result in Formula One by a mile. Better than I'd dared to hope for.

"Copy," I finally managed, and my voice was thick with emotion.

I brought the car back to the pit, and as I climbed out, I was shaking again, but this time it was the adrenaline, relief, and joy all mixed together. Some of the team were cheering, congratulating me, but I barely heard them.

I was looking for Alexia.

I found her at the edge of the barrier, standing with my family. Our eyes met across the space, and she was smiling, that brilliant, proud smile that made my chest ache.

She mouthed something. I couldn't hear her over the noise, but I could read her lips clearly: I told you.

I laughed, sudden and bright, and felt tears prick at my eyes.

She'd told me. She'd believed in me when I couldn't believe in myself.

She'd been right.

That night, back at our apartment, I couldn't sleep.

Tomorrow was the race. Sixty-six laps. Sixty-six laps of maintaining this focus, this clarity, this simplified approach that had worked so well in qualifying.

I lay in bed next to Alexia, staring at the ceiling, my mind still racing.

"You're thinking too loud again," Alexia murmured. She wasn't asleep like I thought she was, "I can hear you from here."

"Sorry," I whispered.

She rolled onto her side, facing me. In the dim light from the window, I could just make out her features. "Talk to me."

"I'm still scared," I admitted. "Qualifying was one thing, but the race ... that's sixty-six laps. What if I can't hold it together that long? What if I lose focus? What if ... "

"Ciela." She reached out, her hand finding mine under the covers. "You did it in qualifying. You can do it in the race."

"But ... "

"No buts. You know what you need to do. You proved it today. Just do it sixty-six times tomorrow. One turn at a time. One lap at a time."

"Just do it sixty-six times," I repeated, trying to make it sound as simple as she made it seem.

"Exactly." She squeezed my hand. "One lap at a time. Don't think about the whole race. Just think about the lap you're on. The turn you're in. That's it."

I was quiet for a moment, letting her words sink in. "What if I disappoint everyone?"

"You won't."

"What if I do?"

She was quiet for a long moment."Then we'll deal with it. Together. Like we always do. Ciela, you need to stop carrying everyone else's expectations. I don't know what has happened to your brain since that phone call, but you need to forget it. Let the old Ciela take over. The one who backed herself a hundred percent. The one who loved showing the boys how it's done. The one who said fuck you to reports and media outlets because she couldn't give a flying fuck what they thought of her. Your family is here because they love you, not because they need you to prove anything. They're already proud of you."

"Are you?" I asked in a small voice. "Are you proud of me?"

"Always," she said immediately. "Every single day. Win or lose, podium or last place. I'm always so proud of you."

The tears came then, silent and steady. Relief, fear, and love all mixed together.

Alexia pulled me close, and I buried my face in her shoulder, letting myself cry. Letting myself feel everything I'd been holding back.

"I love you," I whispered against her skin.

"I love you too, so so so much," she said. "But right now, you need to try and sleep. You've got a race to win tomorrow."

Race day dawned clear and warm, the Mediterranean sun already heating the air by the time we arrived at the circuit.

My family was everywhere, my mum fussing over me, my dad giving me a pep talk, my brothers teasing me to try to ease the tension. Alexia's family was there too, Eli hugging me tight, her Abuela pressing a small kiss onto my cheek for luck.

"You're going to be wonderful," Eli said. "We're all so excited to watch you race."

The pressure was there again, but it felt different this time. Lighter, somehow, or maybe I was just stronger after yesterday.

Alexia walked me to the garage, her hand in mine, until the last possible moment.

"Remember," she said, stopping just outside where the cameras could see us. "One lap at a time. One turn at a time. Just like we practiced."

"Just like we practiced," I echoed.

She kissed me then forcefully, like she was trying to imprint the words onto my lips, so I remembered them. "Go show them what you can do."

The grid was chaos. Mechanics making final adjustments, engineers giving last-minute instructions, cameras everywhere. I went through the pre-race routine mechanically, my mind already in the car, already on the track.

P5 on the grid. Fourth row. A good starting position, but I'd need a clean start to make the most of it.

I climbed into the car, and the world narrowed down to the cockpit. The steering wheel in my hands, the pedals under my feet, the engine rumbling beneath me.

The formation lap felt like it took forever. Around the circuit once, warming up the tires, finding the rhythm. Then back to the grid and into position.

Five red lights appeared above the start line.

One lap at a time. One turn at a time.

Then the lights went out.

I got a good start ... a little bit better than good. I launched the car off the line cleanly, and I was already moving up before we hit turn one. Someone ahead of me got squeezed and had to back out, and suddenly I was P4.

Turn one. Brake late, get it rotated. Just like I'd told Alexia.

Turn two. Early apex, smooth through.

The chicane. Clean and precise.

Lap one complete, and I was still P4. My heart was racing, but my mind was clear and focused.

Just like qualifying. Just the track. Nothing else matters.

Lap after lap, I maintained the focus. I didn't let myself think about the whole race, about the full sixty-six laps ahead; instead, it was just the lap I was on and the turn I was in.

Around lap fifteen, the car ahead of me made a mistake coming out of turn nine, running wide. I was there immediately, diving up the inside for turn ten.

P3.

"Good move, Ciela. P3. Keep pushing."

I didn't respond. I couldn't spare the mental energy. Just kept driving.

The pit stops came and went. I didn't lose a position; I maintained my position, just losing my gap, but I didn't panic. I just kept pushing, I just kept finding the limit of the car, I kept trusting the process.

Lap thirty. Halfway through. My neck was starting to ache from the G-forces, my arms burning from wrestling the car through the high-speed corners, but I think about it, and I didn't let up.

One lap at a time.

Lap forty-five. The car ahead of me was struggling with tire degradation. I could see it in the way they were sliding through the corners, losing time. I was catching them, half a second a lap, then a second.

Lap fifty. I was right on their gearbox, looking for an opportunity.

Lap fifty-two. They made a mistake at turn one, braking too early. The second they did, I was alongside them before they could regain composure, and I had the inside line for turn two.

P2. I was gaining.

The car ahead of me now was faster. P1 was pulling away in the clean air, and I didn't have the pace to catch them. That was okay. P2 was way more than I'd dared to hope for or dream about.

Lap sixty. Six laps to go. My entire body was screaming at me, exhausted from the physical and mental effort, but I didn't think about that. I just had to hold position. I just had to bring it home.

Lap sixty-three. The car behind me was catching, but not fast enough, and I still had a comfortable gap.

Lap sixty-five. One lap to go.

One more lap. Just one more. You can do this.

The final lap felt like it took forever and no time at all. Every turn was precise. No mistakes. Not now.

Then I was through the final chicane, onto the start-finish straight, and the checkered flag was waving ahead of me.

"P2, Ciela! P2! Excellent drive! Excellent!"

P2.

I'd finished second.

I'd gotten my first podium in Formula One.

The emotion hit me all at once. The relief, joy, and utter disbelief all tangled together. I couldn't speak, couldn't do anything except try to breathe through the tears that were suddenly streaming down my face.

"Ciela? You okay?" Lucas' voice sounded concerned.

"Yeah," I managed, my voice breaking. "Yeah, I'm... I'm good."

I brought the car into parc fermé, my hands shaking on the steering wheel. As I climbed out, the world felt surreal, like I was moving through a dream.

P2. Second place. A podium.

I'd done it. She's managed to do it.

The first thing I did after climbing out of the car was look for Alexia.

She was at the barrier, right at the front, and when our eyes met, I saw that she was crying. Tears streaming down her face, her hand pressed to her mouth, her eyes bright with pride and joy.

I pulled off my helmet and balaclava, not caring about the cameras, not caring about anything except getting to her. The barrier was between us, but I reached over it, and she reached up as our bodies crashed together. I hid my face deep in her neck, taking this moment just of us, as I hid from the cameras.

"You did it," she said, her voice thick with tears. "Cece, you did it."

"We did it," I corrected. "I couldn't have done this without you."

She laughed, bright and watery. "Yes, you could have, but I'm glad I was here to see it."

Someone was pulling at my arm. I needed to go to the cooldown room, needed to get weighed, needed to do all the post-race procedures, but I didn't want to let go of Alexia.

"Go," she said, reading my hesitation. "Go do what you need to do. I'll be right here, okay. I'm not going anywhere"

I nodded, squeezed her hand one more time, and let myself be pulled away.

The cooldown room was surreal. The two drivers who'd finished around me were there, congratulating me, and I was trying to process that this was real. Nico Rosberg and Sebastian Vettel had told me well done.

As I walked out, the crowd roared. I looked down at the sea of people and tried to find my family, tried to find Alexia.

There ... right at the front, I spotted them all. My mum was crying, and my dad had his arm around her. My brothers were cheering, jumping up and down like kids, attempting to be utterly embarrassed. Alexia was right in front, her eyes locked on mine, still crying.

The trophy was heavy in my hands. Solid, real, and proof that this had actually happened.

I looked down at Alexia, and something in me shifted. This trophy, this moment, it was hers as much as it was mine. She'd talked me down from that panic attack. She'd given me the mental tools I needed to succeed. She'd believed in me when I couldn't believe in myself.

My eyes never strayed away, through the full thing, my eyes never once left hers. "I love you," I mouthed down to her.

"I love you too," she said back. "I'm so proud of you."

That night, we had dinner with both families at a restaurant overlooking the city. The trophy sat in the middle of the table, and everyone kept touching it, like they needed to confirm it was real.

My mum couldn't stop crying, what she insisted were happy tears, but she'd cry every time she looked at me. My dad kept telling anyone who would listen about how he'd known I could do it, how he'd always believed. I don't know how many times our poor waiter could hear the same story. My brothers were already planning how they were going to brag about having a Formula One podium finisher for a sister.

Alexia's family was just as emotional. Eli kept hugging me, her Abuela kept blessing me in rapid Spanish, and Alba had become my number one photographer.

It was loud, chaotic, and perfect, but as the night wore on, I felt the need for quiet. For my own space. with just Alexia and me.

I caught her eye across the table, and she understood immediately. She always did.

"We're going to head out," Alexia announced to the table. "Early morning tomorrow."

There were protests, but they were half-hearted. Everyone was tired but happy-tired, the kind of exhaustion that came from too much emotion and celebration.

We said our goodbyes, promised to see everyone tomorrow, and slipped out into the Barcelona night, trophy in hand.

Our spot was a twenty-minute drive from the restaurant. We'd brought a blanket from the car, and Alexia spread it out on the rock while I carried the trophy. It felt strange, carrying it around like this, but I didn't want to leave it behind.

We lay down together, Alexia's arm around me, my head on her shoulder. The trophy sat beside us on the blanket, catching the starlight.

For a long time, we didn't say anything; we just lay there, breathing together, looking up at the stars.

"Thank you," I finally said, my voice quiet in the darkness.

"For what?"

"For yesterday. For talking me down." I turned my head to look at her. "I meant what I said. I couldn't have done this without you."

"Yes, you could have," she said. "You're stronger than you remember at the minute Cece. You always have been."

"Maybe," I allowed. "But I'm glad I didn't have to do it alone."

She kissed the top of my head. "You'll never have to do anything alone. I'm always going to be here."

"Promise?"

"I promised you a lifetime of being there on this beach nine months ago. That promise hasn't changed and it never will."

We fell quiet again. Above us, the stars wheeled slowly across the sky. Below us, the waves washed gently against the sand, and between us, the trophy gleamed in the moonlight as proof of what we'd accomplished together.

"I was so scared yesterday," I admitted. "I thought I was going to pass out before qualifying even started. I thought... I thought I was going to prove everyone right. That I didn't belong here."

"But you didn't," Alexia said. "You proved them wrong. You proved yourself wrong most of all."

"I proved that your visualisation technique works," I said, smiling slightly.

"That too." I could hear the smile in her voice. "Are you going to use it for the rest of the season?"

"Absolutely. Why mess with what works?"

She laughed, and the sound was warm and bright in the darkness. "Good. I expect credit when you win the championship."

"When, not if?" I teased.

"When," she said firmly. "I believe in you, remember?"

I did remember,she'd told me everyday of my life so far and I'd make sure I'd remember it for the rest of my life. How could I forget the way she'd sat with me on the floor of that driver's room, the way she'd talked me down from the panic, the way she'd given me what I needed to succeed.

The way she'd believed in me when I couldn't believe in myself.

"I love you," I said, not for the first time that day, but it felt important to say it again. To make sure she knew.

"I love you too," she said. "Always."

We stayed there for hours, wrapped in each other and the quiet of the night, our only witness, the stars above us. The trophy sat beside us, a physical reminder of what we'd achieved, but the real victory wasn't the podium or the points or the validation.

The real victory was this: lying here with the person I loved most in the world, knowing that no matter what happened next, we'd face it together.

One lap at a time.

One turn at a time.

Together.

2000 - Age 6 CIELA

The lunchtime sun hung low over our school playground that day, casting long shadows across the worn patches of grass and concrete. It was one of those perfect Barcelona autumn afternoons where the air felt warm but not sticky, where you could run forever without getting too hot. The playground filled with the sound of kids everywhere, shouting, laughing, arguing over whose turn it was. A group of boys were playing some complicated game that seemed to involve a lot of pushing and just for them to claiming they weren't actually pushing.

I loved lunchtime. It was my favourite part of the day, better than art class, better than PE, lunchtime meant freedom. It meant I could talk to anyone, do anything, be everywhere at once and I was very good at being everywhere at once.

I'd already made my rounds that day. I'd talked to Maria and her friends about the stray cat that lived behind the bins, they were planning to bring it food, which I thought was a brilliant idea even though I was pretty sure the cat was fatter than my neighbour’s dog. Then I'd bounced over to the boys playing marbles near the back fence, watched them for a bit, offered my opinion on their technique, they didn't appreciate it, but I was right. I'd complimented Sofia on her new hair clips, they had little butterflies on them and they were beautiful.

My mama said I had "energy enough for three children," which I took as a compliment even though I wasn't entirely sure she meant it that way. My brothers said I was annoying, but they said that about everything, so it didn't count. Papa said I had a "generous spirit," which sounded fancy and important, so I decided that's what I was generous with my spirit.

I was mid-conversation with Lucia about whether dolphins or sharks were cooler, dolphins, obviously, because they were smart AND nice, when I noticed her again.

The quiet girl with the football.

She was always there, on the far side of the playground, away from everyone else. I'd seen her before, lots of times actually, always in the same spot, always with that same ball at her feet. She had light brown hair that caught the sun, and she moved with this careful focus that made her seem older than six, like she was thinking about important things that the rest of us were too silly to understand.

I'd wanted to talk to her for weeks, but something always stopped me. Maybe it was because she looked so serious, so concentrated, like she was in her own private world, and I'd be interrupting something important. Or maybe it was because she seemed perfectly content being alone, and I wasn't sure how to approach someone who didn't seem to need friends the way I did.

I was curious. So curious because she was GOOD. Like, really, really good. I'd watched her kick that ball, watched the way it curved through the air exactly where she wanted it to go, watched her chase it down with speed that made her look like she was flying. My brothers played football in the street sometimes, and they were okay, but this girl was something else entirely.

"Ciela? CIELA?"

I blinked and realized Lucia was waving her hand in front of my face.

"Sorry! What?"

"I said, what do you think? Dolphins or sharks?"

"Dolphins," I said automatically, still watching the girl with the football. "Definitely dolphins. They're like the nice version of sharks. Sharks are just angry dolphins."

Lucia seemed satisfied with this answer and wandered off to tell someone else about her dolphin opinions. I stood there for a moment, watching the quiet girl line up another shot.

She dropped the ball to her feet, took a step back, and I could see her take a deep breath. Even from this distance, I could see how much she cared about getting it right. Her whole body was focused, like this one kick was the most important thing in the entire world.

She struck the ball cleanly with the side of her foot. It was beautiful. The curve was perfect, the height was perfect, the spin was perfect. I watched it arc through the air, mesmerised by how something could be so exactly right … but then it wasn't right anymore.

The ball veered suddenly, wildly, shooting off in completely the wrong direction. I had just enough time to think ‘Oh, that's coming toward …’  before it slammed into the side of my head with a solid THUNK that made my teeth rattle.

The world went a bit spiny for a second. I blinked hard, wobbled on my feet, and then grinned.

That was AMAZING.

I'd been hit by worse. Way worse. One-time brothers had been practicing cricket in the garden and Santiago had completely missed the ball and hit me in the head with the bat instead. Mama had screamed, Papa had yelled, as both Xavier and Santiago for being irresponsible. That had hurt. This? This was nothing.

Plus, the girl who'd kicked it was running toward me, and she looked absolutely horrified.

She skidded to a stop in front of me, her face flushed pink, her eyes wide with panic. "I'm so, so, so sorry! I didn't mean to! I wasn't aiming at you! I'm really sorry!"

She was even prettier up close. She had these serious brown eyes that looked like they were trying to apologise with every blink. She had her hands clasped together, and she looked like she might actually cry, which seemed like a massive overreaction to accidentally hitting someone with a football.

I grinned at her, probably wider than necessary, but I was excited. This was it. This was my chance to finally talk to her.

"Nope! I'm great! I've been hit by way worse. One time, my brother hit me with a cricket bat because he's completely uncoordinated and missed the ball entirely. This is NOTHING." I looked down at the ball sitting at my feet, then back up at her. "That was a good kick, though. Like, really good. You kick SO HARD. You're like a tiny rocket launcher."

She just stared at me, and I wondered if maybe I'd said something wrong. Maybe comparing someone to a rocket launcher wasn't a compliment, but it seemed like one to me. Rocket launchers were powerful and impressive and a little bit scary but in like a cool way.

"I'm really sorry," she said again, her cheeks still burning red. "I didn't see you."

She had a nice voice, quiet, but nice. She spoke careful, like she was thinking about each word before she said it.

I bent down and picked up the ball, holding it out to her. It was more worn than I'd expected, the leather soft and scuffed from what must have been hundreds of hours of practice. "Wanna play?"

She hesitated, and I could see the surprise flash across her face. "You... want to play with me?"

"Yeah! I like football. My papa and my brothers watch it all the time. They shout at the screen loads, like they're the manager or something. You'd think they were the ones making the decisions. It's kind of funny, actually. Papa gets so worked up he forgets to eat his dinner, and Mama has to tell him to calm down …”

I stopped myself. I did that sometimes, just kept talking until someone stopped me or I ran out of breath. My teacher called it "enthusiastic communication." My brothers called it "never shutting up."

She was the girl was smiling. Just a little bit, but it was there.

"You watch football?" she asked, her eyes widening slightly.

"Yep! We support Barça. I have the shirt, I have three of them actually, because I kept growing out of them and Papa keeps buying me new ones, and I have a hat, and a scarf that's really scratchy but I wear it anyway because it's got the colours. The last time we went to a match, Papa bought me this MASSIVE flag, like, it was way bigger than me and I can wrap myself up in it like a burrito. A Barça burrito." I giggled at my own joke. "We go to the games sometimes when they're playing at home. Papa saves up for the tickets, and we all go together, and it's so LOUD, and everyone's singing, and the players look so small from where we sit but you can still see everything, and …"

I stopped again because she was staring at me with this expression I couldn't quite read. Not annoyed, not bored, but something else. Something that looked almost like... relief?

"I support Barça too," she said quietly, shyly, like she was admitting a secret.

My heart did a little jump in my chest. "NO WAY."

"Yes way," she said, and her smile got a tiny bit bigger.

"That means we're friends now," I declared, because it was obvious. If you both supported Barça, you were automatically friends. That was just how it worked.

"It does?" She looked confused, which was adorable. She had a small frown in her brow.

"Yep," I said, already reaching out to grab her hand. Her fingers were warm and a little rough, probably from all that football practice. "Come on! Show me how you kicked it so hard... but maybe don't hit me again. Once was fun, twice might actually hurt."

She laughed. It was small and quiet, but it was a real laugh, and I felt ridiculously proud of myself for making it happen.

We walked back toward the open space where she'd been practicing before, and I was bouncing the ball as we went, trying to do tricks like I'd seen the players do on TV. Mostly I just ended up kicking it too far ahead and having to chase it, but she didn't laugh at me. She just walked beside me, and I could feel her starting to relax.

"My dad says Barça are the best team ever," I told her, because I was incapable of walking in silence. "My brothers say it too. They argue about who's the best player, though. My dad says it's the striker because he scores all these amazing goals, but my brother Xavier says it's the keeper, because he saves everything and without him we'd lose every match. They argued about it for like an hour last week. A whole hour, spent arguing about football. Who does that?"

"Who do you think is the best?" she asked, and I liked that she actually seemed interested in my answer.

I thought about it for a second. "I like the striker. I guess. He's fast, and he scores goals, and goals are the whole point, right? Like, saving them is important, but you can't win if you don't score."

"You're fast," I said and she looked at her in surprise. "I saw you running earlier. You were like..." I zoomed my hand through the air, making a whooshing sound. "Nyyyeeeeeooooommm. Like Michael Schumacher in his Ferrari."

I saw the pink develop in her cheeks face get warm.

"I want to race cars when I grow up," I told her. "Like, proper racing. Formula One. My brothers say girls can't do that, but they're wrong. Girls can do anything. Papa says so."

"I think you'd be good at it," she said simply.

"Yeah?" I grinned at her. "What do you want to do when you grow up?"

She looked down at the ball, then back up at me. "Play football. For Barça."

She said it so quietly, like she was afraid I'd laugh at her, but I didn't laugh. I didn't even think about laughing.

"That's brilliant," I said. "You're good enough. Like, really good enough. I've been watching you practice, and you're amazing."

Her eyes widened. "You've been watching me?"

"Not in a creepy way!" I said quickly. "Just... you're always over here, and you're really good, and I wanted to talk to you, but you always looked so focused and I didn't want to interrupt, and …" I stopped, realizing I was rambling again. "Sorry. I talk a lot. My brothers say I never shut up."

"I don't mind," she said, and she meant it. I could tell.

We'd reached the open space, and I dropped the ball between us. "Okay! Kick it to me!"

She nodded, took a breath, and tapped the ball gently toward me. It rolled perfectly to my feet, like she'd measured the exact amount of force needed. I tried to stop it the way I'd seen players do on TV, putting my foot on top of it, but I misjudged and it rolled past me.

"Oops," I said, chasing after it. "That was supposed to be cooler."

"It's called trapping," she said, jogging over to help. "You have to cushion it, not just step on it."

"Cushion it," I repeated, like this was very important information that I would definitely remember. "Got it. Cushioning."

She showed me, stopping the ball gently with the inside of her foot, letting it settle against her like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then she passed it back to me, and I tried again.

This time, I actually managed to stop it. Sort of. It bounced off my foot a bit, but it didn't roll away completely.

"Did you see that? I did the foot thing! The stop thing! The... cushioning!" I threw my hands up in victory. "I'm amazing!"

She giggled, actually giggled, and it was the best sound I'd heard all day.

I kicked the ball back to her, putting way too much enthusiasm and not nearly enough accuracy into it. The ball went flying off to the left, and she had to sprint to catch up with it, but she did catch up with it, because of course she did. She was fast and skilled and everything I wasn't when it came to football.

"You're really good," I said when she came back, hands on my hips in what I hoped looked like a coach-type pose. "Like, REALLY good. You should be on TV. You should play for Barça for real."

She shook her head, but she was smiling. "I just practice a lot."

"How much is a lot?"

"Every day," she admitted. "After school. Before school sometimes. Weekends."

"Every day?" I was impressed but I got it. You could stick me in a go kart, and I could go for hours and I’d never get bored. I could run laps of the same track over and over again and never ever get bored. "That's... that's so much practice.”

"I love it." she said simply

The way she said it, so certain and pure, made something click in my chest. She really did love it. The same way I loved talking to people, loved making friends, loved the feeling of being surrounded by noise and laughter and life. She loved football with that same intensity, that same joy I had for driving cars.

"Well, I'm going to practice too," I declared, because if she could be dedicated to something, so could I. "Then we can both be on TV. You can play for Barcelona and win everything all of it. I'll be racing cars and beating all the boys, and we'll both win everything, and everyone will say, 'Wow, those girls are so cool and amazing.'"

She looked at me for a long moment, and I couldn't tell what she was thinking. Then she said, very seriously, "That's never going to happen."

For a second, I felt deflated, but then I realized she wasn't being mean. She was just being realistic, the way adults were always realistic about things, telling you to "be sensible" and "think practically."

I turned to face her fully, putting my hands on my hips again. "Only delusional people get what they want."

She blinked at me. "What?"

"People who get what they want are the ones who are crazy enough to believe they can have it. Everyone else just... gives up before they even try. So yeah, maybe it's delusional to think I'll race in Formula One, and maybe it's delusional to think you'll play for Barça … but so what? Better to be delusional and happy than realistic and boring."

She stared at me for a moment, and then she smiled. A real smile this time, not a shy one, not a small one. A smile that reached her eyes and made her whole face light up.

"Okay," she said. "Let's be delusional together."

"Deal," I said, grinning back at her.

We played for the rest of lunch break. She taught me how to trap the ball properly, how to pass with the inside of my foot instead of just kicking wildly and hoping for the best. I wasn't very good, but she was patient, showing me over and over without getting frustrated but when I actually managed to pass the ball back to her in a straight line, she cheered like I'd just scored the winning goal in the Champions League Final.

I told her about my family, about Papa who worked in IT but loved football more than anything, about Mama who rolled her eyes at all of us but secretly loved it too, about my brothers who were loud and annoying but also taught me how to be tough. She told me about her family too, more quietly, more carefully, but she told me. About her mother and father, about how they supported her football even though some people thought it was weird for a girl.

"People are stupid," I said matter-of-factly. "Girls can do anything boys can do. Usually better."

She laughed at that, and I decided right then that making her laugh was going to be one of my new favourite things.

When the bell rang, signalling the end of lunch, we both groaned. I didn't want to go back to class. I wanted to stay here, in the sun, playing football and talking about impossible dreams.

"Same time tomorrow?" I asked hopefully.

She nodded, tucking the ball back under her arm. "Same time tomorrow."

"And you'll teach me more football stuff?"

"If you want."

"I want," I said firmly. "I'm going to be the best football-playing race car driver ever. I'll need skills."

She giggled again, and I felt that warm glow in my chest that came from making a real connection with someone.

As we walked back toward the school building, I slipped my hand into hers without thinking about it. She didn't pull away. She just squeezed my fingers gently, and we walked together through the playground that was slowly emptying of kids.

I didn't know it then, but that moment, that accidental collision, that conversation, that shared dream of being delusional enough to want impossible things, that would change everything. She would become my best friend, the person who understood me in ways no one else ever would.

Right then, at six years old, all I knew was that I'd finally talked to the quiet girl with the football, and she was even better than I'd imagined. Her name was Alexia, I learned later that afternoon.

I knew she was going to be the best footballer in the world. I was sure of it. Even if she wasn't sure yet herself.

2007 - Age 13 CIELA

The house was quiet at two in the morning. That particular kind of quiet that only exists in the dead hours of the night, when even the street outside has stopped humming with cars and the neighbours’ dogs have finally stopped barking. I'd been lying in my bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows of the trees as they dance across the plaster.

I couldn't sleep. Again.

It had been happening more and more lately, this restlessness that settled into my bones and refused to let go. Mama said it was hormones, that thirteen-year-old girls were supposed to be moody and unpredictable. Papa said I was spending too much time on the computer before bed. My brothers said I was just being dramatic, which was rich coming from Santiago, who'd cried for an hour the  week before Barcelona lost the El Clásico.

None of them understood. None of them knew what it felt like to lie in bed with your thoughts spinning so fast you couldn't catch them, with this ache in your chest that you couldn't name or explain or make go away. None of them except Alexia.

I rolled over, checking my phone for the hundredth time. No new messages, but I hadn't expected any. Alexia would be asleep by now, she always was. She had training tomorrow and she needed her rest because needed to be sharp and focused and ready.

I needed her more than she needed sleep. Over the year I had developed this very unhealthy habit on only being able to sleep well when she was around.

The thought made me feel guilty and selfish, but it was true. When I was with Alexia, the spinning stopped and the ache eased. Everything that felt too big and too complicated and too overwhelming somehow became manageable when I was near her.

I sat up slowly,  just listening. The house was still. Papa's snored drifted from down the hall, a steady, rhythmic sound that meant he was deep in sleep. Mama never snored, but I knew she'd be out too. She always took her sleeping pill at ten, and once that kicked in, nothing short of an earthquake would wake her.

The twins were the wild card. Santiago and Xavier had a sixth sense for trouble, an uncanny ability to know when someone was doing something they shouldn't be, but their room was on the other side of the house.

I slipped out of bed, my bare feet silent on the plush carpet. I'd done this enough times now that I had it down to a science. I grabbed the hoodie I'd left draped over my desk chair, one of Alexia's old Espanyol hoodies that she'd given me last year when she'd grown out of it. It was too big on me, the sleeves hanging long on my arms, but it smelled like her. Like grass and clean laundry and that specific detergent Eli used.

I pulled it on, then grabbed my phone and slipped it into the pocket. My shoes were by the door, my trainers that I could slip on without making noise. I'd learned the hard way that flip-flops were too loud, the slapping sound echoing through the quiet house like a gunshot.

The hardest part was always the door. My bedroom door had this tendency to creak if you opened it too fast, so I had to ease it open slowly, inch by inch, holding my breath the entire time. Once I was in the hallway, I had to navigate past my parents' room, past the twins' room, down the stairs without hitting the one step that groaned under pressure. The fourth one from the bottom was the danger child, I'd memorized it months ago.

The front door was easier. It had a good lock that didn't make much noise, and once I was outside, I was home free.

The night air hit me like a cool wave, washing away some of the restlessness. Barcelona in October was perfect, not too hot, not too cold, just this comfortable in-between that made you want to stay outside forever. The streets were empty, lit by only the orange glow of streetlights, and I could hear the distant sound of the city that never fully slept.

I knew the route to Alexia's house by heart. Ten minutes if I walked at a normal pace, five if I hurried. I usually hurried.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out, my heart jumping. To my disappointment it wasn't Alexia, it was just a notification from some app I'd forgotten to silence. I silenced it now, then opened my messages and typed quickly.

I'm coming over. I know you're asleep. I'll be quiet. I just need to be there.

I hit send before I could second-guess myself, then shoved the phone back in my pocket and started walking faster.

The thing was, I knew this was probably weird. I knew that most thirteen-year-olds didn't sneak out of their houses in the middle of the night to crawl into their best friend's bed. I knew that my brothers would mock me endlessly if they ever found out. I knew that Mama would have a full-scale panic attack if she discovered I was gone.

I also knew inside myself that I couldn't not do it. That the pull toward Alexia was stronger than my fear of getting caught, stronger than my guilt about worrying my parents, stronger than anything else.

Seven years. We'd been inseparable for seven years, ever since that day on the playground when her football had collided with my head and somehow knocked something loose in both of us. Seven years of shared dreams and whispered secrets and promises about the future. Seven years of her teaching me football and me teaching her how to talk to people without looking terrified. Seven years of growing up together, changing together, becoming whoever we were supposed to be, together.

Lately, something had shifted, or maybe it had always been there, and I was only just now noticing it. This need to be close to her, to touch her, to know that she was real and solid and mine. This feeling that intensified every time she smiled at me, every time she reached for my hand without thinking, every time she looked at me like I was the only person in the world who mattered.

I didn't have a name for it yet. I wasn't sure I wanted one.

I turned onto her street, my pace slowing slightly as I approached her house. It was a modest place, smaller than ours, but it had always felt more like home than my own house did. Maybe because Eli never made me feel like I was intruding, never questioned why I was there so often, never suggested that maybe I should go home and give Alexia some space. Eli understood. I think she'd always understood.

I went around to the side of the house, where Alexia's bedroom window faced the small garden. The window was already cracked open, she always left it that way for me now, ever since the third or fourth time I'd shown up and had to throw pebbles at the glass to wake her.

I pushed it open wider, grateful that it didn't squeak, and climbed through with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this too many times to count. My feet hit the floor softly, and I straightened up, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness.

Alexia's room was exactly as I'd left it two days ago. The walls were covered in posters, her trophies lined the shelves, gleaming even in the dim light from the streetlamp outside. Medals hung from hooks on the wall, ribbons in blue and red, evidence of every victory she'd earned through sheer determination and talent.

However favourite part of her room was the photos. They were everywhere, tacked to a corkboard above her desk, stuck to the mirror, pinned to the wall beside her bed. Photos of us. At Camp Nou, both of us grinning with our faces painted in Barcelona colours. At the karting track, me in my racing suit with my helmet under my arm, Alexia beside me with her arm around my shoulders. Photos of us holding trophies we'd won, celebrating victories that had felt monumental at the time. Silly selfies taken at three in the morning during sleepovers, both of us laughing at something that probably wasn't even funny.

Every important moment of the last seven years, documented and displayed like a museum of us, but there, in the middle of it all, was Alexia.

She was asleep, curled on her side facing the window, her dark hair spilled across the pillow. The covers were pulled up to her chin, and she looked peaceful in a way she never did when she was awake. When she was awake, she was always moving, always thinking, always three steps ahead but when she was asleep, she looked younger. Softer. Like the girl I'd met on the playground who'd been so horrified about hitting me with a football.

I toed off my shoes and padded over to the bed, lifting the covers carefully and slid in beside her. The mattress dipped under my weight, and Alexia stirred slightly, making a small sound in the back of her throat.

"Shh," I whispered, pressing close to her. "It's just me."

She relaxed immediately, her body recognising mine even in sleep. She rolled over, her eyes still closed and reached for me with the automatic certainty of someone who'd done this a hundred times before. Her arm came around my waist, pulling me closer, and I went willingly, tucking myself against her chest.

This. This was what I needed. This feeling of being held, of being safe, of being exactly where I was supposed to be.

"Cece?" Her voice was rough with sleep, barely more than a mumble. "What time is it?"

"Late," I whispered back, stroking the side of her face. "Or early. Depends on how you look at it."

"You okay?" Her hand found my hair, fingers threading through it in that absent, soothing way she always did when she was worried about me.

"Yeah. I just... I couldn't sleep."

She didn't ask. She never did. She just held me tighter, her chin resting on top of my head, her heartbeat steady and strong beneath my ear.

"Go to sleep, you ridiculous human."

I settled against her, my hand fisting in her shirt, my legs tangling with hers. She was warm and solid and real, and the spinning in my head finally, finally stopped.

"Love you, Ale," I mumbled, already halfway to sleep.

"Love you too, Cece."

Her hand found mine, our fingers interlacing automatically, and I felt her press a kiss to the top of my head. It was such a casual gesture, so natural and easy, like it was something we'd been doing forever. Maybe we had been. Maybe this was just who we were now, two people who fit together so perfectly that it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

I drifted off with her heartbeat in my ear and her arms around me, and for the first time in days, I felt like I could breathe.

--- ---

ANA

I was panicked from the second I set foot into Ciela's room. The carpet under my feet was soft and cushioned, but as I walked further into the room, everything was wrong. The morning light filtered through her curtains, casting pale golden stripes across the floor. The blanket that sat on the end of Ciela's bed, which would usually be found crumpled on the floor come morning, was still sitting perfectly folded on the end of the bed, undisturbed. The duvet covers on the left side of the bed had been thrown back hastily, as if someone had gotten out in a hurry.

The room still smelled faintly of Ciela's vanilla body spray. Her desk was cluttered with schoolbooks and racing magazines, a half-drunk glass of water sitting on her nightstand. Everything looked normal. Everything except the empty bed.

Ciela's bed was empty, which spiked my panic because Ciela was not a morning person, that girl would sleep until noon if I let her, but it wasn't immediately alarming. Maybe she'd gone to the bathroom. Maybe she was already downstairs. I swiftly checked the en-suite bathroom in Ciela's room, pushing the door open with trembling fingers. The tiles were cold and dry, no steam on the mirror, no damp towels. Empty.

The twins and Emiliano were downstairs having breakfast, I could hear the clatter of dishes, the low murmur of voices, but nothing had been heard from Ciela. My panic set in properly then, a cold wave washing over me as I rushed out of the bathroom and over to the bed. I pressed my palm flat against the sheets where my daughter should have been sleeping.

The bed wasn't just cold but stone cold, meaning Ciela hadn't been in it for hours. Maybe not since I'd checked on her last night, when I'd peeked in and seen her dark hair spread across the pillow, her breathing deep and even.

My blood ran cold at the thoughts running through my head as my hand felt the coldness of the sheets. I tried to reason with my own mind, maybe she'd gotten up early, maybe she was in the garden, maybe there was a perfectly logical explanation, despite knowing in my gut that Ciela was nowhere in the house. I would have heard her. I always heard her.

I rushed downstairs, my feet barely touching the steps, panic rushing through every fibre of my body. The kitchen was warm, filled with the smell of eggs and toast. Emiliano stood at the stove, spatula in hand, while Santiago and Xavier sat at the breakfast bar, both scrolling through their phones between bites.

"Has anyone seen Ciela this morning?" My voice came out higher than I intended, tight with barely controlled fear.

Emiliano glanced over his shoulder, completely unaware of the panicked state I was currently in, paying far too much attention to whatever he was cooking. "No. I've not seen her since last night. Why?"

"Where is she?" I was on the verge of tears, every possible worst-case scenario running through my head. My baby girl was missing. My thirteen-year-old daughter was gone, and no one seemed to care.

"Is she not still in bed?" Emiliano asked casually, still blissfully unaware, turning back to flip whatever was in the pan. "You know how she is in the mornings. Probably just sleeping in."

"No, Milo." My voice cracked. "If she were in bed, I'd know where she was, but she's not there, and she's not in the house. I've looked everywhere for her, and I can't find her anywhere." All the panic came flowing out in my words, tumbling over each other. "Her bed is cold, Milo. Stone cold. She hasn't been in it for hours. What if something happened? I saw her in bed last night, asleep. I went to check on her before I went to sleep, and she was there, and now she's just... gone. What if someone has broken in and kidnapped her?"

The spatula clattered against the pan. Emiliano turned fully now, his eyes finally registering the terror on my face. He took the pan off the heat, moving towards me quickly. He took me in his arms, cradling my head into his chest, and I could hear it the steady thump of his heartbeat. Over the many years we'd been together, Emiliano had learnt that sometimes the only way to calm me down was the sound of his heartbeat. Since then, it had become tactic number one.

"Ana, calm down, okay. Breathe. Just breathe." His voice was low and soothing, his hand rubbing circles on my back. "If she was in bed last night, she'll be somewhere. We'll find her. I promise you, we'll find her."

"You hear about it on the news, Milo. You hear people being abducted in the middle of the night, but you never think it would happen to you or your children." I was sobbing now, my words muffled against his chest. "Ohhhh, Milo, what if someone's taken her? What if someone broke in while we were sleeping and …"

"Mamá, she's not been child snatched. Calm down," Santiago said from behind us, his voice dripping with teenage indifference, completely unaffected by my current state over the fact that his sister was missing.

Xavier just laughed along, that infuriating laugh that made me want to throttle him. He hit Santiago's arm to get his attention before he spoke, a smirk playing at his lips. "She's a like a stray cat. She'll come back eventually. She always does."

I pulled away from Emiliano, whirling to face my sons. "This is not funny; your sister is missing," I cried, my voice breaking. "We need to call the police, Milo. Right now. We need to …"

"Ana, just take a breath ... okay ... we'll find her." Emiliano's hands were on my shoulders, grounding me. "She was here last night; she'll be somewhere. Nobody broke in and took her. Look at these two." He gestured to the twins, who were both very deliberately not meeting our eyes. "You two, however, seem so sure she'll come back ... where is she?"

"Don't know what you're talking about." They both said in perfect sync, neither of them looking up to meet their father's intense gaze, suddenly very interested in their breakfast plates.

My heart was still racing, but something in their tone, in the way they wouldn't look at us, made me pause. They knew something.

"Santiago?" Emiliano's voice dropped lower, taking on that tone that meant business. Our boys knew something; they knew way more than they were letting on.

"I don't know," Santiago answered, shoving a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

"Xavier?" Emiliano pushed, taking a step toward them.

"Sorry ... don't know anything," Xavier answered as well, but his biggest giveaway was on show. A tiny smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, the one he always got when he was hiding something.

"Depending on where we find Ciela, she's facing a grounding," Emiliano said, his voice deadly calm now. "So, either you talk and give up what you know, or you will face the same fate, and trust me, boys, you don't want to test me on this."

"PAPA!" The twins protested in unison, finally looking up, their faces indignant. "That's not fair!"

"That's completely unfair!" Santiago added. "We didn't do anything!"

"Yeah, we're innocent bystanders here," Xavier chimed in.

Emiliano let out a low laugh, simply holding up his finger to silence our boys. "Don't even try and argue. My house, my rules ... now talk. Where is your sister?"

They both just looked at each other, having one of those silent twin conversations that had always unnerved me slightly. Santiago raised an eyebrow. Xavier shrugged. They both knew where Ciela had gone; I could see it written all over their faces.

"Fine," Xavier finally said, rolling his eyes. "Check Alexia's."

The drive to the Putellas house took less than five minutes, but it felt like an eternity. I sat in the passenger seat, my hands twisted together in my lap, my mind still racing with worst-case scenarios even though the twins had essentially confirmed where Ciela was.

Emiliano's hand found mine, squeezing gently. "She's fine, Ana. She's probably been there all night, safe and sound."

"She snuck out, Milo," I whispered. "Our thirteen-year-old daughter snuck out in the middle of the night, and we didn't even know. What kind of parents are we?"

"The kind who are about to have a very serious conversation with their daughter about boundaries and safety," he replied, but his voice was gentle. "First, let's just make sure she's okay."

The twins sat in the back, unusually quiet. Even they seemed to sense that this wasn't the time for their usual antics.

When we pulled up to the house, the morning sun was fully up now, bright and cheerful, completely at odds with the anxiety still churning in my stomach. We all climbed out of the car, and I realized with a flush of embarrassment that we were about to descend on Eli's doorstep at eight thirty in the morning, the entire family in tow, looking for our wayward daughter.

I rang the doorbell, smoothing down my hair self-consciously. I was still in my pyjamas, with a cardigan thrown over the top. Some of the panic had subsided, replaced now with embarrassment and a growing anger at Ciela for putting me through this.

Eli opened the door, her expression shifting from surprise to confusion as she took in all of us standing there. "Ana? Emiliano? Is everything okay?"

"Morning Eli. We're so sorry to do this," I started, my words tumbling out in a rush. "But we can't find Ciela anywhere, and we were wondering if she might be here? I know it's early, and I'm so sorry to bother you, but ... "

"No, we haven't seen her since she left yesterday to go back to yours," Eli answered, her brow furrowing with concern.

"Check Alexia's bed," Santiago shouted from the back of the group, he and Xavier just watching the chaos unfold, absolutely loving it. For once they were not the instigators, instead just witnesses, and they were both revelling in it.

I let out a long sigh, utterly embarrassed about how this morning had played out with my children's actions. Here I was, standing on someone else's doorstep, first thing in the morning, in my pyjamas, trying to clear everything up, about to ask to check her daughter's bed. "I'm so sorry, Eli. Can we just check? Please? The boys seem to think... well, they seem to think she might be here."

"Yes, of course you can," Eli said, stepping aside immediately, her eyes wide. She moved aside to let us in, and I could see the curiosity on her face, the way she was trying to piece together what was happening. She was equally intrigued as to what or who she might find in her daughter's room.

We trooped up the stairs, me leading the way with Emiliano close behind, the twins at the back. My heart was pounding again, but for a different reason now. If Ciela was here, if she'd snuck out to spend the night at Alexia's without telling us, without asking permission...

I pushed open Alexia's bedroom door quietly, not wanting to startle anyone if they were indeed inside.

The scene should not have surprised anyone, but still, it surprised everyone.

Alexia's room was exactly as I'd seen it a hundred times before, but I took it in with new eyes now. The bed sat with its headboard against the wall, stuck out into the middle of the room to make space for all of Alexia's things. Posters covered nearly every inch of wall space, Barcelona merch was everywhere, a staple of the décor: scarves draped over her desk chair, a signed jersey framed on the wall, a football sitting in the corner. Various medals and trophies from different competitions over the years lined her shelves, glinting in the morning light streaming through the window.

Among all of that, a picture of her family on the nightstand and so many pictures of Alexia and Ciela. Every single win they'd ever had was accompanied by a picture of them together, documented and displayed like precious memories.

The duvet was pulled high up over Alexia's body, the cover rising and falling with her breath, but she wasn't the only one in that bed.

A perfectly manicured hand was sticking up from above the covers; the nails painted a soft blue Ciela's signature colour. Even though she was only thirteen, Ciela had been taught by me that appearances matter.

That perfectly manicured hand was tangled in Alexia's dark brown hair, cradling the side of her head, which Alexia had leaned into, even in their sleep. Ciela was lying on Alexia, her face hidden in the crook of Alexia's neck, her dark hair spilling across the pillow and mixing with Alexia's. They looked peaceful. Safe. Completely content.

I stood there in the doorway, my hand still on the door handle,  all the panic, fear and anger was still racing through my body. Yet now there was a small part of relief, but also something more complicated. My little girl wasn't so little anymore, that she had this whole other life, these relationships that existed outside of me, outside of our family. That she would sneak out in the middle of the night not for anything dangerous or reckless, but just to be close to her best friend.

--- ---

CIELA

I woke up to shouting.

"CIELA LLORIS DIAZ!"

Oh no.

Oh no, no, no.

That was Mama's voice. Mama's very angry, very panicked, very much about to ground me for the rest of my natural life voice.

I lifted my head from where it had been buried in Alexia's neck, blinking against the morning light streaming through the window. Alexia was still asleep beneath me, her face peaceful, her breathing deep and even. My hand was tangled in her hair, and her arms were wrapped around me like she was afraid I'd disappear if she let go.

It was also very, very bad timing.

Standing in the doorway of Alexia's bedroom was my entire family.

Mama looked like she'd been crying. Her eyes were red and puffy, her hair was a mess, and she was wearing her pyjamas. Papa was behind her, one hand on her shoulder, looking equal parts relieved and exasperated, but behind them, looking absolutely delighted with the chaos, were Santiago and Xavier.

The twins were grinning like they'd just won the lottery. Santiago had his arms crossed, looking smug. Xavier was barely containing his laughter.

"Shhhhh," I mumbled, my brain still foggy with sleep. I turned my head slightly, trying to shield Alexia from the noise. "She's asleep."

"CIELA … " Mama started, her voice shaking.

"Don't wake her up," I continued, my words slurring together as I burrowed back into Alexia's neck. She was so warm, and the bed was so comfortable, and I was so tired. "She has training..."

I felt Alexia stir beneath me, her hand moving to the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair. "Cece?" she mumbled, still asleep. "What's happening?"

"Nothing," I whispered, even though everything was very much happening. "Go back to sleep."

She made a soft sound of agreement and pulled me closer, adjusting slightly so I was more comfortable against her. Her hand found mine under the covers, our fingers interlacing automatically, and she pressed her face into my hair.

We were both still completely out of it, operating on pure instinct and muscle memory. The instinct that said, hold onto each other. The memory that said, this is safe, this is home, this is where we belong.

"I told you," Santiago said from the doorway, his voice dripping with smugness. "Didn't I tell you?"

"Stray cat," Xavier added, barely suppressing his laughter. "She always comes back eventually."

"This is NOT funny," Mama said, but her voice had lost some of its panic. She sounded more exhausted now, like all the fear had drained out of her and left only tiredness behind. "Ciela, you scared me half to death. I thought … I thought something had happened to you. I thought someone had taken you, or … "

"I'm fine, Mama," I mumbled into Alexia's neck. "I'm always fine."

"You can't keep doing this," Papa said, his voice gentle but firm. "Ciela, you can't keep sneaking out in the middle of the night. Your mother is going to have a heart attack."

"Sorry," I said, though I wasn't sure how sorry I actually was. Sorry for scaring them, yes. Sorry for coming here? Not even a little bit.

There was a long moment of silence, and then I heard another voice. Eli.

"I'm so sorry," Eli was saying, and she sounded genuinely apologetic. "I had no idea she was here. Alexia didn't tell me …"

"It's not your fault," Papa said quickly. "We should have... we should have known. The boys knew."

"We always know," Santiago said cheerfully. "She does this all the time."

"ALL THE TIME?" Mama's voice pitched up again. "How long has this been going on?"

"Couple years?" Xavier said, like he was guessing at the weather. "Maybe longer. We stopped keeping track."

I groaned, finally accepting that I wasn't going to be able to go back to sleep. I lifted my head, squinting against the light, and found my entire family staring at me. Mama looked like she couldn't decide whether to hug me or kill me. Papa looked resigned. The twins looked absolutely thrilled.

Eli, standing just behind them, looking ... understanding. There was something in her expression, something soft and knowing, like she'd suspected this was happening and had just been waiting for everyone else to figure it out.

"Told you she'd come back," he said. "Stray cat."

"Shut up, Santi," I mumbled.

Xavier laughed. "You're so grounded."

"I know."

"Like, so, so grounded." Santiago laughed. They were the only two laughing.

"I KNOW." I muttered through gritted teeth.

All of a sudden I felt Alexia’s arms wrap around my waist and her head came to rest on my shoulder. In that moment despite everything, everything felt right in the world.

2009 - Age 15 CIELA

The plane had landed twenty minutes ago, but it felt like hours. I'd been sat in the back seat of Papa’s car, watching the familiar streets of Barcelona slide past the window, and every second that passed felt like torture. My leg bounced restlessly against the seat, my fingers drumming against my thigh in a rhythm that matched my racing heartbeat.

A month. I'd been gone for a whole month.

England had been incredible with the racing, the tracks, the competition. I'd won three out of four races; I’d stood on podium for all of them and felt that rush of adrenaline as I crossed finish lines. My team had been ecstatic, talking about my future, about opportunities, about how far I could go.

Yet the entire time, all I could think about was coming home.

Coming home to her.

"Ciela, stop fidgeting," Mama said from the front seat, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. "We're almost there."

"I know, I know," I said, but my leg kept bouncing. I couldn't help it. The anticipation was eating me alive.

I'd texted Alexia from the airport, just a simple landed, on my way home, and she'd responded immediately with I'll be waiting. Three words that had sent my heart into overdrive and made the twenty-minute drive feel like an eternity.

Something had changed while I was away, or maybe it had been changing for a while, and the distance had just made it impossible to ignore.

I'd missed her, I'd missed her so much it physically hurt. I was starting to realise it wasn't just the normal missing-your-best-friend kind of ache; it was deeper than that, more consuming. Every race I'd won, the first person I wanted to tell was her. Every moment of triumph or frustration or boredom, she was the one I reached for.

The texts we'd sent over the month had been, different … more careful, like we were both dancing around something we were afraid to name.

Miss you, she'd written one night.

Miss you too, I'd replied. Can't wait to come home.

Home to Barcelona or home to me?

I'd stared at that message for ten minutes before responding. Both. Same thing, really.

She'd sent back little smiley face, and I'd spent the rest of the night analysing what that meant.

"You're going to wear a hole in the seat if you keep bouncing like that," Papa said, amused. He was driving, his eyes fixed on the road, but I could see the smile tugging at his lips in the wing mirror.

"Sorry," I muttered, forcing my leg to still. It lasted about five seconds before it started up again. I couldn’t help it.

Mama turned in her seat to look at me properly. "You know, you could have at least pretended to miss us while you were gone."

"I did miss you!" I protested. "I missed you loads!"

"Mm-hmm." She didn't sound convinced. “Really because from second we pick you up all you can talk about is seeing Alexia."

"That's not … I didn't …" I fumbled over words, feeling my cheeks heat. "I'm excited to see everyone."

"Sure, you are," Santiago said from beside me, grinning like the absolute menace he was. He and Xavier had insisted on coming to pick me up, claiming they'd missed their little sister. I should have known they just wanted front-row seats to my obvious desperation.

"Shut up, Santi."

"I didn't say anything," he said innocently. "I'm just observing. You know, as your loving older brother."

"You're observing that I'm excited to be home. Congratulations."

"We’re observing, that you've checked your phone approximately forty-seven times in the last ten minutes." Xavier chimed in from the front passenger seat,

"I have not …"

"Forty-eight now," Santiago added helpfully.

I shoved my phone into my pocket, glaring at both of them. "You're both terrible. I don't know why I missed you."

"You didn't miss us," Xavier said, turning to grin at me. "You missed Alexia. We're just the unfortunate obstacles between you and your … "

"Don't," I warned.

"… best friend," he finished, but the way he said it made it clear that wasn't what he'd been about to say.

Papa chuckled from the driver's seat. "Leave your sister alone. She's been away for a month. It's natural to miss your friends."

"Oh, is that what we're calling Alexia now … a friend … got it." Santiago muttered, just loud enough for me to hear.

I kicked him in the shin.

"Ow! Mama, Ciela's being violent!"

"Ciela, don't kick your brother," Mama said automatically, but she was smiling. "Even if he deserves it."

"Thank you," I said primly.

"However," Mama continued, and my stomach sank, "you're not running off the second we get home. You've been gone for a month. You can spend at least an hour with your family before you even plan on disappearing."

"Mamá … " I protested.

"Non-negotiable."

I sigh dramatically as I slumped back in my seat, trying not to pout. An hour. I could survive an hour. Probably. Maybe.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out before I could stop myself.

Almost here?

Five minutes

Mama says I have to stay home for an hour first.

An hour???

I KNOW! I'm going to dying.

Me too.

I stared at those two words, my heart doing something complicated in my chest. Me too. Such simple words, but they felt weighted with meaning. Like she was saying more than just agreeing that an hour was a long time. It was like she was saying she'd been dying without me too.

"Forty-nine," Xavier said.

I groaned, glaring at both of them, "I hate you."

"No, you don't."

He was right. I didn't, but I was definitely going to make his life difficult for the next week.

The car turned onto our street, and my heart rate kicked up another notch. Almost home. Almost there. Almost … then I saw her.

Alexia was standing at the end of our driveway; hands tucked deep into the pockets of my racing jacket. The oversized one I'd left at her house months ago. She was wearing my jacket, and she was rocking slightly on her heels, and even from this distance, I could see the nervous energy radiating off her.

She'd been waiting for me.

The car hadn't even fully stopped before I was pushing the door open.

"Ciela, wait for the car to …" Mama started, but I was already out, my feet hitting the pavement, my bag forgotten in the backseat.

I ran.

The distance between us disappeared in seconds, and then I was crashing into her, my arms wrapping around her so tightly I was probably crushing her ribs. She laughed, that soft, surprised laugh that I'd missed so much as she hugged me back just as fiercely, her forehead pressing against my shoulder.

"You're home," she murmured, and her voice was thick with emotion.

"Yeah, I'm home." I said, my own voice coming out rough.

We stood there for a long moment, just holding each other, and I felt something in my chest finally settle. This was what I'd been missing. Not just Alexia, but this feeling of completeness that only came when I was with her.

She smelled like shampoo, and that perfume she always wore. I breathed it in, trying to memorise it, trying to make up for a month of not having it.

"I missed you," I whispered into her shoulder.

"I missed you too, so much." Her arms tightened around me.

From behind us, I heard the car doors opening, heard my family getting out, heard Santiago say something that was probably mocking, but I didn't care. Let them watch. Let them tease. Right now, nothing else mattered except this.

Except her.

Eventually, I pulled back just enough to look at her. She was smiling, that small, private smile that was only for me, and her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

"You're wearing my jacket," I said stupidly.

She glanced down at it, then back up at me, a faint blush colouring her cheeks. "You left it here. I've been... borrowing it."

"Borrowing it?"

"Okay, fine. I've been wearing in it." The blush deepened. "It smells like you."

My heart did something acrobatic in my chest. "Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

We were still standing there, arms around each other, when Mama's voice cut through the moment.

"Ciela! Come help with your bags!" My Mama yelled, giving not room for misinterpretation, authority laced through every word.

I groaned, but I didn't let go of Alexia. "I have to go inside for a bit. Mama's orders."

"I heard." Alexia's smile turned sympathetic. "I can wait."

"You don't have to … " I tried to argue, but Alexia just interrupted me as she pushed my hair back behind my ear.

"I want to." She said it with a certainty, and honesty, that just made my throat feel tight.

"Okay," I managed. "Okay. Just... don't leave?"

"I'm not going anywhere."

I forced myself to step back, to let go of her, even though every instinct I had was screaming at me to stay right where I was. Mama was waiting, and I'd already pushed my luck by running out of the car before it had fully stopped.

She just looked at me and back to Alexia who had moved and was sat on the edge of the curb. She just sighed as she passed me one of my many bags.

"Come inside?" She offered to Alexia. "You can help her unpack. Or just sit there and talk to her. I really don't care.”

"Okay," Alexia said as she sprung up from her seat, both of us smiling at each other.

We walked back to the house together, while I tried to ignore Santiago and Xavier's knowing looks. I could hear Mama mumbling something to herself, but from what I could hear it sound like she’d said, ‘why do I even bother with those two’.

"I'll just take these upstairs," I said, gesturing to my bags.

"Take your time. I'm sure you and Alexia have a lot to catch up on." I could here the slight sarcasm in her voice, but I really did care. It was the way she said it made it clear she knew exactly what was going on. Or at least suspected, but she didn't push, didn't tease, just waved us toward the stairs.

Alexia followed me up to my room, and the second the door closed behind us, I felt like I could breathe properly for the first time in a month.

My room looked exactly the same as I'd left it, bed unmade, posters on the walls, trophies and medals scattered across my shelves. It felt different somehow, smaller, like I'd outgrown it while I was away. Or maybe I'd just gotten used to hotel rooms and unfamiliar spaces, and now being home felt strange.

I dropped my bags on the floor and turned to find Alexia watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing. I just..." She shook her head. "I'm really glad you're home."

"Yeah … me too."

We stood there for a moment, the air between us feeling charged with something I couldn't name. Then Alexia moved to sit on my bed, tucking her legs under her, and I joined her, sitting close enough that our knees touched.

"So," she said. "Tell me everything. I want to hear about all of it."

"I call you every day. You already know everything." I laughed quietly.

"I want to hear it again, in person, with all the details you left out."

So, I told her. I told her about the tracks and the races and the other drivers. About the hotel rooms and the team dinners and the moments of triumph and frustration. About standing on podiums and feeling like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

As I spoke, I was aware of how close she was. How her hand was resting on the bed between us, just inches from mine. How she was watching me with that focused intensity she usually reserved for football matches.

"You're incredible, you know that?" she said when I finally ran out of things to say. "Three wins out of four races. That's amazing, Cece."

"It was a good month," I admitted. "It was also ... lonely. Even with the team around me all the time, it felt lonely."

"Yeah?" Her voice was soft, careful.

"Yeah ... because you weren't there." I looked down at my hands, suddenly unable to meet her eyes. "Every time something good happened, or something bad happened, or just... anything happened, you were the person I wanted to tell.  Texting didn’t really have the affect same as having you there."

"I know what you mean," she said quietly. "I had a match last week, we won 3-1, and I scored twice, and all I could think about was how you weren't in the stands. How I couldn't hear you screaming encouragement and embarrassing me in front of everyone."

I laughed despite myself. "I don't embarrass you."

"You absolutely embarrass me, but I love it." She paused, then added, "I missed it. I missed you."

The way she said it made my heart race. There was something in her voice, something vulnerable and honest and terrifying.

"Ale," I started, then stopped, not sure what I wanted to say.

"Yeah?"

"I..." I took a breath, trying to find the courage. "Do you want to go for a walk down to the beach? I feel like I've been cooped up in cars and planes and hotel rooms for weeks. I need to move."

It was a cop-out, and we both knew it, but she nodded anyway, standing up and offering me her hands.

"Let's go." She said with a bright smile.

We made it precisely ten steps out the front door before Mama called after us.

"Ciela! Where do you think your going!"

"I'll be back in an hour!" I called back, already pulling Alexia down the driveway. "I promise!"

"You just got home!"

"I know! I'm sorry! I just need some air!"

There was a pause, and then Papa's voice, calm and amused, "Let them go, Ana. They've barely seen each other in a month."

"But … "

"Let them go." He pushed.

I didn't wait to hear Mama's response. I just kept walking, Alexia's hand warm in mine, as I tried not to think about how natural it felt. How right it all felt.

The walk to the beach took about twenty minutes, and we filled it with easy conversation her telling me about training with Espanyol, me telling her about the other drivers I'd met. Surface-level stuff. Safe stuff.

Yet underneath it all, there was this current of tension, like we were both waiting for something to happen.

The beach was quieter than usual for a late afternoon. A few families scattered across the sand, some kids playing in the shallow water, but nothing like the crowds that would descend. We walked along the shore, our shoes crunching on shells and damp sand, until we reached the far curve where the rocks jutted out into the water.

This had always been our spot. Ever since we were kids, we'd come here to talk, to think, to just exist together without the rest of the world intruding.

We climbed up onto the rocks and sat close enough that our knees touched, looking out at the water as the sun started its slow descent toward the horizon. The sky was streaked with orange and pink, and the air was warm and salt-tinged.

"I love this place," Alexia said softly.

"Me too."

We fell quiet, and I could feel the weight of all the things we weren't saying pressing down on us. The conversation kept stuttering in strange places, like we were both thinking about something else entirely.

"You're weirdly quiet," Alexia said after a while, trying for teasing but landing somewhere closer to nervous.

"So are you," I replied, picking at a bit of seaweed stuck to the rock. "It's like we've run out of small talk."

"Maybe we have."

We both laughed, but it came out thin and shaky. The waves filled the silence that followed, rolling in and out like they were waiting for something too.

I opened my mouth, closed it again, fingers curling into the sleeves of my hoodie. My heart was racing, and I felt like I was standing on the edge of something huge and terrifying and wonderful all at once.

"Ale," I started, then stopped.

"Yeah?"

"I..." I took a breath, trying to find the words. "This is going to sound stupid."

"Everything you say sounds stupid," she said automatically, then winced. "I mean... no, not stupid, just... ugh, you know what I mean."

"I really don't," I said, smiling despite my nerves.

A long pause. A swallow. A glance at the sand, then at the sky, then, finally, at each other.

"There were moments," I said, my voice lower now, "when I'd finish a race and think, I can't wait to tell Ale about this but then I realised that was the part I missed most. Not the racing, not the winning. Just... telling you about it. Being with you."

Alexia let out a slow breath. "I kept writing messages," she admitted. "Then deleting them, because I didn't want to make it... something."

"Make what something?"

"This." She gestured vaguely between us. "Us. Whatever this is."

My heart was pounding so hard I was sure she could hear it. "What do you think this is?" I knew what I thought this was and I hoped she thought that as well but I needed to know for sure.

"I don't know," she said honestly. "It's not just friendship. It hasn't been for a while."

"No," I agreed quietly. "It hasn't."

Another pause. Longer this time. The sun dipped lower, painting the water gold.

"I didn't want to ruin anything," I said finally. "I didn't want to say something and have it change everything between us."

"What if I want it to change?" Alexia asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

I looked at her sharply. "What?"

"What if I want it to change?" she repeated, and now she was looking at me with those brown eyes that always made me feel like she could see straight through me. "What if I've been wanting it to change for months, maybe longer, and I've just been too scared to say anything?"

My breath caught. "Ale … "

"I like you," she said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "More than I should. More than I've been pretending I do. This past month without you has been torture because all I could think about was how much I missed you, and how it wasn't normal to miss someone this much, and how maybe that meant something."

I stared at her, my heart pounding in my chest. "You ... you like me?"

"Yes, you absolute idiot. I like you. I've liked you for ages. I just didn't know how to tell you."

"Oh," I breathed. "Good … because I've been trying so hard not to say anything, and it's been driving me mad."

"You have?" She looked stunned, like she genuinely hadn't expected this.

"Of course I have Ale. I think about you constantly. I dream about you. Every good thing that happens, you're the first person I want to tell. Every bad thing, you're the person I want to run to.  This past month, being away from you, it felt like I was missing a part of myself."

"Really?" Her voice was so small, so hopeful.

"Really."

The tension between us shifted, softened, warmed. Our shoulders brushed, and neither of us pulled away this time.

"So," Alexia said slowly, a smile starting to tug at her lips. "What do we do about this?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "I've never done this before."

"Me neither."

"We could just... see what happens?"

"We could." She reached out, her fingers finding mine, interlacing carefully. "Or we could stop pretending we don't know exactly what this is."

"What is this?" I smirked.

"I think," she said, her thumb brushing over my knuckles, "it's you and me. The way it's always been. Just... more."

"More," I repeated, testing the word. "I like more."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." I confirmed.

We sat there for a moment, hands linked, hearts racing, both of us grinning like idiots, and then, because I'd never been good at waiting for things I wanted, I leaned in.

The kiss wasn't smooth. Our noses bumped first, and Alexia let out a nervous laugh that made me laugh too, but then we adjusted. We  found the right angle, and suddenly everything clicked into place.

Her lips were soft and warm, and she tasted like that strawberry lip balm she always wore. The kiss was gentle at first, tentative, both of us testing this new territory, but then her hand came up to cup my cheek, and I leaned into her touch, and that kiss deepened.

It felt like coming home. Like every moment of the past nine years had been leading to this. Like this was exactly where we were supposed to be.

When we finally broke apart, we were both breathless, both smiling, both glowing with that stunned, overwhelming joy that comes from finally getting what you've been afraid to want.

"Wow," Alexia whispered, her forehead resting against mine.

"Yeah," I agreed. "Wow."

"Can we do that again?" She asked with a small smile.

I laughed, pulling her closer. "Absolutely."

The second kiss was better than the first. Slower, deeper, more certain. We kissed until the sun had fully set and the sky had turned deep purple, until the beach had emptied out and we were alone with just the sound of the waves and each other's breathing.

When we finally pulled apart for good, Alexia was looking at me with such tenderness, such open affection, that I felt my throat tighten.

"I love you," I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them. "I know it's so soon to say that, and maybe it's too much, but I do. I love you. I have for a long time."

"It's not too soon," she said softly. "It's not too much, because I love you too. I think I've loved you since we were six years old and you got hit in the head with a football and decided we were friends."

I laughed, tears pricking at my eyes. "Best decision I ever made."

"Mine too."

We sat there as the stars started to come out, wrapped up in each other’s arms, and I felt like everything in my life had finally aligned. Like all the pieces had clicked into place.

This was it. This was what I'd been missing. Not just Alexia, but this, us, together, finally admitting what we'd both known for so long.

"We should probably head back," Alexia said eventually, though she made no move to stand up. "Your mama's going to kill you."

"Worth it," I said, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Completely worth it."

"You're going to be in so much trouble."

"I don't care."

She laughed, that bright, joyful sound that I loved so much. "Come on. Let's go face the music."

We climbed down from the rocks and started the walk back, hands linked, shoulders bumping, both of us unable to stop smiling. The world felt different now. It felt brighter.

"So," I said as we walked. "What happens now?"

"Now?" Alexia squeezed my hand. "Now we just... keep being us. Just more."

"More," I repeated, grinning. "I really like that word."

"Me too."

As we walked back through the darkening streets of Barcelona, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be. Not just in this city, not just on this path toward racing and dreams and impossible futures.

Here. With her. Always with her.

2011 - Age 17 CIELA

The journey back to Barcelona was the longest eight hours of my life.

I managed to get a last-minute flight out of Austria, but it involved a layover in Munich and cost more money than I wanted to think about. I didn't care. I would have paid anything and done anything, if it meant I could get home faster.

I spent the entire flight staring out the window, my mind spinning with thoughts I couldn't control. Jaume was gone. How was that possible? I'd seen him just two weeks ago, before I'd left for Austria. He'd been fine. Healthy. Smiling. He'd hugged me goodbye and told me to drive safe, to make him proud.

Now he was gone.

I thought about Alexia, about how she must be feeling right now. Jaume had been her hero, her biggest supporter, the person who'd believed in her football dreams when everyone else had said girls couldn't play. He'd driven her to training sessions, stood on the sidelines in the rain, celebrated every goal like it was the World Cup final.

Now he was gone, and they were alone, and I wasn't there.

The guilt was crushing. I should have been there. I should have been in Barcelona, not halfway across Europe chasing my own dreams. What if she needed me and I wasn't there? What if one day …

My phone buzzed with a text from Eli.

We're still at the hospital. When you land, come straight here. I'll text you the details.

On my way. Tell Alexia I'm coming. Tell her I love her.

I will. She knows.

Did she? Did she really know how much she meant to me? How I would drop everything, abandon everything, for her?

I guess she was about to find out.

The hospital was a maze of white corridors and fluorescent lights that made everything look washed out and unreal. I'd gotten a taxi straight from the airport, and now I was standing at the reception desk of the cardiac ward, trying to keep my voice steady.

"I need to know where Jaume Putellas Rota is, please."

The receptionist didn't even look up. Her tone was dismissive, bored, like she'd had this conversation a thousand times and couldn't be bothered to care about the thousand-and-first.

"Are you family?"

"Yes," I said without hesitation.

"Really?" Now she looked up, her expression sceptical. "Because his family is already here."

I felt something hot and sharp flare in my chest. "I am family."

"What's your relation to the patient?"

How did I even begin to explain? Technically, I wasn't related to Jaume by blood. Technically, I was just his daughter's girlfriend. That word, girlfriend, felt so inadequate for what we were, what we'd always been.

I'd known the Putellas family for eleven years. I'd grown up in their house, eaten at their table, celebrated birthdays and holidays and victories with them. Jaume had been at my karting races since I was seven years old. He'd taught me how to change a tire, how to check my oil, how to be brave when I was scared.

He'd looked at me when I was fifteen and told me I was going to do great things. He'd believed in me when I didn't believe in myself.

Two years ago, when Alexia and I had sat her parents down and nervously explained that we were together, really together, he'd smiled and said, "I know. I've always known, and I'm happy for you both."

That family was my family. They always had been.

"That family is my family," I said, my voice shaking with emotion and barely suppressed anger.

"Unless you're immediate family, I can't give out confidential patient information to just anyone."

"You listen here," I said, leaning over the desk, my voice rising. "I know you're doing your job, but you're not listening. I have known that family since I was six years old. I have known that man since I was six years old, ever since I ran into his daughter on the playground. That is eleven years of my life that I have seen that family every single day. So if you want to argue that that family is not my family, then go ahead, but you are simply wrong. I have just travelled from Austria, and it's a fucking emergency, so I need you to tell me where the fu ... "

"Cece."

The voice was soft and broken, and I knew immediately who it belonged to. That voice could be the quietest voice in a grandstand full of people, and I would still be able to pick it out of the crowd with ease.

I recoiled back from the desk, turning to where Alexia was standing in the hallway.

My Alexia. My Alee, but she wasn't the Ale I'd left two weeks ago. This version was shattered, hollowed out, like someone had reached inside her and torn out everything that made her bright and fierce and alive.

Her eyes were red and swollen from crying. Her hair was a mess, pulled back in a careless ponytail. The sight of it made my heart crack open.

"He's gone," she said, and her voice broke on the words. "He's gone."

I moved without thinking, crossing the distance between us in seconds. Her knees gave out the moment I reached her, but I was there to catch her, my arms wrapping around her as she collapsed against me.

"I've got you," I whispered, cradling her head against my chest as her body shook with sobs. "I've got you. I've always got you."

"He's gone," she sobbed into my shoulder, her hands fisting in my jacket like she was afraid I'd disappear too.

"Shhhh," I murmured, carefully lowering us both to the floor because I didn't think either of us could stand anymore. "I've got you. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

She cried harder, and I just held her, one hand stroking her hair, the other wrapped protectively around her back. I didn't try to tell her it would be okay. I didn't try to offer empty platitudes about time healing wounds or him being in a better place.

I just held her and let her break, because that's what she needed right now. To break. To fall apart. To let out all the grief and pain and devastation that was consuming her.

I would be here for as long as she needed, I would be here to catch every piece. Always.

I don't know how long we sat there on that hospital floor. Time felt meaningless, measured only in the rhythm of her sobs and the steady beat of my heart against her ear. I managed to move us both from the middle of the floor to the designated chair on the side of the room. It was a slow process of coaxing Alexia to move but I got her there.

Eventually, the tears slowed. Not stopped, I don't think they could stop, not yet, but slowed enough that she could breathe again.

"You came," she whispered, her voice hoarse.

"Of course I came."

"You're supposed to be in Austria. You have a race … " She tried to argue.

"I don't care about the race," I said firmly. "I don't care about anything except being here with you."

"But …" She hiccupped, trying to argue back again.

"No buts. There is nowhere else in the world I'm supposed to be right now. Nowhere."

She pulled back slightly to look at me, her eyes searching my face like she was trying to understand how I could be real.

"I love you," she said, the words tumbling out desperately. "I love you so much."

"I love you too," I said, cupping her face in my hands, brushing away her tears with my thumbs. "I love you more than anything. I'm here. I'm right here, and I'm not leaving."

She nodded, then buried her face back in my neck, and I held her close, pressing kisses to her hair, murmuring soft reassurances that I wasn't sure she could even hear.

After a while, I became aware of other people around us. Eli was there, her own face tear-stained, watching us with a mixture of grief and gratitude. While Alba was curled up on the chairs on the opposite side, her eyes red and puffy.

"Alba," I said softly, and she looked up at me. "Come here."

She didn't need to be asked twice. She came over and curled up against my side, and I wrapped my free arm around her, holding both Putellas sisters close.

"I've got you both," I whispered. "I've got you."

We stayed in that hospital waiting room for hours. Alba eventually fell asleep with her head in my lap, and I ran my fingers through her hair in slow, soothing strokes, the same way Mama used to do for me when I was upset.

Other family members came and went. Aunts and uncles and cousins, all of them crying, all of them taking turns going into the room where Jaume's body lay. Each time someone came back out, they were crying harder, and I felt my own grief building in my chest.

I couldn't break down. Not yet. Not when Alexia and Alba needed me to be strong.

"You're supposed to be in Austria," Alexia said again, her voice barely above a whisper.

I looked down at her, brushing a strand of hair back from her face. "You keep saying that."

"It's true. You have a race tomorrow. You're going to get in trouble with your team."

"I don't care." I answered bluntly. Not to be mean but to make her understand my point.

"Ciela … "

"Ale, listen to me." I shifted so I could look at her properly, my hand cupping her cheek. "There will be other races. Other teams. Other opportunities. There is only one you. I get one chance in this life with you, one chance, and you mean more to me than anything else in the world. More than racing, more than winning, more than any dream I've ever had. You are my priority. You will always be my priority."

Her eyes filled with fresh tears. "I don't deserve you."

"Yes, you do," I said firmly. "You deserve everything good in this world, and I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure you know that."

She kissed me then, soft and desperate and salt-tinged with tears, and I kissed her back, trying to pour every ounce of love and comfort and promise into it.

When we pulled apart, she rested her forehead against mine. "I love you," she whispered.

"I love you too. I always have, and I always will. Don't you ever question that. Ever."

"I won't," she promised.

"Good."

Eventually, Eli came over to where we were sitting. Her eyes were red, her face drawn with exhaustion and grief, but she managed a small smile when she looked at me.

"Thank you for coming," she said softly. "I know what you gave up to be here."

"I didn't give up anything that matters," I said honestly.

She reached out and squeezed my shoulder. "You're a good girl, Ciela. Jaume always said so. He loved you like you were his own."

The words hit me like a physical blow, and I felt my composure start to crack. "Can I..." I swallowed hard. "Can I see him? Just for a minute?"

Eli nodded. "Of course. Take all the time you need."

I carefully extracted myself from Alexia and Alba, pressing a kiss to Alexia's forehead. "I'll be right back."

"Okay," she whispered.

The walk down the hallway to Jaume's room felt endless. My legs were shaking, my heart pounding, and I had to keep reminding myself to breathe. The room was quiet and dim, lit only by the soft glow of the machines that had been turned off. Jaume lay on the bed, looking peaceful, like he was just sleeping.

I moved to the side of the bed, my hand reaching out to touch his. His skin was cool, and that simple fact made everything real in a way it hadn't been before.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here," I said, my voice breaking. "I'm so sorry."

The tears came then, hot and fast, and I didn't try to stop them.

"I'm really going to miss you," I continued through my sobs. "You've been ... you've been like a second father to me. You taught me so much. About cars and football and how to be brave when I'm scared. You believed in me when I didn't believe in myself."

I took a shaky breath, wiping at my eyes.

"I promised you once that I would always race for the love I had when I was seven years old, parking my go-kart on your driveway like it was a real car. I'll keep that promise. I'll keep racing, and I'll make you proud. I swear I will."

My voice broke again, and I had to pause to collect myself.

"More than that, I promise you I'll take care of them. Your Elisabeth, your Alba, your Alexia. I'll always make sure they're safe and loved and looked after. They're yours, they'll always be yours, but I promise you I'll be there for them. For everything."

I squeezed his hand, my tears falling onto the white hospital sheets.

"You know how much I love your daughter. You've always known. I promise you, for as long as I live, she will always know how loved she is. How much I love her. I'll always put her first. I'll always take care of her. I'll always support her and champion her and believe in her."

A small, watery laugh escaped me. “Let's be real, even if she doesn't know it yet, we both do. She's already incredible, but she's going to be the best. The best the world has ever seen, and I'm going to be there for all of it, cheering louder than anyone. I promise you, I will always love her. Forever and ever and ever."

The grief overwhelmed me then, and I collapsed into the chair beside the bed, my chest tight, my breathing ragged. I cried for Jaume, for Alexia, for Alba, for Eli. For the loss of someone who had been so important to all of us.

I cried for myself, for the man who had welcomed me into his family and made me feel like I belonged.

Three days later, I stood in a black dress that Mama had helped me pick out, my shoulders already damp from tears that weren't my own.

The funeral was beautiful and heartbreaking in equal measure. The church was packed with people whose lives Jaume had touched.

I stood between Alexia and Alba, one arm around each of them, and I held them up when they couldn't stand on their own. I held them through the service, through the burial, through the reception afterward where people kept coming up to offer condolences that felt hollow and inadequate.

I held them together because that's what I'd promised. That's what Jaume would have wanted.

When it was finally over, when everyone had gone home and it was just the four of us, sitting in the Putellas living room in an exhausted silence. Yet I felt the weight of that promise settle over me like a mantle.

This was my family. These were my people, and I would protect them, care for them, love them, for the rest of my life.

Alexia was curled against my side, her eyes closed, her breathing finally even after days of crying. Alba was asleep on the other end of the couch, her head on Eli's lap, but Eli was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.

"Thank you," she said softly. "For being here. For being here for them … for her."

"There's nowhere else I would be," I said honestly.

"I know." She smiled, sad but genuine. "Jaume knew too. He always said you were special. That you and Alexia were going to do great things together."

"We will," I promised. "I'll make sure of it."

I meant it. Every word.

I'd made a promise to a man I loved, to a family I'd chosen, to a girl who was my entire world.

I would keep that promise. Always.

2013 - Age 19 ALEXIA

The flight to Germany had been turbulent, which felt appropriate somehow. My stomach had been in knots since I'd booked the ticket three days ago, the moment I'd realized I actually had a weekend off.

I could have stayed in Barcelona. Could have rested, recovered, caught up on sleep. My body probably needed it, but the second I'd seen Ciela's race schedule and realised she'd be at the Nürburgring; the decision had made itself.

I needed to see her, needed to be near her, needed to exist in the same physical space instead of just through pixelated video calls and text messages that never quite captured what I wanted to say.

Watching Ciela do what she did best, standing at the back of the garage while she spoke to her engineers, her inability to not talk with her hands. Every now and then she would be talking and she’d turn to look at me, her eyes raking over my face and my body, constantly checking it I was okay. I always was.

Watching her race her car, watching the speed at which she drove always gave me slight heart palpitations. I’d have to stand at the back, watching the live feed, watching as the other crashed out, turned into each other or the barriers. Having to watch people retire from the race for a multitude of different reason. I’d stand nervous with my headphones just listening to the calm and controlled nature of Ciela voice, as she spoke to the engines. She was in full control, she had the plan and she was executing it.

Watching as she stood on that top step of the podium for both races that weekend, she smile on her face, which just made her phone face light up and the way her eyes would always scan the crowd only stopping when they found me.

By the end of the weekend the hotel room felt too quiet.

The hotel was nice, nicer than it could have been. The thing most people on the outside didn’t realise was there no money in racing unless you sat at the top. Getting to the top was a whole different thing, you want to race you pay.

We ordered food, pasta, because it always had to be carbs after a race. We ate on the couch, her feet in my lap, talking about everything and nothing. My season with Espanyol, her season in GP3, the gossip from back home.

Normal things. Comfortable things. The kind of conversation we'd been having for thirteen years, but underneath it all, there was this current of tension. Not bad tension maybe just an awareness, of how long it had been since we'd been alone together. Of how much I'd missed her, of how temporary this was. I'd have to fly back to Barcelona tomorrow night, and then it would be weeks before we saw each other again.

After dinner while she showered I changed into the comfortable clothes I'd packed. When she emerged from the bathroom, hair damp and smelling like soap, wearing just a tank top and shorts, I felt my breath catch.

"What?" she asked, noticing my stare.

"Nothing," I said. "Just... I missed you."

Her expression softened. "I missed you too. So much."

She crossed the room and climbed onto the bed beside me, and I immediately curled into her, my head on her chest, her arms wrapping around me. This … this was what I'd needed. Not just to see her, but to feel her, to be held by her, to remember what it felt like to be close.

"Tell me about your week," she murmured, her fingers combing through my hair.

So, I did. I told her about training, about the tactical sessions that had run long, about the new player who was struggling to integrate with the team. I told her about Mamá and Alba; about the dinner we'd had last Sunday.

When I ran out of things to say, we fell into comfortable silence. The room was dim now, lit only by the lamp on the nightstand and the fading light coming through the window. Outside, I could hear the distant sounds of the city, but in here, it was quiet. Peaceful.

"You okay?" Ciela asked after a while.

I nodded against her chest. "Just tired."

"Long weekend."

"Long everything," I murmured. "Your world is crazy."

She hummed in agreement, her thumb brushing the back of my neck. "I'm still glad you came, though. Despite the crazy. Having you here makes it feel slightly less crazy."

"I wasn't going to miss your race weekend," I said. "Not when I actually had time off. That's like... a miracle."

She laughed softly. "I know, but it still meant a lot."

I wanted to say you mean a lot, but the words stuck in my throat the way they always did when the feelings got too big. I loved Ciela more than anything in the world, she knew that, I knew that, but sometimes the magnitude of it overwhelmed me. Made me feel small and inarticulate.

So instead, I just held her tighter, and she seemed to understand.

We lay there for a long time, wrapped in the kind of silence that only existed when two people trusted each other completely. Her heartbeat was steady under my ear, her breathing slow and even, and I felt myself starting to drift.

A thought that had been nagging at me all weekend suddenly pushed its way to the surface, demanding attention.

"Cece?" I said quietly. I moved my from laying on her chest so now my chin was resting on her chest so I could look up at her.

"Mm?"

"Can I tell you something?"

Her hand stilled in my hair, and I felt her attention sharpen. "Always."

I sat up more, enough to look at her properly. Her eyes were soft in the dim light, patient and open, waiting for whatever I needed to say.

"Today scared me," I admitted.

She blinked, clearly surprised. "Scared you? Why?"

I could see her mind working, trying to figure out what I meant. The race had gone well. She hadn't crashed, hadn't even had any close calls. Everything had been smooth.

"Not the race," I clarified. "It was ... everything else."

"I don't understand."

I took a breath, trying to find the right words. "When I was in the paddock today, watching you work, there were all these people around you. Your engineer, your mechanics, other drivers and some of them were ... they were looking at you in a way that made me ..."

I trailed off, not sure how to finish that sentence without sounding jealous or possessive or insecure.

Ciela's expression had already shifted to understanding. "Ale..."

"I know it's stupid," I said quickly. "I know you're with me. I know you love me, but watching all these people, those men, talk to you, laugh with you, stand too close, the way some of them touch you, they look at you like they had a chance ... it made me realise something."

"What did you realise?" she asked gently, sitting up too so we were facing each other.

My heart was pounding now, the words forming before I'd fully thought them through. "That I can't lose you. That the thought of losing you to this world, to the fame, to the attention, to someone who can be there for you in ways I can't … it terrifies me."

"You're not going to lose me," Ciela said firmly, cupping my face in her hands. "Ever. No one could take me away from you."

"I know," I said, even though my throat was tight. "I do know that, but it made me realise something else too. Something bigger."

Her thumb brushed my cheekbone, gentle and grounding. "What?"

The words were there, right on the tip of my tongue, and suddenly I knew I had to say them. Had to make this real.

"That I love you," I said, my voice trembling. "More than I've ever loved anyone. More than I knew I could love someone."

Ciela's breath caught, her eyes widening slightly. Even after all this time I could still get that reaction out of her and it made something settle slightly in my chest.

"I don't want to lose you," I continued, the words coming faster now. "Not to fame, not to racing, not to the world. I want you. For the rest of my life. All of it. The chaos, the quiet, the races, the matches, the nights like this ... everything. I want everything."

"Alexia ..." Her voice was barely a whisper.

I reached for her hands, holding them tightly between my own. My heart was racing so fast I thought it might burst out of my chest, but I couldn't stop now. This felt right. This felt like the most right thing I'd ever done.

I took a shaky breath. "Marry me?"

The silence that followed felt like it lasted forever. Ciela just stared at me, her eyes wide, her lips parted in shock. For a horrible long moment, I thought I'd made a terrible mistake. That I'd moved too fast, asked for too much, ruined everything.

Then her eyes filled with tears, and a smile broke across her face, that brilliant, joyful smile that I'd been in love with since I was six years old.

"Are you serious?" she asked, her voice shaking.

"Yes," I said, more certain now. "I've never been more serious about anything in my life."

"Alexia, we're nineteen …"

"I don't care how old we are," I interrupted. "I know what I want. I've known what I wanted since I was fifteen years old and kissed you on that beach. Maybe even before that. I want you. I want this. I want us, forever."

She let out a shaky laugh, tears spilling down her cheeks. "You're crazy."

"Maybe, but I'm crazy about you. So ... will you? Will you marry me?"

For a moment, she just looked at me, her expression full of so much love and wonder and disbelief that I felt my own eyes start to burn with tears.

Then she whispered, "Yes."

The word hung in the air between us, perfect and complete.

"Yes?" I repeated, needing to hear it again.

"Yes," she said, louder this time, more certain.

I didn't remember moving, but suddenly I was kissing her, my hands in her hair, her arms wrapped around me, both of us crying and laughing at the same time. The kiss was desperate and joyful and tasted like salt from our tears, and it was perfect.

When we finally broke apart, both of us breathless, she rested her forehead against mine.

"I love you," I whispered.

"I love you too," she whispered back.

2014 - Age 20 ALEXIA

The morning of the wedding, I woke up alone. I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling of my childhood bedroom, trying to process the enormity of what was about to happen. Mamá had insisted on the tradition of not seeing each other the night before the wedding, so Ciela had stayed at her parents' house while I'd stayed here, in the room where I'd grown up, surrounded by old football posters and trophies and photographs of us at every age.

There was one on my nightstand, Ciela and me at seven years old, gap-toothed and grinning, her arm slung around my shoulders. I’d just won my first football match, some informal game at the park, and she looked so proud of me. The way she looked at me in that photo was still the way she looked at me now, even when she knew everyone was watching.

I picked up the frame, running my thumb over the glass. That little girl had no idea what was coming. Had no idea that the chaotic, brilliant girl beside her would become her entire world. Her best friend, her partner, her home.

Her wife.

A knock on the door pulled me from my thoughts. "Alexia … you awake?"

"Yeah, Mamá. Come in." I called back

She entered carrying coffee and toast. She set it on the bed beside me and sat down, her hand coming to rest on my knee.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"Terrified," I admitted. "Excited and happy. All of it at once."

She smiled, that soft, knowing smile that only mothers could manage. "That sounds about right."

"Is that how you felt? When you married Papá?"

Her expression flickered at the mention of him. It had been three years since we'd lost him, and the grief was still there, it would always be there, but it had softened into something we could carry.

"Yes," she said. "Exactly like that. Like I was standing on the edge of something huge and wonderful and terrifying, and all I could do was jump."

"Did you ever regret it?" I asked. "Jumping?"

"Not for a single second." She squeezed my knee. "Your father and I had our challenges, like any couple, but choosing him and choosing to build a life with him, having you and Alba ... those were the best decisions I ever made."

I felt my throat tighten, as I pushed back the tears. "I wish he was here."

"I know, sweetheart. I do too." She reached up to brush a strand of hair from my face. "He is here, in a way. He's in you, in the way you love so fiercely and completely. He'd be so proud of you today. Of the woman you've become, of the love you've found."

"You think so?"

"I know so. He loved Ciela and you know that. He always said you two were inevitable. He was so happy when you too finally figured it all out. In his words you were both as blind as bats and everyone could see it but you two."

I laughed despite the tears threatening to spill. "Everyone always said that."

"It was true. From the moment that football hit her in the head, and she decided you were friends, it was inevitable. You were always going to end up here."

Maybe she was right. Maybe this had always been written somewhere in the stars. Maybe Ciela and I had been moving toward this moment since we were six years old, since the first time she held my hand, since the first time I realised that being near her felt like coming home.

"Eat your breakfast," Mamá said, standing up. "Alba will be up soon to help you get ready, and you know how she gets when you don't eat."

"Bossy?"

"Protective. Like her sister." She leaned down to kiss my forehead. "I love you, Alexia, and I'm so, so happy for you."

"I love you too, Mamá."

The next few hours passed in a blur of activity. Alba arrived with our cousins, and suddenly my room was full of people, doing my hair, helping me into my suit, offering opinions on jewellery and shoes and whether I should wear my hair up or down.

I'd chosen a cream-colored suit, tailored to fit perfectly, with a soft open jacket that felt elegant without being too formal. It felt like me, understated, classic, comfortable. Ciela had seen it when we'd gone shopping together months ago and had immediately said, "That's the one. You look perfect."

Now, standing in front of the mirror while Alba fussed with my collar, I hoped she'd still think so.

"Stop fidgeting," Alba said, swatting my hands away. "You're going to wrinkle it."

"Sorry. I'm nervous." I said smoothing my hand down my shirt for the thousandth time.

"Why? You're marrying your best friend. The person you've been in love with since you were basically a fetus. What's there to be nervous about?" She said so matter-of-factly.

"Everything," I said honestly. "What if I trip walking down the aisle? What if I cry so much I can't say my vows? What if …"

"Alexia." Alba turned me to face her, her hands on my shoulders. "You're going to be fine. Better than fine. This is Ciela. Your Ciela. She's not going to care if you trip or cry or forget every word you're supposed to say. She's just going to be happy you're there."

I took a shaky breath. "You're right."

"I know I'm right. I'm always right." She grinned, then pulled me into a hug. "I'm really happy for you, you know. Both of you. You deserve this."

"Thank you," I whispered into her shoulder.

"I mean there are so many worse people you could have ended up with but you didn't you ended up with a really good one." Alba said in an attempt to reassure my nerves

"That's reassuring to know." I muttered

"It was only ever going to be you two."

"Yeah I think it was."

---

The beach was perfect.

I'd been worried about the weather, but today was clear and warm, with just enough breeze to keep it comfortable.

The chairs were arranged in small rows, each decorated with white ribbons and sprigs of wildflower that Ciela's mother had picked from her garden. The scent of salt water drifted through the air, mixing with the sweet smell of the flowers. It was intimate, private, exactly what we'd wanted.

Our families were already seated, Mamá and Alba in the front row on one side, Ciela's parents and brothers on the other. A few close friends filled the remaining seats. No one else. This wasn't a spectacle or a performance. This was just us, making promises to each other in front of the people who mattered most.

I stood at the edge of the water, hands clasped in front of me, trying to breathe evenly. My heart was racing, my palms were sweating, and I felt like I might either burst into tears or laughter at any moment.

Alba stood beside me, her hand briefly touching my elbow in silent support. "You've got this," she murmured.

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

The officiant, a kind woman we'd met with several times over the past few months, smiled at me reassuringly. "Ready?"

Was I ready? I'd been ready for this since I was fifteen years old, since the moment I'd kissed Ciela on that beach and realized I wanted to spend my entire life kissing her. Since the moment she’d held me in a hospital corridor and promised to always be there. Since the moment I'd proposed in a German hotel room and she'd said yes.

"Yes," I said. "I'm ready."

Ciela appeared at the top of the small path leading down to the sand, and my breath left me in a rush.

She was ... she was breathtaking.

The sunlight caught in her long dark hair, making it shine almost black. Her ivory dress flowed around her like water, simple and elegant, with a ribbon over her shoulder, flowing down her back as the skirt moved with the breeze. She held a small bouquet of colourful dahlias tied with a pale ribbon.

It was her face that undid me. That soft, almost shy smile. Those eyes, a warm brown and full of so much love, locked on mine like I was the only person in the world.

She started walking, slow and steady, and I felt tears prick my eyes. I didn't bother trying to hide them. Let everyone see. Let them know how much this meant, how much she meant.

When she reached me, she let out a tiny laugh, breathless and joyful. "Hi."

"Hi," I whispered back, my voice cracking.

She handed her bouquet to Alba, then turned back to me, and we took each other's hands. Her fingers slid between mine with the ease of fourteen years of practice, and I felt something in my chest settle. This. This was right. This was exactly where we were supposed to be.

The officiant smiled warmly at us, then turned to address our families.

"Welcome, everyone. Today is not just a wedding. Today is the continuation of a story that began long before either of them understood what love was."

I squeezed Ciela's hands, and she squeezed back, her eyes never leaving mine.

"Some people meet their soulmate at thirty," the officiant continued. "Some at twenty. These two met at six, when a football hit a little girl in the head, and instead of crying, she laughed and declared them friends."

Soft laughter rippled through our families. I felt my cheeks flush, but Ciela just grinned at me, proud and unrepentant.

"They grew up side by side," the officiant said. "They learned the world together. They learned from each other. They were inseparable long before they knew why."

I thought about all those years, the playground, the sleepovers, the races and matches, the late-night conversations, the way we'd always gravitated toward each other like magnets. How even when we'd been too young to understand what we were feeling, we'd known that being together had felt right.

"When life became difficult," the officiant continued, her voice softening, "They held each other through it. Through grief. Through distance. Through fear. Through the moments that could have broken them but instead bound them closer and stronger."

My eyes flickered to Mamá, to Alba, and I felt the familiar ache of missing Papá but as I did, I felt Ciela's hands tightened around mine, grounding me, reminding me that I wasn't alone. That I'd never be alone again.

"Today," the officiant said, "They choose each other again. Not for the first time, and not for the last. Before we begin the vows, I'd like to invite you both to take a moment. Look at each other. Really look."

We did, though honestly, I'd been looking at her since the moment she'd appeared. Looking at her was as natural as breathing.

I saw every version of Ciela I'd ever loved. The chaotic six-year-old with the too-big grin. The thirteen-year-old who'd climbed through my window in the middle of the night. The fifteen-year-old who'd kissed me on this very beach. The seventeen-year-old who'd held me together when my world fell apart. The nineteen-year-old who'd said yes when I'd asked her to marry me.

I saw the future too, all the versions of her I hadn't met yet, all the moments we'd share together, all the ways we'd grow and change and love each other through it all.

"Now," the officiant said gently. "Your vows."

My heart stuttered. This was it. The moment I'd been both anticipating and dreading, because how did you put fourteen years of love into words? How did you explain what someone meant when they were your entire world? I took a breath, trying to steady myself, and began.

"Ciela..." My voice was already shaking. "Loving you has never felt like something I learned. It felt like something I remembered. Like something that had always been there, waiting for me to grow into it. You've been the quiet thread running through every version of my life. Even when we were small, even when we didn't have the words for what we were feeling, you were the person I reached for without thinking. You still are."

I thought about all those moments, reaching for her hand in the playground, calling her first when something good or bad happened, turning to her in the hospital when my world was ending. Always her. Always.

"You've always had this way of bringing colour into my world. You walk into a room, and everything shifts, it becomes brighter, louder, warmer and somehow, you've always known how to quiet it again when I needed that too. You've been my balance for so long that I don't remember what it felt like before."

My thumb brushed over her hand, feeling the warmth of her skin, the steadiness of her presence.

"You've seen me in every state a person can be seen in, the brave parts, the messy parts, the parts I tried to hide even from myself, and you've met all of them with patience. With gentleness. With that look you give me that makes everything feel a little less impossible."

I had to pause again, my throat tight with emotion. Ciela's tears were falling freely now, but she was smiling, that beautiful smile that was only for me.

"So, my promise to you is this: I will keep choosing you. Not in grand gestures, not in dramatic declarations, but in the small, steady ways that build a life. I'll choose you in the quiet mornings, in the long nights, in the moments when everything feels too heavy or too light. I'll stand with you, grow with you, and love you in all the ways you've taught me love can look."

My voice broke, but I pushed through.

"You've been home to me for as long as I can remember, and I want to spend the rest of my life coming home to you."

The silence that followed felt sacred. Ciela was crying openly now, and I realised I was too, tears streaming down my face that I didn't bother to wipe away.

Then she took a shaky breath, and it was her turn.

"Alexia ..." She began, her voice was thick with emotion. "You've always been the calm in my chaos. Even when I was all noise and motion, you never asked me to be less. You just ... understood me. You always have."

I felt my heart clench at her words, at the truth in them.

"You're the person I've always wanted to tell things to. The big things, the small things, the things that only matter because you're the one hearing them. Somehow, you make everything feel more real. More grounded. More mine."

She laughed quietly, brushing tears from her cheeks with her free hand.

"You've held me together in ways I don't think you even realise and you've let me hold you in ways that changed me. You've been my safest place, my favourite place, the one constant I never had to question. Even when life was loud, even when everything felt too big, you were the steady heartbeat underneath it all. So today, I promise to love you the way you've always loved me. I promise to protect what we've built, to stand beside you when life gets messy, and to keep choosing us, every day, in all the small ways that matter."

She squeezed my hands; her eyes locked on mine.

"You are the best part of every version of my life, and I want every version of my future to have you in it. I want the ordinary days, the extraordinary ones, the quiet moments, the loud ones … I want all of it for as long as I live. You’re my heart. My home. My always."

The last word came out as barely a whisper, and I couldn't hold back anymore. I was crying fully now, overwhelmed by the weight of her words, by the promise in them, by the sheer magnitude of being loved like this.

The officiant gave us a moment, letting us just exist in the emotion of it, before she spoke again.

"May we have the rings?"

Alba stepped forward with a small wooden box. Inside lay two simple silver bands. Nothing flashy. Just solid and real and permanent.

I took Ciela's ring first, my hands shaking slightly as I held it.

"With this ring," I said, my voice steadier now, "I give you my heart, my loyalty, and my life."

I slid it onto her finger, watching as it settled into place like it had always belonged there, like we'd always been moving toward this moment.

Ciela took my ring, her own hands trembling, her eyes still wet with tears.

"With this ring," she murmured, "I give you my love, my trust, and my forever."

She slid it onto my finger, and I felt the cool metal against my skin, felt the weight of it. A reminder of our promise.

The officiant smiled, her own eyes shining. "By the power of love and the promises you've made today, I now pronounce you married."

Married. The word echoed in my head, surreal and perfect.

"You may now kiss."

Ciela laughed through her tears, and I didn't wait. I cupped her face in my hands, my thumbs brushing away her tears, and whispered, "Come here."

The kiss was soft and gentle, both of us crying and smiling at the same time,but then it deepened, became more certain, and I felt everything else fall away. The beach, our families, the world, none of it mattered. There was only this. Only her. Only us.

When we finally broke apart, both of us breathless, our families erupted in cheers and applause. I heard Alba whooping, heard Ciela's brothers shouting something probably inappropriate, heard our mothers crying happy tears.

I was only looking at Ciela, at my wife.

My wife.

She was grinning at me, that brilliant, joyful smile that I'd been in love with for fourteen years, and I felt my heart swell so much I thought it might burst.

"I love you, so much." She murmured.

"I love you too, always." I said, my voice thick with emotion

I meant it with everything I had, with everything I was, with everything I would ever be.

Always.

Marta's voice came through the phone, calm and warm and professional in the way Alexia had already begun to trust. She went through the identification again. Donor 0203. Confirmed characteristics. Confirmed availability. Confirmed that the clinic would reserve the sample for them moving forward. Confirmed the next stage. Confirmed the assessment appointment.

Alexia listened, nodding even though Marta could not see her, her eyes fixed on the pale grain of the kitchen counter as the words moved from possibility into decision.

Jay, beside her, was terrifyingly still now.

That was worse than the knee bouncing.

Alexia glanced sideways and found her staring at the phone as though the device contained a tiny priest, a contract lawyer and the future genetic scaffolding of their child all at once. Her hands were folded tightly in front of her, tattoos shifting across the backs of them each time her fingers flexed. She had not said a word since the call began, which was almost always the clearest sign that something enormous was happening inside her. Jay in ordinary nerves asked too many questions. Jay in proper awe went quiet.

"Does that all sound alright?" Marta asked.

Alexia looked at Jay.

Jay looked back.

For a second, neither of them spoke.

It was ridiculous, really, because they had already chosen. They had discussed it for days. They had read the file, walked away from it, returned to it, argued about the difference between instinct and evidence, slept on it, woken up still certain. They had imagined the donor not as a person, exactly, but as a contribution. A doorway. One piece of a future that would belong entirely to them once it began.

Still, the confirmation pressed against Alexia's ribs with a weight she had not anticipated.

She reached for Jay's hand beneath the counter.

Jay gripped it immediately.

"Yes," Alexia said, her voice quieter than she expected. "Yes. It sounds right."

Jay swallowed, then leaned closer to the phone. "Yes. Definitely. Donor 0203. We confirm."

Marta's smile was audible. "Perfect. I'll make a note now."

Jay squeezed Alexia's hand so tightly that Alexia turned her head and murmured, "Bebé, I need circulation."

Jay loosened instantly. "Sorry. I was emotionally notarising."

Marta paused for half a second on the other end of the line.

Alexia closed her eyes.

"Emotionally notarising?" Marta repeated, clearly trying not to laugh.

"It felt legally significant."

"It is administratively significant," Marta said.

Jay nodded solemnly, as though Marta had supported her. "Exactly."

Alexia pressed her lips together and stared at the ceiling.

Marta continued with the next details, the assessment appointment, the timings, what they should expect, what paperwork to bring, what Alexia should avoid beforehand, and by the time they ended the call, Jay had opened the folder despite claiming she would not need to. She wrote one note, underlined it twice, then added a small star beside Donor 0203's number.

Alexia watched her for a moment.

"You have starred him."

Jay looked down at the paper. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because he's important."

"He does not know he has been starred."

"That's not the point."

"What is the point?"

Jay tapped the page with her pen. "Recognition."

Alexia stared at her.

Jay looked completely serious.

"Jay."

"What?"

"You cannot give the donor a gold star."

"It's not gold."

"That is not the issue."

"He's contributed to the project."

"The project?"

Jay opened her mouth, paused, then winced. "Not the project. The baby. The possible baby. Our baby. I panicked and went corporate."

Alexia's face softened despite herself.

Jay noticed immediately and leaned in with a hopeful expression. "Can the star stay?"

"No."

"It's tiny."

"No."

"It's respectful."

"It is strange."

Jay looked at the starred number, then back at Alexia. "What if it's a symbolic star?"

"Still no."

Jay sighed with visible suffering and crossed it out, badly. The star remained entirely visible beneath the single line.

Alexia reached over, took the pen from her, and drew a thick block over the top of it until it disappeared.

Jay watched the destruction with quiet horror.

"You didn't have to murder it."

"I did."

"That star had emotional value."

"You emotionally notarised enough for one morning."

Jay leaned against her shoulder, dramatic and boneless. "I'm being censored in my own fertility folder."

Alexia kissed the top of her head. "Sí. And yet somehow you survive."

Jay slid an arm around her waist and stayed there for a while, her cheek pressed against Alexia's shoulder, the folder open beneath them, the future written in neat black ink and one badly concealed patch where a star had died. Alexia let her own cheek rest against Jay's hair, breathing in the familiar smell of shampoo and skin, and felt the decision settle.

Donor 0203.

Not a baby yet.

Not even close.

But one step nearer.

A week after that, they returned for the assessment.

It was the same clinic, the same discreet plaque beside the entrance, the same soft lighting inside and the same impossible number of healthy plants arranged around the waiting area as if fertility could be encouraged by botanical confidence. The receptionist recognised them and smiled in that gentle, practised way that managed to be both welcoming and careful, as though she understood that everyone who entered carried a private weather system through the door.

Jay carried the folder.

Of course she did.

This time, however, it was noticeably smaller.

Alexia had watched the downsizing operation the night before with a mixture of tenderness and suspicion. Jay had sat cross legged on the living room floor in front of an arrangement of papers that looked less like preparation for an assessment and more like the evidence board of a detective determined to solve conception. She had removed duplicate printouts, condensed notes, reorganised tabs, and then spent nine minutes deciding whether "Emotional Variables" should be renamed because Alexia had laughed at it too hard.

"What would you call it?" Jay had asked, pen in hand, deadly serious.

"Feelings."

Jay had looked pained. "Too vague."

"Pregnancy feelings."

"That sounds like a leaflet."

"Feelings about possible pregnancy."

"That's just Emotional Variables with less professionalism."

Alexia, stretched out on the sofa with one leg thrown over Jay's thigh because she enjoyed being a physical obstacle to Jay's administrative intensity, had said, "Delete the whole section."

Jay had pressed the folder to her chest. "You take that back."

Now, standing in the clinic waiting area, Alexia saw Marta glance at the slimmed down folder and bite back a smile.

Jay noticed immediately.

"It's smaller," she said.

Marta's face remained admirably neutral. "I didn't say anything."

"You thought it."

"I thought you seemed very prepared."

"It only has essential tabs."

Alexia looked at Marta. "There are nine."

Jay turned to her. "Seven of them are essential."

"What are the other two?"

Jay adjusted the folder under her arm. "Emotionally supportive."

Marta coughed into her hand.

Alexia looked delighted. "You made Marta cough."

"I did not make Marta cough. Marta coughed independently."

"I'm fine," Marta said, though her mouth was definitely twitching.

Jay pointed lightly at Alexia. "This is exactly why emotionally supportive tabs are necessary. Hostility in the room."

"Hostility?"

"From my own future co parent."

"Co parent?" Alexia repeated, her voice softening around the word before she could stop it.

Jay's expression changed instantly.

The humour did not disappear, but it grew quieter, folding itself around the sudden tenderness. "Yes," she said, carefully now. "If we are lucky."

Alexia reached for her hand.

Marta looked away for a moment with the professional grace of someone giving intimacy somewhere to land.

The assessment itself went better than Alexia had allowed herself to hope.

She had not realised how much tension she had carried into the room until Marta began to speak in calm, approving sentences. Everything looked as it should. The timing made sense. The results were good. The plan remained solid. Nothing in the assessment closed a door. Nothing delayed them. Nothing made Marta's voice turn careful in the way Alexia had privately feared.

Hope, she was discovering, was not light.

People spoke about hope as if it floated.

It did not.

Hope had weight. It pressed into the chest and sat behind the eyes. It made every good sentence feel enormous because good did not mean certain, but it did mean possible, and possible was enough to make a person tremble if she wanted something badly enough.

Marta walked them through the next phase.

Dates.

Medication.

Timing.

The day itself, when it came.

Alexia asked questions in the voice she used when she wanted to sound calm and competent rather than like someone whose body had become the site of their shared future. She asked about practicalities, discomfort, timing, what she should expect afterwards, what was normal and what was not. Marta answered with patience. Then Jay asked questions too, because of course she did, but they were good questions, annoying only in the way good questions became annoying when they forced the room to acknowledge that Jay had probably read three clinical papers, two pamphlets and at least one forum she had been specifically told not to visit.

"Jay," Alexia said after question six.

Jay held up one finger without looking away from Marta. "This one is medically relevant."

"The previous five were medically relevant."

"Exactly. Pattern of excellence."

Marta smiled. "It's alright. Ask."

Jay looked triumphant for half a second before remembering that triumph in a fertility clinic was probably inappropriate and rearranging her face into something more humble.

Alexia leaned back in her chair. "Dios mío."

When Jay eventually apologised for, in her own words, "perhaps overdoing it slightly, but in a well intentioned and scientifically curious way," Marta closed the file in front of her and looked at them both with a kindness that settled something in the room.

"You'd be surprised how many people wish they had asked more before the day arrived."

Jay turned to Alexia as if Marta had just placed another Champions League medal around her neck.

Alexia held up a hand. "Do not."

"I said nothing."

"You are glowing amor.”

"I'm allowed to glow. Marta validated my tab culture."

"Marta validated questions."

"Questions live in tabs."

"They do not live anywhere. They are questions."

Jay leaned closer and whispered, "Preparedness is sexy."

Alexia did not look at her. "Not in a clinic."

"Especially in a clinic."

"Jay."

"What? You love competence."

"I love quiet."

Jay pressed her lips together.

Marta's shoulders moved with silent laughter.

When they left the clinic that afternoon, the city looked different again.

Alexia knew, rationally, that nothing outside had changed. Barcelona remained Barcelona, bright and impatient and alive around them, scooters sliding through gaps in traffic, sunlight on shop windows, people moving along the pavements with their own errands and private hopes. Yet something in Alexia had shifted enough that the same streets seemed altered by association. They had entered the clinic carrying possibility, and they left with dates.

A timeline.

A set of steps.

A day circled in their shared calendar that neither of them named too loudly at first, though both of them began looking at it every morning.

The Day.

Jay called it that by accident three evenings later while cutting vegetables so badly that Alexia had taken the knife away twice and been ignored both times.

"When The Day comes," Jay said, trying to slice a carrot into pieces that varied wildly in size, "we should probably leave earlier than we think because traffic near the clinic is unhinged and I refuse to let a bus driver called Jordi interfere with conception."

Alexia looked up from the sofa.

"The Day?"

Jay froze with half a carrot in her hand.

The expression on her face was so earnest, so instantly vulnerable beneath the humour, that Alexia's chest softened. Jay had a tendency to name things before she knew she was naming them. To turn emotional landmarks into titles. The Walk. The England Thing. The Sofa Agreement. The Day.

"Too much?" Jay asked.

Alexia shook her head.

"No."

Jay watched her carefully.

Alexia smiled. "It is The Day."

Jay's shoulders eased.

"Good. Because I already mentally capitalised it."

"Of course you did."

From then on, it was The Day.

The Day arrived on a Tuesday.

Alexia woke before the alarm.

Not a few minutes before, not in that convenient way where the body politely rises ahead of schedule and gives you the pleasant illusion of control. She woke an hour and a half early, eyes opening in the dim bedroom with the immediate, full body knowledge that the day had arrived. The appointment was at eleven. The alarm was set for half seven. The room was still grey and quiet, the curtains admitting only a thin line of morning where they did not quite meet the wall.

Still, she knew.

The day sat in the air.

In the hush around the furniture.

In the shape of Jay beside her.

Alexia lay on her back, one hand resting low on her stomach, which was still flat and familiar and not yet changed by anything they were about to do. That thought moved through her strangely. Her body looked the same as it had yesterday. It would look the same tomorrow. There would be no visible evidence of this morning's significance, no mark on the skin, no immediate sign that something had begun or failed to begin.

And yet, by lunchtime, they would have done something extraordinary.

Something quiet enough to happen in a clinic room and enormous enough to rearrange the rest of their lives.

She was not exactly nervous.

Nerves, Alexia understood. Nerves had accompanied her into finals, surgeries, public speeches, penalty shoot outs, matches where expectation had felt like a whole stadium pressing between her shoulder blades. Nerves could be managed. They could be breathed through, directed, turned into focus.

This was different.

This was anticipation with fear folded carefully into it.

Readiness with a tremor beneath.

The feeling of standing at the edge of a life she wanted so badly that wanting itself had become dangerous.

Beside her, Jay was lying on her back.

Still.

Too still.

Alexia stared at the ceiling for another few seconds, listening.

Real sleep had weight. Jay's real sleep was full bodied and shameless, warm limbs flung across the bed, one foot wedged beneath Alexia's calf, occasional nonsense murmured into the pillow with great conviction. This stillness was not sleep. It had tension inside it. Awareness.

"You are awake," Alexia said into the dark.

For two seconds, nothing happened.

Then Jay exhaled.

"I was being quiet."

Alexia turned her head. "How long?"

Jay continued staring at the ceiling. "Depends what you consider long."

"Jay."

"Since five."

Alexia blinked. "Five?"

Jay's mouth tightened. "Possibly four forty."

"Bebe.”

"I woke up and my brain said congratulations, it's The Day, and then refused to return to unconsciousness."

"You should have woken me."

"You were asleep."

"I am awake now."

"You weren't at four forty."

"How do you know?"

Jay turned her head towards her.

In the soft grey morning, her eyes were open and bright, her hair a mess against the pillow. "Because I was watching you like a totally normal and emotionally well adjusted person."

Alexia's mouth twitched. "That sounds very normal."

"It was from a respectful distance."

"You were beside me."

"Emotionally respectful."

Alexia rolled carefully onto her side so she could face her properly. "I have been awake since six."

Jay's eyebrows lifted. "You have?"

"Sí."

"And you didn't say anything?"

"You did not say anything."

They stared at each other across the small space between their pillows, both caught in the ridiculous tenderness of their mutual silence.

Then Jay laughed softly.

It broke the tension just enough.

"We've both been lying here awake in silence for half an hour trying not to disturb each other."

"Being considerate."

"Being idiots."

"Also that."

Jay turned fully onto her side, facing Alexia. Her hand came up and found Alexia's cheek in the dark with the ease of long practice, thumb brushing slowly over the skin just beneath her eye. The touch was familiar enough to settle Alexia immediately and tender enough to make the fear rise again.

"How are you feeling?" Jay asked.

Alexia gave the automatic answer before she could stop it. "Fine."

Jay's thumb paused.

"Ale."

Alexia breathed out.

She could have insisted. She had done that for most of her life. Fine was a useful word, a captain's word, a word that closed doors and kept other people from crowding the room. But this was not a day for locking Jay outside. Jay was not asking as a spectator. She was in the centre of it too, even if the procedure would happen to Alexia's body.

"I feel..." Alexia searched for the shape of it. "Aware."

Jay waited.

"Ready, but not calm. Strange inside."

"Strange how?"

Alexia looked past Jay towards the faint outline of the wardrobe, the chair, the curtains. "Like today is already a memory and it has not happened yet."

Jay went very still.

Not the anxious stillness this time.

The recognised one.

"That's exactly it," she said quietly.

Alexia shifted closer until their knees touched beneath the duvet. "You?"

Jay made a small sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "I feel like my body wants to run, cry, make breakfast, reread the folder, call Marta to confirm the confirmed confirmation, and fight God if necessary, all at the same time."

"Normal Tuesday for you."

"Rude." Jay leaned forward and kissed Alexia's forehead. "Accurate, but rude."

Alexia smiled.

Jay's hand slipped from her cheek into her hair, fingers moving gently against her scalp. "I need you to tell me what you need today."

"I will."

"No. Actually tell me." Jay lifted her head enough to look at her properly. "Don't manage me. Don't manage the room. Don't do captain face and decide it's easier if you become a beautiful Spanish statue while quietly having a crisis."

Alexia narrowed her eyes. "Beautiful Spanish statue?"

"Compliment first. Concern second."

"You have made rules."

"Yes."

"For my procedure day."

Jay's expression softened. "Our procedure day."

Alexia felt the correction land gently but firmly between them. It mattered. Not because Jay was trying to claim her body or take something from her, but because she needed to belong inside the process. Needed not to stand politely outside the doorway of something that would make them mothers together.

Alexia nodded. "Our procedure day."

Jay kissed her once, pleased. "Rules still stand."

"Your rules are usually dramatic."

"These are excellent."

"What are they?"

Jay shifted onto one elbow, suddenly very serious. "Rule one, you tell me what you need. Rule two, I can provide anything I notice before you say it, within reason, and without making you feel like you're being assessed by airport security."

Alexia's mouth twitched.

"Rule three," Jay continued, "if you say you're fine in the suspicious tone, I'm allowed to ask once more."

"The suspicious tone?"

"You have one."

“I do not."

"You absolutely do. It's very elegant and extremely false."

Alexia looked unimpressed.

Jay continued before she could argue. "Rule four, no unnecessary Googling by either party, mainly me. Rule five, we eat breakfast."

"You added breakfast as a fertility rule?"

"Blood sugar is infrastructure."

"Dios mío."

"Rule six, if either of us cries, we don't make it weird."

"You always make crying weird."

"Incorrect. I make crying British, which is different."

Alexia laughed despite herself, and Jay smiled immediately, the private triumphant smile she always wore when she managed to make Alexia laugh on a morning that felt too large.

"Accept the rules," Jay said.

Alexia sighed dramatically. "Vale."

Jay looked delighted. "Vale."

Then she kissed her again, slower this time.

It was not hungry or urgent. It was the kind of kiss that gave the morning somewhere to begin, soft and warm and unhurried, Jay's hand still in Alexia's hair, Alexia's palm settling against the steady beat of Jay's heart beneath her T shirt. They stayed there for a long moment, breathing each other in, allowing the fear to exist without letting it take the whole room.

When Jay pulled back, she rested her forehead against Alexia's.

"Breakfast," she whispered.

"You are very committed to infrastructure."

“Sexy, isn't it?"

"No."

"You're lying."

"A little."

Jay grinned and got out of bed.

Alexia remained beneath the duvet and listened to the house wake around her. The coffee machine began first, then the cupboard doors, the faint clink of plates, the fridge opening, the low mutter of Jay talking to herself in the kitchen. Normally Jay's morning routine had the logic of a pinball machine. She moved from task to task according to an internal system visible only to her, starting coffee, forgetting coffee, feeding the cats they did not own in theory because she had once left tuna outside for a stray and now considered herself part of a neighbourhood welfare programme, returning to coffee, opening the wrong drawer, remembering three unrelated things at once.

This morning was different.

There was intention in the sounds.

Quiet efficiency.

The kind that revealed how much Jay cared because she was pouring every restless piece of herself into the act of making the morning gentle.

Alexia stayed in bed because she had accepted the rules, and because there was something unexpectedly tender in allowing herself to be looked after without managing the edges of it.

Jay returned carrying a tray.

An actual tray.

The wooden one they had bought months earlier at a market because Alexia said it was beautiful and Jay, after holding it for half a second, had declared, "This is dangerous. This is how people become tray people." They had bought it anyway, of course, and then almost never used it because Jay preferred carrying too many mugs at once in her hands like a circus act with no insurance.

Now the tray held two coffees, toast from the good bakery, a glass of water, a small bowl of yoghurt, and a mango sliced exactly the way Alexia liked it.

Alexia stared at the mango.

Jay froze.

"Don't."

"I have not said anything."

"You looked emotional."

"It is mango."

"It's a significant mango."

"Fruit cannot be significant."

Jay carried the tray to the bedside table with great care. "That's where you're wrong."

Alexia looked at her.

Jay climbed back onto the bed beside her, suddenly shy beneath the humour. "You've wanted mango all week. I bought it yesterday in case you wanted it this morning. I didn't know if you would, because your body has become a mystery with excellent cheekbones, but I wanted it to be available."

Alexia's eyes stung immediately.

Ridiculous.

Completely ridiculous.

She had stood in front of cameras after devastating losses with dry eyes. She had taken questions after injuries, finals, pressure, public scrutiny, the endless demands of being Alexia Putellas in rooms that wanted strength more than truth. Yet Jay buying a mango the day before just in case she wanted it had pushed something soft and perilous beneath her ribs.

Jay pointed at her. "You're going to cry about mango."

"I am not crying about mango."

"You're very close."

"I am having a normal emotional response to fruit."

"That sentence is not helping your defence."

Alexia looked away because if she continued looking at Jay's face, she absolutely would cry about mango, and she refused to give Jay that kind of material on The Day.

Jay touched her chin gently and turned her face back. "You can cry about anything today, baby. Mango included."

Alexia let out a wet laugh that she immediately resented. "You are annoying."

"I'm deeply supportive."

“You are staring."

"I am checking."

"You can check without staring."

"No, I check visually. It's part of the system."

"The system has too many parts."

"The system loves you."

Alexia took Jay's face between both hands and kissed her.

Jay softened instantly, one hand closing around Alexia's wrist as though she needed somewhere to hold on. The kiss was brief because breakfast existed and because the day was already too full to rush through, but it steadied them both.

They ate in bed.

Jay watched Alexia eat the mango with such profound satisfaction that Alexia eventually paused with a piece halfway to her mouth and said, "You are proud of yourself."

"I selected well."

"It is mango, Jay."

"I assessed ripeness by feel, smell and emotional potential."

"Mangoes do not have emotional potential."

"This one did. Look at you."

"I am going to ban this conversation from the conception story."

Jay leaned back against the pillows, holding her coffee with both hands. "You can try, but if this works, the mango becomes historically relevant."

"Our child will not hear the sentence, 'First, there was a mango.'"

"It has a mythic quality."

"It has a restraining order quality."

Jay grinned into her mug.

They talked about ordinary things because ordinary things made extraordinary days survivable. Jay described a video Lucy had sent of a toddler trying to kick a football and falling over with such dramatic betrayal that Jay had diagnosed "early midfield energy."

After breakfast, Alexia showered.

When she came out wrapped in a towel, hair wet and skin warm from the water, her clothes were laid out neatly on the bed. Soft trousers. Comfortable shirt. The bra that did not annoy her. Socks folded as if Jay had briefly become a hotel employee. Even the underwear was the pair Alexia would have chosen herself, which should not have moved her because it was only underwear, but The Day had apparently made her defenceless against domestic competence.

Jay stood in the doorway, suddenly very interested in the ceiling.

Alexia looked at the clothes, then at her.

"You laid these out."

"I guessed."

"You guessed correctly guapa.”

"Good."

Alexia walked towards her slowly, the towel tucked securely beneath her arms. Jay's gaze remained with unnatural commitment on the wall behind her.

"You are doing rule two," Alexia said.

Jay blinked. "What?"

"Noticing before I say."

"Oh." She rubbed the back of her neck. "Yeah. Is that okay?"

Alexia reached her and touched her fingers to the front of Jay's T shirt. "It is very okay, guapa."

Jay finally looked at her.

Whatever she saw in Alexia's face made her expression soften immediately, all nervous brightness falling away into something quieter. Alexia leaned up and kissed her, slow enough that Jay's hand found her waist beneath the towel by instinct and then immediately froze as if her self control had remembered the importance of context.

Alexia smiled against her mouth. "You can touch me."

"I know." Jay's voice had gone low. "I'm being respectful."

"You look like you are defusing a bomb."

"You came out in a towel on The Day. My nervous system has departments arguing."

Alexia laughed and kissed her again because flustered Jay was one of the great privileges of her life.

They left the house just after ten.

The drive to the clinic was quieter than the first appointment, but not heavy. Jay put music on low, soft enough that it did not compete with the morning, and her hand found Alexia's over the centre console before they reached the end of the street. Alexia watched Barcelona pass in flashes of light and movement, bakeries opening, shutters halfway raised, people stepping around delivery vans, a man carrying flowers under one arm while shouting into his phone as if romance and conflict had made an appointment for the same hour.

"Talk to me," Jay said.

Alexia turned slightly. "About what?"

"Anything. Whatever is in your head. Unless it is terrifying, in which case still tell me but perhaps begin gently."

Alexia looked out through the windscreen.

“I am thinking that if this works, they will never know this drive."

Jay's hand tightened.

"They will know the city," Alexia continued. "They may know this road one day. They may pass the clinic and not know. Not unless we tell them. To them, the morning will be a story, not a memory."

Jay was quiet for a moment.

Then she lifted Alexia's hand and kissed her knuckles. "We'll remember it for them."

Alexia looked at her.

"We'll remember the drive," Jay said. "The mango. The fact I almost took the wrong turning because I was thinking about whether babies can sense vibes from before conception."

Alexia stared.

Jay glanced at her quickly. "Can they?"

"No."

"You say that confidently."

"I say it because they do not exist yet."

"Right. Good point."

Alexia shook her head, but she was smiling.

"We'll tell them," Jay continued, voice softening. "When they're old enough. Not dramatically. Not like, gather round children, your origin story begins with clinical paperwork and your mother emotionally bonded with tropical fruit. Just... this was the morning we went to try for you."

Alexia's throat tightened.

"I cried about mango in this version?"

"You emotionally approached mango."

"Do not make mango central."

"No promises."

At the clinic, Marta was waiting for them.

She greeted them with the same calm warmth, her face lighting with recognition in a way that felt personal without becoming too much. "How are we today?"

"Good," Alexia said.

Jay nodded. "Good."

Marta looked at Jay for one second longer.

"Also nervous?"

Jay opened her mouth.

Alexia squeezed her hand.

Jay closed her mouth again and sighed. "Yes."

Marta smiled. "Very normal."

"I wasn't going to lie," Jay said.

Alexia murmured, "You were absolutely going to lie."

“I was going to emotionally edit."

"That is lying with stationery."

Marta laughed softly. "Come through."

The room was different this time.

More clinical, but still warm. A chair for Jay. A place for Alexia. Soft lighting. Clean surfaces. The same careful effort to make the space gentle without pretending it was not medical. Alexia appreciated that more than she expected. She did not want false softness. She wanted competence with warmth. Marta had both.

Marta explained everything again, step by step.

What would happen.

How long it would take.

What discomfort might feel like.

What they would do afterwards.

When testing would make sense.

What not to over interpret.

Alexia listened, though she had read the information many times. Hearing Marta say it aloud steadied the abstract knowledge into something held by another person's calm.

Jay stood beside her.

Too still.

Alexia could feel the energy in her contained so tightly that it almost vibrated. Jay's hand remained in hers, warm and strong, thumb moving slowly across the back of Alexia's fingers. Her whole body angled towards Alexia, not crowding her, not taking over, simply present with such fierce attention that Alexia could feel herself leaning into it without meaning to.

When Marta finished, she asked, "Any questions before we begin?"

Jay inhaled.

Alexia said, "Tab seven."

Jay froze.

Marta looked between them.

"It is a short tab," Jay said.

"We can ask afterwards."

"There are only two questions."

"Afterwards."

Jay turned her head. Alexia held her gaze, calm and firm.

This was part of the rules too. Not the written ones, but the real ones beneath them. Jay could prepare. Jay could care. Jay could be Jay. But she also had to let the moment happen without turning it into a meeting.

Jay exhaled slowly.

"Afterwards."

Marta nodded with admirable seriousness. "I'll be available afterwards for tab seven."

Jay pointed at her. "Thank you."

Alexia whispered, "You have infected Marta."

"Preparedness is contagious."

The procedure was as Marta promised.

Quick.

Straightforward.

Not nothing.

Alexia realised that very clearly as it happened. Anything involving the body and hope was never nothing. It could be simple without being small. It could be medically routine and emotionally enormous at the same time. She breathed through it, eyes on the ceiling, one hand locked around Jay's.

Jay's hand became the whole room.

The pressure of her fingers.

The warm sweep of her thumb.

The way she leaned down once and kissed Alexia's temple without asking a question.

Alexia focused on that. Not the ceiling. Not the clinical details. Not the possibility of failure. Jay's hand. Jay's breathing. Jay beside her, steady despite whatever storm was taking place behind her eyes.

When it was done, Marta's voice came gently.

"That's it."

Alexia breathed out.

Jay leaned down at once, mouth brushing her temple again. "You okay?"

"Sí."

"Pain?"

"No. Just strange."

"Good strange or bad strange?"

Alexia thought about it.

"Important strange."

Jay kissed her cheek. "You were brilliant."

"It was not a match."

"You were brilliant."

"I lay there."

"Brilliantly."

"Jay."

"I'm recording it officially."

"In the folder?"

"There will be a note."

"No."

"Yes. The Day. Alexia brilliant. Mango successful. Tab seven deferred under protest."

Alexia laughed softly and closed her eyes.

For a moment, she allowed herself simply to exist there, in the quiet after. No certainty. No answer. No change she could feel. Yet something had been attempted. They had walked through a door together, and even if they later had to walk through it again, this first time would remain.

Marta gave the aftercare information again, the waiting period, when testing would make sense, what symptoms did and did not mean, when to call. Jay asked the tab seven questions afterwards, and they were good questions. Alexia let her ask them because today the folder was not a shield or a form of control. It was Jay's love trying to put its hands somewhere useful without crowding the room.

When they stepped outside, Tuesday afternoon met them as if nothing extraordinary had happened.

The sun had risen higher. The city had warmed into itself. Traffic moved through the street. People walked by carrying groceries, handbags, takeaway coffees, phones held to their ears. A cyclist shouted at a taxi. A delivery driver laughed with someone outside a café. Ordinary life continued with almost insulting confidence, completely unaware that Alexia had just stepped back into the world possibly, maybe, impossibly at the very beginning of carrying their child.

Jay stood beside her on the pavement.

For once, she did not speak immediately.

Alexia looked at her. "You are quiet."

Jay nodded.

"That is suspicious."

"I'm full."

Alexia's expression softened. "Full?"

"Too much feeling. No storage."

That almost undid her.

Alexia reached for Jay's face and drew her closer. "How do you feel?"

Jay looked at her for a moment, eyes bright in the sunlight. "Like something happened today that I will remember forever, even if it doesn't work this time. Even if we have to come back. Today happened. We tried."

Alexia's eyes stung again.

The mango had weakened her permanently.

"We do not know yet," she said quietly.

“I know."

"It may not work first time."

"I know."

"We may have to do this again."

"Then we do it again."

"And again."

"As many times as it takes," Jay said. "Or until we decide together that we need to pause, or change direction, or breathe. But I'm here. Every appointment. Every result. Every weird symptom you Google and then pretend you didn't. Every mango. Every tab. I'm here."

Alexia looked at her, this impossible woman who had spent so much of her life believing love was something people left behind, standing on a pavement in Barcelona promising to stay through uncertainty.

Every day, Alexia thought.

Every day Jay made her fall in love with her again.

Sometimes it was dramatic. Sometimes it was Jay outside a clinic with emotion bright in her eyes. Sometimes it was a mango sliced before breakfast. Sometimes it was the way she touched Alexia's hand in a medical room and made the room feel less clinical. Sometimes it was an overfilled folder with too many tabs and a donor number that had once had a star.

Alexia kissed her.

Right there outside the clinic, because Jay was looking at her like that and because some days became too large for privacy. Jay kissed back with both hands settling at Alexia's waist, careful and warm and completely hers. It was not a kiss for anyone watching. It was contact. Gratitude. Fear. Hope. The strange intimacy of having done something no one else could fully understand from the outside.

When Alexia pulled back, Jay kept their foreheads together.

"Lunch," Jay whispered.

Alexia laughed. "You always say lunch when you are emotional."

"Food is grounding."

"You are using lunch to avoid crying."

“I may cry into patatas bravas. That is between me and the potatoes."

Alexia kissed her again, smaller this time. "The place I like?"

"The place you like."

"You know its name."

"I do. But the place you like means I know you like it because I pay attention."

Alexia's chest tightened.

"Every day," she said.

Jay blinked. "What?"

"Every day you make me fall in love with you again."

Jay's face opened, vulnerable and almost startled. "Ale."

"Every day," Alexia repeated. "The mango. The car. The folder. Standing beside me in there. Even tab seven, though it was annoying."

"Tab seven was emotionally relevant."

"It was," Alexia admitted.

Jay looked overwhelmed. "You can't say things like that outside clinics."

"Why?"

"Because I have limited emotional storage."

Alexia placed her hand against Jay's chest. "Put it here."

Jay covered Alexia's hand with hers and held it there.

For a moment, neither moved. The city continued around them, bright and indifferent. Inside Alexia's body there was nothing they could know yet. No certainty. No answer. No promise. Only the beginning of possibility, delicate and terrifying, held between them like something neither dared grip too tightly.

Jay took her hand.

They walked towards lunch with their fingers linked, shoulders brushing, Jay pressing kisses to Alexia's temple at crossings and Alexia muttering, "Dios mío, enough," with absolutely no conviction. The folder was tucked beneath Jay's arm this time, safe against her side, and every few minutes Jay touched it as though checking the future had not fallen out.

Halfway down the street, Jay said, "So we agree we don't test early."

Alexia looked at her. "We agree."

"Because early testing is chaos."

"Sí."

"And we are not chaos."

Alexia stopped walking.

Jay stopped too. "What?"

“We are absolutely chaos."

"We are structured chaos."

"You had a folder called Emotional Variables."

Jay looked wounded. "That section was private."

"It was not a section. It was a cry for help with dividers."

"It had good formatting."

Alexia laughed and pulled Jay close by the front of her jacket. "You are ridiculous, guapa."

Jay's smile softened. "You love it."

"I love you."

"That too."

Alexia kissed her again because she could, because the pavement was warm beneath them and the day had become enormous, because Jay was frightened and brave and funny and hers. Jay kissed back with a small, quiet sound of happiness, one hand sliding to Alexia's lower back while the other kept the folder tucked securely under her arm like sacred paperwork.

When they separated, Alexia glanced down at it. "Do not add a tab for the two week wait."

Jay's silence was damning.

"Jay."

"It might help."

"No."

"A symptom tracker."

“No."

"A mood tracker."

"Absolutely not."

"A mango consumption tracker?"

Alexia stared at her.

Jay grinned. "That one was a joke."

"Was it?"

"Mostly."

Alexia shook her head and started walking again, pulling Jay with her. "No early tests. No symptom tracker. No telling Mapi."

Jay gasped. "I was not going to tell Mapi."

"You were thinking of telling Mapi."

"I was thinking she has strong energy for secrets."

"She has terrible energy for secrets."

"True. She'd stare at your stomach every three seconds and shout, 'I am not looking.'"

"Exactly."

"Lucy?"

"No."

"Keira?"

"No."

"Your mother?"

Alexia hesitated.

Jay noticed, because Jay always noticed.

Alexia sighed. "Not yet."

"Okay," Jay said immediately.

No argument.

No push.

Alexia looked at her. "You don't mind?"

"I mind because I want the entire world to know we did something brave today," Jay said. "But what I want more is whatever feels safe for you."

Alexia had to look away because the tears were back again, threatening over a sentence that did not even contain fruit.

Jay squeezed her hand. "Emotionally approaching again?"

"No."

"You are."

"I am walking."

"You can emotionally approach while walking."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"No." Alexia leaned into her side as they walked. "No, I do not."

They reached the restaurant Jay always called the place you like and sat outside beneath a striped awning. Jay ordered for them in Spanish, concentrating so hard on the words that the waiter looked charmed before Alexia had even finished being proud. She stumbled once, glanced towards Alexia in panic, and Alexia slipped into Spanish smoothly, correcting with a soft apology that made Jay stare at her mouth with open admiration.

When the waiter left, Alexia lifted an eyebrow. "You are staring."

"I like when you do that."

"Correct your Spanish?"

"Rescue me in Spanish." Jay leaned back, eyes warm. "Very attractive."

"You are impossible."

"And yet chosen for reproductive destiny."

Alexia closed her eyes. "I should never have said that drunk."

"You absolutely should have. It was one of your best speeches."

"I had one shoe."

"Exactly. Iconic."

"You are not telling the baby this story."

"I am telling the baby a carefully edited version."

"No."

"Once upon a time, your mum came home with one shoe and a dream."

Alexia laughed into her hand. "Dios mío, Jay."

"And your other mum, brave and medically confused, said, 'That's not how it works, babe.'"

"I hate this already."

"But then there was mango and tabs and Donor 0203, who briefly had a gold star before your mum censored my appreciation."

Alexia pointed at her. "Do not make our child's conception sound like a football transfer."

Jay grinned. "A very loved football transfer."

Alexia looked at her across the table, sunlight catching in Jay's hair, tattoos bright along her arms, folder balanced on the chair beside her because she refused to place it on the floor. Jay was smiling, but beneath the smile Alexia could see the same fear from the car, the same old ache that lived behind so many of Jay's jokes. Only now it was threaded through with hope.

Alexia reached across the table.

Jay took her hand at once.

For a while they sat like that, fingers linked over the table, the city moving around them and lunch arriving in small plates between them. They ate slowly. Jay created a ranking of possible first words, placing "goal" above "mama" until Alexia threatened to leave her at the restaurant. Alexia caught Jay rereading the aftercare leaflet beneath the table and confiscated it without negotiation.

"I was casually reviewing."

"You do nothing casually except flirt with danger and forget laundry."

"That is unfair."

"You forgot laundry yesterday."

"I remembered eventually."

"It was wet for nine hours."

"It was marinating."

"It was suffering."

Jay opened her mouth, then closed it. "Fine. Fair."

After lunch, they walked back to the car slowly, in no rush to leave the day behind. Jay kept touching her. Hand at her back. Fingers around hers. A kiss to her hair while they waited at crossings. Alexia let herself receive all of it. Let herself lean. Let herself be loved without managing the edges.

In the car, before Jay started the engine, Alexia placed one hand over her lower stomach.

It was still flat.

Still the same.

Nothing visible.

Nothing certain.

Jay noticed and went utterly still.

Alexia looked down at her own hand, then at Jay. "Maybe nothing."

Jay covered her hand with hers.

"Maybe something," she whispered.

Alexia nodded.

"Maybe something."

They sat like that in the parked car, palms layered over Alexia's body, the folder on the back seat, Barcelona bright beyond the windscreen. It was too early for anything. Too early for signs, too early for knowing, too early for celebration, too early for grief. But not too early for love. Love had been early from the beginning, arriving before certainty, before plans, before either of them knew what shape their courage would have to take.

Jay leaned across the console and kissed Alexia softly.

"Whatever happens," she said against her mouth.

"Whatever happens," Alexia echoed.

"We do it together."

"Sí, bebé. Together."

Jay kissed her once more, then started the car.

On the drive home, Alexia rested her head against the seat and held Jay's hand over the console. Jay kept the music low. Neither of them spoke much, but every few minutes Jay lifted Alexia's hand to her mouth and kissed it, as if checking she was still there, as if saying the things words could not hold.

When they got home, Jay carried the folder inside and placed it carefully on the kitchen counter.

Alexia watched her.

"You know," she said, "you can put it down like normal paper."

Jay looked offended. "This is not normal paper."

"It is clinic information."

"It is possible baby paperwork."

"Possible baby paperwork," Alexia repeated, smiling.

Jay nodded gravely. "Sacred documents."

Alexia crossed the kitchen, slipped her arms around Jay's waist from behind and pressed her cheek between Jay's shoulder blades. Jay covered Alexia's hands with hers.

"Thank you," Alexia said softly.

Jay's body stilled. "For what?"

"For today. For the mango. For the car. For not asking tab seven until after. For choosing with me. For wanting this enough to learn Spanish lullabies badly."

Jay turned in her arms. "They won't be bad."

"They will be a little bad."

"They'll be heartfelt."

"That, sí."

Jay's eyes softened. "Thank you for letting me be there."

Alexia frowned. "Letting you?"

Jay shrugged one shoulder, old fear passing over her face so quickly it almost disappeared. "You know what I mean."

Alexia did know.

She hated that she knew.

She took Jay's face in both hands. "You are not a guest in this, amor."

Jay's throat moved.

"You are not helping me have a baby," Alexia continued. "We are trying to have our baby. Ours. Every appointment, every paper, every tab, every mango, every ridiculous Spanish lesson. You are in the centre of this with me."

Jay's eyes brightened.

Alexia switched into Spanish because the feeling became too large for English, the words warm and certain on her tongue. "Estás conmigo. Siempre. ¿Me escuchas? No estás fuera. No eres extra. Eres su madre también, desde el principio."

Jay did not understand every word.

Alexia saw the exact moment she caught enough to break.

Jay blinked hard. "From the beginning?"

"From the beginning," Alexia said in English. "Always."

Jay pulled her in.

The kiss that followed was slow and deep and full of everything the day had asked them to carry. It was not softened for a clinic pavement or careful for public eyes. It was home. Alexia melted into it, hands sliding into Jay's hair, body pressed close, her heart a wild thing beneath her ribs. Jay kissed her like she was accepting something. Like she was promising something. Like she was terrified and grateful and fully there.

When they finally separated, Jay rested her forehead against hers.

"I'm going to learn the lullabies."

Alexia smiled. "Sí?"

"Yes."

"And no Mapi."

Jay hesitated.

"Jay."

"No Mapi."

"And no secret early tests."

"Agreed."

"And no two week wait tab."

Jay opened her mouth.

Alexia pointed at her. "No."

Jay shut her mouth.

A moment passed.

"What about a very small note?"

"No."

"A feelings note?"

"No."

“A mango inventory?"

Alexia tried to remain stern.

She really did.

But Jay's face was too pleased with itself, and the day had been too big, and the sacred documents were sitting on the counter with possible baby paperwork inside them, and the whole house seemed full of maybe.

Alexia laughed.

Jay grinned, catching her hand and kissing her palm. "You love my infrastructure."

"I love you."

"Same thing."

"No."

“A little."

Alexia shook her head and pulled Jay back into her arms.

They stood in the kitchen for a long time, wrapped around each other in the golden quiet of late afternoon. Outside, the city carried on. Inside, the folder rested on the counter, the mango knife sat in the sink, and somewhere beyond certainty, beyond timing, beyond everything they could control, a beginning waited.

For now, there was only this.

Jay's arms around her.

Alexia's cheek against Jay's chest.

The silence after a huge day.

Ciela Lloris Díaz

Date of Birth – August 12th, 1994

Original Race Number – No.11

Current Race Number – No.1

The Queen of the Paddock

The world of F1 is hard to break into, even for the best drivers in the world; it's even harder when it comes to being a woman. Despite all of that, she was the best in the world, and she'd proved it time and time again. She'd won everything on the first time of asking, British F3, Formula Renault 3.5, GP3 and GP2. Year on year, being promoted, but GP2 brought the problem of nowhere else to go. Ciela looked everywhere for a seat, but there was never an opportunity with her name on it.

Unbeknownst to her, she'd caught the eyes of none other than Toto Wolff. Toto had problems because his drivers were fighting each other, costing the team millions, and here he had a competent woman who could drive for the team efficiently. The bigger problem he had was that he had a driver in contracts that he could get out of. The only solution he could find was a seat in a Williams. Toto was building for the future, and he saw that future in Ciela.

Ciela spent two seasons learning the ropes of F1 at Williams, and she didn't disappoint. Her first season, she secured 3rd in the driver's championship and 5th overall for the team. From there she built, maintaining 3rd the following season and 4th on the team. 2017 saw a change. The in-fighting at Mercedes was tougher than ever in the previous years, but 2016 saw Nico Rosberg complete his dream of being the F1 world champion; that year also saw him retire.

That left a seat, and that seat had Ciela Lloris' name all over it. It told Ciela one year to prove herself in that Mercedes seat. She played fair for a year, taking her role as second driver in her stride. At the end of the season, Ciela was 2nd with Lewis taking the World Championship home.

2018 was a different story. Ciela's gloves were off, and she went fighting for it. Alexia reminded her that she hadn't worked this hard to play second best to someone else for the rest of her career. She hadn't taken two years at Williams to be number two. It was with that mentality that she went into 2017 fighting. If Lewis wanted his fifth, he could have it, but Ciela wasn't going to hand it to him, and she didn't. Ciela took home the Championship that year and again in 2019. There was a constant air of tension between Ciela and Lewis. He thought he deserved the top spot at Mercedes, but time and time again Ciela showed how she'd earned it.

Lewis retired at the end of 2019 after Ciela claimed her second, admitting his top sport at Mercedes was no longer his. Valtteri Bottas was Ciela's teammate for the seasons she claimed her 3rd and 4th, but after Toto had his next Ciela for the second seat. George Russell claimed the second Mercedes seat after that.

From there Ciela just grew in strength, she had the skill, she had the knowledge, and she had the backing. Nothing was going to stand in her way, and she wasn't going to have anything stand in her way either.

Alexia Putellas Segura

Date of Birth – February 4th, 1994

Barcelona – No.11

Spain – No.11

La Reina 

Alexia was a quiet girl from Mollet del Vallès. The quiet home life, her family around her. A girl who loved football more than anything else, but that was never a dream. Girls don't become footballers; they could play football, but they never became footballers. Football and Barcelona were just a hobby, something she did for fun. Until it wasn't, it became Alexia's reality, and that reality was she was a footballer; that is what she'd become. It wasn't as glamorous at the start as the media makes her life out to be; it was actually anything but. That all changed with the Ballon d'Or's. She wasn't Alexia Putellas, a girl from Mollet del Vallès; she was La Reina. She was a symbol, a brand, a name people knew. She was suddenly so much more than she'd ever thought.

The only constant throughout the change was her family and her biggest cheerleader, Ciela. Ciela had believed in Alexia every moment she hadn't, when people told her she was delusional, Ciela was the one making her believe the delusion, her saying, 'only delusional people get what they want'. So, they believed in the delusion together, and it turned out that Ciela was right; two delusional people got exactly what they wanted, every last bit of it. One, the Captain of Spain and Barcelona, the other driving cars at 150 mph, winning titles as she went.

Every title win, every award, every possible match, she could Alexia always knew there was only one pair of eyes on her that belonged to her. Even when they weren't, she knew where they were, and they were watching a screen, probably avoiding what they should actually be doing, but they would never break from her. Even if she couldn't hear the screams and the cheers herself, Alexia always knew they were there. Somewhere across the world, her face would be on display in the Mercedes motorhome, her biggest cheerleader watching one, eyes never breaking from the screen, and that had been a promise that had never changed.

Ciela kept Alexia's feet firmly on the floor, but so did Alexia with Ciela. They had been swept up into a world that they never thought they belonged in. They'd gone from the streets of Mollet del Vallès to being World Champions. It didn't matter how much money sat in their bank accounts, the sponsorship deals they were a part of, whenever their worlds got too much, they always had the other to ground them. Back home in Barcelona, they were Ciela and Alexia, those two little girls who were the best of friends, two people who fell in love with their best friend.  

Emiliano Lloris Castro

Date of Birth – October 17th, 1950

Ana Díaz Martín

Date of Birth – March 22nd, 1964 

The Parents 

Santiago Lloris Díaz

Date of Birth – April 28th, 1990

Xavier Lloris Díaz

Date of Birth – April 28th, 1990

The Older Brothers

Santiago + Laura Friedrich (Date of Birth - February 27th, 1984)

What started at a conference ended up migrating to the bar after dinner and in the end was a one night stand with none other and Santiago's boss Laura. Except that night didn't end they way they thought it would. It wasn't just one night. One night became a string of office hook up and late night hotel rooms. It also became the reason a plastic test sat on a bathroom counter with two very pink lines on it. There official relationship wasn't instantaneous, Laura was the boss who had been hooking up a younger employee and now she was pregnant with her baby. While Laura had always wanted to be the corporate girl at the top of the ladder, she also wanted to be a mum and as weird as the circumstance were Santiago had given her that. They were a slow burn but being pregnant and having Diego made them both realise just how much they actually liked each other. That maybe the label of hook ups had been a cover for the real feelings. It turns out it was because five children later they were still together and stronger than ever.

Diego Lloris Diaz (Date of Birth - January 2nd, 2014)

Felipe Lloris Diaz (Date of Birth - November 29th, 2015)

Andres Lloris Diaz (Date of Birth - July 7th, 2017)

Rafael + Julio Lloris Diaz (Date of Birth - September 14th, 2019)

Xavier

Xavier, on the other hand, was the player of the group. If a wedding and a divorce were to be had, Xavier was having it. A drunk trip to Vegas at the age of 21 was the first time Xavier got married; it was also the first time he got divorced. Waking up with a wedding ring on his finger and an American girl in his bed was the start of a very slippery slope. The next was at 24, after backpacking around Southeast Asia, Xavier landed in Australia for that leg of the trip. The very first night, he met an Australian girl, and from his perspective, it was love at first sight. They spent six months traveling Australia together, and at the end of their trip, they got married. The illusion soon broke when Xavier went home, and they got divorced six months later. At 28, it finally looked like Xavier had settled down with a lovely Spanish girl he'd met at work. She had met the family, been a part of everyone's lives for three years, so when Xavier mentioned popping the question, everyone supported him. The wedding came and went, and it was a lovely day, and Xavier felt like he'd finally met his happy ever after. Except for a year later, when Xavier came home to see her cheating on him in their bed. That led to them getting a divorce, and it also led to divorce number four. Another trip to Vegas to let loose after everything was just the beginning as the trip ended the same as the first time. A drunk night at the casinos and bars, a dip in a fountain, and a trip to a wedding chapel with another blonde American.

Jaume Putellas Rota

Elisabet Segura Sabate

Alba Putellas Segura

The In-Laws

FC Barcelona Femení

Spain Women's National Football Team

Toto Wolff

Date of Birth – January 12th, 1972

The Team Principal 

Team principals were never meant to have favourites, except they all did, and Toto was no exception. It's like parents with their children, they're never meant to have a favourite, but everyone knows they do, and every sibling knows if they're the favourite or not. Ciela was the favourite she always had been.

Toto had spotted Ciela right at the start, and from that first race, he knew she was going to be something big, and she had proved him right. He might not have had a seat to offer her but in that moment the connections he had paid off. He gave her the opportunity to get used to F1 and once Ciela had, had the time to make it click he got to see the benefits of that in a Mercedes. 

Lucas Keller 

Date of Birth - May 17th, 1994 

The Race Engineer/ The Work Husband

They say when you know you know. Two people at the very start of their career who would go on to do it together … all of it. The greatest driver and engineer pairing to grace the Formula One grid. Everyone always focused on the driver, and while a good driver went a long way, a driver was never anything without the team behind them.

Lucas was a recent engineering graduate who had just secured his first job out of University working as an engineer at Williams. His role was never to be a race engineer he was simple a bottom of the food chain engineer. He was the newbie, the rookie.

Lucas and Ciela met on Ciela's very first day at Williams. Ciela had made a point to herself to introduce herself to everyone and get to know them all. She wasn’t above them because she was a driver, and she also wanted an in with the factory. Ciela wanted to help. Lucas was sitting at a desk in the corner, minding his own business when he first met Ciela. It was a quiet conversation, a simple introduction with the regular small talk. Nothing to write home about or really remember, it was a normal conversation. It wasn’t until two weeks later, when Ciela had been told to come and find Lucas about telemetry data, that everything clicked into place like it hadn’t before.

The pair of them spent hours reviewing that data, laughing about the most random things and getting completely off track on multiple occasions. Something just clicked in Ciela’s brain. Lucas knew what he was talking about; he knew that data inside and out. He wasn’t shouting; he wasn’t stressed … he was just calm. He didn’t treat her any less than anyone else when she was unsure about anything. Lucas had taken the time to explain and make sure Ciela understood, and by the end of that session both of them were talking like experts.

Ciela had been working with a man named Arthur, an older man in his early fifties. Arthur had worked his way up through F1 and was expected to be Ciela's race engineer, except that while everything was working on his end, nothing was working on Ciela's end.

One day, on a sim session, Ciela appeared at Lucas's desk asking if he would be able to fill in for Arthur. Ciela framed it as if she needed someone to fill in and Lucas knew the data and the charts best, but in reality it was all a test. Their conversation a couple of weeks earlier had set this all off in her head. Ciela needed someone looking at those charts who knew what they were talking about and who would feed her that information as she was driving. Ciela wanted to know what was going on at every point of the race. That sim session confirmed everything to Ciela … she knew who she needed and who she wanted on the other side for her.

It took her weeks to convince management and other senior officials at the team that even though Lucas was a new engineer with barely any experience, he was the right fit to be her race engineer. The looks on the boardroom table were the looks exchanged when people think a little girl didn’t know what she was talking about, but everyone failed to realise Ciela knew exactly what she was talking about. Eventually she managed to convince the team that Lucas was the right fit.  

When the confirmation came to Ciela, if Lucas said yes, they would allow it. Ciela popped up at Lucas's desk with a smile on her face, and Lucas would forever call it suspicion. That smile came with an opportunity, an opportunity that Lucas reluctantly took.

He was new, Ciela was new, and both of them worked together to prove they both belonged.

Valtteri Bottas

Date of Birth - August 28th, 1989

Race Number - No. 77

Teammate - 2015 - 2016

Lewis Hamilton

Date of Birth - January 7th, 1985

Race Number - No. 44

Teammate - 2017 - 2021

George Russell

Date of Birth - February 15th, 1998

Race Number - No. 63

Teammate - 2022 - 2027

F1 Grid

F1 WAG's

Alexia had looked up the route four times.

This was not normal.

Alexia Putellas did not look up routes four times. Alexia Putellas knew Barcelona like most people knew the layout of their own bedroom in the dark. She knew which streets became blocked without warning because somebody had decided to move furniture through a doorway that had been built before modern furniture existed. She knew which cafés served coffee strong enough to correct your posture. She knew which shortcuts worked on a weekday and which only worked if the city was in a merciful mood. She had an internal map made of childhood, football, errands, family, and years of driving through the same streets with half her mind already at training.

But she had looked up the clinic four times.

Once in bed the night they booked the appointment, while Jay was asleep beside her with one hand still curled loosely against Alexia's hip. Once at breakfast two days later, pretending to check a message while her toast went cold. Once in the dressing room after training when she thought nobody was looking, although Mapi was always looking and had stared at her phone with suspicious interest until Alexia had said, without lifting her eyes, "Do not," and Mapi had wandered off pretending to be innocent, which was one of her least convincing performances. And once that morning, standing in the kitchen with her coffee in her hand, opening the map, closing it, then opening it again as if the building might have moved overnight.

Jay had noticed.

Of course Jay had noticed.

Jay noticed everything when it came to Alexia, especially the things Alexia thought she was hiding well. Jay, who could lose her own sunglasses while wearing them, could identify a half second change in Alexia's breathing from across a room. Jay, who once walked into the pantry and came out holding a screwdriver, two protein bars and no explanation that satisfied anybody, could tell when Alexia's thumb moved too many times over the handle of her coffee mug. Her mind was chaos in public and a surveillance system where Alexia was concerned.

But Jay had not said anything about the maps.

This, in Alexia's private estimation, was an act of profound love, discipline and personal development. She filed it away with great seriousness under Jay, evidence of growth, do not mock unless provoked.

They took Jay's car.

That had been Jay's suggestion, made two days before the appointment in the specific casual voice she used when she had already thought about something from every possible angle and then tried to present it as if it had floated gently into her head.

"We can take mine on Thursday," Jay had said, standing at the kitchen island with one hip against the counter, peeling an orange badly because Jay approached fruit as if it had personally challenged her. "Might be easier."

Alexia had looked at her over the rim of her glass. "Easier for who?"

"For... the general situation."

"The general situation."

"Yeah."

Alexia had watched her for a moment, taking in the too loose shrug, the careful lack of eye contact, the orange peel hanging off her thumb in one tragic strip. Jay was trying not to say that she knew Alexia preferred being in the passenger seat when there was too much in her head. That driving forced Alexia into a kind of competence she could perform even when nervous, but the performance cost her, and Jay had seen that too many times not to adapt around it. She was not saying any of this because Jay was sometimes very good at loving Alexia quietly, even though her personality suggested she should have been incapable of doing anything quietly.

So Alexia had said, "Fine," and Jay had nodded once, far too calmly, before getting orange juice on her own wrist and saying, "This fruit is structurally hostile."

Now, on the morning of the appointment, Alexia sat in the passenger seat with the city passing in pale late morning light, one hand resting on her thigh and the other folded into Jay's.

It was a Thursday. There was no training in the afternoon, which was either very fortunate scheduling or something Jay had engineered with Julia and then lied about through omission. Alexia was not entirely sure and had chosen not to ask because she suspected the answer would involve a group chat, three people sworn to secrecy, and Jay describing herself as "logistically chill," which was a phrase no one who knew Jay would survive hearing.

The appointment was at eleven.

They had tried to have a normal morning.

Breakfast. Coffee. Jay talking about something she had read the night before, which had started as a comment about sleep cycles and somehow become a theory about whether pigeons understood capitalism. Alexia had listened, mostly because Jay's hands moved when she talked and because there was comfort in the familiar absurdity of it. The apartment had smelled of coffee and toast and the citrus soap Alexia used in the shower. The light had fallen across the kitchen tiles in the same way it did every morning.

Everything was usual.

Nothing was usual.

There was a frequency underneath the morning, a low current neither of them named. Alexia had felt it from the moment she opened her eyes, that warm, nervy thing in her chest that had been growing since the conversation.

Jay had been quieter than usual.

Not silent. Jay Jones was constitutionally incapable of silence before noon. Silence, to Jay, was not a natural state but an emergency condition, like a power cut or a suspicious smell near the fridge. But she had been quieter. Thoughtful. The softer version of herself, the one whose humour came slower and whose attention stayed closer to Alexia's face.

At one point, Alexia had reached for her coffee and found Jay's hand already moving across the table. Jay covered her fingers without saying anything. Alexia turned her hand over and held on. They sat like that for a while, coffee cooling, toast half-eaten, a conversation about pigeons abandoned in the air between them.

"Ready?" Jay had asked eventually, her voice gentle enough to make Alexia's throat tighten.

Alexia had nodded. "Sí. Ready."

Now, in the car, Jay drove with one hand on the wheel and the other holding Alexia's hand near the centre console, thumb moving slowly over her knuckles. Music played low, something familiar and unobtrusive, one of the playlists Jay made and then denied were romantic despite containing an offensively high number of songs clearly chosen because Alexia once said she liked them.

"You have checked the road again in your head," Jay said after ten minutes.

Alexia turned her head. "I have not."

"You did the eyes."

"What eyes?"

"The route eyes."

"I do not have route eyes."

"You absolutely have route eyes. They go slightly narrow and captainy. Like you are about to tell the satnav it lacks discipline."

Alexia looked out of the window because she was smiling and did not want to reward this. "You are imagining things."

"Babe, I once watched you argue with Google Maps because it wanted us to turn left and you said, and I quote, 'No, this street is emotionally inefficient.'"

"It was inefficient."

"It was a road."

"It was a bad road."

Jay brought Alexia's hand to her mouth and kissed her knuckles, eyes still on the traffic. "We're going the right way, Ale."

"I know."

"I know you know."

"Then why are you telling me?"

"Because sometimes knowing and feeling are different things."

Alexia looked at her then, the smile fading into something softer.

Jay did not look back because she was driving, but her thumb kept moving over Alexia's hand with that familiar, grounding rhythm. It was such a small thing. A thumb over skin. A hand held without ceremony. But Alexia felt herself loosen around it. Jay had always been this strange combination of chaos and precision, all fast mouth and restless limbs until the exact second Alexia needed steadiness, and then she became a place.

The clinic appeared almost too quietly.

A clean building with a discreet plaque by the door, no large sign, no dramatic glass frontage, nothing that announced miracles or science or hope. It had the understated confidence of somewhere used to receiving people on important days and understanding that importance did not need decoration. Inside, it was warm and bright, with soft chairs, pale wood, plants that looked genuinely alive rather than medically assigned, and a reception desk where a woman greeted them with professional kindness that did not feel rehearsed.

Alexia gave her name.

Jay stood beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched, not touching her waist, not fussing, not hovering. Just there. Alexia loved her so much in that moment it became briefly inconvenient to breathing.

They checked in and were directed to the waiting area.

The waiting room had three other people in it. A couple sitting with their knees pressed together, whispering. A woman alone, reading the same page of a magazine without turning it. Another couple by the window, hands linked so tightly their knuckles had gone pale. Everyone carried something invisible. Hope, fear, grief, patience, longing. The room was full of quiet, but not empty quiet. It was the kind of quiet that had weight.

Jay sat beside Alexia.

Their arms touched from shoulder to elbow. Jay's knee began to bounce after approximately twelve seconds, a rapid little movement that shook through the sofa. Alexia put her hand on it without looking. The bouncing stopped instantly.

"Sorry," Jay murmured.

"Don't be sorry."

"I'm not nervous."

"I know."

"I'm just, you know." Jay looked around the room, taking in the plants, the soft lighting, the pamphlets arranged on a side table. "It's real today."

Alexia threaded their fingers together. "Sí. It's real today bebe.”

Jay looked at her for a second, all blue eyes and something unguarded beneath the joke she had not made. Then she leaned in and kissed Alexia's temple. She stayed there longer than necessary, lips warm against her hair, and Alexia closed her eyes for half a breath.

"Alexia?" a nurse called gently from the doorway.

They stood at the same time.

The nurse introduced herself as Marta as she led them through the corridor, and she had the precise quality of a person who had done her job long enough to be fully competent and had somehow not allowed competence to harden into distance. She told them she had been working in fertility care for eleven years, said it with a warmth that suggested those eleven years still mattered to her, then guided them into a consultation room.

It was not arranged like a normal medical office. There was a desk against one wall, yes, but on the other side were two sofas facing each other with a low coffee table in between. Someone had put thought into it. Someone had understood that some conversations did not belong across a desk.

"We like to start here," Marta said, gesturing towards the sofas. "Before we get into the clinical details. Less formal. People breathe a little better."

"Good," Jay said, then immediately looked faintly embarrassed because she had spoken with more feeling than the word required.

Alexia smiled and sat down. Jay sat beside her without hesitation, because sitting separately did not occur to either of them anymore unless someone was angry, injured, or being stubborn in a way that required furniture for emphasis.

Marta took the opposite sofa, folder resting in her lap. She looked at both of them, not over them, not through them, not with the fascinated recognition people sometimes had when they realised who Alexia was. Just at them.

"So," she said. "Tell me what you're thinking. What brought you here and what you're hoping for. Use your own words. No pressure. Start wherever it makes sense to start."

Alexia looked at Jay.

Jay looked at Alexia.

"You start," Jay said quietly.

Alexia lifted an eyebrow. "Why me?"

"Because you're better at starting things than me."

"That is not true."

"It is true. I'm better at the middle."

"You start things all the time."

"I start things impulsively. You start things intentionally. This should be intentional."

Marta's mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but close. The expression of a woman who had been doing this for eleven years and had probably heard every possible variation of who speaks first and why, but still found some couples more revealing than others.

Alexia turned to Marta and took a breath.

"We want a baby," she said.

The words landed simply.

Not dramatic. Not shaking. Just true.

Jay's hand found hers immediately.

Alexia let herself hold it. "We have decided. We want to use a donor, and I would carry, if everything is right."

Marta nodded and wrote something down. "Okay. That's a good place to start. And in terms of donor, have you thought about what you're looking for? Anonymous or known, any particular priorities?"

"Anonymous," Jay said at once.

It came out quicker than she intended. Alexia felt it in the room, the sharpness of Jay's certainty, not aggressive but protective. Marta looked at her, open and calm, and Jay straightened slightly.

"Anonymous," Jay repeated, more measured now. "We talked about it. We want clean lines. The baby has two parents and that's us. No complications with someone we know. No third person in the picture, not emotionally, legally, socially, any of it." She paused, then glanced at Alexia as if checking she had not overstepped. "That's still right?"

Alexia squeezed her hand. "That is still right. Anonymous. Sí."

"Completely reasonable," Marta said. "Very common preference. And there are different legal and clinic structures depending on the setting, but here we'll walk you through exactly what anonymity means in our process, what information you will have, and what you will not have."

Jay nodded with the intensity of someone restraining herself from opening a document.

Alexia knew the document existed.

Of course she did.

Jay had tried to call it "just a few notes," which was insulting to both of them because Jay's "few notes" had headings, subheadings, colour coding, bullet points and a tab titled Emotional Variables, which Alexia had seen by accident and then chosen not to discuss because she loved Jay and also because she needed time to recover from the phrase emotional variables.

"And donor characteristics?" Marta asked. "There are physical characteristics, health screening details, family health history, education, interests, sometimes activity background. You may already know what matters to you. You may not. That's also okay."

Alexia looked at her hands.

Then she looked at Marta.

"Spanish," she said.

Jay became very still beside her.

Not tense. Not withdrawn. Listening. Giving her the space.

Alexia swallowed. "I want a Spanish donor."

Marta's face softened with understanding. "It's important to you that the baby has Spanish heritage."

"Sí," Alexia said. "It is important." She searched for the right shape of the words in English, though the feeling in her chest was Spanish, Catalan, Barcelona, home. "I am Spanish. My family is Spanish. Everything I am is rooted here. My mother, my sister, the language, the city, the way we are. This baby, if we are lucky enough to have one, will grow up here. In this place. With my family. With this culture. I want them to have that from both sides, from me and from the donor." She paused, hand tightening slightly in Jay's. "I want them to feel of here. To belong here the way I belong here."

Marta nodded and wrote.

Jay said nothing.

That silence, from Jay, meant more than words could have. Jay, who could fill any room with charm and noise, had gone quiet because Alexia was saying something sacred and she knew not to put herself in the centre of it.

"And for you?" Marta asked, turning gently to Jay. "Do you have any feelings about that? Any preferences you want to name?"

Jay looked at Alexia first.

Then at Marta.

"Whatever she wants," she said simply.

Marta waited, giving her the chance to expand.

Jay took it, but carefully. "I mean it. Whatever she needs for this to feel right, that's what we do. The Spanish donor matters to her, and I understand why. It makes complete sense to me. So that's what we're doing."

She rubbed her thumb over Alexia's hand once. "My main thing is health. I want the screening to be thorough. I want to know what can be known. Family history, genetic screening, all of it. Not because I think you can control everything, I know you can't, but if there's information, I want us to have it."

"The health screening is extensive," Marta said. "We will go through that in detail."

"Good," Jay said, exhaling. "Then the rest is Alexia's call."

"It is our call," Alexia corrected softly.

Jay looked at her.

Alexia held her gaze. "You don't disappear because the donor is Spanish."

Something flickered in Jay's face.

It was tiny, there and gone, but Alexia caught it. Jay's old fear had many disguises. Sometimes it looked like jokes. Sometimes like over preparation. Sometimes like making herself smaller in places where she thought Alexia's needs mattered more. Alexia had learned that love, with Jay, sometimes meant putting a hand on her chest and reminding her she was not an optional part of her own life.

Jay nodded, voice lower when she answered. "Our call."

Marta's expression warmed. She looked down at her notes for a second, perhaps giving them privacy inside the same room, then said, "Okay. Let's talk through the process."

The process took nearly an hour.

Marta was clear and patient. She explained the broad route, the assessments, the donor matching system, the screenings, the timelines, the procedure options, what the first attempt might look like, what follow up would involve, and what was normal to feel at different stages. Alexia listened carefully, asking the questions that mattered to her body and her career, recovery time, appointment scheduling, hormones, side effects, what would be checked before anything went ahead. Jay listened like she was studying for an exam that controlled the fate of the universe.

Eventually, she took out her phone.

Alexia saw Marta's eyes flick down to it.

Jay's document appeared.

Of course it did.

Colour coded.

Of course.

"Jay," Alexia said quietly.

"What?" Jay whispered.

"You don't have to open the control centre."

"It's not a control centre."

"It has tabs."

“Tabs are not control. Tabs are structure."

Marta looked up from the folder. "Tabs can be very helpful."

Jay pointed at Marta without looking away from Alexia. "See?"

Alexia turned to Marta with a look of betrayal. "You have encouraged her."

"I support preparedness," Marta said, with complete professionalism.

Jay leaned closer to Alexia, murmuring, "Marta gets it."

"Marta is being polite."

"Marta respects tabs."

"Marta has known you for forty minutes."

"And already sees my value."

Alexia pressed her lips together, refusing to laugh. She failed when Jay's face settled into a look of solemn vindication, the exact same expression she wore after successfully opening a stubborn jar.

"Fine," Alexia said. "Ask from the tabs."

Jay brightened so visibly that even Marta had to look down at her notes for a moment.

The questions were, annoyingly, good. Donor profile detail. Health screening thresholds. Timing around football schedules. What happens if the first attempt fails. How much physical rest is recommended. What emotional support the clinic offers. How they explain donor conception to children later, if parents choose to discuss it early and naturally. Jay asked each question with careful seriousness and occasionally had to pause because Alexia rested her hand on the back of her neck and her brain visibly tried to leave the building.

At one point, Marta said, "You're very prepared."

Jay nodded. "I had a colour coded document."

"I can see that."

"There were tabs."

"There are many tabs," Alexia said.

"The tabs were legitimate."

"They multiplied overnight."

"They evolved."

Marta smiled. "I've seen far less organised approaches."

Jay looked at Alexia with the expression of a woman receiving royal honours.

Alexia narrowed her eyes. "Do not become unbearable."

"I'm already unbearable. This is just evidence based unbearable."

By the time Marta finished explaining the donor selection process, Alexia felt steadier. The thing she had been carrying inside her chest since morning had not disappeared, but it had changed form. It was no longer a fog of what ifs. It had edges now. Steps. Information. A path, not simple, not guaranteed, but visible.

Marta closed the folder slightly. "Any more questions for today?"

Jay looked at her phone.

Alexia saw the movement. "No."

Jay froze. "You don't know that."

"I know you."

"There is one more section."

"No."

"It's a small section."

"Jay."

"It's labelled miscellaneous but emotionally relevant."

Alexia closed her eyes. "Dios mío."

Marta coughed lightly into her hand.

Jay looked at Marta. "One question."

Alexia looked at Jay. "One."

Jay scrolled. "Okay. When we look at donor profiles, how do people know? I mean, obviously they read them, but how do people know when one feels right? Because it's data, but it isn't only data. And I know you can't answer for us, but in your experience..."

The humour left the room gently.

Marta's face softened.

"That's a very good question," she said. "Some people choose based almost entirely on health and physical characteristics. Some want education or interests. Some want the donor to share heritage, like you've said. Some read a small piece of information and something settles. There isn't one correct way to know. But I will say this, if you're choosing together, and you both feel calm when you land on someone, that's worth listening to. Not excitement only. Calm."

Jay nodded, but she had gone quieter.

Alexia looked at her, at the profile of her face, at the way she was absorbing every word like she wanted to build their future correctly from the first brick.

Marta looked between them. "May I say something?"

They both turned to her.

"In eleven years," Marta said, "I've had many couples in this room. All kinds. Some nervous, some excited, some grieving, some ready, some not quite ready but trying to be. And there are some people you can tell, quite quickly, are here for the right reasons. You listen to each other. You make room for each other. You're going to be extraordinary parents."

The room went still.

Jay made a sound.

Small, almost nothing, but Alexia felt it like a hand around her heart.

Alexia reached for Jay without looking. Their fingers found each other immediately, the automatic click of two bodies that knew where safety was.

"Gracias," Alexia said, her voice steadier than she felt.

"De nada," Marta replied.

Jay stared down at their joined hands.

For a moment, she looked younger. Not in her face exactly, but in the part of her that still stood in old doorways waiting to see whether anyone came back. Alexia wanted to pull her into her body and keep her there. Instead, because they were in a clinic and Marta was still holding a folder and Jay would probably combust if Alexia mothered her too openly in front of a medical professional, she lifted Jay's hand to her mouth and kissed her knuckles.

Jay breathed out.

"Right," Jay said, voice slightly rough. "Tab five, timeline from initial assessment to first attempt."

Alexia gave her hand a squeeze. "Bebé."

Jay looked at her.

"We can ask the tab five questions next time."

Jay looked at the phone. Then at Marta. Then back at Alexia. "Right. Yeah. Okay. Next time."

She put the phone away as if it cost her something.

Marta's smile was discreet but undeniable.

They left with a printed folder, a digital access process explained, next steps clearly laid out, and Jay holding the paperwork as if someone had handed her a newborn bird.

Outside, Barcelona had continued without them.

The street was bright and warm. Cars moved. A man crossed the road while speaking into his phone with one hand and carrying bread in the other. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed too loudly at a café table. The city did not know that Alexia and Jay had just walked out of a building having taken the first real step towards something that might change the entire shape of their lives.

Jay stood on the pavement and looked at the street.

Then at the folder.

Then at Alexia.

"Okay," Jay said.

Alexia smiled. "Okay."

"We did the first thing."

"We did the first thing," Alexia confirmed.

Jay nodded, looking as if she was attempting to catalogue the emotional significance of pavement. "A Spanish donor."

"Sí."

"So the baby is going to be Spanish."

"The baby is going to be Spanish."

"Spanish like you."

"Like me," Alexia said, and felt the warmth of it bloom in her chest. "And they will grow up here. They will speak Spanish and Catalan and English, because you will talk too much for them not to learn English. They will know this city. They will know my mother's kitchen, and Alba's opinions, and what it means when everyone is quiet before a final."

Jay was watching her with complete attention now.

"Tell me more," she said.

Alexia looked at the street, at the buildings, the balconies, the familiar sun on familiar stone. "I want them to belong here," she said. "Not as visitors. Not because I tell them they belong, but because they feel it. I want them to know where to get the good bread. I want them to know which streets smell like rain first. I want them to hear Spanish in the house and Catalan with my mother and English when you are pretending not to panic about something."

"I don't pretend not to panic."

"You absolutely do."

"I manage my panic with charisma."

"You manage it with tabs."

"Tabs are charismatic if you understand them properly."

Alexia laughed softly, then continued, "I want them to have my family. Our family. I want them to fight with Alba's children at Christmas about something very stupid and then fall asleep on the sofa together. I want Eli to feed them too much and tell us they are too thin even if they are perfectly fine."

Jay smiled. "Your mum will do that."

"She will. And you will believe her and start making emergency pasta."

"I respect Eli's authority."

"You fear her."

"I respect and fear her. That's balance."

Alexia turned to face her fully. "And I want them to have you."

Jay's smile softened.

"All the things that are not biology," Alexia said. "Your laugh. Your hands. The way you make everything less frightening because you are ridiculous and brave at the same time. The way you notice when someone needs space and when someone needs to be held. The way you turn every bad day into something survivable."

Jay blinked too quickly.

"Ale."

Alexia stepped into her space, taking the folder gently from Jay's hands and tucking it under her own arm because Jay looked like she might forget she was holding it. Then she took Jay's face between both hands and kissed her.

Right there on the pavement outside the clinic.

The kiss was warm and full and completely certain. Jay's hands came to Alexia's waist immediately, respectful because they were in public, affectionate because they were alive, hers because that was just how Jay touched her. A woman passing by smiled at them, the kind of smile people gave when they saw something soft and real and were wise enough not to interrupt it.

When Alexia pulled back, Jay's eyes were bright.

"Lunch," Jay said, because sometimes she escaped emotion through logistics.

"Lunch," Alexia agreed.

"And then I'm reading the entire folder."

"I assumed."

“Properly."

"Of course."

"With tabs."

"It is a printed folder."

"I'll add tabs."

Alexia sighed. "Claro. Naturally."

Jay took her hand, linking their fingers with exaggerated innocence. "For the baby."

"The baby does not exist yet."

"Spiritually, the baby deserves organisation."

"The baby is not spiritual paperwork."

"Not with that attitude."

Alexia laughed, and Jay grinned like she had been waiting for the sound all morning.

They walked into the city with the folder under Alexia's arm, their hands clasped, Jay leaning over every few streets to kiss her cheek, her temple, the corner of her mouth when the crossing light held them too long. Alexia pretended to be annoyed after the fifth kiss, mostly because Jay looked pleased when she did.

"People are watching," Alexia murmured.

"Good. They'll know I'm committed to civic romance."

"That is not a thing."

"It is now."

“You are making up public policy."

"I'm very influential."

"You are very annoying."

"And loved."

Alexia squeezed her hand. "Sí, guapa. Unfortunately, very loved."

That evening, they did not look at the folder until after dinner.

This was Alexia's doing.

Jay had tried to look at it four times after they got home. Once in the hallway, still wearing her shoes. Once while putting her jacket away, as if the folder might open itself if she stood close enough. Once while Alexia was filling a glass of water. Once, most offensively, while pretending to wipe the kitchen counter with the intense absent-mindedness of someone who had placed the folder beside the fruit bowl and was now orbiting it like a restless moon.

"No," Alexia said eventually.

Jay froze with one hand on the folder. "I wasn't."

"You were."

"I was tidying."

"You were stalking the paperwork."

"It looked lonely."

“After dinner."

Jay looked at the folder, then at Alexia. "What if the portal expires?"

"It does not expire in two hours."

"What if it senses neglect?"

"It is a medical portal, bebé, not a houseplant."

Jay sighed in the tragic manner of a woman denied access to destiny. "Fine. After dinner."

They cooked together because neither of them wanted to be alone with their thoughts for too long, and cooking together gave their hands something to do. Alexia was systematic. Jay was improvisational. This meant Alexia chopped vegetables into even pieces while Jay added spices based on "emotional brightness," which had once led to an incident with smoked paprika that no one in the house had fully recovered from.

Tonight, Jay behaved.

Mostly.

She still attempted to add chilli to something that did not need chilli, and Alexia caught her wrist mid air without looking away from the pan.

"No."

"You don't even know what I was doing."

"You were bringing chaos."

"I was bringing depth."

"You were bringing indigestion."

Jay lowered the chilli with a defeated dignity that lasted until Alexia kissed her cheek in passing, after which she immediately brightened and said, "Worth it."

They ate at the island, talking deliberately about things that were not the portal. Training. Lucy's latest dramatic voice note. Mapi claiming she had "excellent baby energy" despite having once taught a toddler to say "referee corruption" at a family lunch. A press request Julia had sent that Jay had accidentally answered with a thumbs up reaction and then felt haunted by for seven minutes.

Normal things.

The texture of a normal evening.

Except there was a folder on the kitchen counter.

In the folder there was an access code.

The access code led to a portal.

In the portal there were profiles.

And somewhere among those numbered profiles was a possibility.

After dinner, Jay did the dishes because Alexia had cooked, and Alexia sat at the island watching her. Jay washed with unusual precision, as if clean plates might bring emotional order to the universe. Her shoulders were a little tight. Every now and then she looked at the folder and looked away quickly, as if caught having inappropriate thoughts about paperwork.

Alexia got up and crossed the kitchen.

Jay turned off the tap.

"Now?" she asked.

Alexia picked up the folder. "Now."

Jay followed her to the sofa like a woman being led into a Champions League final and a tax audit simultaneously.

They sat close together, thighs touching, the folder on the coffee table. Jay opened it carefully. Inside were several pages of information they had already been given and one card with the portal address and access code. Alexia reached for her phone.

"You do it," she said.

Jay immediately shook her head. "No, you do it."

"Why me?"

"Because it should be you who opens it."

"Why?"

Jay searched for the words, then gave up and offered the truth. "Because this matters to you in a way that's older than me being here. The Spanish thing. The carrying. The connection to this place. I'm in it, I know I'm in it, but this bit feels like your hand should be the first one on the door."

Alexia stared at her.

Jay looked faintly panicked. "Unless that sounded insane."

Alexia leaned over and kissed her once, soft and immediate. "No. It sounded like you."

"That could still mean insane."

"It means beautiful."

Jay went very quiet.

Alexia entered the address before either of them could become too full. The portal loaded cleanly, all white space and careful design. She typed the code. For one second nothing happened.

Jay stopped breathing.

Then the screen changed.

A list appeared.

Numbers instead of names.

Donor 0047. Donor 0112. Donor 0203. Donor 0219.

More below.

They sat looking at it.

"Okay," Jay whispered.

“Okay," Alexia whispered back.

"That's a lot of numbers."

"It is."

"Are we meant to just click one?"

"I think so."

"In any order?"

"I think so."

Jay leaned closer, squinting slightly at the screen. "That feels lawless."

"It is a list."

"It's an unstructured list. There's a difference."

Alexia glanced at her. "You want a system."

Jay's face said yes with the intensity of fireworks. Her mouth said, "Not necessarily."

"Jay."

"I think maybe criteria first would help."

"You want a donor spreadsheet."

"I didn't say spreadsheet."

"You thought spreadsheet."

"I briefly respected the concept."

Alexia leaned back against the sofa, amused despite the weight of the moment. "Okay. Criteria."

Jay straightened as if called to the board. "Health first. Highest possible screening, good family history, no major flags."

"Sí."

"Spanish."

"Obviously."

"Anonymous."

“That is the clinic structure."

"Good. Then, physical characteristics, we don't need to be weird about it, but maybe height, general build, things like that."

Alexia watched her carefully. "And?"

Jay hesitated.

"And?" Alexia repeated, because she knew her.

"Athletic background," Jay said quickly.

Alexia stared.

Jay lifted both hands. "I'm not saying we're scouting a striker."

"You are absolutely scouting a striker."

"I am not. I'm saying athletic background is relevant."

"For a donor."

"For a child being raised by two professional footballers."

"Our child may want to be a musician."

"Great. Lung capacity from sport helps with wind instruments."

"Our child may want to be a painter."

"Excellent hand eye coordination."

"Our child may want to be a lawyer."

"Competitive mindset."

Alexia's mouth twitched. "You have prepared arguments."

"I anticipated pushback."

"You anticipated correctly."

Jay leaned in, earnest now. "I'm not saying they have to play football. I don't want that pressure. But if they do want to run, jump, kick things, climb furniture, terrorise Mapi, whatever, I want them to have a body that lets them enjoy it. That's all."

Alexia looked at her for a long moment.

Then she sighed. "Athletic background. Fine."

Jay's face lit up. "Really?"

“Si bebe.”

"You understand the methodology."

"I understand that if I say no, you will give me a speech called Physical Literacy and the Future of Our Hypothetical Child."

Jay looked offended. "That title is actually strong."

"No speeches."

"Fine."

They clicked the first profile.

Donor 0047.

Spanish, born in Madrid.

Jay's face did something immediate and small.

"No," she said.

Alexia turned her head slowly. "Jay."

"I know."

"You have read one line."

"I know."

"Madrid is a city, not a hereditary condition."

"I know."

"You are being irrational."

"I'm fully aware."

Alexia waited.

Jay looked at the screen again, visibly trying to be mature. "Maybe he's lovely."

"He might be."

“He might have excellent health scores."

"He does."

"He might be a generous donor who wants families to exist in many forms."

“Probably."

Jay nodded, solemn. "Next."

Alexia laughed so suddenly she had to put the phone down for a second. "You cannot eliminate a donor because of Madrid."

"I can, because you gave me shared decision making power."

"I regret this already."

"You said our call."

"I did not know you would use it for football prejudice."

"It's not football prejudice."

Alexia raised her eyebrows.

"It's... environmental caution."

"It is Real Madrid trauma."

"It's cultural pattern recognition."

"It is ridiculous."

"Both can be true."

Alexia opened the next profile, still laughing.

Donor 0112.

Spanish. Barcelona.

Jay's entire body relaxed.

Alexia pointed at her. "You see?”

“What?"

"You are impossible."

"I didn't say anything."

"Your shoulders said vamos."

Jay grinned. "Barcelona donor. Good start."

They read.

Twenty nine years old. Good height. Strong health scores, high across most categories. Clear family history. Education in engineering. Hobbies included hiking, reading, cooking, chess.

"Engineering," Jay said.

"Healthy," Alexia replied.

"Very healthy."

"Barcelona."

"Also true."

"Good family history."

"Excellent."

Alexia looked at her. "But?"

Jay tried to hide it and failed within half a second. "Not an athlete."

"He hikes."

"Lots of people hike. Hiking is walking with equipment."

"That is offensive to hikers guapa.”

"I respect hiking. I just don't know if it counts as athletic background."

"He plays chess."

"Wonderful. Our child can press high and understand bishops."

Alexia gave her a look.

Jay held up both hands. "I'm not saying no. I'm saying maybe."

"You are saying next."

"I'm saying maybe next."

They kept looking.

Some profiles were easy to pass over. Some had health histories they did not want to take on if they had other options. Some did not match the Spanish heritage Alexia wanted. Some were fine but did not settle. One listed "casual padel" as a regular activity, which made Jay sit up.

"Padel," she said.

"No."

"What do you mean no? Padel is athletic."

"Everyone in Spain plays padel, Jay. It is not a personality."

"It shows coordination."

"It shows he owns a racket."

"Coordination and disposable income."

“Next."

Another profile included "interest in motorcycles," and Alexia closed it so quickly Jay almost dropped the phone.

"Oi."

"No."

"You didn't even read the health section."

"No motorcycles."

"That feels targeted."

"It is targeted. I am not having a child genetically encouraged towards your Ducati."

"Motorcycle interest is not genetic."

"You do not know that."

“I'm pretty sure."

"No."

Jay sat back, muttering, "Biased process."

Alexia kissed her jaw. "Yes. Mine."

"Fair."

They went through profile after profile, and somewhere in the middle of it, the clinical feeling Alexia had feared never quite arrived. It did not feel like shopping. It did not feel cold. It felt strange, yes, and significant, but not wrong. They were not choosing a person to know. They were choosing information, history, possibility. They were choosing the most peaceful beginning they could give a child who would be theirs because of every day that came after.

Then Jay stopped scrolling.

"This one," she said.

Her voice was different.

Alexia looked at her, then at the screen.

Donor 0203.

Spanish. Valencia. Twenty eight years old.

The health scores were the highest they had seen.

Not simply good. Excellent across category after category, the clean, thorough kind of profile Jay had wanted from the first conversation. Family medical history was extensive. No notable concerns. Screening clear. The physical characteristics sat comfortably within what they had discussed.

Then Alexia saw it.

Competitive athlete. Regional track.

Jay was trying very hard not to look too pleased.

Alexia read the profile again, slowly. Valencia. Spanish. Excellent health. Athlete. Clean family history. There was a short personal statement at the end, brief because the clinic did not allow anything too identifying, but human enough to matter.

He wrote that family could take many forms, and he hoped his donation might help someone build theirs.

Alexia read that sentence three times.

The room became very quiet.

Jay did not speak.

That was how Alexia knew Jay felt it too.

She handed the phone to Jay. "Read the last part."

Jay took it.

Her face changed when she reached the statement.

Softened.

Opened.

"Yeah," Jay said after a moment.

"Sí," Alexia said.

“This one," Jay said.

"This one," Alexia agreed.

They sat in the warm living room with the phone glowing between them and the city outside the windows, normal and indifferent and beautiful. Donor 0203 on the screen. No name. No face. No guarantee. Just a beginning with numbers around it.

Jay set the phone carefully on the coffee table.

"We're going to remember that number," she said.

"We are going to remember."

"0203."

"Sí."

"Feels like a squad number."

“It does not."

"It does a little."

"Jay."

"I'm processing."

"You process everything through football or snacks."

"Both have structure."

Alexia laughed softly and leaned into Jay's side. Jay's arm came around her automatically, hand spreading warm over her waist. She kissed the top of Alexia's head, then her temple, then the corner of her jaw because Alexia was close and Jay never could resist a nearby Alexia.

"He's a runner," Jay said after a while.

“You noticed."

"I'm trying not to be unbearable about it."

"You are failing quietly."

"That's progress."

Alexia smiled into her shoulder.

Jay's fingers moved gently over her side. "I keep thinking about a child who can run. Not because they have to. Just, you know, if they want to. A child who feels strong in their body. Who can sprint down a beach or chase a ball or climb a tree and believe they belong in the world."

Alexia lifted her head.

Jay looked at her, slightly embarrassed by her own sincerity. "What?"

"You are already thinking about them as a person."

Jay's face went soft. "Aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Then don't look at me like I've done something strange."

"You have done something beautiful."

Jay made a noise. "Can you warn me before praise? I'm emotionally unprotected."

Alexia kissed her cheek. "No."

"Cruel."

"Spanish baby," Alexia murmured, turning back to the phone.

"The most Spanish baby," Jay said immediately.

Alexia laughed. "You cannot say the most Spanish baby."

"I can and I will. Spanish from you, Spanish donor, raised in Barcelona, fed by Eli, judged by Alba, corrected by you. That baby is going to come out with strong opinions about olive oil."

Alexia's laugh deepened. "And you?"

"I'll be the English woman trying very hard not to ruin the accent."

"You will ruin the accent a little."

“Rude."

"Truthful."

Jay sat up slightly. "I'm going to learn better Spanish."

Alexia looked at her. "Your Spanish is better."

"My Spanish is functional. I can order food, understand when Mapi is insulting me, and tell you you're beautiful in several emotionally important contexts."

"You once told Ingrid you were pregnant when you meant tired."

"That was a dark day."

"You said, 'Estoy embarazada,' very confidently."

"I was exhausted."

“You announced pregnancy to the dressing room."

"And everyone reacted too intensely. That's on them."

Alexia was laughing properly now, face bright, eyes crinkled. Jay looked at her for a second and forgot what she had been saying.

"What?" Alexia asked.

"You're beautiful."

Alexia's smile softened.

Jay cleared her throat, as if embarrassed by the simplicity. "I want to speak Spanish to the baby from the beginning. Properly. Not just phrases. I want them to hear it from me too. I want them to know I tried. Even if I sound like a British tourist trapped in a nursery rhyme."

Alexia's expression changed completely.

"Jay," she said, voice low.

"What?"

“You want that?"

"Yes." Jay shrugged, but the shrug was fragile. "I know biology isn't my bit in this. I'm okay with that. Mostly. But language can be. Culture can be. Showing up can be. I want to make sure they don't only get English from me because it's easier. They'll be Spanish. I want to meet them there too."

Alexia looked at her for a long moment, so full she felt almost unsteady.

Then she climbed into Jay's lap.

Jay made a surprised sound and caught her, hands settling instantly at Alexia's back and waist. "Hello."

"Ven aquí," Alexia murmured, though she was the one who had moved.

"I'm already here."

"Closer."

Jay smiled, soft and helpless, and kissed her. It was a slow kiss, warm and intimate, the kind that began as gratitude and became something deeper, not because it needed to go anywhere, but because they loved each other too much for one kiss to hold all of it. Alexia's hands slid into Jay's hair. Jay's palms moved over her back, reverent and steady. On the coffee table, the phone screen dimmed slowly beside the open folder.

When Alexia pulled back, she rested her forehead against Jay's.

"Do not tell Mapi about the Spanish lessons," she said.

Jay blinked. "What?"

"Mapi will get involved."

"Mapi could help."

"Mapi will teach you things no child should hear."

"She has vocabulary."

"She has prison vocabulary."

Jay grinned. "That might be useful in football."

“No."

"What about Patri?"

"Patri will laugh and make flashcards that say things like, I am not crying, I am emotionally hydrating."

"That's a good phrase."

"It is not."

Jay kissed the corner of her mouth. "Baby Spanish tab."

Alexia groaned. "No more tabs."

"The baby deserves a tab."

"The baby does not exist yet."

“The baby is a profile number and a dream. That's basically phase one."

"Phase one?"

"Of Project Tiny Putellas-Jones."

Alexia went very still.

"It was a private note title."

Jay leaned back, delighted beyond measure. "You named the baby document Project Tiny Putellas-Jones?"

"It was temporary."

"You are the love of my life."

"Shut up."

"I'm serious. I may propose again."

"We are already engaged in three emotional ways and not the actual legal way.”

"I need legal access to that document."

"No."

"I'm their other mother."

"They are hypothetical."

"I have rights."

"You have chaos."

Jay kissed her again, laughing into it, and Alexia laughed too, unable to stop herself. The fear was still somewhere in the room, of course. Fear did not vanish because they kissed on a sofa over a donor profile. But it had become smaller, easier to hold. It had to share space now with humour, tenderness, Jay's terrible Spanish, Alexia's secret document titles, and the strange calm of having chosen.

"It is Sandra," Julia had said the day before, standing in Jay and Alexia's kitchen with her laptop open, her phone tucked between her shoulder and ear, and the controlled impatience of a woman managing sixteen moving parts while pretending she had only three. "Sandra Ríos. She is excellent. Warm, intelligent, well prepared, actually interested in women's football beyond the insulting level of 'isn't it nice they try.' You will like her."

Jay had been sitting at the kitchen island with one hand in a bowl of grapes, because Alexia had washed them and placed them there with the calm expectation that Jay would eat something that was not peanut butter from a spoon. "What if she asks about tactics?"

"She will."

"Tragic."

"You are a professional footballer."

Jay popped a grape into her mouth. "Allegedly."

Alexia, who had been leaning against the counter beside Jay, glanced down at her with that composed, affectionate look that always made Jay feel both deeply loved and mildly supervised. "You can talk about tactics."

"I can play tactics. Talking about tactics makes me sound like I swallowed a coaching badge."

Julia looked at Alexia. "Please make her be serious."

Alexia slid a hand to the back of Jay's neck and squeezed gently. "Bebé, be serious."

Jay immediately sat straighter. "I love pressing triggers and half space occupation."

Alexia's mouth twitched.

Julia closed her eyes. "God give me strength."

Jay grinned, turning slightly on the stool so she could hook one knee around Alexia's leg with lazy possession. "I'll behave. For Sandra."

"Good."

"And for you," Jay said, looking up at Alexia.

Alexia's expression softened despite herself. "Always for me?"

Jay's grin went smaller and warmer. "Always."

Julia snapped her laptop shut. "Lovely. Disgusting. Moving on. The show is thirty minutes. You discuss the season, settling in Barcelona, women's football growth, maybe your public relationship if Sandra asks respectfully. Nothing inflammatory."

Jay blinked. "You say that like inflammatory is a hobby."

Alexia looked at her.

Jay considered. "Fine. A part time hobby."

Julia pointed at her. "Sandra will not bait you. Do not create bait for yourself."

"I do not create bait. Men wander in voluntarily."

"Jay."

"What? I am a wildlife observer."

Alexia leaned down and kissed the side of Jay's head before the argument could become a full seminar. "You will be good."

Jay went soft immediately under her mouth because Alexia's kisses were unfairly effective and should probably have required regulatory oversight. "Perfect."

Julia did not look convinced.

She should have trusted that feeling.

The next morning, Jay dressed like a woman trying to prove she could be trusted around public microphones. Black trousers. White vest. Loose dark overshirt. Chain at her throat. Hair pushed back. Rings. Clean trainers. Enough tattoos visible to make middle aged men underestimate her for the wrong reasons and enough charm to make them regret it later.

Alexia watched her from their bedroom doorway, already in training kit, arms folded, one shoulder against the frame.

Jay caught her reflection in the mirror and smiled. "You're staring."

"I am checking if you look professional."

"Do I?"

Alexia's eyes travelled over her once, slow enough that Jay forgot what professional meant. "You look dangerous."

Jay turned. "That feels like a compliment."

"It is not meant as one."

"Your eyes say otherwise."

Alexia pushed away from the doorway and walked towards her. "My eyes say you should not start trouble guapa.”

Jay's hands found Alexia's waist by instinct when she came close. "Your eyes say many things. Some of them are filthy."

"Jay."

"See? That was your I cannot deny it because I am Spanish and honest face."

Alexia took Jay's open shirt between two fingers and straightened the collar with unnecessary care, which was exactly the sort of thing that made Jay feel domesticated in a way she would have objected to if she did not love it so much. "Sandra is nice. You will answer her questions. You will not use the phrase 'male football pundits are paid by the syllable and none of them are useful.'"

Jay's mouth opened.

Alexia looked up.

Jay closed it again. "Fine."

"And you will not say men's football discourse is a pyramid scheme."

Jay looked wounded. "But it is."

"Not on radio."

"What if it comes up naturally?"

"It will not."

Jay lowered her head until their noses almost touched. "You are very controlling before nine in the morning."

"You like it."

"I love it."

Alexia's mouth curved, and Jay kissed her before she could stop herself. It was supposed to be quick, something bright and easy before they left for separate parts of the day. But Alexia's hand slid to the back of Jay's neck, Jay's fingers tightened at her waist, and for a few seconds the radio show, the training centre, Julia's bullet pointed instructions and the entire outside world became less urgent than Alexia's mouth and the soft sound she made when Jay kissed her properly.

Alexia pulled back first, breathing through a smile. "No. We both have work."

Jay followed her mouth. "This is work. Relationship maintenance."

"You are going to be late."

"I am emotionally punctual."

"You are never punctual."

"But I arrive with feeling."

Alexia laughed and pushed gently at her chest. "Go bebe.”

Jay kissed her once more, softer this time. "Love you."

"Te amo. Behave."

Jay backed towards the door, smiling. "Define behave."

"Jay."

"Right. Sandra. Warm. Intelligent. No bait. No pyramid scheme."

"And no fighting men."

Jay paused.

Alexia narrowed her eyes.

Jay lifted both hands. "Unless they start."

"No."

"Unless they really start."

“Jay."

"I'm going."

She left with Alexia's laugh following her down the hallway.

By the time Jay reached the radio station, she was in a good mood. That was the thing everyone later agreed had made the morning especially tragic for Gael. Jay had arrived cheerful. She had bought coffee without incident, for once, texted Alexia a photo of a pigeon standing aggressively near a bin with the caption Mapi in another life, and spent the car ride with Julia half listening to the briefing while making deeply unhelpful comments about radio being "podcasts with rent."

Julia, sitting beside her in the back of the car, had been too busy scanning emails to rise to most of it. "Sandra will open with the season. Then your transfer, adapting to the league, partnership with the squad. Possibly pressure. Possibly identity. She may mention your relationship with Alexia because it is public, but she is not invasive."

Jay sipped her coffee. "Sandra sounds like an adult."

"Sandra is an adult."

"Rare in media."

"Do not say that on air."

"I won't."

"You said that too fast."

"I said it efficiently."

The station was on the third floor of a modern glass building with a lobby that smelled faintly of coffee, carpet cleaner and expensive stress. Posters of smiling broadcasters lined the walls. A receptionist recognised Jay, blushed, and then looked immediately at Julia, because Julia's presence had a way of making people remember contracts, manners and liability.

A production assistant met them by the lifts.

He was too nervous.

Julia noticed first.

Jay noticed Julia noticing and immediately paid attention.

The assistant smiled with his mouth only. "Hi. Thank you so much for coming. We are really excited. Tiny change this morning."

Julia stopped walking.

Jay looked from Julia to the assistant. "Tiny as in 'Sandra wants to ask about set pieces' or tiny as in 'this building is haunted'?"

The assistant laughed too quickly. "Sandra is here, but she has completely lost her voice. She tried, but she sounds terrible. So Gael is stepping in."

Julia's face became very still.

Not angry. Not yet.

Still.

Jay knew Julia's stillness. It was not peaceful. It was the moment before she became legally expensive.

"Gael Herrera?" Julia asked.

The assistant swallowed. "Yes."

Jay tilted her head. "Who's Gael Herrera?"

Julia's eyes stayed on the assistant. "A man who mistakes provocation for intelligence."

The assistant looked like he wanted to evaporate into the studio carpet.

Jay's eyebrows lifted. "Fun."

"No," Julia said immediately.

"I only said fun."

"You meant prey."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did."

The assistant gestured weakly down the corridor. "We are live in six minutes."

Julia turned to Jay properly then, one hand wrapping around her forearm before they moved any further. "Listen to me."

Jay's humour settled. "Okay."

"Gael is controversial because he likes to corner women on air and pretend it is debate. He asks invasive questions, especially about sexuality. He likes comparing women's football unfavourably to men's. He frames misogyny as curiosity. He talks over women, then says they are emotional when they respond."

Jay glanced through the glass wall at the studio.

Gael was visible inside, already seated behind a microphone. He wore headphones around his neck, a crisp shirt, and the particular expression of a man preparing to enjoy himself at someone else's expense. He looked over, saw Jay watching, and smiled.

Jay smiled back.

Julia's grip tightened. "No."

Jay did not look away from Gael. "I haven't done anything."

"You smiled like a court summons."

"He smiled like he uses the phrase biological reality at dinner parties."

Julia inhaled through her nose. "You can walk away."

Jay finally looked at her. "Do you want me to?"

Julia hesitated.

That hesitation mattered. Professionally, she should have said yes. She should have removed Jay from the situation, taken the reputational hit, shouted at the station and sent an email so cold it would have made several junior producers cry over lunch.

But the show was live. The appearance had been promoted. And more than that, Jay had seen the man's face.

Julia could tell.

Jay had already decided the room did not belong to him.

"I want you to know you can," Julia said carefully.

Jay nodded once. "I know."

"If he becomes inappropriate, you end it."

"Sure."

"Jay."

"I hear you."

Julia studied her face.

That was always the trouble with Jay. Her chaos made people forget how sharp she was. They saw the flirting, the jokes, the tattoos, the grin, the way she lounged in chairs as if gravity was a suggestion. They forgot Jay had survived by reading rooms faster than other people read headlines. They forgot she could be charming because she understood threat. They forgot she had a temper, yes, but also discipline. The kind that made a forward dangerous. Wait. Angle. Space. Hit at the right moment.

Julia lowered her voice. "Do not let him make you the story for the wrong reason."

Jay's smile returned, smaller now. "I'll make him the story."

Julia closed her eyes. "That was exactly what I feared."

The studio door opened.

Gael stood.

"Sandra is very sorry," he said before anyone else could speak, spreading his hands with theatrical regret. His voice was rich, smooth, trained to sound reasonable even when saying unreasonable things. "Illness, you know. Very unfortunate. But we will take care of our guest, of course."

Jay stepped inside. "Will we?"

Gael's smile paused.

Julia muttered something under her breath that sounded like a prayer and a resignation letter having a fight.

The studio was smaller than Jay expected, warm with lights and equipment, the air holding that dry hum of electronics. There were two microphones facing each other across the desk, screens glowing with call lines and notes. Through the glass, the producer gave instructions with his fingers. Three minutes. Headphones. Water. Stay on time.

Jay sat opposite Gael and put on the headphones. Julia stood behind the glass beside the producer, arms folded, already texting at a speed that suggested either damage control or homicide planning.

Gael leaned back in his chair. "I was looking forward to meeting you. Jay Jones. Big personality."

Jay adjusted the microphone. "That's one way to say employed."

He chuckled. "You do have a reputation."

"So do you."

His eyes sharpened, but the smile stayed. "Good. You have done your research."

"Not much. Julia looked like she'd bitten a lemon when they said your name. I trust her face."

Through the glass, Julia looked up sharply.

Gael laughed, but this time he was assessing. "This should be lively."

"I thought it was about football."

"It is all football."

Jay smiled. "Great."

The producer counted them in.

Three.

Two.

One.

The theme music faded under Gael's voice.

"Good morning, Barcelona. You are listening to La Mesa Abierta, and today, in a slight change of plan, Sandra Ríos is resting her voice, so you have me, Gael Herrera, holding the fort. And what a guest we have. England international, Barcelona forward, headline maker on and off the pitch, Jay Jones. Jay, welcome."

Jay leaned towards the microphone. "Thanks for having me. Sorry Sandra's unwell. I've heard lovely things about her."

Gael's smile thinned almost imperceptibly. "Yes, Sandra is beloved. We hope she recovers quickly. Now, Jay, you arrived in Barcelona with a lot of noise around you. Big transfer, big profile, big relationship, big personality. Has it been difficult fitting into a club that already had stars before you came?"

Julia's shoulders loosened by half an inch behind the glass.

Fine. Football. Manageable.

Jay answered easily. "Not really. The standards here are high, which is the point. You don't come to Barcelona expecting a welcoming committee and a deckchair. You come because you want to be challenged every day. The squad was already full of world class players. My job is to add to that, not walk in like I invented the ball."

Gael nodded. "Interesting. You say that, but there is always competition. And of course, your partner is the captain."

There it was.

Not yet a knife. Just the handle.

Jay smiled. "She is."

"Does that make the dressing room complicated?"

"No."

"No?"

"No."

Gael waited, perhaps expecting her to fill the silence. Jay took a sip of water and let the silence live.

He laughed. "You are very certain."

"I am. Alexia is captain because she is Alexia Putellas, not because she shares a home with me. The dressing room respects her because she has earned that for years. If anything, it makes my life harder because she has absolutely no sympathy when I'm lazy in a drill."

"Ah, so she is harder on you?"

Jay's mouth curved. "You sound hopeful."

Gael smiled. "Curious."

"She holds me to the same standard as everyone else. Sometimes higher because she knows when I am pretending not to understand instructions."

Julia exhaled silently.

Good, she thought. Fine. Controlled.

For exactly six minutes, it continued that way.

Gael asked about adaptation. Jay gave sharp, generous answers. He asked about tactical changes. Jay discussed pressing, timing, combinations, the difference between leagues, the speed of decision making. He tried once to make it about celebrity, and Jay redirected beautifully.

Then Gael decided to be Gael.

"You mention standards," he said, shifting in his chair. "Many of our listeners ask this whenever women's football grows more visible. Standards compared to what? Because men's football, of course, is still physically superior. Faster, stronger, more technically advanced. Do you think it is honest to keep comparing the two as if they are the same product?"

Julia's head lifted.

Jay tilted her head as if considering him thoughtfully. "I think it's interesting that whenever women build something successful, men appear with a measuring tape and call it analysis."

The producer behind the glass froze.

Gael's smile flickered.

Jay continued, calm as anything. "Men's football and women's football are not the same product because men and women have historically been given completely different investment, facilities, medical research, media coverage, youth pathways, wages and respect. If you want to discuss physical differences, fine. But if you ignore structural differences and then say men are superior, you're not analysing sport. You're admiring a head start."

Julia's eyes widened slightly.

Gael leaned back. "But physically, men are superior athletes."

"Some male athletes are physically stronger than some female athletes. Congratulations to biology for doing a group project. That does not make them superior at football as entertainment, skill, intelligence, pressure, tactics or value. If football was only about who runs fastest in a straight line, we would all be watching traffic."

The producer pressed a hand to his mouth.

Gael's jaw tightened.

Jay's voice remained light. "Also, if the question is whether male footballers are physically superior to me personally, I invite most of them to press from the front for ninety minutes and then we'll discuss it with ice baths present."

Gael cleared his throat. "No one is denying women work hard."

"Lovely. We love the minimum."

"I am speaking about reality."

"So am I."

"And yet many people feel women's football benefits from riding on the success of the men's game."

Jay smiled. "And many people feel qualified to have opinions because microphones are cheaper than expertise."

In the car, ten minutes away from the training centre, Alexia's phone rang.

She almost ignored it because she was driving and because Eli usually texted unless something mattered. But the name flashing on the screen made her press accept through the car system.

"Mamá?"

"Put the radio on," Eli said.

Alexia's grip tightened on the wheel. "Qué pasa?"

"Put the radio on now."

"Is Jay okay?"

There was a pause.

"She is very okay."

That did not comfort Alexia.

"Mamá."

"Alexia, cariño, the radio."

Alexia changed the audio with one hand at the next red light, heart already speeding. For one second there was static, then music from the wrong station, then another switch, and then Jay's voice filled the car.

"Men say women are emotional, then spend four hours on television crying because a referee made eye contact with them."

Alexia stared through the windscreen.

Eli, still on the call, said, "You hear?"

Alexia whispered, "Dios mío."

On air, Gael gave a tight laugh. "You are very confident."

"I play football for a living. Confidence is part of the uniform."

"You also speak often about visibility, especially as a gay woman."

Alexia's whole body went still.

In the studio, Julia stopped texting.

There was a subtle change in Jay's posture. Not much. She still looked relaxed, one hand near the water bottle, shoulders easy, face open. But Julia saw the shift because she had seen Jay in contract negotiations, in crisis rooms, in hospital corridors, in doorways where one wrong word could undo hours of trust.

Jay had recognised the next trap.

Gael leaned towards the microphone. "Do you ever worry that women's football is becoming too much about sexuality? That young girls watching hear constantly about players being gay, couples in teams, relationships. Does that not limit the image?"

Jay blinked once. "What image?"

"The idea that football is for everyone."

"Gay women are included in everyone. That's usually how everyone works."

The producer made a small, helpless sound behind the glass.

Gael smiled more sharply. "Of course. But you know what I mean. Some parents wonder whether there is too much emphasis on it."

"Some parents wonder if cartoons turn children into vegetables. We don't build policy around people being weird at breakfast."

Julia coughed into her hand.

Jay continued, still conversational. "Visibility matters because for a long time gay women were told to be quiet, marketable, vague, careful, grateful for crumbs. Now some of us are simply existing in public and people call it emphasis because they are used to silence. That is not our problem."

Gael's eyes narrowed. "But is it not fair to ask whether women who are only with women miss men?"

The studio changed temperature.

It was not visible to listeners, but everyone in the room felt it. The assistant outside the glass looked at Julia. The producer's hand hovered above the control board. Julia's phone began buzzing violently against her palm.

Jay sat back.

Slowly.

She looked at Gael for one long second, then another.

Then she smiled.

Not her charming smile.

Not her media smile.

The other one.

The one Alexia would have recognised from across any room and immediately whispered, Jay, no.

Unfortunately, Alexia was in her car.

"Gael," Jay said pleasantly, "I need you to understand how funny it is that men ask lesbians if we miss men when most women are spending their lives trying to get one to locate a clitoris and put a wet towel in a laundry basket."

The producer's mouth fell open.

Julia's eyes closed.

Alexia, at the red light, made a strangled sound somewhere between horror and delight.

Eli said through the car speaker, "Ay."

Gael stuttered once before recovering. "That is a crude answer."

"It was a crude question."

"I am asking what many people wonder."

"No, you're asking what insecure men wonder and pretending the public sent you."

Gael laughed, but it had lost its shape. "So you speak for all women now?"

"No. Women are not a parliament. I speak for myself, and for my own deep spiritual relief that no man is waiting at home to ask me where the olive oil is while standing directly in front of it."

The call lines lit up.

One.

Then three.

Then six.

The producer looked at them, then at Julia, then at Gael, then back at the calls.

Gael saw the board and tried to regain control. "Let's be serious."

"I am being serious."

"You never miss being with men?"

Jay looked genuinely puzzled. "Why would I?"

"Biology. Complementarity. Male energy."

Jay stared at him.

"Male energy," she repeated.

"Yes."

"Is that what we are calling podcast equipment and emotional constipation?"

The producer wheezed.

Julia turned away from the glass entirely for one second, shoulders shaking.

Gael's face reddened. "You mock it, but men and women are natural complements."

"Gael, I have played in teams my whole life. I understand complementarity. It is passing into space, reading movement, making someone better without demanding applause. If that is what you mean by male energy, fantastic. Unfortunately, many men think complementarity means a woman doing six jobs while he explains leadership from a sofa."

The calls doubled.

At the training centre, half the team had abandoned whatever they were meant to be doing.

It began with Lucy walking into the changing room holding her phone at full volume.

"Everyone shut up," she said. "Jay is murdering a man on radio."

Mapi, who had been tying her boots, looked up so fast she nearly headbutted the locker. "What?"

Lucy lifted the phone.

Jay's voice came through, clear and bright. "If women's football needed men to save it, we would still be waiting for them to find the group chat."

Patri slowly sat down.

Keira whispered, "Oh my God."

Aitana appeared in the doorway. "Is that Jay?"

Lucy nodded, eyes gleaming.

Mapi pressed both hands over her heart. "My daughter."

"She is older than you," Ingrid said from behind her.

"Spiritually, my daughter."

More players filtered in. Cata, Jana, Ona, Pina, Salma, Frido. Someone shouted for the media room to turn the radio on. Someone else opened another stream. Within minutes, Jay's voice was playing from three phones, one laptop, and a speaker usually reserved for warm up music.

Alexia arrived halfway through Gael's next mistake.

She walked into the building and found the team gathered like villagers around a public execution.

Jay's voice rang through the room.

"Men love saying women are not as technical, then panic when a woman parallel parks better than them."

Mapi was crying.

Actual tears.

Alexia stopped in the doorway. "What has she done?"

Lucy looked at her with reverence. "Everything."

On air, Gael had started speaking faster. That was a bad sign for him. Men like Gael liked rhythm. Control. The pace of the conversation. Jay had taken that from him by refusing to chase his bait emotionally. She laughed when he wanted outrage. Answered seriously when he wanted mockery. Made jokes so precise they landed like darts and then backed them up with arguments before he could dismiss her as flippant.

"You are entertaining," Gael said, voice strained. "But some would argue you are avoiding the central point. Men's football has higher revenue, more viewers, more global prestige. Does that not prove superiority?"

Jay leaned towards the microphone. "It proves investment compounds."

"That is very convenient."

"It is very true. If you lock one bakery in a basement for a hundred years, give the other one a shopfront, advertising, ovens, staff, delivery vans and a national holiday, then point at sales figures and say the basement bakery is inferior, you are not a business analyst. You are the reason women sigh in meetings."

The producer put both hands over his face.

Calls were now flashing nonstop.

Gael glanced at the board. He should have taken a call then. It might have saved him. Instead, he made the fatal choice of trying to embarrass Jay personally.

"Let us talk about your relationship then," he said. "Because you and Alexia Putellas are very public. Some say too public."

The training room went silent.

Alexia's face changed.

Not much.

Enough that Lucy, standing closest, whispered, "Uh oh."

Jay's expression in the studio did not move.

"Too public," she repeated.

"Yes. Kissing at matches, being photographed together, speaking openly. Do you think it distracts from the sport?"

Jay looked down at her hands for a second, then back up. "No."

"Not at all?"

"No. People have watched male footballers kiss wives and girlfriends in stands for decades and called it family. Two women do it and suddenly everyone discovers professionalism."

Gael smiled. "But there is a difference."

"Yes. We both know where the washing machine is."

The training room exploded.

Alexia turned her face away, hand over her mouth.

Mapi was fully on the floor now. Lucy had one hand braced on the wall. Patri had folded forward, silent and shaking. Jana looked traumatised and inspired.

Gael tried to speak over the laughter in the studio control room. "You reduce everything to jokes."

"No. I use jokes because men like you get very uncomfortable when women refuse to be embarrassed."

That landed harder.

Even Gael felt it.

He shifted, then did something desperate. "You say embarrassed. I am simply asking what many men think. Why women choose women. What is the point? Why sleep together? What is missing there that men provide?"

Julia said, out loud behind the glass, "Stop the interview."

The producer looked at her, panicked.

Jay heard the tiny movement through the glass. She glanced once at Julia.

Then turned back to Gael.

She smiled like a knife being cleaned.

"Gael," she said softly, "when did you last have sex?"

Silence.

In the studio.

In the control room.

In the training centre.

Possibly, in several cars across Barcelona.

Gael blinked. "Sorry?"

Jay leaned back comfortably. "When did you last have sex, big shot?"

Gael's mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Jay tilted her head. "You are asking women to explain our sex lives on public radio. I assume yours is available for comparison. Since you are so committed to male superiority."

"I... That is not appropriate."

Jay's eyebrows lifted. "Oh, now we have found inappropriate?"

The producer made a noise that sounded like a dying kettle.

Gael's face had gone a colour not normally found in professional broadcasting. "That is different."

"Why?"

"Because I am the host."

"And I am the guest you asked why women sleep together."