The gun in my lips that'll blow my brains out

The light coming through the window is pale. It's that Barcelona winter light you've learned to love. You lie still for a moment, one hand curled in the blanket, the other touching the little football pillow. You always keep it in your bed because it's awesome. Your Tia Jenni gave it to you.

From the kitchen comes a familiar sound. The coffee machine. And then the same footsteps you know by heart.

Alexia.

You sit up and pad out. Your hair is all messy and you lost one sock while you slept. She’s already there. And she's wearing a hoodie and that calm smile that makes everything feel possible.

“Bon dia, Princessa.” She says softly. “Merry Christmas.”

You nod. “Merry Christmas.”

She crouches immediately so you’re eye level. She always does that. “We can take it slow today. Okay?”

You agree. You like slow days because holidays like today are hard sometimes and weird.

The tree is tall and perfect, lights warm and steady. Under it are presents. They're all neatly wrapped. The bows are tied carefully. You had even managed to wrap your presents for Alexia all alone. Even if I was a bit crooked. Alexia hands you the first one and sits beside you on the floor. You open it.

It’s a football. New and all clean. White and blue and red. You lift it carefully and hug so tightly it almost hurts. “Can I play with it?”

Alexia smiles. “That’s what it’s for.”

The second gift is lighter. Crinklier. You tear the paper and freeze. It’s a plush. A cat. Not just any cat.

“Cat Culer." You breathe.

She’s perfect. She has big eyes and a little grin. She's wearing Barça colours. You hug her so hard your arms ache.

Alexia watches, her hand pressed to her mouth for a second before she lowers it. “I thought she might like to come home with you.”

“She can sit with me at your matches.” You say seriously. “And watch training. She knows all the best players so she needs to know me too.”

“I wouldn’t dare separate you.” Alexia replies.

The next present is a box. Inside is a small kit. Barça. Your size. On the back is your nickname.

PRINCESSA.

You don’t say anything at first. You just touch the letters, slow and careful, like they might vanish. Because one day you'll wear it for real and play an El Classico. You'd win it of course.

Alexia’s voice is gentle. “You belong here. On the pitch. With me. Wherever you want.”

You crawl into her lap without asking, Cat Culer is squished between you. Alexia wraps her arms around you immediately.

“You’re safe.” She murmurs into your hair. “I’ve got you.”

Later, you wear the kit over your pajamas and kick your new ball down the hallway while Cat Culer watches from the couch. Alexia pretends to referee and dramatically calls fouls that make you giggle.

When you finally sit together, breathless, Alexia hands you hot chocolate and clinks her mug against yours. “To us.” She says.

You smile and hug Cat Culer close. “To Barça.”

Then there was a firm, steady and very loud knocking. A voice, muffled through the door.

“Y/N? Open up.”

Your whole body jolted from the sound and it took you a few seconds to register who's talking. Who had shown up. Leah.

You squeezed your eyes shut. Trying to will yourself to be silent and to disappear. If you didn’t answer, maybe she would give up. Maybe she’d walk away like everyone else always had when things got too heavy, too messy, too much. Maybe she'd leave and you could keep her safe. Out of his reach and his danger.

But the knocking came again, harder this time and way more insistent. “Y/N, I know you’re in there.”

Your throat ached, raw from the sobs and so dry from all the crying. But also from holding back the sobs that were scratching in the back of your throat. You wanted to speak, to shout for her to leave, but your voice refused to form the words. Out in the living room, your phone buzzed again, missed call after missed call, and you realized she must’ve come straight here the moment you stopped answering. And she was still calling trying to get you to open the door. But you couldn't move, not at all. None of your muscles were reacting to your commands.

Then the sound that made your stomach drop. The scrape of a key in the front lock. You’d forgotten. She still had the spare, that she had taken from the staff at the stadium so many months ago to first confront you about your self-harming.

The door creaked open. Then the footsteps followed, measured but quick as they moved through the flat. Her voice followed them, soft but carrying that quiet steel that always made you listen. “Baby bear? Where are you?”

You curled tighter into yourself, as if being a small ball on the cold tiles could make you invisible. As if shrinking away from the sound enough would keep her from finding you. But it didn’t take long. She found the bathroom doorway, framed in harsh yellow light she had turned on in the hallway.

Leah froze, just for a heartbeat. Her eyes swept over you, sharp and worried, and then she moved. She crouched low and folded herself into the narrow space beside you. The space was just big enough for her to fit between you and the bathtub. The blonde didn’t reach for you straight away. She just sat down on the cold tiles, knees drawn up to mirror yours. As if she was grounding herself in your orbit, just being present and not forcing you to acknowledge her.

No empty words. No calm down, it’s okay. She only breathed with you. Sat in the storm that she couldn't see and couldn’t really weather with you. She was steady as stone, until the edges of her presence began to chip at the chaos.

Minutes passed. Maybe ten. Maybe more. The rhythm of her breaths slowly tugged yours into the line. She was breathing slowly and deep, like she was trying to help you feel calmer. Just deep breaths and slowed breaths. Her shoulder brushed lightly against yours, just enough to remind you that you weren’t alone, that she was real and present. And that she was waiting for you to let her in.

Finally, her voice came, low and rough, soft as a promise. “You can fall apart, baby bear. As much as you need. I’ll be here to pick up every piece.”

The dam inside you cracked. A sob ripped free again. You felt emotional and raw, like she had cracked you completely. The sobs left you gasping. “You shouldn’t have to…” The words broke apart in your throat, half swallowed by tears.

Her hand found yours. The touch was gentle but insistent. She was gently prying your clenched fist open one finger at a time. One of her fingers was gently stroking over the crescent cuts on your palm. Her touch was warm against your clammy skin. “I want to.” She said and she meant it.

You shook your head weakly, unable to believe it, but she didn’t let go. She slid closer, wrapping her arm firmly around your shoulders and tugging you against her chest. At first you tried to resist. Your body was stiff with fear of breaking apart completely if you leaned on her.

But Leah didn’t flinch. She held you with the same unyielding strength she carried onto the pitch. That energy that made everyone look at her and trust her completely. It felt solid, grounding and protective. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty, not even a second of doubt as she held you close. Her embrace seemed to say. ‘You are here, you are real, you are mine and I won’t let you fall alone.’

She gently adjusted your position so your face was pressed into her hoodie, the fabric quickly got damp with your tears. But Leah didn’t shift. She didn’t pull back. She only cradled you tighter, her chin resting lightly on the crown of your head. Her hand rubbed slow circles along your back and she rocked you ever so gently. As if she truly could steady your whole world with nothing but her touch.

“I’ve got you.” She whispered into your hair and kissed it gently.“Every broken bit, every scar, every shadow. I’ve got you.”

The words tore something open. You needed to tell her, before she got too involved and would get hurt by him. You whispered against her chest, your entire body was trembling as you rested against her chest. The confession dragged out of you quietly and broken. “It was him. My dad… he was there. At the game. Watching. Like he used to. He hurts everyone. He'd hurt you too.”

Leah’s breath stilled for half a second, before she took a sharp and angry breath. She only pulled you closer. Her palm cradled the back of your head closer. “He can’t touch you anymore.” She murmured. Her voice was steady even as her body was filled with protectiveness and anger for your biological parents. “Not now. Not ever. He doesn’t get to hurt you again. Not while I’m here. I will keep us safe."

You sobbed harder. All the words you usually kept inside, started spilling messy and broken between gasps. “He… he used to… he’d yell. And hit. And tell me I was nothing. That I’d never be good enough. I thought I’d left him behind, but when I saw him… it was like… like I was right back there.”

Leah’s arms tightened around you, unshakable. “You are not nothing.” She said firmly, each word felt deliberate, spoken into your hair like a vow. “You’re everything to me. You hear me? He doesn’t get to define you. He doesn’t get to own you. You’re mine, baby bear, and I’m not letting go.”

Her heartbeat thudded steady beneath your ear, drowning out the frantic pounding of your own heart. Little by little, your fists unclenched and she gently stroked over the crescent cuts on your palms. Your breathing, even though it was still uneven, slowly began to ease. The tight knot sitting on your chest was slowly dissolving. For the first time all night, you let yourself lean fully into her. Your body just slumped into her, giving up your weight and letting her hold you in the way you never let anyone hold you before.

“Don’t go.” You whispered, voice almost gone, more breath than sound. But you felt so tiny, like you desperately needed her to stay with you till your heart was put back together.

So you sit up fast and clutch Nintje to your chest. Her ears are a little bent from sleeping and you smooth them carefully, the way Kerstin showed you. Because Nintje is important to you and you need to be gentle with important things, like Kerstin says that's why everyone is gentle with you. Because you're important.

Nothing bad happens in the quiet so you relax again. The hallway light is on. You can hear voices. They're soft ones and they're laughing. So you carefully put on your socks and then you pad out. You're still all red cheeked and messy hair from sleep.

Ruth is on the floor by the tree, wearing her big jumper, holding a mug with steam coming out of it. Kerstin looks up first and smiles like she’s been waiting for you specifically.

“Hey.” She says gently. “Merry Christmas, Poppetje.”

Your chest feels tight and then a tiny bit warm because everything looks so cute and cozy. “Merry Christmas.” You echo softly as you pat closer.

Ruth opens her arms. “Come here.”

You go. You always go to her for hugs and cuddles. Because Ruth is nice and she smells like vanilla and coffee. Kerstin sits down next to you on the rug. She sits with her legs crossed and pulls the blanket around all three of you. The tree lights blink slowly in pretty colors.

“There are presents.” Kerstin says gently. “But we’re not rushing. Okay?”

You nod. You like that rule. It's a good rule because unpacking presents is stressful sometimes.

The first gift is small and wrapped in paper with tiny stars. You peel it open carefully. Inside is a book. You gasp delighted.

Because it’s a Nijntje book. Not just one. It's three books, stacked together. The covers are bright and familiar and perfect. They're in Dutch, your dutch. You hug them so tight the corners poke your chin.

Ruth laughs softly. “We had a feeling.”

You flip one open immediately. The pictures are simple and clean. Nijntje looks brave and she's safe, because it's Nintje. And you have your own Nintje and she's your best friend.

“She is a bunny like mine.” You say and show your Nintje the page. Kerstin smiles; she still looks a bit sleepy and crooked. “She does.”

The next present is squishy. You open it and freeze. It’s pajamas. Pink. Covered in tiny bunnies. You touch the sleeve like it might disappear.

“For bedtime,” Ruth says. “And mornings. And whenever.”

Your voice comes out small. “They’re… for me?”

Kerstin’s smile fades into something serious and warm. “Always for you.”

There’s one more gift, tucked under the tree, bigger than the rest. Kerstin has to carry it toward you. You open it slowly and then you gasp in awe.

It’s a shelf. A small wooden one, just as big as you. And inside the box are more books. Thick ones, thin ones, picture books, stories with long titles. Your name is written on a small label painted on the side.

POPPETJE’S BOOKS

Your eyes burn with happy tears and you feel so overwhelmed because you are really overwhelmed with all the feelings.

Ruth notices immediately and crouches in front of you. “Hey. It’s okay.”

You crawl into Kerstin’s lap instead, pressing your face into her jumper. She wraps her arms around you without a word, steady and solid.

“You don’t have to share them.” She murmurs. “They’re yours.”

You sniff. “All of them?”

“All,” Ruth says firmly.

You sit there for a while, just breathing. Nintje tucked under your arm, the books stacked beside you like something precious and real.

Later, you sit on the couch between them, wearing your new pajamas even though it’s still morning. Ruth reads one of the English books out loud, slow and calm. Kerstin turns the pages when you ask. And you get to ask for all the letters and new words so you can learn. Nijntje sleeps in your arm because she really needs a nap after being your happy bunny.

“Merry Christmas, Poppetje,” Kerstin whispers and kisses your hair. You smile. You're all sleepy and safe and hug Nintje close. But then you mumble back sleepy.

You dropped to a crouch, catching your breath, when a familiar voice called your name.

“Careful there.” Clara, the new physio, said with an easy smile. “You’ll make me work overtime if you pull something again.”

You laughed softly and brushed your hair out of your face. “Guess that’s what you’re here for, right?”

Clara chuckled and crouched beside you, her hand settling lightly on your calf as she inspected the muscle. “Still tight.” She murmured as her thumbs pressed gently. “You should really stretch more before training. I can help you with that after the session if you want.”

You nodded absently, appreciating her attention but mostly focused on catching your breath. You didn’t notice how her hand lingered a little too long or the way her smile tilted when she looked at you.

But someone else did.

Across the field, you could feel eyes on you before you even turned. Ona stood near the sideline. One hand on her hip and a water bottle forgotten in the other. Her expression was unreadable at first glance, but you knew her too well. Her jaw was tight and her gaze, usually soft and teasing, was dark. She was fixed on Clara’s hand where it still rested against your leg.

When your eyes met, she didn’t look away.

You blinked and frowned slightly, but before you could say anything, Mapi shouted your name for the next drill. You stood quickly, brushed it off and jogged over to join the others.

The rest of the session passed in a blur of passes and shouts. But with every move you could feel Ona’s mood shifting. She was sharper than usual, more physical during small-sided play. Her tackles came just a second faster and her touches clipped with precision. When you ended up on opposite teams, she seemed determined to intercept every ball you touched.

At one point, you went shoulder-to-shoulder and though it was clean, you still stumbled back a little harder than necessary.

“Easy.” You huffed, half-laughing and trying to smile at your girlfriend.

She only shrugged, her eyes flashing with something you couldn't really read. “You should watch where you’re going.”

By the end of practice, the tension between you was thick enough that even Patri shot you both a knowing look. Alexia muttered something under her breath that made Mapi snort, but you ignored it. Instead you were focusing on stretching out on the grass.

Predictably, Clara appeared again, this time kneeling beside you with a towel and her ever-present smile. “You alright? That was quite a collision.”

“I’m fine.” You said, though your tone came out more unsure than you intended. Not even because of Clara, but because you didn't really understand what had made Ona mad. You didn't want your girlfriend mad at you.

Clara still placed a hand on your thigh, she pressed lightly. “Just checking. It’s good to be thorough.”

Before you could respond, a shadow fell over you. “She said she’s fine.”

You didn’t have to look to know who it was. Ona’s voice was calm, but in her anger her Catalan accent wrapped more tightly around the words. And everything sounded sharper than usual. When you glanced up, her expression was calm. But her eyes weren’t.

Clara blinked, clearly surprised, then gave a polite nod. “Of course. Just doing my job.”

“Your job doesn’t require flirting.” Ona said under her breath, low enough that only you caught it. But you just stayed calm.

Clara hesitated, then stood, mumbling something about checking on someone else before walking away. You sighed and tilted your head back to look up at Ona.

“She was just…”

“I know what she was doing.” She cut in and crossed her arms. “Do you?”

You frowned, sitting up. “Ona, she’s just being nice. She’s new. You’re overthinking it.”

Her jaw went tight and you saw her incredible jawline, which made you want to kiss her even more but you knew she was too mad. After all, she was still staring down at you. “I’m not overthinking anything. I see how she looks at you.”

The words stung a little, not because she was harsh, but because her tone was heavy with something that sounded like hurt. You stood slowly, brushing the grass off your legs. “Even if she is, it doesn’t matter. I’m with you.”

Her shoulders tensed and for a moment she didn’t respond. You could see the battle in her expression. The pride and jealousy fighting with trust. Finally, she shook her head and muttered. “I know. But I don’t like seeing someone else touch you like that.”

You sighed softly, stepping closer until you were close enough to smell the faint citrus of her shampoo. “Ona.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet yours, still guarded and possessive.

“I didn’t even notice her flirting.” You admitted, your hand brushing lightly against her arm. “Because I only notice you.”

That finally broke her composure. Her expression softened, her breath catching as her eyes dropped to your mouth for a second.

“That’s not fair.” She murmured.

You smiled cheekily. “Who said anything about fair?”

The air between you shifted. It still felt tense, but it was charged differently now. She reached up, her hand settling gently on your jaw, just letting thumb brush your cheek. You smiled softly and just held still as she calmed herself down. Her eyes searched yours for a long moment before she sighed and leaned her forehead against yours.

“I’m sorry.” She said quietly. “I just… when I see her looking at you like that, touching you…” She trailed off and shook her head, like she wanted to get rid of the memory. “It makes something in me twist. I can’t stand it.”

You tilted your head slightly and pressed your lips against her temple gently. “You don’t have to apologize for caring. Just… maybe don’t tackle me next time?”

That earned you a small laugh and you could feel the tension easing from her shoulders as she relaxed against you. “No promises.”

You chuckled as you rested your hands on her waist and pulled her close to her chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

She smiled then. That smile that made you fall in love with her. Cheeky and slightly crooked and just so Ona. “Maybe. But I’m yours.”

“I meant what I said.” You murmured. “You don’t need to be jealous. You already have me.”

Her eyes softened a tiny bit. That familiar warmth returned to her eyes as she smiled again. “Good.” She whispered and brushed her lips against yours again. “Because I don’t plan on letting you go.”

Later when you walked off the pitch together, her hand brushed against yours before she tangled your fingers. Clara was nearby. She was chatting with another player, but you didn’t even glance her way.

Ona noticed and for the first time since she saw Clara near you that morning, she smiled without a hint of tension. You gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Feeling better now?”

Barcelona was changing; no one could deny it. 

Whether the change was good or bad, it was still hard to circumvent it.  There were a lot of financial cuts happening, and once again, the women's team was considered a liability in the eyes of the board. 

Just like that, the exodus had begun. Talented players left, your closest friends moved to different countries, and different leagues.

Although if you squinted your eyes hard enough, you could see its good side, the silver line that any situation had.

You were a starter now.

You, Frido and Jana, although friends, had to compete to represent Barça's back line at every game. And now without them? You were getting almost the full ninety minutes of every game. The minutes were good, but the exhaustion that came with it was starting to burn you from the inside out.

You weren't the only one wearing thin. Consistent players like Alexia and Ona were tired, too. That could explain the round of injuries that claimed half the squad. 

Ona, Aitana, Cata, Patri, Salma… all of them and more were on the sidelines watching, and unfortunately, missing the amazing atmosphere of a 5 am flight in the middle of a December winter.

At twenty-one, you occupied a strange space in the squad. You had grown up in La Masia, coming through Barça B with Vicky, but now you were in between transitions. You were older than the new Barça B girls that were called up, but still 'one of the kids' to the veterans.

You and Vicky had been in the main Barça team for two years and had become great friends over the years. And now, with the short squad, you and Vicky were able to share the pitch and the locker room with old childhood friends from La Masia.

Even if they could be a little annoying from time to time.

"Clara, please move your bag, chica," Alexia said as she cradled her coffee in one hand, sunglasses on, despite the pale morning light barely filtering through the windows of the airport. "Someone's going to trip-"

As if fulfilling a prophecy, Carla and Caño -  completely absorbed in Carla's Nintendo Switch and not giving a single thought about their surroundings - stumbled right over the luggage.

They went down in a tangle of limbs and bags. Carla managed to save the Nintendo from disintegrating into a million pieces, clutching it to her chest like a lifeline while Caño fell straight to the floor.

It would be funny if Alexia weren't looking at them as if wondering if she could just leave them in Barcelona and not look back.

"Joder," Caño muttered, rubbing the spot where her head had met the floor. "Clara… come on! This is the second time you've left your stuff thrown around today! And it's just five am!"

"Perdón!" Clara said, scrambling to move her bag out of the way, but she had just moved it into a different walking path without noticing. "I didn't see you guys coming, or else I would have moved the bags sooner or–"

"Ugh," Caño whined as Alexia and Irene, with identical rolls of their eyes, helped the two girls up to their feet. 

They patted their shoulders to brush away the dirt that was clinging to their travel uniforms (which happened to be expensive Amiri suits).

"We clearly didn't see you either," Carla sighed. "It's all good, don't worry."

When the girls were all set again, Irene gave Alexia a knowing look and retreated to her chair. Alexia didn't follow; instead, she turned her gaze towards Carla and held her hand out, palm up.

"Give me that. You clearly don't look where you are going when you have that thing in your hands."

"What?" Carla said, wide-eyed, hugging her Nintendo to her chest as if it were a precious possession. "No! Please, Capi, no, no, no! I have an island to take care of! I need it! My neighbours are counting on me!"

"Neighbours? What the - you know what? It doesn't matter," Alexia countered, hand still extended. "What you need is water, clothes, and food. Come on, I'll give it back once we land."

"Land?" Carla's voice pitched higher into a desperate squeak. She was mere seconds from stomping her feet on the ground like a toddler. "What am I supposed to do on the plane?"

"What are you gonna do? I don't know, Carla. Suffer, I guess," Alexia said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "It's not like you're flying private with your friends, surrounded by TVs, books, and board games."

Carla wanted to argue, but she knew better than to do that right. 

Alexia had just spent the last thirty minutes tearing through Aïcha's luggage to look for her passport because the girl had forgotten where she had packed it. The captain was running on too much cortisol for such an early morning. 

Alexia was usually a very good mix of stern captain and caring older sister. But right now? The captain's armband was weighing more, overshadowing all of her other characteristics.

Looking down at the floor like a scolded puppy, Carla handed over the Nintendo with visible reluctance. Caño had to gently smack the back of Carla's hand so the girl's grip would loosen its grip around the console.

"Please, take care of it," the girl whispered with grieving eyes. "You're holding my baby in your arms."

Alexia looked at Carla, then at the device in her hands.

"You teenagers are all so dramatic," she muttered, but there was fondness in her voice, although she was still giving the blonde girl a pointed side eye.

"Ale?" Carla called out as Alexia started to walk away.

"Sí?"

"Can you please talk to my neighbour while you have it? The bunny one?" She pleaded. "I need it for an achievement."

Alexia didn't even dignify that with an answer. She made her way back to her seat next to Clara, who still looked incredibly guilty.

"Seriously, Clara," Alexia said impatiently, nodding to the bags. "Move them out of the way before somebody else falls. If it's the youngest girls, whatever, they heal from the fall. If it's me, Irene, or Marta? You'll have to push us in wheelchairs. And you don't want that, do you?"

Clara shook her head. "Of course not!"

She scrambled to tuck her bags away, now (finally) out of any pathway.

When she was done, Vicky called her over and then pointed at her phone. They sat together on the far left of the terminal and began whispering with conspiratorial grins.

Minutes later, Kika joined them, a grin spreading across her face. Vicky placed her phone up against a water bottle, and the three of them began to talk in front of the camera. 

They were on Live. You were sure of it. You had been on one of Vicky's Lives before.

You felt a small flutter in your chest watching Kika laugh with the younger girls, but you forced yourself to look away. Your gaze fell on the floor instead, at your shoes.

No one could know about Kika, not yet.

You were never one for holding secrets. They always felt heavy, like a weight you had to carry around. And it was tiring to hide something when you were one of the easiest people to read in the universe. 

Before you could dwell on your inability to keep a secret, Pina slumped down next to you, her presence bringing you back to reality. 

She let out a dramatic sigh. One she always did when she wanted attention but didn't quite know how to ask for it. Sometimes she reminded you of a cat, arching its back to receive some affection, but showing its claws the moment it got some.

"Hey, tía," you said, instinctively reaching out and wrapping an arm around her shoulder to pull her into a half-hug. "Something's wrong? Forgot your headphones?"

Pina didn't lean in like she usually did. Instead, she stared at the seats in front of her, a heavy pout on her face as she crossed her arms tightly over her chest.

"This is all so boring without Cata and Patri," she complained straightforwardly. "It feels wrong, right? To do this without them… they always play truco with me and now..."

"I know," you said gently, squeezing her shoulder. You missed them, too. The locker room was quieter, and jokes were less frequent without the two women. "But hey! They'll be back in January. You'll survive. In the meantime, you've got-"

You were going to say the rest of the team, or maybe you, but Pina pulled away before you could finish. She stood up abruptly, the pout holding strong on her face, her frustration bubbling over.

"I don't even see the point of playing if we have so many injuries," she mumbled more to herself than to you. "Travelling like this is– ugh! I don't even have a word for it!"

You were about to open your mouth again, try to comfort her, but Pina was quicker. 

She sighed. "I'm going to the bathroom."

She walked away without even looking at you, her shoulder tense. You stayed there, your arm still slightly extended into the empty seat where she had been sitting.

See? You were right. Just like a cat.

"…Well, thank you, Pina," you murmured to yourself, continuing the conversation in a sarcastic whisper. "I truly feel so appreciated. Yes, I'm glad I'm here too! Our ten-year friendship means so much to me as well!"

You sighed. You didn't have time to wallow in how Pina seemingly didn't care about your lovely company, because Martina and Sydney suddenly filled the seats around you that had been empty.

"Hi," they said in unison, like the twins from The Shining. Their voices were sweet, too sweet, in that scheming tone only teenagers could master.

You gave them side-eyes, looking left and right at where each of them sat, effectively trapping you. You felt like a caged animal. You needed an outing. Your instincts were screaming that they were up to no good.

"Hi?" you replied, the word coming out more like a question than anything. 

"So…" Sydney began, drawing out the word. "We saw your story yesterday…"

"No." You tried to bolt, but Martina's hands were already pressed down on your shoulder, firmly holding you in place.

"We just wanna talk!" Martina said, her face the epitome of false innocence. "Please?"

You realised you should have accompanied Pina to the bathroom.

"Talking about my private life is not something I want to do," you said sternly, your eyes darting around, trying to look for help.

Irene was too focused on her phone, a soft smile on her face that meant she was talking to her wife. 

Marta and Caro were talking and whispering and being disgustingly in love, something you didn't see often.

And Alexia (poor Alexia) had both hands to her ears as Carla talked a mile a minute, probably begging for her to catch fish or chop down trees in her Nintendo game.

You were alone in this one.

"Why do you think we want to talk about your private life?" Sydney asked, tilting her head, her big brown eyes fixed on you.

"You don't?" you asked flatly, not buying it.

"Yeah, okay… we do," Martina admitted, leaning in and whispering so only you could hear it. "Who's that girl? The one you were with last night? You can talk to us! We won't say a thing."

Kika.

Her name echoed in your mind, but you kept your lips sealed, no matter how much you wanted to simply reply to Martina's question, to end this ridiculous interrogation. 

Kika was the girl in your stories. 

But no one could tell it was her because you had been so careful and meticulous. 

It was just a simple picture of her hand holding a glass of wine. It wasn't even her whole hand, just the tips of her painted nails catching the flash of the camera while you two shared Vinya de Plat at your apartment.

You had checked the photo seven times, and Kika herself had checked it three times before you posted it. There were no rings, no identifying marks, no reflections on the wine glass, no birth marks… nothing.

But they were smart.

Why couldn't they simply assume the girl was a friend? Well… because, embarrassingly, your social circle was very small, to say the least. If you were with a friend, that friend was almost certainly a teammate, 99% of the time. That 1%? Your brother. 

You knew the girls, especially Sydney, had spent the morning doing some reconnaissance, asking around to see who wasn't accounted for last night, what everyone was up to, checking out cross-references with everybody's location.

You knew they had asked Kika, and she had lied easily, with that smooth confidence she always had. You, on the other hand, wore your feelings on your face like headlines, and the girls were well aware of that. They were turning your greatest vulnerability against you.

"It's no one," you said, rolling your eyes, trying to keep the heat rising on your cheeks under control. "Don't you two have homework to do?"

They both rolled their eyes in perfect synchronisation. You knew they had told Alexia and Irene that their work was finished, but the guilty twitch in Martina's expression told a very different story.

"Ugh! Were you always this boring?" Sydney asked, flopping back in her seat dramatically. "You used to be cool, you know that?"

"Yeah, well," you said, tapping your temple for emphasis. "We become boring the closer we get to our prefrontal cortex being fully developed."

"Cortex?" Martina wrinkled her nose. "Like… the brain?"

You rolled your eyes again. "Yes. Which you would know if you actually did your bio homework instead-"

"What? You haven't done your homework?!"

Alexia's voice cut through the terminal like a knife. You weren't sure how she had finally escaped Carla's animal crossing monologue, but the brunette was suddenly standing there, a Starbucks bag in her hand, visibly stuffed with fruit cups and pastries. 

Alexia made executive decisions about what the youngest could eat. They weren't allowed to pick their own food anymore, not after last time when they had all pooled their money and bought nothing but macarons. Fifty-three macarons were split between six teenage players.

And to wash it down? They had chosen Monster Energy drinks. 

Not water. Not juice. Not soda.

Monster. Energy. Drinks. With pure caffeine, sugar and weird food colouring. 

The bus ride back had been a nightmare; the kids were unable to sit still for more than thirty seconds while simultaneously moaning that they were dying of stomach aches. 

Clara had been the first to throw up, but she hadn't been the last.

That one was known as The Macarons incident, and by unspoken law, could not be mentioned ever again.

"I… We, of course we did our homework!" Sydney said with a high-pitched voice, her eyes fixed somewhere behind Alexia, refusing to make eye contact.

Alexia knew the telltale signs of every player on the squad, but the young ones were especially easy to read. Like a hound dog, she could smell lies from a kilometre away. 

She simply pointed a finger at the pile of backpacks dumped where Caro and Marta were.

"Go do it. Now."

Sydney and Martina exchanged glances, then slumped off like scolded puppies toward their bags.

You watched them go, the weight of the so-called interrogation finally lifting off your chest.

When you turned back, you caught Alexia's eyes. She adjusted her sunglasses and raised a single, knowing eyebrow,

"You're welcome," she said.

She headed back to her seat, beginning to distribute the (approved) snacks to whoever was within arm's reach.

You had your AirPods in, the music was soft, barely there, nothing more than white noise. But it didn't work to soothe your headache. 

You had woken up with a migraine, but until now, it had been manageable. Maybe talking to the girls was what set your migraine on fire. Maybe they were the ones to blame.

Nothing worked when you had a migraine except sleeping in your bed, on your pillow, taking the specific brand of medicine you left on your bedside table with the lights off and a cold washcloth on your forehead.

Here, every announcement over the speakers felt like a knife behind your eyes; it was too loud. The lights were drilling into your skull, sending fresh waves of nausea through you. 

You were trying desperately to concentrate on the gentle piano in your ears and not on whatever was happening around you. You didn't even notice Kika sitting down beside you until her hand brushed your arm.

The two of you were very private. A straight-up secret.

You were still in the beginning stages of your relationship, still figuring out what this was, and what it could be. Neither of you had put a label on it yet, but it was something. Something that made your heart race when she smiled at you, something that made you check your phone constantly for her messages.

You knew the time was coming, the time to make it public.

You had seen what people said online about you two, the editing accounts, the "proof" threads on Twitter alongside the speculation. 

You knew that some of your older teammates had figured it out. They were used to teammates dating each other, used to knowing when a hand on the back while leaving the field meant more than just friendship. 

They were subtle about it, though. Respectful. Something the kids were still learning.

"Oi, linda," Kika whispered, knowing very well you were in pain. 

You hadn't told her. You didn't need to; she could read the tension in your jaw and the way you were flinching with every loud noise.

If it wasn't for how uncomfortable you looked, you were sure Kika would keep her distance like she usually did. But maybe the Portuguese couldn't help herself and give you a little affection. 

You murmured something that you didn't even try to make understandable.

Without meaning to, you leaned toward her side just slightly. The armrest was still between you, but you tilted just enough for your shoulder to touch hers. 

The warmth of her was almost like a blanket. Your migraine turned more bearable. You wanted to curse your stupid body for being so easily soothed by her, for turning love into such good medicine.

"I know," Kika murmured back to your grumbles. "I'm sorry. You'll feel better soon."

You grumbled incoherent words again.

"No," she said teasingly, against your ear, softly. "This won't be forever, and you know it."

You didn't know how she was able to translate every single one of your words.

For a second, the two of you were wrapped in a bubble. You forgot you were stuck in an airport full of overgrown kindergarteners, forgot you had a big game tomorrow. You forgot everything.

Then you felt it, that distinct feeling on the back of your neck that meant someone was watching.

Sydney stood a few feet away, her eyes moving slowly from Kika's hand near your shoulder, to Kika's painted nails, to her phone screen, and back again. Her mouth opened slightly, then closed. Then it opened again and settled in.

Your stomach didn't just drop. It actually turned around itself.

"It's Kika."

Sydney's voice filled the terminal. She didn't just say it… she announced it, standing frozen in the middle of the walkway, eyes wide like she had uncovered a secret (she had).

"It's Kika!" she said again, louder, to whoever was listening. "The - the nail! The girl in the photo… her middle finger had that tiny chip in the polish! Just like Kika's! Oh my god-"

Alexia (poor Alexia), who had finally managed to drift off a little bit, jolted awake like someone had set off a fire alarm. She looked around, probably thinking the girls were about to get the team banned from the airport.

"What?" you asked, mind slow and confused through the migraine. 

Beside you, Kika had gone completely still. Not the calm stillness she usually had, but the kind of frozenness that meant panic was setting in, and she didn't know what to do. 

You watched her swallow hard, watched her fingers twitch with her shirt before she caught herself and curled them into a fist.

Suddenly, you understood exactly what Sydney had figured out.

"You were on a date with Kika yesterday!" Sydney said, still way too loud, mouth hanging open in shock and delight. "Okay, wow… I actually wasn't expecting that!"

Your own hands clenched into fists in your lap. Your breathing was getting shorter, and the pressure building behind your eyes was intensifying with the wave of adrenaline.

You opened your mouth, then closed it. 

You didn't know what to say. 

Yes, you were with her. 

No, you didn't want anyone to know. Not yet. Not like this. 

No, this wasn't how this was supposed to happen. And fuck, your head was hurting like hell.

"You were on a date with Kika!?" Vicky practically screamed, launching herself out of her seat, her enormous iPad clutched in both hands. "What-what? Why didn't you tell me! I'm your best friend?! Are you two really-?"

"Dating?" Clara's voice chimed in from somewhere behind you.

Your jaw clenched. The questions kept coming, each one like another weight pressing down on your chest.

Aïcha, who was sitting a few seats away, pulled out her earphones and stared at you both, her eyes immediately dropping to where Kika's hand had been resting near your shoulder.

"Oh… cool," was the only thing she said before putting her earphones back on, a small knowing smile on her face.

"Okay, girls, stop that, yeah?" Kika tried, but you could hear the slight tremor in her voice even as she tried to deflect the whole situation. "You should really focus on finding someone of your own so you can leave other people alone."

Kika tried to keep a poker face on. But everyone could see through it.

Carla instantly poked Alexia in the arm from the other side of the seat rows. "Capi!" she said happily. "Kika and Y/n are dating!! Isn't that cute!?"

Alexia was fully awake now, rubbing her face with both hands. She looked at you, then at Kika, then at the gaggle of teenagers practically vibrating with excitement around you both. Her expression shifted from confusion to understanding to something that looked almost sympathetic. 

She opened her mouth as if to intervene, but you beat her to it.

"We are not fucking dating!"  You shouted, getting to your feet.

The lie tasted bitter on your tongue. You were dating, or at least you were at the beginning of it. But you couldn't admit that, not here and not now, when everything felt so fresh and fragile.

Everybody stopped whatever they were doing. 

Even Kika froze, staring up at you with wide eyes. For a split second, you thought you saw a flash of hurt across her face - maybe screaming wasn't the best move, but right now, you didn't care. Right now, you were angry, and you wanted everybody to know about it.

"Can you all stop acting so childish all the time?" You snapped, turning to each girl. "God, we can't do anything without you getting into our business!"

Your outburst echoed through the terminal; every single pair of eyes was set on you.

You looked around. Alexia had straightened in her seat, her captain's face on now, assessing the situation. Irene was watching carefully, phone forgotten in her lap. Even Marta and Caro had stopped their conversation and pulled apart.

You felt heat creeping up your neck. Shame for being the centre of attention, for snapping at them, for lying about Kika while she sat right there, and then burning anger at yourself for caring so much about what they thought.

You opened your mouth to say something else, an apology, an explanation, anything, but you knew just another round of incoherent words would spill out, and honestly, only Kika could decipher those.

So you just walked away, ignoring the voices calling after you.

"Wait-" Vicky's voice called out.

"Y/n, come back-" Kika's voice was softer, and it almost made you stop.

"Let her go, girls," Alexia said quietly. "Give her space. Kika, sit down."

You didn't look back. You waved through the terminal, gate after fate until your team and their voices were just a blur in the distance. Now, you could only hear your heartbeat and feel the throbbing in your skull.

Ten minutes later, you were on the other side of the airport, sitting on a stool at a high table that faced the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the tarmac. Outside, the planes landed and took off.

You pressed your palms into your forehead, trying to breathe through your feelings and migraine, but it wasn't working.

The scene kept replaying in your mind, the way you had shouted right in front of everyone, their faces, and then the sudden silence. 

You had basically told the entire team that what you had with Kika meant nothing, even though the truth was so far from that it made your heart ache.

Kika knew you. She knew how you got when you panicked, knew that your brain short-circuited under pressure. But still. You hated that you had put her in that position.

That's when you felt someone sit beside you, the stool scraping against the floor.

"Kika, I'm not in the mood to talk right now," you mumbled, not looking up. Part of you hoped it was her, the other was scared to see the look of hurt in her eyes.

"Good thing I'm not Kika, then," Alexia said with a teasing edge to her voice.

Your head snapped up, and for a split second, you felt the disappointment that it wasn't Kika coming after you. 

Then the anxiety kicked in. Alexia was here… the captain… she probably came to tell you how badly you had messed up, how unprofessional you had been.

You tensed and looked at Alexia, really looked. 

The poor woman looked a mess. Her hair was falling out of her ponytail, her face was pale with exhaustion, and dark circles were deepening under her eyes. You knew she needed her nine to ten hours of sleep, and getting only five was destroying her, especially when she needed to look after a bunch of kids.

"Oh," you said, embarrassed. "Hi, Ale."

"Hi, Cari," Alexia replied softly.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You just watched the ground crews around.

"I was mean to them, to the young ones," you said finally, the admission making you feel even worse about yourself. 

"Sometimes they deserve a bit of mean," Alexia said, matter-of-fact. "They're very nosy. Last week, they spent two hours investigating who I went on a run with because I posted a picture of the girl's back and didn't tag her."

She paused, shaking her head at the memory. "Alba. It was Alba, my sister. I actually had to sit them all down and tell them to stop being in my business."

"But they're just young," you said, head down, fingers twisting together on the table. "I didn't need to scream at them like that."

"You're young too, you're just twenty-one," Alexia said softly, and something in her voice made you look at her. "And you're navigating being in a relationship for the first time with someone from your team. That's a lot on your plate, cari. You don't need nosy kids on your back as well."

You felt your face heat. You had known Alexia was one of the few who had figured out about you and Kika. Not because you had told her, but because she was observant like that. 

She saw the way Kika's hand lingered on your back, the way you looked for her first after a goal, the way you both slipped out of the training centre in the same car, sometimes too many.

"I just-" you stopped, your throat tightening. "I just want to keep it between us. We're still figuring stuff out, and it's just too much when everybody wants to be involved… when they turn it into a... a romance comedy or something."

Alexia was quiet for a moment, and when you glanced at her, her expression was filled with understanding, not judgment.

"When Jenny and I got together years ago," Alexia said slowly, "I didn't tell anyone for months. Not because I was ashamed, but because it was… ours. Something just for us, you know? And when you're in this environment, where everyone knows everything about everyone..." She trailed off, then looked at you directly. "You have every right to want that privacy, cari."

She paused, studying your face. "But maybe screaming is not the best choice, huh? Although… I would probably do the same if I were in your situation."

Your eyes became glossy, and you blinked hard against the stupid tears.

"I think I messed up," you whispered.

"You didn't mess up… Kika likes you a lot-" Alexia said simply, squeezing your shoulder.  "- and the girls adore you, and I can tell they are feeling bad about it.  So take a deep breath, okay? Then come meet us. Boarding starts in fifteen minutes."

"Okay." You nodded, your voice was small.

Alexia stood, stretching her back with a wince, then grinned down at you.

"Oh, and it looked like the hand of destiny was at work; you and Kika are seated together on the plane. So I hope you can use that time well."

She gave you a wink and walked away, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the distant sound of yet another plane departing.

You sat there for another minute, watching the tarmac. You had fifteen minutes to pull yourself together and face everyone again.

Your migraine throbbed in protest. You took one last deep breath, stood up, and headed back toward your gate.

When boarding started, you found your seats toward the back.

The plane hummed low, and thank god, all the girls were talking to each other in low voices. The cabin lights were dimmed, and Irene had somehow managed to organise the team so the ones who were a bit more awake would sit in the front while the ones who wanted to relax would sit in the back.

You claimed the window seat, with Kika settling beside you. Across the aisle, Alexia was (finally) sleeping, her mouth slightly open. If it wasn't for the lingering migraine and the tension in your shoulders, you would have taken a picture for the team group chat.

Your head still ached, but it was duller now. You rested your forehead against the cool window, closing your eyes. The glass vibrated gently with the movement of the plane, and somehow that steady rhythm helped with the pain. That, and Kika's presence.

"You okay?" Kika murmured softly.

You started to nod, but stopped. You realised you didn't need to lie or perform for Kika. You let out a slow breath and shook your head instead. "Better than before, I guess."

She gave you a soft smile. "That's something, linda."

Her arm rested on the shared armrest between you. She wasn't touching you yet, but the heat radiating from her skin felt like an invitation you were too tired to decline. So you shifted, just a bit, and your pinky brushed hers. Neither of you moved away.

Your breathing slowed without you noticing. Your body (traitor that it was) relaxed, your shoulders dropped, the knots unwinding, and your jaw unclenched. 

The relief was immediate, like Kika's mere presence was better than any painkiller. You felt your head tilt, gravitating toward her like it was the most natural thing in the world, until it came to rest against the soft fabric covering her shoulder.

Kika stiffened for half a second, but then relaxed too, properly melting into you. 

She didn't wrap an arm around you or kiss your hair or whisper sweet words in Portuguese. She just stayed there. Her head leaned a fraction toward yours, temple resting gently against your own.

Her pinky hooked gently around yours.

You didn't need to talk about what happened at the airport right now… maybe later. Definitely later. Because right now, her shoulder, her warmth, her quiet understanding was what you needed. This was everything.

You slept like that. The migraine was still there, a constant presence, but Kika's steady breathing soothed it somehow, pulling you into sleep.

Across the aisle, Alexia cracked one eye open, still groggy from her own nap. Her gaze fell over the linked fingers, then to your peaceful face nestled against Kika's shoulder, then to Kika's small smile.

Alexia closed her eyes again, a matching smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

The hand of destiny, indeed.

You woke to the sound of the pilot announcing the plane was about to land. Around you, the girls began stretching and yawning, some anxious ones already pulling bags down from overhead compartments even though the seatbelt light was obviously still on.

Irene had to yell at them to sit back down.

You blinked slowly and disoriented.

For a moment, you didn't know where you were, just that you were warm and comfortable and your head didn't hurt anymore. Then you felt the gentle pressure of Kika's shoulder beneath your cheek, saw the curve of her neck, and remembered.

You pulled back carefully, and Kika turned to look at you. Her eyes were soft, a little sleepy.

"Better?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah," you said, and meant it. Your head felt clearer, the migraine barely there, "Much better."

"Good," Kika smiled, brushing her thumb on your palm.

When the plane finally landed, Kika gave your fingers one last squeeze before letting go. "I'm gonna grab our bags," she murmured, nodding toward the bin above. "Meet you at the gate?"

You nodded, watching her stand and disappear into the aisle with the others, her hand briefly brushing your shoulder as she passed.

You were gathering your things, your AirPods, phone, and the snack wrapper you had forgotten about, when someone hovered awkwardly beside your seat.

"Uh... hey."

You looked up and saw Sydney standing there.

This time, she wasn't bouncing on her toes, wasn't smiling or scheming. She was twisting the strap of her backpack around her fingers like she needed something to do with her hands, her eyes fixed somewhere around your shoulder instead of your face.

"Hi," you said cautiously, rubbing the last of the sleep from your eyes.

She swallowed hard. "I just wanted to… um, talk about earlier... about what I did at the airport."

You straightened, feeling more alert now. "Syd-"

"No, please, just let me say it," she interrupted, the words coming out fast. "I shouldn't have shouted like that. Or made it a big thing in front of everyone. Alexia talked to us after you left... like, properly talked."

You raised an eyebrow, a small smirk on your lips. "That sounds terrifying."

Sydney huffed out a nervous laugh, but her face grew serious again almost immediately. "Yeah... it kind of was. She said we don't get to decide what people share, or when. That it's not our story to tell, she said we were being disrespectful."

"She's right," you said gently, tucking your phone into your pocket. "Look, I get that you were curious. But when it comes to relationships, especially between teammates, there's just... there's a lot involved. It's complicated. Kika and I are still figuring things out ourselves."

Sydney nodded quickly, looking relieved that you weren't mad. "I know. I know that …now. I was just bored because the plane got delayed, and I thought I was being clever, and I didn't think about how it would feel for you, for both of you."

There was a pause. The plane had mostly emptied now, and most of the team had already left.

"I'm still nosy," Sydney admitted with a weak smile. "But I'll be less... loud about it. And you can talk to me about it when you want to, or if you ever want to. I want us to still be friends. I'm really sorry for overstepping."

The sincerity in her voice caught you off guard. You had expected a quick apology, something to just avoid trouble with Alexia, but this felt real.

"Of course we're still friends, chica," you said. "And hey, I appreciate you saying all this. It means a lot."

"I'm sorry," Sydney said again, quieter now. "For putting you on the spot like that. For making it weird…I wouldn't want someone doing that to me."

You stood up, gathering your things into one arm, and pulled Sydney into an awkward hug, or the best hug you could manage in the cramped aeroplane aisle.

"Thank you," you said honestly, squeezing her shoulder. "Really."

Sydney hesitated for just a moment before hugging you back properly, her backpack bumping against your hip. When she pulled away, her face was relaxed once again.

"For what it's worth..." she leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper, almost conspiratory. "You and Kika just make sense. Like, you just... fit, you know? I looked up your astrological signs and Scorpius and-"

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. "Go before I take that apology back."

She laughed and hurried off down the aisle.

You didn't miss how Alexia was waiting near the exit, leaning against the wall by the boarding door. When Sydney passed her, Alexia said something quietly that made Sydney nod before heading into the jet bridge.

You caught Alexia's eye and mouthed, "Thank you."

She didn't make a big deal out of it; she just winked and followed Sydney out.

You walked right after her, stepping into the jet bridge where the air was slightly warmer. 

You found Kika in a quiet corner by the windows in the arrivals area. The morning light had been replaced by an orangey end-of-day glow. She was leaning against the glass while talking to Pina, laughing at something that she had said.

She looked up when she heard your footsteps. Pina gave you a quick, knowing smile before heading toward the food court with the rest of the girls, leaving the two of you two alone.

"Hey," Kika said.

"Hi," you replied.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You two were always careful whenever you were in public; you tried to keep your conversations private, careful not to catch unwanted attention. But maybe now it didn't matter anymore.

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other. 

"Did I make things worse?" you finally asked, the question coming out in a rush now that you didn't have a migraine and could think properly. "Like... are we still… okay?"

Kika frowned slightly, her head tilting. "What? What are you talking about, linda? Why wouldn't we be okay?"

"Just… what happened this morning," you said, rubbing the back of your neck, unable to meet her eyes. "I screamed in front of you and, well... everybody…. I basically denied us in front of the team, and I just… I don't want you to think I did that because I'm embarrassed to be with you. That's absolutely not the case."

"You were in pain," she said simply, her voice soft. "Your migraine was killing you. I could see in the way you couldn't even look at the lights without flinching. You were overwhelmed, too, and the girls just kept pushing. I know you didn't mean what you said, it's fine."

She stepped closer, and you finally looked up at her.

"That's not an excuse, though," you murmured.

"It's a reason," she countered gently, her eyes filled with understanding. "There's a difference."

 "So, you're not mad? You don't need to pretend anymore if you are."

She chucked and shook her head. "Why would I even be mad? Actually, I was more worried you were going to bite Syd's head off."

Despite everything, you smiled. 

"I-" You hesitated, then forced yourself to speak because Kika deserved honesty. "I don't like that the team knows about us," you admitted. "Not like this. I wanted us to be the ones to say it to them, when we were ready."

Kika nodded slowly.

"I know," she said, and her hand found yours, squeezing gently. "I wanted that too. But it happened, baby. There's nothing we can do about it now except try to keep things private from other people who don't know yet. The team... they'll be okay. They care about us, they'll respect us if we want to keep it lowkey."

You stepped closer to her, close enough that you had to tilt your head up slightly to maintain eye contact. Your heart was pounding, but you needed to say this.

"One day..." you began carefully, "One day, I won't mind everybody knowing.

Something shifted in Kika's face, her eyes softened, and a smile spread across your face. She squeezed your hand again, but this time she didn't let go.

"I won't mind either," she whispered, and her words sounded like a surprise.

Your hand brushed hers, and for the first time, you laced your fingers together properly, out in the open where anyone could see. The warmth of her skin against yours was comforting, and the way your fingers fit together perfectly made any doubt about you fade from your mind. 

You could feel her thumb tracing small circles on the back of your hand, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And now, it was.

If the team was watching you two, no one commented. And it didn't really matter right now because in this moment, it was just you and Kika, standing in a quiet corner of the airport, orange light shining on your intertwined hands.

The sound of announcements and rolling suitcases faded into the background noise. All you could focus on was the warmth radiating between your hands and the soft smile on Kika's face, 

"Come on," Kika said eventually, tugging you gently toward where the team had gathered. "Let's go before they send a search party."

You followed, fingers still intertwined with hers, and for the first time all day, you felt like you could breathe properly.

Maybe you would find peace someday, with Kika by your side.

A/n: Please come talk to me about the story and what's your opinion! <3

Tag list:

The first warning sign was the size of the pot.

You’d spent Christmas Eves before, cozy nights with mulled wine, a single roast dinner, the occasional carol service. This, in Alexia Putellas’s family home in Sant Pere de Ribes, was a different universe of celebration. The air was thick with the rich, meaty perfume of a broth that had been simmering since dawn, and the kitchen hummed with a chaotic energy that made your carefully wrapped gifts and new Christmas sweater feel terribly inadequate.

“A veure, la benvingutda! (Hello, welcome)” Alexia’s mother had enveloped you in a hug that smelled of saffron and love, before shooing you towards the living room where aunts, uncles, cousins, and what seemed like half of their small town were talking over each other in rapid-fire Catalan. Alexia, your girlfriend of a year and the reason you were here, was in her element. She moved through the crowd with the same graceful authority she commanded on the pitch, translating snippets, squeezing your hand, her eyes sparkling with pride and mischief.

“You okay?” she whispered, pulling you into a momentarily quiet corner by the towering, beautifully decorated Christmas tree.

“It’s… amazing. A lot,” you admitted, your head spinning from the noise and the rapid switch between Catalan and Spanish.

“Espera (wait),” she grinned. “You haven’t seen the escuadella yet.”

That’s when you saw the pot. It wasn’t a pot; it was a cauldron, resting on a special burner in the center of the large, extended dining table, which was already groaning under platters of escudella. The stew itself was a deep, golden broth with vegetables, whole potatoes, fat carrots, giant chunks of cabbage, and tender chickpeas. But the true spectacle was the meat platter beside it.

“This,” Alexia announced, guiding you to the table as the family began to settle amidst a roar of chatter and clinking cutlery, “is tradition.”

She pointed with her fork. “The pilota, the big meatball. It has pork, chicken, bread, garlic, and parsley. You have to try it. This is galets,” she indicated the large, shell-shaped pasta swimming in the broth. “And this… carn d’olla.” The boiled meats. There was a piece of beef shank, a chunk of pork belly, a chicken thigh, a strange, cylindrical sausage, and something pale and bony you couldn’t identify.

“What’s that one?” you asked, pointing discreetly.

“Buf,” Alexia said, as if it were obvious. “The snout.”

Your smile froze. “The… snout?”

“Of the pig. It’s delicious. Very gelatinous.”

Eli began ladling broth with galets into everyone’s bowls. The first course was just the soup and pasta. It was incredibly deep, savory, and nourishing. You finished your bowl feeling pleasantly full, ready for a nap.

This, you soon learned, was a catastrophic miscalculation.

As the soup bowls were cleared, the real meal began. A plate was placed before you. On it, Eli deposited a potato, a piece of carrot, some chickpeas, a slice of the mysterious pilota (which was, admittedly, delicious), a piece of chicken, a slice of the pork belly, and a small, gelatinous piece of buf.

Alexia leaned over, her voice a low, teasing murmur. “You have to try everything. It’s the rule.”

“I’ll explode.”

“Then you explode. But you do it with a full stomach of Catalan tradition.” She winked and effortlessly speared a piece of snout, eating it with relish.

You took a deep breath. The potato was fluffy, the carrot sweet, the pilota superb. The chicken was tender. The pork belly was rich and fatty. You saved the buf for last. It had a strange, soft texture and a mild, porky flavor that wasn’t unpleasant, just… confronting. You chewed, swallowed, and gave Alexia a thumbs-up. Her resulting smile was more rewarding than any goal she’d ever scored.

But the plates weren’t cleared. Instead, more food appeared. Turrón for dessert, slices of neules, glasses of Cava. The conversation grew louder, the laughter more frequent. You were adrift in a sea of Catalan, clinging to Alexia’s translations like a life raft. It was fascinating. The rituals, the specific way they toasted, the stories about each dish that were told and retold every year. You watched Alexia, her face softer than you’d ever seen it, completely at home, and your heart swelled.

By the time the coffee was served, you were in a state of near-comatose fullness. You leaned back in your chair, convinced you would never need to eat again.

“Bé? (you okay)” Alexia asked, rubbing your back gently.

“It was incredible,” you said honestly, though your voice was weak with digestive effort. “But my body is sending me formal letters of protest.”

She laughed, a clear, beautiful sound. “Good. Because tomorrow, we will use the leftovers.”

You groaned. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, December 25th, began with deep peace and a stomach that still felt like it was hosting a very dense, meaty party. You found Alexia in the kitchen with Eli, who was already dismantling the remains of the escuadella.

“Bon dia, dormilega, (good morning, sleepyhead), Alexia chirped, looking disgustingly fresh. “Ready for phase two?”

“There’s more eating?”

“Different eating. First, we say goodbye to el Tió.”

You blinked. “The uncle?”

She laughed. “No, not el tio, my uncle. El Tió. The log. Come on.”

In a corner of the living room, away from the tree, was a small, hollow log with a painted smiling face and a little red beret hat. It sat on a blanket.

“This is el Tió de Nadal,” Alexia explained, handing you a small stick. “The Christmas log. We feed him all December, and on Christmas, we beat him and sing, and he… gives us presents.”

You stared at the cheerful log, then at the stick. “We beat the log. For presents.”

“It poops them out. Caga, Tió!” She said it with such earnest glee that you couldn’t help but laugh.

The younger cousins were gathered, eyes wide. A chant began, led by Alexia’s youngest niece: “Caga tió, caga torró, avellanes i mató, si no cagues bé et donarem un cop de bastó. Caga tió! (Poop, log, poop turrón, hazelnuts, and cheese. If you don’t poop well, we’ll hit you with a stick. Poop, log!)”.

Alexia nudged you. “You too! Hit him and sing!”

Feeling utterly surreal, you tapped the blanket-covered log with your stick, mumbling along to the Catalan words. The children whacked it with gusto. And then, Alexia’s uncle lifted the blanket. From underneath, as if by magic (or more likely, careful adult planning), spilled small wrapped gifts, chocolates, nougat, and nuts.

The children squealed and dove in. You stood there, stick in hand, caught between bewilderment and delight. It was bizarre, charming, and unlike anything you’d ever experienced.

“See?” Alexia bumped your shoulder. “He was generous this year.”

“I have so many questions,” you said, watching a four-year-old happily chew on a chocolate shaped like the log. “But I love it. It’s… weird. And fun.”

“The best traditions are,” she said, kissing your cheek.

After the log’s bounty was distributed, it was back to the kitchen. The massive pot was back on the stove, but now its contents were being transformed. Eli was shredding the leftover boiled meats from the escuadella, the beef, the pork, the chicken. She was mixing them with a rich bechamel sauce.

“Canelons,” Alexia said, rolling up her sleeves. “For Sant Esteve, the 26th. The day of leftovers. We fill the pasta tubes with this, bake them with more bechamel and cheese… una delícia.”

You were put to work, carefully filling the slippery par-boiled pasta tubes with the rich, meaty mixture. It was a quieter, more intimate ritual. Just you, Alexia, and her mother in the warm kitchen, the chaos of the big dinner replaced by a focused, familial industry.

“It’s smart,” you observed, carefully rolling a tube. “Nothing goes to waste. The feast becomes a new feast.”

Eli smiled at you, understanding your meaning even through the language barrier. “Sí. La família també. Un dia gran, un dia tranquil. Tot s’aprofita. (Yes. The family, too. One big day, one quiet day. Everything is used.)”

That night, the dinner was smaller, just the immediate family. The canelons emerged from the oven golden and bubbling. They were decadent, creamy, and deeply savory, a complete reinvention of the previous day’s meal. They were, somehow, even richer.

You managed two. Alexia ate four with the focused intensity of an athlete in her off-season.

After helping with the dishes, you both escaped to the small balcony overlooking the quiet, chilly street. The buzz of the city was a distant hum.

“So,” Alexia said, handing you a small glass of sweet moscatell. “Escudella, el Tió, canelons. What’s the verdict?”

You leaned against the railing, looking at her. The fairy lights from inside caught the gold in her hazel eyes. You thought about the overwhelming feast, the bizarre pooping log, the meticulous transformation of leftovers. You thought about the loud, loving family, the feeling of being an outsider trying to find the rhythm, the sheer physical challenge of it all.

“It was fascinating,” you said finally, and truthfully. “Incredible. I loved seeing where you come from, being part of this… this cyclone of food and ritual and family. It’s amazing.”

You paused, taking a sip of the sweet wine. “But it wasn’t always fun.”

Alexia’s eyebrows raised, not in offense, but in curious surprise.

“The snout was an adventure,” you clarified with a weak smile. “I think I’m still digesting the pilota. I nearly had a panic attack when I thought I had to finish my entire plate of carn d’olla. And beating a log for candy is, objectively, very strange.” You reached out and took her hand. “I felt lost sometimes. And full. So, so full.”

Alexia listened, her thumb stroking your knuckles. A soft smile played on her lips.

“But,” you continued, squeezing her hand, “the fascinating part? That’s what matters. That’s what I’ll remember. Seeing you like this, so happy, so at home. Your mom teaching me to roll the canelons. The kids’ faces when the log ‘pooped’. That’s the good stuff. The rest is just… digestive adjustment and cultural shock.”

She pulled you into her arms, your head fitting perfectly under her chin. She smelled like home and cinnamon and the crisp night air. “I know,” she murmured into your hair. “It’s a lot. I forget because it’s just my normal. But you did it. You tried everything. You sang to the log. You even rolled pasta without breaking it.” She pulled back to look at you. “Gràcies. for trying. For being here.”

“Thank you for sharing it,” you said, meaning it with every fiber of your being, even the ones currently dedicated to metabolizing a mountain of Catalan cuisine.

She kissed you then, softly, a promise in the chill of the December night. “Next year,” she whispered, her forehead against yours, “we can start our own tradition. Maybe just the canelons. And we can feed the Tió together. And no snout unless you really want.”

Lunch happens the way things always do with footballers. Loud, unplanned, already halfway to chaos before you sit down.

You arrive with Kika, the restaurant buzzing with energy and familiar voices. Sunlight pours in through wide windows, bouncing off metal chairs and half-empty glasses. Someone is already laughing too hard at something you missed.

“There they are,” Kika announces, dramatic as ever. “The reason I’m never home.”

Introductions blur at first. Names, smiles, hands reaching across the table. You anchor yourself by observing: how Patri leans back, arms crossed but eyes kind; how Pina’s laugh bubbles out of her like she can’t contain it; how Esmee watches everything quietly, attentive; how Carmen gestures with her whole body when she talks; how Irene smiles like she’s always ready to protect someone.

You’re not invisible.

Alexia’s hand brushes your lower back as she guides you to an empty seat. Not possessive. Just present. Grounding.

“This is the poet I told you about,” she says casually.

You flush.

“Old Poet,” Kika corrects instantly.

Patri grins. “Of course you’re a poet. That tracks.”

Pina leans in. “Does that mean you write about us already?”

“Only when you behave,” you deadpan.

Laughter ripples around the table.

Food arrives. Plates clatter. Conversations overlap. Training, travel, inside jokes that feel lived-in and affectionate. You listen more than you speak, but when you do, people listen. That surprises you.

Esmee asks about your work with the kids. You tell her about breathing exercises and teaching courage before technique.

“That’s important,” she says seriously. “We could’ve used you when we were eight.”

Carmen nods. “Or now,” she adds, earning a groan.

Alexia watches you from across the table, eyes soft. You feel it. Her attention like a quiet current under everything else.

At one point, Irene raises her glass. “To new faces who feel like they’ve always been here.”

You swallow, moved more than you expect.

You don’t belong because you’re perfect.

You belong because you’re honest.

Later, as the lunch winds down and chairs scrape back, Patri leans over and whispers, “She’s good for her,” nodding toward Alexia. “Don’t mess it up.”

You smile, not defensive, just real. “I won’t.”

Alexia hears anyway. She always does.

Outside, the sun is warm. The city alive. The circle wider now.

And for the first time, you don’t feel like you’re standing at the edge of someone else’s world.

You’re in it.

Lunch dissolves slowly.

Chairs are pushed back, bills argued over, hugs exchanged like punctuation marks at the end of sentences. One by one, people peel away, pulled back into training schedules and errands and lives that run fast.

You and Alexia linger.

Not intentionally. It just… happens.

You walk side by side without deciding where you’re going, the city opening itself in small, ordinary ways. A bakery window, a narrow street, the sound of cutlery from somewhere inside. Your steps fall into an easy rhythm, yours careful, hers instinctively adjusting to match it.

“My mum cooked last night,” Alexia says suddenly, like the thought just found its way out. “Too much food. Always too much.”

You smile. “That’s how you know it’s love.”

She laughs. “Exactly. Mi mami kept telling me to eat more, like training didn’t already demand half my soul.”

“And your sister?” you ask, curious but gentle.

“Alba steals food off my plate,” she says fondly. “Always has. Then pretends she didn’t.” Her smile softens. “It’s nice. Being with them. It reminds me I’m just… a person.”

You nod. You understand that hunger. To be ordinary, to be seen without expectation.

“I like hearing about them,” you say. “It makes everything feel… real.”

She glances at you, surprised, pleased. “I don’t usually talk about this stuff.”

You don’t ask why. You don’t need to.

She talks anyway. About family dinners, about home, about things that have nothing to do with football and everything to do with grounding. You listen, not because you’re polite, but because each detail feels like a gift she’s choosing to give.

You feel it then. A quiet, blooming gratitude.

Lucky.

Not the loud kind that demands proof. The steady kind that settles in your chest and stays.

As she talks, your mind drifts. Not away from her, but forward. You imagine a date that feels like this: unhurried, thoughtful, safe. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere she doesn’t have to scan the room.

You think of flowers again. Of light. Of listening.

She deserves something intentional. Something that lets her exhale.

She stops walking.

“You’re very quiet,” she says, teasing but warm. “What’s going on in that universe of yours?”

You smile, a little shy. “I was just… thinking.”

“About?”

You meet her eyes. Honest. Open.

“About how much you give,” you say softly. “And how I’d like our first date to give something back.”

Her breath stutters, just slightly.

“I think,” she says, voice low, “I’d really like that.”

You stand there, the city flowing around you, the future not rushing you for answers.

For now, it’s enough to walk beside her, talking about all and nothing and to know, deep in your bones, that whatever comes next will be met with care.

🌟

You get home later than expected.

The apartment is quiet except for the faint sound of music coming from Kika’s room. You slip off your shoes carefully, wincing just a little as your weight shifts.

Your body is tired, not the bad kind. The kind that follows something full.

“Hmm,” Kika’s voice drifts out, suspicious. “That took a while for lunch.”

You freeze for half a second.

Then you laugh.

“We… walked a bit afterward,” you say, setting your bag down. “Alexia and me.”

There’s a pause.

Then Kika appears in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes scanning your face like she’s reading subtitles only she can see.

“Uma caminhada (a walk),” she repeats. “You look like someone who just watched the sunset and learned a life lesson.”

You shrug, trying not to smile too much. “She’s really interesting, Kika.”

Kika’s expression softens, just a fraction, before turning smug.

“Oh, I know,” she says. “I’ve been telling you for years. You just needed to see her without a ball at her feet.”

You sit on the couch, leaning back, exhaling. The room feels safe. Familiar.

“She talked about her mum,” you add quietly. “And her sister. Just… coisas normais (normal things).”

Kika nods. “That’s big for her.”

You glance at her. “It is?”

“She doesn’t open that door for everyone,” Kika says simply. Then she smirks. “Parabéns (congratulations). You’ve been invited into the inner circle.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “Don’t make it weird.”

“Oh, it’s already weird,” Kika replies cheerfully. “You’re glowing. It’s disgusting.”

You peek at her between your fingers. “Am I?”

“Yes,” she says. “And I like it. You deserve it.”

That lands heavier than you expect.

You sit there for a moment, letting it settle. The warmth, the possibility, the quiet certainty growing inside you.

From the kitchen, Kika calls out, “So. When’s the date?”

You smile to yourself, staring at the ceiling like it might answer back.

“Próxima semana (next week),” you say. “I think I already know what I want it to be.”

Kika grins. “Of course you do, old poet.”

And for once, the future doesn’t feel like something you have to chase.

It feels like something that’s walking toward you. At your pace.

🌟

You plan the date the way some people pray.

Not with desperation, not with demands, but with listening.

You don’t tell anyone at first. Not even Kika. You let the idea arrive in pieces: while washing dishes, while stretching your leg on the floor in the morning light, while staring at the ceiling just before sleep. 

You don’t force it. You trust what comes.

The universe has been speaking to you lately. Not loudly, not in signs you can photograph. But in alignment. In timing. In the way Alexia’s name feels when it settles in your chest instead of fluttering away.

You choose a place outside the city. Quiet. Green. A small house tucked between trees, where the air smells like earth and rosemary. Somewhere the world won’t interrupt. Somewhere she doesn’t have to be anything but herself.

You bring food. Simple. Thoughtful. Nothing extravagant. You remember what she said about her mum cooking too much, about family dinners, about how ordinary things anchor her. You want the date to feel like an exhale.

The book comes last.

It’s small. Worn already, though it’s new. You’ve been writing in it all week. Poems for her, but also with her. About watching her hands when she talks. About the quiet courage in the way she holds herself. About what it feels like to walk beside someone who doesn’t rush you.

You don’t know yet if you’ll give it to her.

You only know you want it near.

The day comes faster than you expect.

You wake up early, heart steady, body aching a little more than usual. 

You stretch carefully, breathe through it. You thank your leg, for carrying you this far, for not giving up even when the dream changed shape.

You dress simply. Something soft. Something honest.

Kika watches you from the kitchen, pretending not to stare.

“You look… serious,” she says.

You smile. “I am.”

She nods, understanding more than she says. “Text me when you’re alive.”

You laugh. “I will.”

The drive is quiet. You don’t play music. You don’t need distraction. You let your thoughts wander. Not anxiously, but tenderly.

You think about asking her.

About the words.

About whether it’s too soon.

And then... without drama, without debate, the answer settles in you.

There is no too soon when something is true.

Alexia arrives right on time.

She steps out of the car, wearing something casual, hair loose, eyes bright. She smiles when she sees you. That familiar warmth that still surprises you every time.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” you answer, and it still feels like a beginning.

You walk together through the small path toward the house. Birds scatter from the trees. Sunlight filters through leaves, dappling her face, her shoulders. She looks… peaceful here. You feel a quiet pride at that.

“This is beautiful,” she says. “How did you find this?”

“I listen,” you reply. “Sometimes places tell you when they want to be found.”

She laughs softly. “You really are like this all the time, aren’t you?”

You smile. “Only when it matters.”

You eat together. Talk about nothing and everything. Childhood memories. Silly habits. Things you love but never say out loud. She tells you about pressure. Not dramatically, not bitterly. Just honestly. You listen, the way you always do, holding space instead of trying to fix.

At one point, she reaches across the table and squeezes your hand.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For not asking me to be anyone else.”

Your chest tightens. The good kind.

Later, you walk outside. The air is cooler now. The world hushed.

This is the moment.

You feel it the way you felt your injury all those years ago. Not the pain, but the knowing. The instant when life split into before and after.

You sit on a low stone wall. Alexia stands beside you, watching the sky change color.

“There’s something I want to tell you,” you say.

She turns, fully present. “Okay.”

You take a breath. You don’t rush. You don’t dress it up.

“I know this is our first date,” you begin. “And I know that normally people wait. They measure. They protect themselves.”

She watches you carefully, but there’s no fear in her eyes.

“I’ve spent a lot of my life watching things pass me by,” you continue. “Dreams. Moments. Love. I told myself it was wisdom. But sometimes it was just fear.”

You reach into your bag and pull out the book. You don’t give it to her yet. You just hold it.

“I don’t feel that fear with you,” you say. “I feel… alignment. Like the universe has been nudging me toward this, gently but persistently.”

Her breath catches.

“I don’t need promises,” you add quickly. “Or certainty. I just… want to be honest.”

You look at her then. Really look. “I would like to be with you,” you say softly. “Not someday. Not when it’s convenient. Now. In whatever way feels right for you.”

Silence stretches.

Not uncomfortable. Sacred.

Alexia steps closer. Her voice is quiet, but steady.

“You have no idea how long it’s been since someone chose me without asking me to perform first.”

She reaches for the book, finally. You let her take it.

“I feel it too,” she says. “I’ve just been afraid to name it.”

You swallow, emotion rising. “We can go slow.”

She smiles. “We can go true.”

She leans in, resting her forehead against yours. No rush. No spectacle.

“Yes,” she whispers. “I want to be with you.”

The world doesn’t explode.

It settles.

You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for years.

You hand her the book properly this time. Not ceremoniously, not with expectation. Just placing it into her hands like something that already belongs there. She takes it with care, thumbs brushing the worn edges, the corners already softened by your touch.

“Can I?” she asks quietly.

You nod. “Always.”

You sit beside her on the stone wall, close enough that your shoulders touch. The warmth of her seeps into you, steady and grounding. She opens the first page, then the second, then slows. Like she’s realized this isn’t something to rush through.

The pages breathe.

You watch her read. The way her eyes soften. The way she pauses, rereads certain lines like they’re speaking directly to her.

Every now and then, she glances at you. Like she’s checking if it’s okay that this means so much.

It is.

She clears her throat gently and reads one aloud, voice low and careful, like she’s afraid to break it.

You don’t enter my life like a storm. You arrive like weather I’ve been waiting for. Slow. Predictable. Kind.

Her voice trembles on the last word.

You feel something warm spill behind your ribs.

“That’s… about me?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

“It’s about how you make me feel,” you reply.

She turns another page. Then another. Sometimes she smiles. Sometimes she goes quiet. Once, she presses her fingers to her lips and breathes out like she’s steadying herself.

You sit there, heart open, letting her wander through your inner world without commentary. This is how you love. By offering, not explaining.

You remember the camera then.

It’s in your bag, heavy with intention. You brought it because you wanted to remember this. The light, the way her hair catches it, the softness of the moment. But suddenly the idea of lifting it feels… intrusive.

You hesitate.

Alexia notices.

“You brought a camera?” she asks gently.

You nod, embarrassed. “I thought I’d want to capture it. But now I don’t know if I should.”

She smiles. Not teasing, not uncertain.

“Maybe just one,” she says. “For us. Not for the world.”

Your hands tremble a little as you take it out. You lift it slowly, giving her time to say no. She doesn’t. She leans into you instead, book still open in her lap, head resting against your shoulder.

Click.

The sound is soft. Almost shy.

You lower the camera immediately, heart racing. She laughs quietly, warm breath against your neck.

“Thank you,” she murmurs. “For seeing me like this.”

You rest your head against hers. “Thank you for letting me.”

The sun dips lower. The pages flutter in the breeze. The universe, satisfied, looks away. Not because it’s finished, but because it trusts you now. And for the first time in a long time, you do too.

🌟

The apartment is quiet when you get home.

Not empty, just still.

Kika isn’t there. Her room dark, her laughter absent. You move slowly through the space, setting your bag down, placing the camera carefully on the table like it’s something sacred.

You sit on the couch, leg stretched out, body humming with that gentle exhaustion that follows truth.

Your phone feels warm in your hand even before you unlock it.

You don’t think.

You just call.

She answers on the second ring.

“A minha vida (my life),” your mother says, voice full and alive. “I was just thinking about you.”

You smile, eyes closing. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true,” she replies. “How are you? Are you eating enough? Is your leg behaving today?”

You laugh softly. “Yes, yes, and… mostly.”

There’s a pause. The kind she knows how to read.

“O que aconteceu (what happened),” she says, not a question, an invitation.

You lean back, staring at the ceiling like it’s listening too.

“Eu conheci alguém (I met someone),” you say.

Silence.

Then: “Oh.”

Not surprised. Just careful.

“She’s… good,” you continue. “Kind. Gentle. She sees me. I didn’t think I’d recognize that feeling so fast.”

Your mother exhales, a sound full of relief and joy.

“O meu coração (my heart),” she says. “Tell me everything.”

You do. Not every detail, but enough. The walk. The book. The way it settled instead of exploded. The way it feels like something you don’t have to chase.

“And her name?” your mother asks, already smiling.

“Alexia.”

Another pause. Shorter this time.

“When do I meet her?”

You laugh, soft and fond. “Mãe…”

“I’m serious,” she says. “If she makes my child sound like this, I need to see her face.”

“She’s busy,” you say gently. “Her life is… full. And I want to keep this slow. Gentle. Like it started.”

Your mother hums in understanding. “That’s wise.”

You swallow, emotion rising again. “But I will tell you. When it’s right.”

“I’ll wait,” she says. “But I won’t stop being excited.”

You smile, warmth blooming in your chest. “I know.”

Before you hang up, she adds quietly, “You sound… healed.”

You close your eyes.

“Not fixed,” you reply. “But… whole.”

After the call, you sit in the quiet a little longer.

The city outside hums. The camera waits. The book is no longer yours alone.

And somewhere, in another part of Barcelona, Alexia is probably thinking about the same sky.

You don’t need to check.

You already know.