On the massive, king-sized bed, the scene was entirely, undeniably catastrophic for a mother’s vision. The crisp white linen sheets were half-torn off the mattress, pooled around the floor in a chaotic swirl. You were flat on your back, your dark hair fanned out across the pillows, your cheeks flushed a deep, breathless crimson, and your legs completely wrapped around Alexia’s waist. Alexia, entirely stripped of her formidable athletic kit, was poised directly over you, her powerful shoulders slick with sweat, her head buried in the crook of your neck as she let out a low, breathless groan that was cut short by the sound of the door opening.

For a fraction of a second, the universe completely froze.

Alexia’s head snapped up, her hazel eyes widening into absolute, unadulterated terror as she caught sight of her mother standing frozen in the doorway. You let out a tiny, horrified squeak, instantly pulling the discarded duvet over your face like a teenager caught in a bad comedy sketch.

"¡Madre mía!" Eli gasped, her hands flying to cover her eyes as she spun around on her heel with a speed that rivalled a professional winger. "¡Lo siento! ¡No vi nada! ¡Me voy, me voy!"

"¡Mamá!" Alexia bellowed, her voice cracking in a mixture of profound embarrassment and sheer panic as she scrambled off you, desperately trying to find her shorts among the tangled sheets. "¡Te dije que me llamaras antes de venir!"

"I am leaving the keys on the counter!" Eli yelled back from the corridor, her retreating footsteps sounding remarkably frantic. "I am going to church! I am going to erase this from my brain! ¡Adiós!"

The front door of the villa slammed shut with a heavy thud, leaving the house in an agonizing, suffocating silence.

Slowly, you lowered the edge of the duvet from your face, peering over the fabric with wide, shell-shocked hazel eyes. Alexia was sitting on the edge of the mattress, her face completely buried in her palms, her ears burning a deep, radioactive shade of red.

"I think..." you whispered, your voice a tiny, shaky scratch in the quiet room. "I think your mum is going to need a very expensive therapist, Ale."

Alexia let out a muffled, broken groan into her hands, her shoulders shaking. "She is never going to look at me the same way again, Y/N. Never. I am thirty-two years old, and I have just been grounded by my mother’s sheer trauma."

You couldn't help it. The sheer absurdity of the situation broke through your panic, and you burst out into a loud, hysterical fit of giggles, throwing yourself across the mattress until you were draped over Alexia’s bare back, your arms locking around her neck. "Look on the bright side, mi amor. At least she knows your knee rehab is working perfectly. Your mobility was excellent."

"Cállate, por favor," Alexia laughed, turning her head to press a fierce, embarrassed kiss against your lips, pulling you tightly against her chest to hide her burning face. "Don't say another word."

The domestic embarrassment, however, was merely the prologue to a week of absolute public chaos.

Three days later, Alexia was scheduled to appear on La Revuelta, the late-night television phenomenon hosted by David Broncano that had taken Spain by storm with its surreal humour and notoriously intrusive questions. Because the media and the public still widely assumed Alexia was completely single—given her fiercely guarded private life since the heavy years of 2023—the atmosphere in the theater was electric.

Alexia walked out onto the stage looking effortlessly brilliant, wearing a structured, oversized charcoal blazer, a simple white t-shirt, and silver chain necklaces. She sat on the infamous battered sofa, leaning back with the easy, charming confidence of a woman who had won two Ballons d'Or.

The interview was a classic Broncano whirlwind—ranging from bizarre debates about local cheeses to tactical football analysis—until the show reached its traditional, dreaded climax.

Broncano leaned forward, a mischievous, feral grin spreading across his face as he tapped his fingers on his desk. "Right, Alexia. We’ve had a laugh, we’ve talked about the Champions League, but you know the rules of this programme. We have the two classic questions that every guest must answer with total honesty."

The audience roared with laughter, clapperboards clacking in anticipation. Alexia chuckled, shifting slightly on the sofa, her hands resting casually on her knees. "Venga, David. Dale."

"First question," Broncano said, squinting at his prompt cards. "Money in the bank. Total net worth, including properties, liquid cash, and your sponsorships. How much money does the captain of Barcelona have?"

Alexia smiled, a classic, diplomatic expression. "Look, David, I’ve been very fortunate. I’ve worked hard, the women’s game has grown massively, and I have a few good investments in properties around Catalonia. Let’s just say it’s enough to ensure my mother and my sister can live very comfortably for the rest of their lives. I won't give a specific number, but it’s a good amount."

"Brilliant, a proper political answer," Broncano scoffed playfully, before leaning in, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "Now, the second question. The one the internet actually cares about. Sexual relations in the last thirty days. How many times? Remember, the points system: classic intercourse is one point, oral sex is half a point, and so on. What’s the total score for Alexia Putellas this month?"

The theater completely erupted into cheers and whistling.

Outside the studio, watching from the green room monitor with a bottle of water in your hand, you felt your stomach drop into your shoes. Your mind immediately flashed back to the catastrophic incident with Eli three days prior.

On stage, Alexia didn't even flinch. A slow, incredibly smug, and slightly wicked smile spread across her face. She leaned back against the sofa, crossing one leg over the other, completely abandoning her usual media-trained reservation.

"Well, David," Alexia said, her voice dropping into a smooth, slightly raspy register that made the front row of the audience collectively gasp. "People on the internet like to talk a lot. They write a lot of stories, and they think they know my life. They think I spend all my time alone with my trophies."

"And?" Broncano nudged, raising his eyebrows. "What’s the score?"

"Let’s just say..." Alexia purred, a tiny, knowing glint in her hazel eyes as she thought directly of you waiting in the wings. "That it has been a remarkably productive month. If we are using your points system, David, I am easily winning the league. I am safely in the Champions League positions. Easily over twenty points."

The studio went absolutely mental. Broncano stood up from his chair, slamming his hands on the desk in mock disbelief. "¡¿Cómo?! ¡Pero si los rumores dicen que estás más sola que la una! ¡¿Veinte puntos?! ¡Eso es casi un partido diario, Alexia! ¡Por el amor de Dios, estás jugando dos competiciones a la vez!"

Alexia just laughed, a rich, unbothered sound, refusing to provide a single name, a gender, or a clue.

Within three minutes of the broadcast airing, Twitter (X) completely collapsed into a state of radioactive speculation.

@putellas_fcb: ALEXIA?? TWENTY POINTS??? WHO IS SHE DATING IN SECRET MY HEAD IS SPINNING @blaugrana_fem: Hold on... Alexia said she's winning the league in the bedroom but she hasn't been seen with anyone since 2024. Who is the mystery person?? Is it a teammate?? @indie_vibes_es: Lads, have you noticed that Y/N (the animal rescue influencer) posted a TikTok from a kitchen that looks EXACTLY like Alexia’s villa last week? Check the marble counter tiles. I’m starting a conspiracy theory. @marias_fcb: No way Alexia is single. That smile on La Revuelta was the smile of a woman who is getting absolutely spoiled at home. WHO IS SHE.

Over the next few weeks, the digital detectives of Barcelona went into overdrive. The internet began to piece together a trail of breadcrumbs that was becoming increasingly impossible to ignore. A blurry reflection of an oversized cream blazer in your sunglasses during a brunch in Sitges; a familiar black SUV parked outside the administrative offices of the local animal shelter you represented; a stray like from Alexia’s private Instagram account on a photo of your hands holding a coffee cup.

The rumors were reaching a boiling point, but you remained entirely focused on your actual passion project.

Aside from your digital presence, you were the lead ambassador and a high-profile influencer for Amics dels Animals de Catalunya, a beautiful, slightly struggling animal rescue sanctuary located on the outskirts of the city. You used your platform to run adoption campaigns, raise funds for medical treatments, and find homes for dogs that the rest of the world had deemed "unadoptable."

On a bright Tuesday afternoon, you decided to run a surprise TikTok Live stream directly from the sanctuary’s main play paddock. The goal was simple: showcase the older, senior dogs who had been in the shelter for over a year, hoping to tug at the heartstrings of some local families.

You set up your tripod on a wooden bench, wearing a pair of old, muddy Adidas trainers, dungarees, and your hair tied up in a messy, practical bun. Within minutes of clicking 'Go Live,' the viewer count exploded from five thousand to a staggering forty thousand—half the internet was there for the dogs, and the other half was desperate to see if you would drop a clue about the La Revuelta interview.

"Hi everyone! ¡Hola a todos!" you smiled warmly at the screen, holding a small, scruffy terrier mix in your lap. "Welcome to our Tuesday adoption drive. This little guy next to me is Pancho. He’s six years old, he loves biscuits, and he is looking for a quiet sofa to spend his afternoons on. If you’re in Barcelona, please check the link in my bio to fill out the form."

The comment section was scrolling past at a speed that was impossible to read.

User1: ADOPT PANCHO PLS User2: Y/N are you in a relationship??? User3: Ask her about the twenty points!!! User4: Look at the background who is that behind the gate?

You deliberately ignored the personal questions, shifting the camera slightly to focus on the grass. "Right, next up, we have a very special boy. A lot of people don't want to adopt senior dogs because they think it’s too much work or they are afraid of the heartbreak. But senior dogs have the most love to give."

You looked up toward the holding pen gate, a brilliant, genuinely soft smile breaking across your face. "Can you bring him out, please?"

The gate clicked open.

Walking out onto the grass, holding the frayed blue leash of a massive, beautiful, and incredibly slow-moving twelve-year-old golden retriever, was Alexia Putellas.

She wasn't wearing her Barcelona kit or a designer blazer. She was wearing an old, oversized white t-shirt of yours that was covered in muddy paw prints, a pair of worn grey sweatpants, and her hair was pulled back into a simple, messy ponytail. She looked completely relaxed, completely domestic, and entirely comfortable in the space.

The retriever, whose name was Bruno, had a completely grey muzzle and cloudy eyes, but his tail was wagging in slow, heavy thuds against Alexia’s leg.

"This is Bruno," Alexia said, her raspy voice cutting cleanly through the phone's microphone as she walked over to the bench. She didn't look at the camera; she kept her eyes on the old dog, dropping down to her knees in the grass to rub his ears with an immense, protective tenderness. "He’s twelve years old. His owner had to go into a nursing home, so he’s been here for five months. He doesn't need long runs, he just wants someone to sit with him while they watch the football. He’s the best boy."

The TikTok comment section completely lost its collective mind. The text became a vertical blur of capital letters and emoji.

@fcb_addict: OMYGOD ALEXIA PUTELLAS IS ON THE LIVE @lucia_10: THE SHIRT!! ALEXIA IS WEARING Y/N’S SHIRT I RECOGNIZE THE GRAPHIC PRINT FROM Y/N’S VLOG FROM MAY @putellas_world: Look at how Y/N is looking at her... oh they are absolutely dating. They are living together. @bruno_love: PUT ALEXIA ON CAMERA PLS!! SHOW US ALEXIA!!

You looked down at the phone screen, seeing the absolute revolution happening in the chat. You let out a soft, amused chuckle, leaning over the bench until you were hovering directly above Alexia, who was still busy kissing Bruno’s grey forehead.

"Ale," you cooed, your voice dropping into a soft, deliberately whiny register that you only used when you wanted her to do something at home. You made a dramatic, exaggerated puchero—a classic, pouting lower lip that you knew she could never resist. "The comments are going crazy, mi amor. They are begging you to look at the camera properly. Please? Just for a second? Help me get Bruno adopted."

Alexia paused her ear-rubbing. She looked up at you, her hazel eyes softening instantly as she caught sight of your pout. A helpless, incredibly fond smile broke across her face. She reached up, her hand gently catching the back of your neck, and pulled you down until she could press a firm, sweet, and lingering kiss straight onto your lips, completely unbothered by the forty thousand people watching live.

"Anything for you, pesada," Alexia whispered against your lips, before finally turning her head to look directly into the camera lens with a warm, relaxed wave. "Hola a todos. Please adopt Bruno. He’s an icon."

The stream chat officially broke. The viewer count spiked to eighty-five thousand within thirty seconds as people started screen-recording the interaction and uploading it to every corner of the internet.

The digital explosion was immediate, but instead of retreating back into the shadows as she had done in the past, Alexia decided it was time to take complete control of the narrative. The era of hiding was officially over.

Two days later, an official joint publication appeared on both your Instagram profile and Alexia’s main account—the one followed by millions of football fans worldwide.

It wasn't a standard, sterile PR announcement. It was a beautiful, carousel post of black-and-white photographs taken at the shelter and in the private garden of the Pedralbes villa. The first photo showed you and Alexia sitting on the grass, sandwiched between Bruno the golden retriever and a tiny, three-legged puppy you had been fostering. Alexia had her arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders, her chin resting on your head, looking happier and more grounded than she had in years.

The caption was written entirely by Alexia, and it carried a emotional depth that made her fans collectively weep.

@alexiaputellas:

“Many of you know that in 2023, I lost a piece of my heart when my little Nala passed away. For a long time, the house felt entirely too quiet, and the grief made it hard to open up again. But life has a beautiful way of bringing the right people—and the right souls—into your world when you need them most. Over the last few months, Y/N has shown me the incredible work that rescue shelters do every single day. She healed my quiet spaces, and she reminded me of how much love is still left to give. Bruno has officially found his forever home with us in Pedralbes. Please, if you are thinking of adding a member to your family, choose to adopt, don't buy. There are thousands of beautiful lives waiting for a second chance. Link in bio to support @amicsdelsanimals.”

The post gained two million likes in under an hour. The football community, her teammates, and fans from London to Buenos Aires flooded the comments with absolute support.

Mapi León left a comment that simply read: “Finally. Welcome to the family, Bruno. (And Y/N, you're still doing the washing up at the next dinner).”

With the relationship officially out in the light, the domestic rhythm of your life in Barcelona took on a beautiful, unbothered freedom. You no longer had to leave the villa through the service elevator, and you didn't have to keep the blinds drawn in the living room.

On a stormy Friday evening, following a grueling double-training session for Alexia and a long day of administrative fundraising for you, the house was entirely quiet. The rain was lashing against the massive glass windows of the bedroom, creating a cozy, isolated sanctuary away from the world.

Bruno was fast asleep on his massive orthopedic bed in the corner of the room, his old legs twitching slightly as he dreamed of biscuits.

Inside the king-sized bed, however, the atmosphere was thick, warm, and remarkably heavy with a different kind of intensity.

Alexia was hovering over you, her powerful frame casting a long shadow across your skin in the dim light of the bedside lamp. She had discarded her t-shirt hours ago, her athletic chest and the intricate tattoos on her left arm shifting beautifully with every breath she took. You were wearing nothing but a silk camisole, your hands firmly gripped around her biceps, your fingers digging into the muscle as she leaned down to press her lips against the hollow of your throat.

"Ale..." you gasped, your breath hitching as her tongue traced a slow, burning path down toward your collarbone. "We... we checked the door this time, right? Your mum isn't..."

Alexia let out a low, vibrant chuckle against your skin, her hands sliding down to grip your hips with a possessive, unyielding strength that made your core throb. "The front gate is locked, the alarm is on, and my mother is currently in Madrid, mi amor. I promise you, we are entirely alone."

She looked up, her hazel eyes dark with an intense, consuming hunger that always made your knees melt. Her thumb traced your lower lip, pulling it down slightly. "No more distractions. No more interviews. Just you."

"Good," you whispered, reaching up to wrap your arms securely around her neck, pulling her down until your lips met in a deep, bruising, and incredibly passionate kiss.

The kiss was heavy with the built-up tension of the past month—the secrecy, the public scrutiny, the chaotic social media storms—all of it melting away into the raw, physical reality of her mouth against yours. Alexia’s tongue parted your lips with an effortless, dominant sweetness, exploring the roof of your mouth while her hand slid beneath the silk of your camisole, her warm palm cup-ping the curve of your waist, her fingers splaying across your ribs.

A soft, needy whimper escaped your throat, your hips instinctively arching upward, seeking the heavy, comforting weight of her body. Alexia let out a low growl into the kiss, her thigh sliding between yours, pinning you against the mattress with a smooth, athletic precision that left you completely breathless.

"Eres tan hermosa, Y/N," she murmured against your lips, her voice deep, raspy, and thick with an absolute, unadulterated devotion. "My beautiful girl."

She shifted her weight, her hands sliding down to grasp the edge of your camisole, pulling it slowly over your head and tossing it carelessly onto the floor. In the amber light, she looked down at you like you were the only trophy she had ever cared about winning. Her fingers traced the line of your hip, her touch leaving a trail of fire across your skin as she moved down, her lips following the path of her hands until you were nothing but a shivering, gasping mess beneath her touch.

The lovemaking was slow, intense, and deeply reverent—a stark contrast to the frantic, hurried encounters of the weeks before when you were still hiding from the world. Every touch was an assertion of ownership, a quiet promise that she wasn't going anywhere. When she finally slid inside you, your fingers tangled into the short blonde hair at the base of her skull, your forehead pressing against hers as you moved together in a rhythmic, intoxicating heat that completely filled the silent room.

You clung to her like a lifeline, your breath echoing in the quiet space, your heart hammering against her ribs until the tension broke, sending a violent, beautiful wave of release through your body that made you cry out her name into the crook of her neck. Alexia followed you a second later, her body stiffening against yours, her muscles tightening as she buried her face in your hair, holding you so close it felt like she was trying to fuse your souls together under the heavy down comforter.

An hour later, the room had cooled down, the only sound being the rhythmic thud of the rain against the glass and Bruno’s soft snoring from the corner.

You were lying flat on your stomach, completely exhausted but thoroughly content, your skin glowing in the faint lamplight. Alexia was lying right beside you, completely naked, her long legs tangled with yours under the sheets. She had her laptop resting on the mattress in front of her, her glasses perched on the bridge of her nose as she reviewed the latest ticket sales for the shelter’s upcoming charity gala.

But despite her focus on the screen, her hands were completely incapable of leaving you alone.

Her right hand was resting heavily on your lower back, her long fingers idly tracing the curve of your spine, occasionally drifting down to cup the soft skin of your hip with a casual, lazy possessiveness that had become her default state at home. She would look at the screen, type a quick email to her management team about a donation, and then lean over to press a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder blade, her lips warm against your skin.

"The gala is completely sold out, by the way," Alexia murmured, her voice incredibly sleepy and deep. "My manager said the corporate tables were snapped up by three different sports brands within ten minutes of the Instagram post going up."

"That’s amazing, Ale," you mumbled into your pillow, shifting your hips slightly, which only caused her hand to tighten its grip on your hip, pulling your thigh closer to hers. "Thank you. Seriously. The shelter can finally build the new veterinary wing now."

"Don't thank me," Alexia smiled, closing the laptop and setting it on the floor. She slid down the mattress until she was completely flush against your side, her powerful arms wrapping around your waist from behind, pulling your back into the warm contour of her chest. "Thank the forty thousand people who saw me wearing your muddy shirt on TikTok."

You turned your head slightly, looking back at her through the dark strands of your hair. "You looked very hot in that shirt, for the record. Very domestic. The internet was right to go mad."

"Mmm, I know," Alexia chuckled, a wicked, playful smirk touching her lips as she leaned in to bite the soft skin of your earlobe. "But they don't get to see what happens after the live stream ends. That part belongs entirely to the league leader."

"Oh, shut up about the twenty points, Putellas," you laughed, turning around in her arms until you were facing her, your fingers locking behind her neck as you pulled her down for one last, incredibly soft, and comforting kiss. "Go to sleep."

The final piece of the chaotic puzzle fell into place the following Monday afternoon.

You and Alexia had ventured out into the center of Barcelona for a casual lunch at a small, independent vegan café near El Born. For the first time in your relationship, you didn't look for a hidden table in the back corner. You sat right by the large glass window, enjoying the autumn sunshine, with Bruno lying contentedly under the wooden table, his tail wagging whenever the waiter brought a bowl of water.

As you walked out of the café, your hand was firmly locked in Alexia’s. She was wearing a simple leather jacket, her glasses, and a relaxed smile, while you were carrying a box of leftover pastries.

Just as you reached the pedestrian crossing near the old market, a couple of local paparazzi emerged from the corner, their camera lenses clicking in rapid succession. In the past, Alexia would have instinctively dropped your hand, pulled her cap low, and hurried toward the car to avoid a headline.

But today, she didn't even blink.

Instead, as the cameras flashed, Alexia paused in the middle of the pavement. She turned toward you, a bright, completely unbothered smile breaking across her face. She reached up with her free hand, gently tucking a stray lock of dark hair behind your ear, and then leaned down, pressing a firm, proud, and incredibly affectionate kiss straight onto your lips right there on the public streets of Barcelona.

You smiled into the kiss, your hand tightening around hers, completely matching her confidence.

By Tuesday morning, the photographs were plastered across every sports and entertainment portal in the country. The internet went into a state of absolute, beautiful completion. The rumors of her being single were dead; the myth of you being a heartbreaker was gone. There was only the sight of the captain and her influencer, completely out in the light, surrounded by rescue dogs, family support, and a love that didn't need a secret protocol anymore.

Back in Pedralbes, sitting on the sofa with a fresh cup of coffee while Bruno rested his heavy head on your knee, you opened your phone to see a new message in your WhatsApp notifications. It was from an unsaved number, but the profile picture was unmistakable.

Eli Putellas: [Image: A screenshot of the street-kiss photograph from the news]

Eli Putellas: Beautiful photo, girls! You look very happy. Much better than the bedroom. I have finally returned from Madrid, and the keys are on the counter. Please, next time, keep the door locked! ¡Un beso!

You let out a loud, choked laugh, dropping your forehead against Alexia’s shoulder as she leaned over to see the screen.

"See?" you giggled, your arms wrapping around her neck as you clung to her like a koala. "I told you she’d get over the trauma eventually."

Alexia let out that rich, raspy laugh that always meant absolute safety, her arms locking around your waist to hold you close against her chest. "Yeah... but I’m still buying a sturdier lock for the door this afternoon, mi amor. Just in case."

For nearly a month, she carries the ring around like a secret.

Not literally.

That would be insane.

Instead, the small velvet box spends most of its time hidden in the back corner of her desk drawer beneath a stack of notebooks and old reporting materials. Every few days she opens the drawer just to make sure it's still there, which is ridiculous because nobody is trying to steal it and Alexia has absolutely no reason to go digging through her work documents.

Still, she checks.

Every single time.

Then she closes the drawer again and immediately panics.

Because buying the ring had been the easy part.

Actually proposing is a completely different problem.

At first she thinks she wants something grand.

A rooftop overlooking the city.

A fancy dinner.

A carefully planned evening with candles and flowers and a speech she's practiced a hundred times beforehand.

Then she imagines Alexia's reaction to that level of planning and immediately abandons the idea.

Not because Alexia wouldn't appreciate it.

Because she'd spend the entire evening suspicious.

The woman notices everything.

A surprise proposal would require Oscar-worthy acting from Kinsey, and they both know she doesn't possess that skill set.

The second week, she considers proposing at a Gotham match.

The idea lasts approximately twenty minutes.

Then she remembers Alexia would rather be launched directly into the sun than become part of a stadium proposal video.

By week three, she's no closer to an answer than when she started.

Meanwhile, life continues moving around her.

Alexia keeps training.

Keeps leaving football boots in impossible locations.

Keeps stealing food from Kinsey's plate despite ordering exactly the same thing every single time they go out.

And every day, somehow, Kinsey falls a little more in love with her.

Not dramatically.

Not in some life-altering cinematic way.

Just quietly.

Steadily.

The kind of love that grows in ordinary moments.

The kind built through routines and consistency and choosing each other over and over again.

One Tuesday evening, she comes home from work to find smoke pouring out of the kitchen.

For one horrifying second she thinks the apartment might actually be on fire.

Then she hears Alexia swearing in Spanish.

The panic disappears immediately.

By the time Kinsey reaches the kitchen, she finds Alexia standing in front of the stove holding a spatula and glaring at a frying pan with genuine hostility.

The sight is so absurd that she starts laughing before she can stop herself.

Alexia looks offended.

"Don't."

Kinsey puts her hands up "I haven't said anything."

"You were about to."

"No I wasn't."

"You were."

Kinsey drops her bag beside the counter and looks into the pan.

Whatever dinner had once been is beyond saving.

She isn't entirely sure it remains identifiable.

"What happened?"

"The pan betrayed me."

Kinsey blinks.

"The pan betrayed you."

"Yes."

"Interesting."

"It knew exactly what it was doing."

The conviction in her voice makes the situation infinitely worse.

Kinsey laughs harder.

Alexia points the spatula at her.

"You are being incredibly non supportive right now."

"I'm trying my best."

"No you're not."

The smile tugging at Alexia's mouth completely undermines the argument. Neither of them is actually upset. The ruined dinner sits forgotten while they stand in the middle of the kitchen making fun of each other. Eventually Alexia starts laughing too. The sound fills the room effortlessly. Warm. Familiar. Home. And suddenly Kinsey knows. Not eventually. Not later. Not after she finds the perfect moment. Now. Because this is the perfect moment. Not because it's glamorous. Not because it's impressive. Because it's theirs. Because five years from now they'll still be laughing about the time Alexia nearly declared war on a frying pan. Because this is what their relationship actually looks like. Not grand gestures. Not dramatic speeches. Just two people building a life together.

Alexia notices the shift immediately. Her smile fades slightly. Not in a bad way. In a curious one.

"What?" Kinsey's heart starts pounding.

"Oh God."

"What?"

"You're doing a thing."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you look emotional and terrifying at the same time."

Despite the nerves threatening to consume her, Kinsey laughs.

Then she reaches for Alexia's hand.

The kitchen suddenly feels very quiet.

Outside the apartment windows, New York continues moving. Traffic crawls through the streets below. Car horns echo faintly in the distance. Somewhere in another building a siren wails briefly before fading away.

Inside, everything narrows.

Alexia.

The warmth of her hand.

The realization that every version of the future she wants contains this woman.

Only this woman.

"I spent a long time thinking love was supposed to hurt."

The joke immediately disappears from Alexia's face.

Emotion replaces it.

Soft and immediate.

"Kinsey..."

"I really believed that," she continues quietly. "I thought relationships were supposed to be hard all the time. That if you loved someone enough, you'd just survive whatever happened."

Alexia squeezes her hand gently.

Kinsey swallows.

The words she'd rehearsed a hundred times disappear completely.

What remains is the truth.

Simple and unpolished.

"You taught me differently."

Tears immediately gather in Alexia's eyes.

That nearly destroys her composure.

"You taught me what it feels like to be loved without conditions. Without manipulation. Without fear. You taught me that healthy doesn't mean boring and safe doesn't mean less passionate."

A tear slips down Alexia's cheek.

Kinsey smiles through her own.

"And every day since then, you've made my life better."

The silence that follows feels enormous.

Not empty.

Full.

Overflowing.

Kinsey reaches into her pocket.

The second the velvet box appears, Alexia's free hand flies to her mouth.

"No."

The word comes out as a whisper.

A shocked, disbelieving whisper.

"Oh my God."

Kinsey laughs shakily.

"That's usually a good sign."

Neither of them notices the tears anymore.

They're both crying too hard.

The apartment.

The kitchen.

The ruined dinner.

Everything fades into the background.

There is only this.

Only them.

Kinsey lowers herself onto one knee.

The expression on Alexia's face is something she'll remember for the rest of her life.

Shock.

Joy.

Love.

Every version of their story reflected back at her all at once.

Barcelona.

The stolen weekends.

The impossible choices.

The airports.

The phone calls.

The distance.

The move.

Every moment leading here.

"I choose you."

Alexia lets out a broken laugh through her tears.

Kinsey continues anyway.

"I choose you in New York."

Another tear falls.

"I choose you in Barcelona."

Another.

"I choose you on the good days and the bad ones. On the easy days and the difficult ones. I choose you when life is complicated and when it's simple."

Alexia is openly crying now.

Completely wrecked.

Completely beautiful.

"And I want to keep choosing you for the rest of my life."

The ring box trembles slightly in Kinsey's hand.

For one impossible second, neither of them speaks.

Then she finally asks the question.

"Will you marry me?"

Alexia doesn't answer immediately.

Not because she doesn't know.

Because she's crying too hard to form words.

The sight is so completely unexpected that Kinsey starts laughing.

Which only makes Alexia laugh too.

A messy combination of tears and joy and disbelief.

Finally, she nods.

Once.

Then again.

Then repeatedly.

"Yes."

The word comes out breathless.

Immediate.

Certain.

"Yes."

Kinsey's heart feels like it might explode.

"Yeah?"

"Yes, you idiot."

The laugh that escapes her is half sob, half relief.

A second later Alexia is kneeling in front of her too.

The ring barely makes it onto her finger before they're kissing each other and hugging so tightly neither can breathe properly.

Neither cares.

For a long time they remain there on the kitchen floor.

Holding each other.

Laughing.

Crying.

Refusing to let go.

Eventually they settle against the cabinets, shoulders touching.

The forgotten frying pan still sits on the stove.

Dinner is absolutely ruined.

Neither of them could care less.

Alexia keeps staring at her hand.

Then at the ring.

Then back at Kinsey.

As though she's worried one of them might disappear.

"We're engaged."

The wonder in her voice makes Kinsey smile.

"We are."

Alexia laughs again.

A softer sound this time.

Happier.

Almost disbelieving.

"We actually figured it out."

Kinsey leans over and presses a kiss against her forehead.

For a moment, neither of them says anything else.

The apartment is quiet.

Comfortable.

Filled with the kind of peace Kinsey once thought existed only in stories.

She spent years believing happiness was temporary.

Believing love required sacrifice until nothing remained of yourself.

Believing relationships were things you endured.

Now she knows better.

Now she knows love can feel like safety.

Like partnership.

Like coming home.

As Alexia settles against her side and instinctively intertwines their fingers, the engagement ring catching the kitchen light, Kinsey looks around the apartment they've built together and realizes something she never thought she'd have.

Not just a future.

Not just happiness.

A home.

And for the first time in a very long time, forever doesn't feel frightening.

It feels exactly right.

The meeting gets added to your calendar with almost no warning.

11:30 — Internal.

That’s it, there was no explanation.

Which usually means one of two things in football contract discussions, or bad news dressed up in professional language. Still, you walk into the boardroom mostly calm, because you aren’t worried.

Why would you be? You’re vice-captain, one of the best centre-backs in the league if not the world and a starter for both club and country.

You’ve built your entire adult life inside these walls, so when you step into the room and see your agent already sitting there, Arsenal’s sporting director, someone from the executive board and HR, something cold settles quietly in your stomach.

Not panic, just peaks your instinct, football teaches you quickly when something’s wrong, “Morning,” you say evenly, pulling your chair out.

Nobody looks particularly comfortable, that’s never a good sign.

Your agent gives you a brief look as you sit beside him, the kind that tells you he already knows how this conversation ends.

You lean back slightly in your chair anyway, composed externally, always composed. The sporting director folds his hands together, “First of all,” he begins, “this isn’t an easy conversation.”

There it is corporate football language, you almost laugh, instead you just nod once, “Okay.”

He continues carefully, like every sentence has been rehearsed beforehand, “We want to acknowledge everything you’ve contributed to this club. Your professionalism, leadership, consistency”

You stop listening halfway through, not outwardly, outwardly you still look attentive, but internally, your body already knows.

You’ve been in football long enough to recognise the shape of an ending before it arrives, “after a lot of internal discussion,” he says finally, “the club has decided not to renew your contract at the end of the season.”

Silence, not dramatic silence, just stillness the sort that presses strangely against your ears.

You don’t react immediately your face stays unreadable, because football trains that into you too, never let people see the hit land in real time. The sporting director keeps talking something about transition and about long term vision.

Then the phrase, “A new era for Arsenal Women.” Your jaw tightens slightly, “We’re looking to move in a different direction stylistically,” he says carefully. “Something fresher.”

You stare at him for a moment, you wonder vaguely if he realises how insulting that sounds, like you’re a shirt they’ve grown tired of wearing, not a player who’s bled for this club since she was 9 years old.

Beside you, your agent shifts slightly in his seat, you keep your voice calm, “What exactly does that mean?”

The executive board member answers this time, “We feel the squad is entering a transitional phase.”

Corporate nonsense, empty language designed to avoid accountability, you hold eye contact anyway, “So after captaining this team, winning trophies here, playing through injuries for this club…” Your voice remains level, “…I’m suddenly not part of the future.”

Nobody answers immediately, which is answer enough, the sporting director exhales quietly, “This decision isn’t a reflection of your quality.”

That almost makes you smile, almost, because it very obviously is or at least that’s how it feels sitting here. The room suddenly feels too warm, too small, you lean back slightly further in your chair instead of letting any of it show, “Alright,” you say simply.

The executives look almost relieved by your composure, like they’d prepared for anger, crying. Some emotional reaction that would make them uncomfortable.

Instead you just sit there quietly absorbing the fact that the club you gave your entire life to has decided you no longer fit the aesthetic of their future.

Then comes the second hit, “There is another aspect we wanted to discuss,” the sporting director says carefully. Your stomach sinks further, of course there is, “With your contract expiring in the summer…” He pauses briefly. “If suitable offers arrive during the January window, the club would be leaning towards facilitating a transfer.”

The words land heavier than the first part somehow, because suddenly this isn’t we’re parting ways eventually, it’s we’re ready now and would like to make financial gain from it.

You stare at the table for a second, not because you’re emotional, because you need exactly one second to lock everything back down before speaking.

Next week, the winter transfer window opens next week and Arsenal are already preparing to move you on.

You nod once slowly, “Understood.”

It all feels strangely surreal, because a small, stupid part of you genuinely believed you’d retire here.

When the meeting finally ends, chairs scrape quietly against the floor, people thank you for your professionalism.

You almost laugh again professionalism, the favourite word in football whenever someone wants you to swallow heartbreak quietly.

Your agent gathers his things beside you while the executives start filing out awkwardly.

The sporting director pauses before leaving, “For what it’s worth,” he says carefully, “this wasn’t an easy decision.”

You look at him finally, really look at him, then nod once, “I’m sure it wasn’t.” And somehow your calmness seems to make him feel worse than anger would have.

The door closes behind them and silence fills the room, your agent exhales heavily first, “You okay?”

You stare ahead for a long moment the Arsenal crest hangs on the wall opposite the table. You’ve walked past that badge almost every day for years and suddenly it already feels like it belongs to somebody else, “Yeah,” you say quietly, not true not even slightly, but you’re a footballer and footballers learn very early that sometimes your heart gets broken in meeting rooms instead of stadiums.

🔴

The rumours start leaking three days later, because football clubs love discretion right up until they don’t.

You wake up one Thursday morning to seventeen missed calls from your agent and a push notification from Twitter.

BREAKING: Multiple top European clubs interested in Arsenal vice-captain y/n ahead of January window.

Your stomach drops before you even open it, then it gets worse, Spanish clubs, French clubs, Two different WSL rivals. One article mentions a potentially record breaking fee for a defender in the women’s game.

Another says Arsenal are open to negotiations, open to negotiations like you’re an asset already halfway out the door, you stare at the screen too long before locking your phone again.

At training that afternoon, nobody mentions it directly at first, but football dressing rooms are ecosystems information spreads through them before words even get spoken.

The second you walk into the gym, conversations dip slightly, eyes flick up then away, Beth eventually breaks first.

“They’re chatting shit,” Beth Mead says immediately while strapping tape around her wrist. “You’re not leaving.”

You force a shrug, “Haven’t read it.”

A lie, everyone knows it’s a lie, Leah watches you carefully from across the room, because unlike the others, she notices what’s underneath your calm.

You’ve become quieter over the last few weeks in a way that goes beyond normal brooding, you drift through training now like somebody only half present.

Still professional and excellent, but elsewhere mentally and unfortunately, Leah knows you well enough to recognise when you’re retreating inward, “You alright?” she asks later during passing drills.

“Fine.” Always the same answer.

She traps the ball beneath her boot instead of passing it back immediately, “You don’t have to do that with me.”

Something in your chest tightens sharply, because you know exactly what she means, the automatic deflection and emotional shutdown.

You glance away first, “I said I’m fine.”

Leah studies you for another second before finally knocking the ball back toward you, but the crease between her brows never fully disappears after that.

Everything feels wrong, training, matches, home, it feels like your entire life is happening publicly without your permission like you’re slowly losing ownership of yourself piece by piece. Every version of you being discussed by strangers constantly while the actual you quietly drowns underneath all of it.

At training, you become almost frighteningly composed your emotions lock down so tightly they barely leak out at all anymore.

You train harder, speak less, headphones on constantly eyes distant, even your laughter disappears almost completely. That’s what finally worries people, because you’ve always been quiet, but not empty.

One afternoon before the final match before Christmas break, you’re sat alone in the changing room long after most of the girls have gone out to train.

The room hums softly with distant noise from outside then the bench dips beside you, you already know who it is before looking up. Leah sits beside you quietly, elbows resting on her knees for once, she doesn’t joke immediately.

She just sits there for a minute in silence with you, “You’re disappearing a bit.”

Your jaw tightens slightly, “I’m right here.”

Leah looks sideways at you, “No,” she says softly, “Not really.”

The words hit harder than you expect because the awful thing is you think she might be right somewhere over the last few weeks, your life stopped feeling like yours entirely and you don’t know how to get it back.

You sit there staring at the floor between your feet while Leah waits beside you quietly not pushing. That’s the thing about Leah for all the talking she does, she knows when silence matters too.

You’re tired so unbelievably tired and suddenly the effort of holding everything upright all the time feels impossible. You rub a hand slowly across your jaw before exhaling quietly, “They’re not renewing me.”

The sentence lands flat between you, Leah stills instantly beside you, “What?”

You keep your eyes fixed on the floor, “My contract.” Your throat feels tight suddenly. “They’re not renewing it.”

“Who told you that?”

“The club.” You laugh once softly through your nose, humourless, “Pretty official, apparently.”

Leah’s expression shifts from confusion to outright disbelief, “No.”

You nod faintly, “They want a new era.” The bitterness creeps in before you can stop it, “Fresh direction. Fresh squad.”

Leah stares at you like she genuinely cannot process what she’s hearing, “That’s insane.”

You shrug automatically even though the movement feels stiff, “It’s football.”

“No, fuck that.” Her voice sharpens immediately, “That’s actually insane.” You look away because hearing someone else say it out loud somehow makes the whole thing feel more real. Leah leans back slightly on the bench beside you, one hand dragging over her face, “They can’t seriously think this club is better without you.”

You swallow hard, “They do.”

“No.”

“They literally told me, Leah.”

“I know what they told you.” She looks furious now, “I’m saying they’re wrong.”

Your jaw tightens sharply at that, because part of you wants to believe her so badly it almost hurts, but another part the bigger part already feels cut loose from the place, “They’ve had offers,” you say quietly after a moment.

Leah’s head turns immediately, “What?”

“The window opens next week.” You stare ahead blankly, “Apparently there are offers they don’t think they can refuse if I’m leaving anyway.”

The silence after that feels enormous, you can practically see the moment Leah understands what this actually means, end of an era reduced to transfer negotiations before January.

“That’s why you’ve been like this,” she says softly.

You huff another quiet laugh, “Probably.”

Leah looks at you for a long moment, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

That nearly breaks you, because the truth is you hadn’t told anyone because saying it aloud made it real, because if you kept it contained inside your own head maybe Arsenal still belonged to you somehow.

You stare at your hands instead, “I didn’t know how.” Your voice cracks slightly on the last word.

Leah’s expression softens immediately, “Oh, Y/N.”

Your eyes burn instantly as you look away hard toward the row of lockers opposite you, embarrassment floods you immediately after.

You hate crying, hate it, especially here, especially over football, but the grief has been sitting inside your chest with nowhere to go, “They don’t even seem sad about it,” you say quietly, voice rougher now, “That’s the worst part.”

Leah stays silent beside you.

You laugh shakily once, wiping quickly at your face before anything properly falls, “I was nine,” you whisper, “Nine.”

The number hangs painfully in the air, nine years old walking into Arsenal’s academy for the first time, building your whole life around one badge.

Leah’s eyes glisten slightly immediately because she understands exactly what that means, nobody outside football really gets it, how clubs stop being jobs, how they become homes, identities, versions of yourself.

“They said ‘fresh’ like I’m…” You shake your head slightly, “Like I’m old furniture.”

“You are not disposable.”

Your mouth tightens hard, “Feels a bit like I am.”

Leah reaches over then, gripping the back of your neck briefly the way she always does after difficult matches, “You listen to me,” she says firmly, “Any club in the world would kill to have you.” You close your eyes briefly because that almost makes it worse somehow, “You shouldn’t have to leave the club you want to be at.”

And there it is the real wound underneath everything else, because yes, there are huge offers from massive clubs, guaranteed champions League football, money that would change your life, but none of it feels like Arsenal, none of it feels like home.

A tear finally slips free despite your best efforts, you wipe it away immediately, jaw clenched tight with humiliation, “Sorry.”

Leah looks genuinely offended, “Don’t apologise for that.”

You laugh weakly through the remnants of the emotion, “Bit pathetic.”

Her expression hardens instantly, “Absolutely not.”

You shake your head again, staring down at your hands, “I just thought…” Your throat tightens painfully, “I thought I’d retire here.”

The words nearly break both of you, because Leah thought that too everyone did, Leah nudges your shoulder lightly against hers, “You know what I think?” You glance sideways at her tiredly, “I think they’re going to realise what they’ve done the second you walk out the door.”

Your mouth twitches faintly despite everything, “Very dramatic.”

“I mean it.”

You believe she does, you just sit there shoulder to shoulder in the quiet changing room while the weight of it settles properly between you.

You stare ahead at the Arsenal badge stitched onto the pile of training gear across the room and suddenly your chest hurts so badly it feels difficult to breathe around it, because you can still remember everything.

Being nine and terrified on your first academy day, the smell of wet grass at training, the first time you pulled the shirt on properly. Your first senior appearance, winning trophies, losing finals, captaining the team. Every version of yourself exists somewhere inside this club and now they’re just done with you.

You scrub harshly at your face again before another tear can fall, but it’s pointless now. Once the crack starts, everything underneath it comes flooding through too quickly to stop.

Beside you, Leah exhales shakily, “You know what’s horrible?” she says quietly, you shake your head slightly, “I can’t picture this place without you.”

Your face folds before you can stop it, shoulders curling inward slightly as another tear slips free, “Fuck,” you whisper hoarsely, laughing weakly through it, “I hate this.”

Leah’s eyes are bright now too, “Yeah,” she says thickly. “Me too.”

You both sit there trying unsuccessfully to pull yourselves together for about ten seconds before Leah suddenly wipes angrily at her own face, “Oh, brilliant,” she mutters. “Now you’ve got me crying.”

That gets a broken laugh out of you, “Sorry.”

“You really need to stop apologising every time you have a feeling.”

You shake your head again, still smiling faintly through tears now, “You’re supposed to be the emotionally stable one.”

Leah snorts wetly, “You’ve known me too long to say something that stupid with confidence.”

You laugh again properly this time, even while wiping at your eyes, “I just don’t understand how it became this.”

Only months ago you were vice-captain, starting every week, one of the faces of the club aand now Arsenal are quietly preparing to move you before Christmas.

Leah wipes at her face again before leaning back against the lockers behind you both, “You know they’ll regret it.”

You stare ahead blankly, “Maybe.”

“No. Not maybe.” Her voice firms slightly despite the tears still clinging to it, “They will.”

You want to believe her, but right now all you can think about is how easy it seemed for the club to let you go, “I feel stupid,” you admit quietly.

Leah frowns immediately. “Why?”

“Because I actually thought loyalty mattered here.”

Football is cruel like that, you can love a club with your whole chest and still end up sitting in a nearly empty changing room being told you no longer fit the project.

Leah’s eyes shine again, “You know what the worst part is?” she says softly, you glance toward her, “The girls are gonna lose their minds."

That almost makes you laugh again, “Beth’ll probably stage a protest.”

“She absolutely will.”

“And Alessia cries at literally everything.”

Leah smiles weakly, “You leaving might actually kill her.”

Your throat tightens again unexpectedly at that, because you hadn’t let yourself think much about the others yet.

You drop your head into your hands again briefly, “God.”

Leah reaches over and rubs a hand slowly across your upper back another tear slips free before you can stop it and this time you don’t even bother hiding it.

Leah’s crying quietly beside you now too, eyes red as she stares ahead, “This is shit,” she whispers.

You nod, “Yeah.” And for a little while longer, the two of you just sit there together grieving something that hasn’t even fully ended yet.

🔴

Christmas break arrives without feeling remotely like a break, the training ground empties out gradually over the final few days before everyone disperses home, but the atmosphere around you stays strange.

People keep looking at you like they’re trying not to say the wrong thing, which honestly feels worse than normality would.

The rumours online have only intensified now too, every major football account seems to have an opinion on your future. Barcelona. Lyon. Chelsea. Wolfsburg.

Articles analysing your tactical profile like you’re already gone. Fans arguing over transfer fees beneath pictures of you wearing the Arsenal captain’s armband.

You stop reading all of it after a while, because none of them actually understand what hurts.

You spend Christmas mostly quiet, your family notice it immediately, of course they do, but they don’t push too hard.

Your mum just keeps making cups of tea and sitting near you in silence the way she used to after difficult academy matches when you were younger.

You find yourself staring at old Arsenal photos more than once over the holidays, tiny academy kits, youth tournaments, sixteen year old you grinning beside Leah after your senior debut, an entire life stitched together in red and white.

By New Year’s Day, you feel hollowed out by it and the offers start becoming real, meetings, calls.

Your agent flying back and forth constantly, you try to approach everything professionally because that’s what football teaches you to do. Smile politely, discuss projects, talk about ambition and systems and long term vision like your chest isn’t quietly caving in underneath it all.

Still, some clubs are easier to dismiss than others, Chelsea is an immediate no, your agent doesn’t even argue. “I couldn't do that to the Arsenal fans.”

“Correct.”

Lyon is tempting, Wolfsburg too, but nothing fully settles nothing feels right.

Then one evening your agent calls while you’re halfway through reading in your flat, his tone changes before he even says the words, “Barcelona want a meeting.”

You go very still, because some part of you knew that was coming eventually. You just didn’t expect your stomach to react quite so violently when it finally did.

“They’ve been asking quietly for weeks what your figures are,” he continues carefully. “But now they are willing to negotiate.”

“When?”

“They want you in Spain after New Year as soon as possible.” Silence stretches briefly down the phone, then your agent adds carefully, “They’re serious, Y/N.”

You already know that, Barcelona don’t pursue players half heartedly when they do, especially not defenders.

You stare out across your dark flat for a long moment Barcelona the best team in the world. The club every player secretly measures themselves against and somehow the thought doesn’t make you excited first.

It makes you sad, because accepting Barcelona means accepting Arsenal is really over.

Your agent lets the silence sit for a moment before speaking again, “There’s something else.”

You already hate the tone, “What?”

“It's money as your agent, I would highly highly recommend you do not turn down” Your eyes close immediately. Your agent continues, “They don't offer this kind of money out to anybody. They want you to hear the project directly from them. Not through media. They’re arranging meetings with senior players too.” Senior players. Meaning captains. Meaning. Nope. Absolutely not thinking about that. “You still there?” your agent asks.

“Unfortunately.”

He laughs quietly, “You don’t have to decide immediately.” But you do eventually. That’s the awful thing about football even heartbreak comes with deadlines.

🔴

The first morning back at London Colney feels wrong before you even get out of the car. Cold January air hangs low across the training ground, grey clouds pressing heavy overhead while players gradually filter into the building carrying coffees and overnight bags and normal conversations.

Everything around you keeps moving normally while your entire life quietly fractures underneath it.

You sit in your car for an extra minute before forcing yourself out your phone buzzes almost immediately it was your agent, you ignore it for now.

Inside, the changing room hums softly with sleepy energy, Beth Mead is already talking too loudly about some reality show nobody else watches.

Alessia Russo is half buried inside a hoodie eating cereal from a tupperware container and Leah Williamson looks up the second you walk in.

Immediately reading something in your face her expression sharpens slightly. You look away first, because if Leah asks how you are before you’re ready, you genuinely might lose your composure in the middle of the changing room.

You get changed mostly in silence the conversation around you drifts in and out without fully landing.

Your chest has felt tight all morning because now it’s real enough that keeping it a secret feels unfair somehow.

Beth notices first when you barely react to one of her jokes, “That’s concerning,” she says slowly. “Normally you at least pretend I’m funny.”

You zip your training jacket up slowly, “Can I talk to you three before we go out?”

The wording alone is enough to shift the mood instantly, Beth straightens slightly, Alessia lowers her spoon.

The changing room gradually empties around you while the rest of the girls head out toward the gym until eventually it’s just the four of you left.

You lean back against the lockers, arms folded tightly across your chest mostly to keep yourself physically together.

Beth frowns first, “You’re scaring me a bit.”

You swallow once then force the words out before you can lose your nerve, “They’re not renewing me.”

The room goes completely still, even though Leah already knew hearing it aloud again visibly hits her anyway.

Beth blinks at you, “…What?”

Alessia’s face falls instantly, “No,” she says immediately, like denial alone might undo it.

You nod faintly, “They told me before Christmas.”

Beth stares at you in genuine disbelief, “That’s not funny.”

“It’s not a joke.”

“No, I know but—” She cuts herself off sharply, emotion flashing across her face too fast to hide. “What do you mean they’re not renewing you?”

You laugh once quietly through your nose, humourless, “They want a new direction apparently.”

Leah’s jaw visibly tightens beside you at the phrasing. Beth looks furious immediately, “That is absolute bullshit.”

Alessia just looks heartbroken already, “But you’re” She gestures helplessly. “You’re you.”

You almost smile at how genuinely distressed she sounds, “That’s apparently not enough anymore.”

“No,” Beth says sharply, “No, fuck that.” The anger in her voice catches slightly at the edges with real emotion underneath it.

You look down briefly toward the floor before continuing quietly, “They’re willing to sell in now if the offers are good enough.”

That lands even worse Alessia’s eyes widen immediately, “They want you gone now?”

You shrug automatically which was a defensive habit of yours, “Contract expires in summer anyway.”

“That’s disgusting,” Beth mutters.

Leah’s been quiet this entire time watching you carefully probably noticing the way you haven’t once said Arsenal are making a mistake and just accepted it. Like somewhere underneath everything you’ve already started grieving properly.

Beth folds her arms tightly, “Who?" You glance up, "What clubs?”

You hesitate briefly, “Lyon.”

Beth grimaces slightly but nods, “Okay.”

“Wolfsburg.”

Alessia looks faintly overwhelmed already, “And…”

You stop immediately regretting continuing, Leah closes her eyes briefly beside you like she already knows exactly what’s coming.

“Oh no,” Beth says slowly.

You exhale quietly, “erm, a few WSL teams have made offers, London City, United, City, Chelsea” You swallow, "Best overall package so far is Barcelona, with.. my package and obviously trophy opportunities and the players I will get to play with."

Alessia whispers, “Oh my god.”

Beth actually looks winded, Leah rubs a hand slowly across her face, Barcelona isn’t just another transfer, it means leaving England.

Barcelona means the best team in the world looked at Arsenal’s vice-captain and decided they wanted her just solidify what a good player they are about to loose.

Beth stares at you for a long moment, “…Would you go?”

The question settles heavily in the room you look away immediately, because that’s the problem, isn’t it? You don’t want to leave Arsenal, but Barcelona feels impossible to ignore. “The money is…” You pause briefly, “A lot.”

Beth snorts softly through the emotion, “Very professional analysis there.”

You huff a faint laugh despite yourself, “My agent basically threatened me if I turned it down.”

“That good?”

“That good.”

Leah finally speaks then, quietly, “Do you want to go?”

Your throat tightens immediately, because nobody’s actually asked you that yet, not tactically or financially, but emotionally. Do you want it?

You stare at the floor for a long moment before answering honestly, “I don’t know.”

That’s the worst part, because part of you already sees it too clearly, the football, the challenge, the level and beneath all of that a warm brown gaze and slightly broken English and a woman who’d pulled you away on a touchline because she thought you were ignoring her.

You scrub a hand across your jaw quickly.

Beth watches you carefully, “…This is a bit lesbianically tragic, isn’t it?”

You look up in disbelief, Alessia makes a strangled noise somewhere between a laugh and a cry, even Leah’s mouth twitches, “You are genuinely unbelievable,” you mutter.

“I’m coping.”

“With that?”

Beth points at you dramatically, “You accidentally manifested your own enemies to lovers transfer saga.”

“There are no enemies involved! Or lovers for that matter”

Leah raises an eyebrow immediately you stop talking, because unfortunately you no longer sound convincing even to yourself.

🔴

The meeting room is too quiet that’s the first thing you notice when you walk in.

Usually before training there’s chatter, people half awake with coffees in hand, Beth talking too loudly about something ridiculous while Alessia laughs beside her.

Today it’s subdued, because the rumours exploded overnight after the club announcement was scheduled internally everyone already knows something’s coming.

You take your usual seat near the back beside Leah, arms folded tightly across your chest while players gradually settle, nobody looks at you directly for too long that somehow hurts the most.

At the front of the room, Renée Slegers stands quietly beside the projector screen, expression carefully composed.

You already know what she’s going to say, still doesn’t stop your stomach twisting. The room eventually settles completely silent, Renée exhales softly before speaking, “I wanted to speak to everyone together before this becomes public later today.”

Immediately the atmosphere shifts heavier, you stare down at your hands.

“After discussions between the club and player…” Renée continues carefully, “…Sunday’s match at the Emirates will be Y/N’s final game for Arsenal Football Club.”

Silence, real silence this time the kind that physically presses against the room nobody moves at first, because hearing it aloud makes it real in a completely different way.

Your final game at the Emirates for Arsenal, you keep your face neutral through sheer force of habit. Footballer composure, media composure, the same mask you’ve worn through injuries and finals and devastating losses but beside you, Leah’s eyes close briefly.

Across the room, Beth looks openly furious already and Alessia’s face folds almost immediately, “Oh my god,” she whispers quietly to herself.

Renée keeps speaking gently about your contribution to the club, your leadership, your legacy, every word somehow making your chest ache worse.

Legacy, such a strange word when you’re only twenty nine and still feel like the terrified nine year old walking into Arsenal academy for the first time.

“We’ll have opportunities to celebrate Y/N properly this weekend,” Renée finishes softly, “But I and Y/N wanted this group to hear it from us first.”

Nobody speaks immediately after, then Beth suddenly stands up altogether, “This is bullshit.” The bluntness of it almost makes you laugh.

Renée’s expression softens sadly, “Beth—”

“No, seriously,” Beth says emotionally, “This club is actually insane.”

A few nervous laughs break weakly around the room through the heaviness, but nobody disagrees which is what makes it worse.

Leah stares ahead silently beside you, jaw tight, then one by one the girls start moving not toward the door, but toward you.

Alessia gets there first and practically throws herself into your arms before you can react properly, “You can’t leave,” she says tearfully into your shoulder.

Your throat tightens instantly, “It’s one plane journey away, drama queen.”

“That’s not the point.”

Beth hugs you next hard enough to nearly crack ribs, “You better become the most expensive defender in history,” she mutters angrily against your hair.

You laugh weakly despite yourself, “Very touching sentiment.”

“I’m serious.” You know she is.

The room dissolves into something emotional and messy after that, the girls hugging you some crying openly, others just sitting beside you quietly because they don’t know what to say and through all of it you feel strangely detached.

Like this is happening to somebody else, like maybe you’ll wake up tomorrow and still belong here.

🔴

The Instagram post goes live at exactly 2pm, a photo of you in Arsenal colours, a statement underneath thanking you for your years of service to the club.

Your phone becomes unusable within minutes notifications crash endlessly across the screen, fans in complete disbelief.

no fucking way

arsenal have genuinely lost their minds

this better be fake

She's our best defender!

who allowed this???

Edits flood social media almost immediately, videos of your best tackles, captaining the team, celebrating trophies, young academy photos beside current ones an entire childhood and adulthood compressed into internet grief within hours.

You stop looking eventually, because every comment somehow makes it feel more final.

🔴

That night your flat feels painfully quiet you shower make tea you barely drink, fold laundry just to keep your hands occupied.

Eventually you end up sitting in bed in oversized Arsenal pyjama bottoms and an old hoodie, staring blankly at your ceiling while exhaustion settles deep into your bones.

Your phone buzzes beside you, you almost ignore it automatically then you see the name, Alexia Putellas

Your chest tightens unexpectedly, you open the message slowly.

Alexia: I shocked. I never think you leave Arsenal

You stare at it for a long moment then finally type back.

You: It wasn’t my decision.

Three dots appear almost immediately.

Alexia: They just let you go? You best centre back in world?

Your eyes burn suddenly not because of the compliment, because of how genuinely confused she sounds by it like the idea itself doesn’t make sense to her.

You stare at the messages too long without replying, your chest feels hollow again exhausted right down into your bones. Eventually you just lock the phone and place it face down on the bedside table.

You can’t do this tonight, can’t explain Arsenal politics or grief or betrayal or the unbearable feeling of being unwanted by the only club you ever truly belonged to.

So instead you switch the lamp off pull the duvet higher over yourself and lie there in darkness listening to the quiet hum of London outside your windows while your entire life changes around you.

By the time sleep finally drags you under, your unanswered messages are still glowing faintly somewhere beside the bed.

🔴

The Emirates has never sounded like this before, you notice it the second the team bus pulls underneath the stadium, even through tinted windows.

The noise rolls through the glass in waves chants already echoing outside hours before kick-off.

Beside you, Leah glances sideways from her seat, “You okay?”

You nod automatically and lie automatically, “Fine.”

Leah just hums softly like she doesn’t believe you for a second anymore nobody really does these days.

As the bus doors open, the noise doubles instantly phones flash, supporters scream your name from somewhere behind barriers and then you see the banners.

Thank You Y/N.

One of our own.

Forever Arsenal.

Your throat tightens so fast it almost hurts, you lower your head slightly as you walk inside, headphones on despite no music actually playing.

The tunnel feels strangely surreal today like every step is happening underwater, staff stop you more than usual with little touches on your shoulder with quiet good lucks their expressions too emotional to meet properly.

Inside the dressing room your shirt is already hanging in your spot, your name, your number one last time at the Emirates, you stare at it slightly too long before sitting down.

Nobody’s particularly loud today even Beth’s energy is muted beneath the emotion hanging around the room.

Eventually Renée gives the team talk, but you barely absorb most of it your pulse has been too loud in your ears since arrival.

Then right before you head out Leah stands the room quiets almost immediately and she looks directly at you, “You know there’s nothing I can actually say here that’ll cover what you mean to this club.”

Your jaw tightens instantly, oh no, no no no, absolutely not before kick off.

Leah continues anyway, “You’ve carried this badge with more pride than anyone I know.” The room is completely silent now, “You made this place better,” she says softly, “For all of us.”

Your eyes burn immediately as around you, several girls already look emotional too, Beth openly wipes at her face, Alessia looks seconds away from sobbing.

Leah’s own voice catches slightly before she clears it, “So whatever happens after today…” She gives you a small, shaky smile, “You’re Arsenal forever. Alright?”

Something in your chest cracks painfully open, you nod once quickly because speaking feels dangerous, Leah steps forward first and pulls you into a hug.

The room follows after that arms everywhere, hands gripping your shoulders, emotion of familiar voices all blurring together.

You laugh weakly somewhere in the middle of it despite the tears burning behind your eyes, “This is deeply embarrassing.”

“No,” Beth says thickly beside you, “This is your fault for being loveable.”

“That’s disgusting, actually.”

A few watery laughs break through the room, then the tunnel official appears it was time to line up, you pull yourself together the best you can.

🔴

Walking out at the Emirates feels heavier and louder than usual the second your boots hit the tunnel floor, the stadium erupts. Your name thunders around the Emirates so loudly it physically vibrates through your chest.

You freeze for half a second, because suddenly every memory crashes into you at once, you force yourself forward anyway, supporters hold scarves high in the stands and then you see it.

North Bank, a massive banner stretched across rows of seats, HOME IS WHERE Y/N IS.

Your composure nearly disappears completely, “Jesus Christ,” Beth mutters somewhere behind you emotionally.

Leah bumps her shoulder lightly into yours as you line up, “You with me?”

You swallow hard, “Trying.”

The match itself becomes strangely sharp after kick-off, like your body understands before your brain does, every tackle clean, every pass precise, your focus absolute.

Football has always made the rest of the world quieter, today especially. The crowd sings your name constantly, every defensive action applauded like it means something bigger.

Midway through the second half, you slide across to stop a dangerous counterattack near the edge of the box, perfect timing, a perfect tackle.

You stay down for half a second after clearing it, chest heaving against the grass while noise crashes around you from every direction, grief hits you so hard it feels almost unbearable.

When you stand again, Leah grabs the side of your head briefly as she passes, “Best centre back in the world,” she mutters fiercely.

Arsenal win, you barely remember the final whistle itself only the noise afterwards which was deafening. The second the whistle blows, you sit on the grass then lay back hands over your face, your teammates surround you instantly. Beth crying openly, Alessia somehow crying harder, Leah hugging you so tightly you can barely breathe.

Then the stadium announcer says your name, and the entire Emirates stands, sixty thousand people rising to their feet at once, applauding, cheering.

Your face folds before you can stop it, “Oh no,” you laugh shakily through tears immediately. “Nope.” But it’s pointless now, emotion crashes through you too fast to contain.

You clap toward the supporters weakly while tears spill properly down your face for the first time in public, because this is goodbye an actual goodbye.

The lap of appreciation afterwards nearly destroys you completely, you walk slowly around the Emirates with the girls beside you while supporters continue singing your name. Scarves wave, children hold signs asking you not to leave and somewhere around halfway across the pitch you finally break properly.

Just quiet devastation head bowed briefly while tears fall faster than you can hide them, Leah notices instantly her arm loops around your shoulders without hesitation while Beth grabs your hand from the other side.

“You okay?” Alessia asks tearfully.

You laugh weakly through it, “No.” Honest for once.

The stadium keeps singing anyway, long after the final whistle, long after the speeches, long after you stand alone one final time in the centre circle staring up at the stands that raised you.

Eventually the lights begin dimming around the Emirates, staff waiting quietly near the tunnel.

Time to go.

You stand there for one last second in Arsenal red, trying desperately to memorise everything, with your chest aching so badly it feels impossible to carry, you turn and walk back down the tunnel.

🔴

Hours later, your flat is silent the adrenaline has long gone. What’s left behind is exhaustion so deep it feels stitched into your bones.

Your bag still sits packed near the door, you showered eventually, mostly just to wash the pitch and tears and stadium lights off your skin.

Now you sit cross legged on your bed in an old Arsenal hoodie, hair still damp, staring blankly at your phone.

Instagram open an empty caption box waiting, you’ve typed and deleted about fifteen different versions already. Too emotional, too cold, too angry, too grateful. Nothing feels right for something that meant your entire life.

Eventually, around one in the morning, you stop trying to sound composed and just write honestly.

I don’t really know how to put twenty years into one post.

I joined Arsenal when I was nine years old. I was a quiet kid with a backpack bigger than me and a dream that felt far too big to say out loud properly.

This club became my second home before I even understood what that meant.

It gave me some of the best days of my life. Some of the hardest too. It gave me teammates that became family, coaches who shaped me, supporters who carried me through moments I didn’t think I could carry myself through.

Every version of me exists somewhere inside Arsenal.

The little girl desperate to be good enough. The teenager making her debut. The player living out dreams at the Emirates. The vice captain. The person.

I always thought I’d leave this club one day feeling ready.

I don’t think you ever really are.

Today was one of the hardest and most beautiful days of my life. Walking out at the Emirates for the final time and hearing that support is something I genuinely don’t think I’ll ever have words for.

Thank you for every chant, every message, every banner, every little girl wearing my shirt, every person who believed in me long before I believed fully in myself.

Thank you to every teammate I’ve shared a dressing room with. Especially this current group. You made this place feel like home every single day.

And thank you to Arsenal.

For raising me.

I don’t know what comes next yet. But I know wherever football takes me, a part of me will always belong here.

Forever grateful. Forever Arsenal ❤️

The comments start flooding in almost immediately, fans first, former teammates, pundits, the England girls, players from across Europe.

Your phone buzzes nonstop against the duvet beside you while you lie there emotionally exhausted staring at the ceiling.

Eventually, despite yourself, you open the comments and that’s somehow what finally nearly breaks you again.

leahwilliamson: Don’t really have words for this one. Proud of you always. My favourite person forever ❤️

bethmead: Actually crying again thanks a lot. Love you endlessly idiot ❤️

alessia: not me sobbing in bed at 1am 😭 i love you so much

mariona: Very lucky club next ❤️

katie_mccabe11: My favourite centre half. Arsenal won’t be the same without you kid ❤️

liawaelti: It was an honour to share this team with you. Incredible player, better person ❤️

stina.blackstenius: Thank you for everything ❤️

caitlinfoord: forever one of the best ❤️

Alexgreenwood: World class. Don’t let anyone make you forget that ❤️

keira_walsh: privilege to play against you (sometimes less fun than others) ❤️

GeorgiaStanway: ❤️❤️❤️

laia_codina: Top top player ❤️

alexiaputellas: 🤍

You stare at that last comment the longest, long enough your screen eventually dims slightly in your hand, because somehow out of every comment underneath the post that’s the one that settles deepest in your chest. Even after all that's happened and came in the last few weeks, she'd still publicly support you.

'Ale, amor?' You called out from the bathroom as soon as you heard the front door open and close.

The familiar sound of keys being dropped into the little bowl by the entrance, one that you'd made during one of your little pottery painting dates years ago now, echoed through the apartment.

The little bowl you'd painted with small purple flowers and Alexia insisted on a few red and blue ones to make it the right fit for her apartment. You'd accused her of being too Barça but she countered that you could never bleed blaugrana enough.

One of the first times you had thought to yourself that you truly love Alexia and now here you are many many years later now married and trying to start your own little family.

'Mi vida?' You heard the dull thud of her training bag hitting the floor, most likely right beside her side of the bed where she always drops it before changing her hoodie for whatever one you've left on the bed that morning, 'Where are you?'

While Alexia had been training, you'd taken the last few days off with the knowledge you were going to be missing this next match. Some kind of stomach bug or cold that had you feeling off and not right for a little while, but the last few mornings being physically sick had Alexia making sure you stayed home and rested, despite your complaints.

And Alexia would rather deal with your, slightly, annoying younger sister constantly asking where you are and if you are okay a million times at training then to risk you coming in while you are actively too unwell.

Kika had been messaging you too, almost threatening to leave training when you didn't answer within a few minutes. So you sent her one message that told her you were okay and that you better not see her at all today, you had to rest 'Capi's orders' as you put it.

'I'm in here Ale,' Your voice trembled slightly and Alexia heard it straight away. Her eyebrows scrunching in concern and slowly making her way to the bathroom, a little unsure of what to expect sat in her stomach uncomfortably.

You on the other hand were in the bathroom, looking down at the pregnancy test you had clenched tightly in your trembling hand. Two unmistakable pink lines and all you could do was stare down at it. It was like if you stopped staring at it then it might change and this might not be real.

You'd taken so many of these over the last year, far too many. Each time you were hoping to see this or at least if you could convince yourself that this would finally be it then the universe would let the tests tell you that you are pregnant.

But every single time, it ended up with you crying in Alexia's arms while you tried to remain hopeful. Though with each failed round, that hope kept dwindling. Now this time, staring down at your hand, it was different.

'Amor?' Alexia rounded the corner, looking into the bathroom connected to your bedroom. She looked at your face first, tears silently streaming down and that was enough for Alexia's face to change to concerned, 'Are you okay? Is there anything wrong?'

You were in the bathroom crying and Alexia had no idea why but she was by your side in an instant. Her arm wrapped around you, pulling you into her side, rubbing gently along your hip. It was only then when you leaned into her and lifted your hand holding the test up slightly, did she see it since you couldn't bring yourself to speak right now.

'No…' Alexia's voice dropped, almost in disbelief at what she was seeing. Her hand that wasn't currently wrapped around gripped your wrist gently bringing it up so she could see it even better, 'Is this real?'

Her mouth was slightly ajar, it was getting harder for her to see the test with the amount of tears that instantly started filling it. Happy tears of course. You nodded, a bigger smile making it's way across your face as you tucked yourself further into Alexia's side.

This used to be so different, her holding you after a negative test, the tears for a completely different reason. You were laying in bed earlier and all you could think about was how different you had felt after the last transfer.

Maybe it was because you decided to stop tracking every tiny symptom, you'd finally stopped exhausting yourself from obsessing over hormone levels and percentages. Or maybe it was because after the last failed transfer you decided to try one last time but to take a step back from all of the tracking. You'd do the transfer and disconnect a bit.

Maybe that's the reason it had worked, you were less stressed and felt a lot less pressure. Sure you and Alexia were on the brink of not knowing how much more disappointment your hearts could take. But she made sure after the last transfer you had a weekend together.

She booked a little apartment, far away from football and teammates and doctors, where it was just you and Alexia. No checking phones and little hormone level tests done each day. Just nature, good food and even better company.

And maybe a lot of uninterrupted sex, you'll still never get over the day Kika walked in on the two of you. That got you to make your younger sister give back the key to your apartment for a good few months. You were traumatised, Kika was constantly teasing after she got over the mental images and Alexia suffered the consequences for weeks where you wouldn't let her touch you in fear someone would walk in.

Alexia's smile felt like it could split her face in two, she thought she'd never stop smiling again. She turned you to face her properly, hands leaving you to cup your face, her fingers brushing against your jaw, 'Mi vida,' She whispered, her own tears finally making there way down her face.

She pulled you into a kiss before either of you could say another word. It wasn't rushed or frantic, despite the emotions that were currently flooding between you. Instead if was soft, lingering, her lips fitting perfectly against yours as though she was trying to memorise this moment. Every failed attempt, every appointment, every disappointment seemed to melt away beneath the warmth of her touch.

'I think it finally worked this time,' Your forehead pressed against Alexia's, your breath on her lips, 'We'll get a proper appointment to confirm it but amor, we've never had a positive test,' Alexia sighed gently, out of relief, she had been so worried about you the last few days but for it to turn out to be this she never would have thought.

There was that lingering hope in the back of her mind, but she genuinely just thought you'd caught a bug, the doctors said your immune system might take a bit of a hit with all the injections and tests and transfers.

Alexia moved slowly, her hands trailing down your arms and sides towards your hips. Dropping to her knees in front of you, she brushed her fingers along the skin of your waist just beneath where your shirt ended and gently pushed the fabric up until your stomach was exposed.

She looked at your stomach as if your baby was anything bigger than a speck, as if she could actually see it. Alexia was imagining everything, from the first ultrasound, to feeling tiny kicks beneath her hand, to the first time holding her baby after imagining this for so long. To the eventual sleepless nights and scattered toys across the living room floor.

Tiny Barça shirts hanging beside your own, first steps, first words, literally anything and everything. A whole future was unfolding inside of her head, 'Hi bebé,' The words and the tone of her voice nearly undid you.

Her fingers ghosted cross your skin, there was nothing you could feel of see yet, but she was being so careful with you already. Alexia was truly in love already, maybe dangerous to be attached this quickly after how the last year had tested you both.

But the last year was exactly that to let you feel all the joy and hope now. Alexia was mentally exhausted in so many ways and this might have just saved her. And also made her choice with her career even more definite. She wanted to not be mentally tired when her baby arrives, she wants to be able to give her all to both you and the baby.

Alexia rested her forehead against your stomach, closing her eyes as another tear slipped free, 'I can't believe we really get to do this, finally,' Your fingers found their way into her hair automatically.

The test still tightly in your hand, you glanced between it and Alexia and you felt so lucky. She smiled against your skin. For so long this had been a dream spoken about in quiet moments, something that belonged to the future.

Now, somehow, the future was finally here with you.

A few days later, you sat in the doctor's office with Alexia by your side as the final confirmation came. The test hadn't been a false positive and you were indeed pregnant. The drive home was quiet, not in an uncomfortable way but in a way that radiated excitement, nerves and relief.

Neither of you really knew how to put this new reality into words just yet. Every now and then Alexia would glance over at you, a small smile tugging at her lips before she looked back at the road. After everything, this still felt surreal.

Over the following days, the news settle gently into your lives. There were moments of excitement, moments of nerves and moments where you both simply sat together in comfortable silence, letting the fact you were becoming parents really sink in

'Bebé,' Alexia started, her fingers anxiously twisting the fabric of her shirt. You were lounging on the little chair that was set up by the window where the sun streamed in. You had a few plants that surrounded and you regularly took little naps in the sun, it was your favourite spot in your entire apartment.

The sound of Alexia's voice made you sit up properly in the seat, moving to the side so she could sit next to you. She was still playing with the hem of her shirt so you took one of her hands in yours a look in your eyes that whatever she had to say it was okay.

'So I know I hadn't said anything about this before, but at the start of the season I thought maybe this might be my last season with barça,' Alexia's voice trailed off a little, her eyes lifting up to meet yours, more trying to read your reaction to the words she was saying.

'You were thinking of this because this season is technically the last on your current contract?'

'Sí,' Alexia sighed, she was tired, maybe physically she was back in form but emotionally and mentally since her ACL football and playing at Barcelona had taken a lot from her, 'Something I been thinking about for a while now. I was going to talk to you about it but I wanted to be more certain than I was before,'

You stayed quiet, giving her the space to continue, a light squeeze of her hand with your thumb brushing over her knuckles. A little bit of reassurance that she could share what is on her mind with you, that you are supporting her no matter what.

Outside, the afternoon sun filtered through the leaves of the plants surrounding your little corner of the apartment. Usually it was your favourite place to nap, to read, to escape from the noise of football for a while. But today it felt like the place where everything was going to change.

'I don't want to be emptied by football and expectations anymore,' Her voice was barely a whisper when she said that and you felt your chest tighten.

The sunlight caught the side of her face, illuminating the exhaustion she'd become so good at hiding from everyone else. Alexia had become so good at her player persona that it's so easy to overlook the signs of mental fatigue and how hard it's been for her to separate herself from her football identity.

Underneath it all, the Alexia you see and get, Alexia the person is just someone who is passionate and maybe a little dramatic but very sensitive and sentimental. Someone who wants to be and hopes she is just a good person, especially to those close around her.

Alexia stared down at your joined hands, you could see the tension in her shoulders by how stiff she'd become and you know this isn't an easy topic for her to deal with, 'Not when I need to be there for our little one and for you, our family. I need to be able to be emotionally present and I don't think I can do that and play for Barça,' You watched a lone tear roll down her cheek and your thumb instantly reached up to wipe it away.

'Ale, amor, it's okay to think this way,' You moved closer so your thighs were touching, so more of you were touching and you could be closer without overwhelming Alexia while she sorted out her thoughts to you.

'I didn't know when the right time would be to leave, if ever. But then this happened,' Alexia reached over, a hand gently on your stomach where your baby would continue to grow, 'And now I know. I don't want you to drain yourself trying to look after me, I see things you know?' She looked up at you, the corners of her lip lifted on one side, a slight sad smile, 'I know these last few years haven't been easy for you either. You never complained but I know you carried a lot too,'

It was true, you couldn't sit there and argue with her to make her feel better. You both know because you lived through it all. The rehab, all those setbacks and endless pressure, the nights she couldn't sleep and the days she questioned whether she'd ever be herself again all because of noise online and some talks within the club.

You'd been there for all of it, and you'd do it again but that doesn't mean it wasn't hard. You always thought if you found it hard then just imagine how it must've felt for her, you heard all the noise too and some days you wished you could take all the pressure and stress away from Alexia.

'I don't want that to be our life forever,' She looked up at you, a small pout on her lips and she looked absolutely devastated. There was also something else in her eyes that you felt like you needed to address, because you know her well to know she was feeling selfish to even think about leaving Barcelona.

'Oh Ale, come here,' You pulled your wife into your arms, her hand settled on top of your stomach properly now. There was no bump or anything yet she was still obsessed with knowing there was life currently trying to grow inside, life that she was attached to and ready to take care of, 'You are choosing yourself for the first time…' Your voice was gentle, 'But you think you are selfish for doing that,'

It wasn't a question but more of a statement, you were saying your thoughts aloud, well actually Alexia's thoughts. She hated how well you knew her and could read her. But seven years together and and a few more before that of knowing each other, you'd hope that you were somewhat in tune with each other.

Alexia stayed silent, you took that as confirmation, 'Minha vida, you have given so much to Barça and yes they have given you just as much. But after everything I think you are allowed to choose yourself and no one would blame you,'

She had given so much to Barcelona, her body, her time her energy and just parts of herself that most people would never understand. It was her childhood club, one so deeply ingrained in her family, it would stay with her no matter what she chooses and you know she knows that somewhere deep down inside.

Alexia leaned back a little, looking at you properly 'For the first time…I am not choosing football,' A small smile touched her lips, the words seemed to surprise herself when she said that for the first time. And only because she had never allowed herself to think this way before but you saw something soften in her expression, like something was finally settling into place, 'And I think I'm okay with that,'

Your heart warmed when for the first time in months, maybe years, she looked at peace with her thoughts. You smiled warmly, fingers reaching up to brush along her jaw, holding her softly. She leaned into your touch, turning her head to kiss your palm, 'I just want to live in peace and be able to love my family fully, not have them or you feel secondary in any kind of way,' Alexia mumbled against your hand, pressing another soft kiss there.

And the way she said that brought tears to your eyes, all you want for your wife is to be happy and she was always thinking about others first, even right now. To get to the level Alexia was at she had to let football consume her life, consume her fully and she's given so much to the game that you could never have the right words or enough words to tell her that.

'As long as you are happy and at peace with this, I will always support you no matter what you choose,' You know Alexia has made up her mind, this was her last season here definitely, and part of you felt excited to see where she would end up. To see your wife playing for enjoyment over anything else.

'Sí, Barça is in good hands I see that this season more clearly. They are ready to take over and I think I am ready to just watch and cheer them from the stands or wherever I go,'

'My Ale, minha vida, you are so brave you know that,' You leaned in to press a kiss to her temple, feeling her melt against you when you did, 'I hope you see that and I am always so proud of you. Amo-te, minha linda,'

'T'estimo molt,' Alexia whispered against your lips, for the first time since she started the conversation she wasn't afraid of what was to come, instead she was ready.

Happy with the knowledge she was able to give everything she could possibly give to the club that has given her everything. And with knowing that the future is capable without her in it.

Funnily enough, the medical staff had been some of the first people to know. And that was only because the second Alexia found out she wanted to make sure everything was covered and the most important thing started with at Barça.

Training loads, recovery sessions, travel schedules, gym work, match minutes, every single thing Alexia wanted to make sure there was a plan. A plan in place that wouldn't harm you or the baby and instead would help grow and support.

The staff at Barcelona had been amazing so far, managing everything discreetly and understanding why you weren't wanting everyone to know straight away. You felt supported without being made to feel fragile, because you weren't, even if Alexia was having a harder time trying to not be so overbearing at training.

It was probably for the best that you'd decided to pull out of group training. Technically you could still do the less intense and low contact drills but you know everyone would be able to see it on Alexia's face instantly.

While you were waiting a little longer before you started telling others about it, Alexia had convinced you it was important to tell the others in the captaincy group, just so they were aware.

'But mi vida, it's important they know why,' Alexia dried her hands from washing up after dinner, moving to stand between your legs.

You'd sat on the counter keeping her company, you were a little more tired lately and being more tired meant a tiny bit more clingy so you didn't want to go far from her.

You shook your head lightly, hands finding her own that were resting on top of your thighs, 'They can just know that the medical staff are still managing my load,'

After the excuse of being ill no one battered an eye when your excuse became lingering fatigue, 'Hm but they should know why,' She leaned in, pressing a little kiss to your cheek, watching the way your eyes fluttered closed briefly at the contact of her lips on your skin, 'We should be transparent with them,'

You breathed out a laugh, the extra affections, you know your wife, 'You just want to tell someone,' Alexia looked down briefly, sheepish smile on her lips was all the confirmation you needed to know you were right in assuming.

She just wanted to tell someone, people who wouldn't get attached too much and would still give that space and understanding that this right now is still just a you and her thing to have before you let everyone else know.

If your sister found out you told others before her she would act so dramatically offended, threaten to not talk to you for a day which you wouldn't hate and tease her that you'd finally have a day of peace. But then talk to you within an hour because she always wanted to talk to you and tell you things.

Sometimes you had to put her on do not disturb but she'd press the notify anyway button so it was all pointless and you really did love her always yapping to you, wouldn't have it any other way even if you wouldn't tell her that.

'And you don't want to tell Patri,' You groaned, throwing your head back slightly, just like you could see right through her, she can see through you.

'Because what if Kika finds out that way, they are close. What if a slip of the tongue happens?'

'Still, they are our friends,' Alexia knew what she was doing now, you could see a smile slowly forming and her eyes lighting up, like she knows exactly how to get you to agree. Lightly rubbing your thighs and leaning right in close to you so her perfume could wrap around you and pull you in, 'We lead Barça together, not just me, but me and them. We gone through so much together, we trust them,'

'Ale…' She had started giving you her biggest eyes, squeezing your thighs and jutting out her lower lip just enough you rolled your eyes at her antics

'They deserve to know, no?' She got you. You folded instantly and you are definitely going to blame the unbalanced hormones of being newly pregnant and not anything else. You definitely aren't soft for your wife at all.

'Fine,' You muttered, pointing a warning finger at her, 'But if Patri messes this up, it's your problem to fix,' Alexia instantly reached up grabbing your face and pulling you in to a deep kiss, whispering little thank you's and i love you's against your lips.

'You're hiding something,' Kika didn't ask but came in accusingly pointing her finger at you while you sat on the bike at the gym moving your legs slowly, nothing too intense. She was basically cornering you while very few of your teammates were also in the gym.

Alexia being one of them, already looking up and slightly amused at the way Kika just stormed in. You looked at your sister, eyebrows scrunched together, putting on your best confused face you could so you could avoid any suspicion, 'Kikinha what are you on about?'

Kika wasn't having any of it, deadpan look thrown your way with a slightly raised eyebrow, it always made you just a little bit nervous, 'Seriously?' She threw her hand up slightly, 'Why are you still in individual training?'

Of course Kika would catch on that it's been over a month and you still haven't come back to full training with the team. She could excuse a week or two with your cold and fatigue excuses but it was stretching on now, you should be recovered and playing again, 'I was sick,'

'Was, being the keyword here,' Kika was scanning over your body and you tensed a little. There was nothing she'd be able to notice anyway. The bump was there but it wasn't anything that a slightly baggier training shirt couldn't cover. A baggier shirt that Alexia hated and whenever you were home she was always pushing the fabric up so she could see the growing bump, it becoming more real every day.

Alexia mistakenly let out a tiny laugh but it caught Kika's attention and now she was focused in on her from across the room, 'What have you done to my sister?' Alexia bit her lip in an attempt to not smirk because she was so close to giving it away and you both know your sister isn't stupid and she's a scarily good investigator/detective when she wants to know something.

'Don't turn this on me,' Your wife held her hands up in defence, 'It's her you're interrogating,'

'Oh thank you Alexia, how sweet of you,' Sarcasm lacing your voice, shaking your head.

'No but seriously, it's been months, are you okay?' Kika had turned from accusing you of hiding something to being genuinely concerned and you couldn't help the guilt that had started to settle in your chest. You didn't want her to be worried about you but you wanted to make it special when you told her.

'I'm okay, just my load is still being managed,' Technically not a lie but not the whole truth, 'I'd tell you if something was really wrong, you know that right?'

'I'm not too sure about that anymore,' Kika grumbled crossing her arms before a towel flew across the gym hitting her in the face.

'Leave your sister alone,' Vicky was laughing at the interaction from the little corner of the gym she'd found herself in. And thankfully for you Vicky had managed to distract your sister, taking her concerns, worries and anything else away from you.

Your eyes met Alexia's and you both knew you were going to have to tell Kika sooner rather than later, there was no more putting it off anymore. So that weekend you and Alexia found yourselves sitting on the floor of your living room surrounded by tissue paper, cut bits of paper and lots of glitter of course.

Glitter that you would be finding for years but you wanted to make it special. It's not everyday that you get to tell you little sister you are having a baby, 'I think we bought almost the entire crafts and baby section,' Alexia laughed out, standing up to stretch out her legs and finally seeing the crafts bomb that had exploded in your house.

'Ale, amor, look at how tiny these socks are and tell me you couldn't also stop yourself from buying multiples,' You held up the tiny socks and then all the other little baby items that all seemed so miniature and cute. Alexia opened and closed her mouth before bringing her hand up to pinch the bridge of her nose laughing, 'Exactly,' Like she'd just proved your point.

'Mi corazón, she's going to love this,' Alexia stood behind you, hands massaging your shoulders while she leaned down to press a little kiss on top of your head while you continued reorganising the box a million times over trying to make sure it's absolutely perfect, 'I'm going to go make you, us, some food before we both get too invested and forget,'

After hours of putting together a little box, a mix of tiny baby clothes with personalisation on it, something special that Kika could keep for herself to remember this moment, along with an ultrasound photo. You finally closed the lid and stuck a huge glittered heart to the front along with carefully writing Kika's name on the top.

The next day you invited your sister over for dinner, she had messaged you saying you sounded weird on the phone and way too formal, 'Okay seriously, what's going on?' Kika didn't waste a second from the minute she stepped through the front door, kicking off her shoes, 'You never invite me to dinner. I just show up and raid your kitchen and literally everything else here,'

Alexia laughed from the kitchen where she was currently stirring a pot on the stove top, you had tried to help but your hands kept shaking from the nervous excitement you'd been harbouring all day. So she naturally just took over and you paced around the house most of the day.

'After dinner Ki,' You threw your arm around Kika's shoulder an attempt to hide the growing smile on your face.

Naturally you both ended up sitting up on the stools at the kitchen counter aimlessly chatting about anything and everything to keep you entertained. But you and Alexia could feel the energy bouncing off of Kika and at any moment she tried to subtly, but not subtly at all, steer the conversation back to the reason you had invited her to a dinner.

Alexia wiped her hands, leaning on her arms against the counter, enough to press a little kiss to your cheek, 'You should just give it to her now, mi vida,' Then another peck against your lips this time.

'Gross,' Kika dramatically shielded her eyes, mumbling under her breath. You rolled your eyes playfully slapping her shoulder, a little pest sometimes she was to you.

You both knew you wouldn't be able to last through dinner if you didn't tell Kika beforehand so you slid off the chair and grabbed the little box from the dining room table. Alexia leaned against the kitchen counter, arms folded and a little smile on her face knowing exactly what's coming.

'What's this?' Kika's eyebrows pulled together when you handed her the little box.

'A gift, now open,' You tapped the box excitedly, before moving around the other side to be by your wife's side. She moved making space for yo beside her instantly, sliding her arm around your waist and holding you close.

You watched as Kika's face went from confusion, to her mouth dropping open while she picked up each little item in the box. Her eyes glossed over at just seeing the little onesie that had 'Promoted to tia Kika' a hand covering her mouth.

'No way…' But then her hands found the ultrasound photo that was strategically placed underneath all the other little items, you wanted it to be the last thing she saw. Making everything else in that box mean even more than it did before, 'Oh my god, for real?'

Kika barely let you breath out a reply before she was up out of her seat and wrapping her arms around both of you. The tightest hug that left the three of you there for far longer than you expected, happy tears falling from Kika's eyes.

Until she suddenly pulled away and hit your shoulder, 'That's why you haven't been training and playing, I thought you were dying,'

You couldn't help but laugh and call her dramatic because of course that's what she was worrying about all this time. But it was well worth the wait in your opinion.

'I'm going to be the best tia Kika ever for you,' She whispered looking at the ultrasound photo still in her hands.

Today was the last training session of the season, before the team travelled away for the last game. This week had surely been a roller coaster of emotions. From winning the champions league to Alexia's farewell and everything that has followed that. You found Kika just sitting in the middle of the training pitch, leaning back on her hands looking up at the sky.

Most of today your sister had been off, you know she feels things deeply and had been having a harder time with the news this week and when you didn't see her come back in with the other girls after their session you knew you had to go find her.

'Kikinha,' Your voice was soft but she didn't react, didn't look your way or respond. When you reached her you sat down on the grass next to Kika, 'Are you okay?'

Kika just let out a little hum, her fingers absentmindedly pinking at the blades of grass where she was resting her hands, 'Mhmm,' She turned her head slightly so you couldn't see her properly.

'Kika,' Voice a bit more firm than before, gently nudging her shoulder with yours, 'It's just me, you can tell me if something's bothering you. I can help you fix it,'

A sad smile tugged at the corner of her lips, though it never quite reached her eyes. She stared back up at the sky, blinking a little too slowly, trying to not let her emotions show too much.

'You can't fix this though,' Her voice came out quieter than before, 'Alexia's leaving…' The words seemed to catch in her throat, 'And your contract is up as well and I know you haven't even had any discussions of renewing. I'm not stupid,'

The admission hung heavily between you. A cool breeze swept across the pitch, she finally glanced your way and you felt your heart ache. There was hurt written across her face but underneath that was a layer of fear.

It was true, with the positive test and starting a family you'd been thinking about what your future might look like after having a baby. It was a long conversation you had with Alexia that involved lots of tears.

You couldn't see yourself coming back to playing professionally and especially not back to Barcelona without Alexia. But at the end of the day the decision to retire, it just felt right.

Not that you'd told anyone expect the board, asked them not to offer you a new contract and instead your time with football was done.

It was time for a new era, for yourself and for football. For the next generation to come in and make the game their own. You'd done plenty over your time with

'Kiki,' You spoke softly, letting your voice linger there in the breeze.

'You aren't coming back are you?' This wasn't the way you wanted to tell her, but there wouldn't ever be a right way or a right time. No matter how you said it, it would always hurt.

For as long as Kika had known football, you had been associated right there alongside it. She'd watched you become captain of the national team while standing there right beside you. You'd been there when she signed with Barça and welcomed her into the place you'd called home for almost 10 years with open arms, excited to play alongside her for club.

You sighed, wrapping your arm around her shoulders and pulling her close into your side. Kika briefly looked down at your stomach, your growing bump more visible these days. She gently rested her hand on it and laid her head against your shoulder, 'And you're going to have a baby but you will probably go where Ale ends up and who knows how far away that could be,'

You swallowed hard at her words, things had always seemed so certain but now everything was changing and you know it might feel quite sudden to your sister, 'Ki, I need you to listen to me, okay?'

Moving so she was sitting in a way that she was looking at you front on now, your hands grabbed her face gently holding her, 'You will stay here, at Barça and be the next generation who will succeed even more than what we have,' Your eyes started to tear up, knowing what you were going to say next, 'No matter where I am I will always come back here for you. I will get to come back here and watch little kids fill the stands wearing your name on their backs, cheering you on just like they have for me and for Ale and the others,'

'I will get to watch my baby sister doing what she loves and inspiring a whole other generation of footballers,' Kika leaned into your touch, just listening to your words, her eyes only leaving yours to glance down at where your daughter was currently growing.

'She'll come watch me play?' Kika spoke through tears, her voice raspy and slightly breaking.

You brought her in closer, resting your forehead against hers, 'Of course! She will be there in a little kit that will match yours, waving a little flag and cheering you on from the stands. I would make sure of it,'

It's a thought that brought you so much joy, being able to take your daughter to watch your sister, 'You know what would be the best part? Is that my daughter will get to watch her tia Kika play for Barça and it's you who will be showing her that she is able to dream just as big,'

The tears that had been threatening to fall all day she couldn't hold back anymore, not when you were in front of her saying those kinds of things to her. You were just as much of a mess as your sister. You are always so proud of your sister and the thought of getting to watch her succeed, even if you aren't by her side on the pitch but from the stands, it made your heart grow.

'I'm so proud of you,' You pressed your forehead against hers.

'We both are,' Alexia's voice cut through, she'd come looking for you and stumbled upon your little sister moment, watching from afar until she knew she could join.

The three of you sat there until the sun was threatening to disappear beyond the horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and orange. Kika was tucked between you and Alexia, no longer crying but now rambling animatedly about al the things she was going to teach your daughter.

You and Alexia exchanged amused glances behind her as she continued basically planning your daughters entire football career before she was even born. But sitting there listening to your sister ramble on, getting back to her normal self, it was the first time that day everything felt lighter.

Looking across the training pitch one last time, this was the place that had been your home, the place that had given you teammates, trophies, heartbreak and a family bigger than you could ever have imagined. Football had given you so much and now it was time to let it go, your hand found Alexia and Kika's head settled against your shoulder now.

Being surrounded by the two people you love the most you realised that ending weren't always sad, but sometimes they were just simply the beginning of something new, like leaving the door open for your sister and those younger to come through and shine just like you had.

liked by alexiaputellas, albaps9 and others yourusername After a lot of conversations, tears, reflection and love. I've made the most difficult decision of my life but to retire from professional football.

For as long as I can remember, football has been my world. It has taken me from a little girl in Portugal with impossible dreams to captaining my country, representing the badge I love and spending ten unforgettable years here at Barcelona. It gave me lifelong friendships, lessons I'll carry forever and memories that no trophy cabinet could ever compare to.

To wear the captain's armband for Portugal has been the greatest honour of my career. Every time I stepped onto the pitch for my country, I carried the pride of my family, my teammates and everyone who believed in me. I hope I represented out nation with the same passion and commitment that you have all always given me.

To my family, thank you for every sacrifice you made so I could chase this dream. To my Kikinha, thank you for constantly reminding me why I fell in love with football in the first place. Watching your journey has been one of the greatest joys of mine and I know the future is incredibly bright for you.

And finally, Culers, don't worry I will be back at the first home game next season to say goodbye properly. I couldn't just leave you like that after ten years together. Thank you for giving me a home, a family and memories that will stay with me forever. From the first day I pulled on this shirt to my last I gave everything I had for this club and in return you gave me more love than I could have ever imagined.

Ten years ago I arrived here with dreams bigger than myself and today I leave having lived every single one of them. We celebrated trophies together, survived the worst moments together and created memories that will live in my heart forever. Thank you for letting me be part of this with you.

But it's time to move on and for you to lift up the next generation just how you lifted me up in all moments of this journey.

This club will always be part of me. Barcelona will always be my home.

Forever grateful 💙❤️

alexiaputellas what a career mi vida, always proud of you and everything you've done. to have you by my side playing all these years, i couldn't have asked for anything better ❤️

kika.nazareth damn who's cutting onions 😭😭😭

kika.nazareth my forever capitão and an even better sister. so proud to have watched you achieve everything that you have, thank you for showing me the way ❤️

salmaparalluelo always believed in me even when i couldn't ❤️ you deserve to enjoy this next chapter more than anyone

vickyylopezz._ no noooo refusing to believe this is real 😭 come back we miss you already ❤️

vickyylopezz._ you better bring the little one to visit us ↳ your username i think kika would fly over here and bring her back herself if i never did ↳ janafernandez3 i'll send you photos ↳ alexiaputellas madre mía, jana we haven't decided if we actually are going to end up there yet ↳ janafernandez3 por favor, we all know you want to be around your favourite again

It was a beautiful, hyper-passionate romance that everyone in your close-knit surgical department joked about because of how utterly, shamelessly clingy you were. Despite your high-stress career cutting into human skulls, the moment you stepped through the door of her villa in Pedralbes, you transformed. You were the girl who would wrap herself around Alexia’s back like a koala while she tried to cook dinner, the one who would crawl into her lap on the sofa and refuse to move for hours, burying your face in her neck until she laughed that rich, raspy laugh and held you against her chest like you were the only solid thing in her world. Alexia loved it. She matched your energy completely, her powerful athlete's arms locking you against her body with a fierce, possessive warmth that made you feel utterly invincible.

But that beautiful reality came with a shadow: it was completely, entirely secret.

Alexia was a global icon, her every movement tracked by the media, her private life an endless source of public speculation. At first, you didn't mind the shadows. You were a busy woman; you had a department to run, a residency program to oversee, and a never-ending rotation of complex craniotomies. You didn't need the flashing cameras. You didn't need the red carpets.

But hiding a three-year relationship required a heavy tax. It meant deleting your digital footprint, leaving her house through the service elevator, and sitting in the stadium stands three rows behind her family, pretending you were just an acquaintance from the medical consultant staff if anyone looked too closely.

You had tolerated the sacrifice because you believed the foundation was unbreakable. Until the night the structure gave way.

It was a late Friday evening, following a massive Champions League victory at the Estadi Olímpic Lluís Companys. Alexia had hosted a small, private gathering at her home for a few childhood friends from Mollet and a couple of influential sports executives who had helped manage her commercial image. Because you had just finished a grueling twelve-hour surgical shift removing a complex glioma, you had arrived late, slipping through the back entrance into the kitchen to grab a glass of water.

As you walked down the short, tiled corridor leading toward the auxiliary lounge, you heard voices through the partially open oak door.

"Come on, Ale, we saw the way that doctor looks at you," a prominent sports agent scoffed, his voice dripping with casual, elite cynicism. "She’s been at almost every private dinner this month. The media is starting to ask if she's more than just a medical advisor. Is she the reason you haven't been linked to anyone else? Are you actually dating her?"

You stopped in the shadow of the hallway, your hand freezing against the cold glass of water. A soft, hopeful flutter bloomed in your chest. You wondered, just for a fraction of a second, if after three years, Alexia was finally going to claim you out loud in front of her inner circle.

Then, Alexia’s laugh echoed through the room. It wasn't the warm, genuine sound that usually vibrated against your skin when you slept. It was sharp, cold, and laced with a defensive, dismissive armor.

"¿Qué dices? No, por favor," Alexia said, her tone carrying an air of total indifference that made your blood instantly run cold. "Y/N is just a neurosurgeon the club utilizes for head trauma consultations. She's great at her job, sure, but she's completely exhausting to be around outside the hospital. She's way too needy, constantly hovering around me like a lost puppy because her own life is just boring charts and operating theatres. She’s just convenient company when I need to decompress between training blocks, guys. It’s nothing real, I promise you. I wouldn't date someone that high-maintenance."

The world simply stopped spinning.

The air in the corridor felt like liquid nitrogen as it rushed into your lungs. Exhausting. Needy. Lost puppy. Convenient company. The words didn't just pierce your heart; they completely, surgically dismantled your entire reality. The very clinginess she had spent three years encouraging, the affection she claimed kept her grounded, was suddenly reduced to an embarrassing, high-maintenance nuisance she mocked to protect her precious privacy. To save herself from a moment of uncomfortable scrutiny from a sports agent, she had completely rewritten your entire love story into a pathetic joke.

You didn't cry. You didn't storm into the room to demand an apology. When a neurosurgeon encounters a catastrophic, uncontainable hemorrhage on the operating table, her emotions freeze into total absolute zero. Panic is a luxury for people who don't hold lives in their hands.

You quietly set the glass of water down on the console table, walked out of the back door, and drove your car back to your small, empty apartment near Vall d'Hebron without looking back a single time.

The silence began the next morning, and it was absolute.

When Alexia woke up, she sent her usual morning text: "Woke up and my koala wasn't here :( Did you have to go in for an emergency surgery, mi amor? Call me the second you're free, I miss you."

The message was marked as read. But no answer came.

By Monday, the silence had transformed into a terrifying, unyielding wall. Alexia had called you twenty times, each attempt dropping straight into the void of a standard corporate voicemail. She sent endless messages, watching the grey ticks turn blue instantly, but the screen remained entirely blank. The complete, sudden withdrawal of your presence felt like the sudden loss of oxygen in a room.

On Tuesday evening, completely beside herself with an uncontainable panic, Alexia drove straight to Vall d'Hebron. She knew your schedule by heart; she knew you were finishing a grand rounds presentation at 7:00 PM. She waited outside the secure glass doors of the neurosurgery administrative wing, her hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets, her heart hammering against her ribs.

When the doors finally slid open, you walked out, flanked by three senior residents and an attending physician. You were wearing your navy blue scrubs beneath a perfectly pressed white lab coat, your hair pulled back into a sharp, professional twist. You were explaining a complex ventricular shunt procedure, your voice carrying that effortless, funny, and brilliant spark that always made your students adore you.

"Y/N!" Alexia called out, her voice cracking slightly as she took a step forward, completely forgetting the hospital staff around you.

The residents stopped, their eyes widening as they recognized the legendary Barcelona captain standing in their hallway.

You stopped too. But your face didn't change. Your hazel eyes, which usually filled with an absolute, radiant joy whenever she appeared, were completely blank. Looking at you was like staring at an unyielding pane of surgical glass.

"Ah, Captain Putellas," you said, your voice entirely level, professional, and completely devoid of a single ounce of warmth. You turned to your residents with a calm, clinical smile. "Go ahead to the ICU and prepare the post-op orders for bed four. I will join you in five minutes."

The doctors nodded quickly, sensing the sudden, suffocating drop in atmospheric pressure, and hurried down the hall.

Once they were out of sight, Alexia took a desperate step closer, her hands reaching out to grab your arm. "Y/N, thank God. Why haven't you answered my texts? I’ve been going out of my mind for three days. I went to your apartment, but you changed the entry code—"

"Please do not touch me in a professional environment, Captain," you said smoothly, stepping back just enough to keep a definitive, unyielding physical distance between you. You didn't raise your voice; you didn't look angry. You looked like an attending physician speaking to a stranger who had lost their way in the corridor. "If the club requires an evaluation for a head injury or a neural consultation, please have your athletic department submit a formal request through the administrative portal. My schedule is currently entirely booked with actual medical emergencies."

Alexia felt the air leave her lungs as if she had been hit by a stray tackle. The coldness in your voice was a physical strike. "What... what are you doing? Why are you calling me that? Y/N, please, it's me. It's Alexia. What happened?"

"I am simply maintaining the boundaries you require," you replied, your gaze fixed somewhere just past her left ear, completely refusing to lock eyes with her. "Out of sight. In secret. Like an exhausting, high-maintenance puppy that doesn't actually exist in your real life. I wouldn't want to overextend my welcome as your 'convenient company,' Captain. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a craniotomy to perform."

Before she could form a single word, you turned on your heel, your white coat billowing slightly behind you as you walked through the secure double doors, the magnetic lock clicking shut with a heavy, definitive thud.

Alexia stood frozen in the middle of the sterile hospital hallway, the realization crashing down on her like a physical weight. The hallway. The auxiliary lounge. Her mind raced back to Friday night—the careless, defensive, arrogant words she had thrown out to a sports agent just to avoid a moment of personal vulnerability, to keep her world locked in its safe, sterile box. She had forgotten that you were in the house. She had completely forgotten that you were coming from a twelve-hour shift just to see her.

"No," Alexia whispered, her hands dropping to her sides as a sickening, suffocating wave of guilt flooded her stomach. She had built a fortress to protect her privacy, but she had accidentally crushed the only woman who made the fortress worth living in under the rubble.

The next two months were a brutal, agonizing descent into absolute hell for Alexia Putellas.

An elite athlete is trained to handle adversity. When a match is slipping away, Alexia knew how to double her efforts, increase the intensity, and force a victory through sheer strength of will. But you weren't a football match; you were a brilliant neurosurgeon who had completely erased her from the architecture of your life.

You blocked her personal phone. You blocked her on every digital platform. When she sent massive arrangements of lilies and white roses to your private office at Vall d'Hebron, you quietly told the nurse to distribute them to the pediatric oncology ward, never keeping a single petal. When she waited outside the hospital parking garage at 2:00 AM in the pouring rain, hoping to just see your face, you drove past her car without a single glance, your eyes fixed straight ahead on the road.

The complete, total absence of your warmth was destroying her.

Alexia couldn't sleep. Her performance on the pitch began to suffer; her passing was uncharacteristically sloppy, her presence in the midfield distracted and hollow. During a training session at Joan Gamper, Mapi León had finally grabbed her by the training bib after Alexia missed three consecutive tactical runs.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Ale?" Mapi demanded, her eyes full of genuine concern. "You look like a ghost. You've lost weight, your head isn't in the game, and you look like you’re about to collapse. Is this about Y/N? What happened?"

Alexia buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with a quiet, broken sob that shocked her teammate. "I broke it, Mapi. I said something horrible to protect the secret, and she heard me. She won't look at me. She won't speak to me. She looks right through me like I’m made of glass."

"Then you don't stop fighting," Mapi said softly, her hand resting heavily on Alexia’s shoulder. "A neurosurgeon spends her whole life fixing things people think are impossible. If you want her back, you have to show her that you're willing to throw away the whole damn box just to hold her hand in the light."

But while Alexia was dying of heartbreak in Pedralbes, you were dying of sheer, unadulterated exhaustion at Vall d'Hebron.

Burnout among surgical chiefs is a silent killer. To cope with the gaping, agonizing void in your chest where Alexia’s warmth used to be, you had thrown yourself into your work with a terrifying, self-destructive intensity. You took every on-call shift. You volunteered for every emergency trauma surgery. You spent forty-eight consecutive hours in the operating theatre, living on bitter hospital coffee and stale vending machine crackers, completely refusing to let your mind rest for even a second. If you stopped working, the memory of her laugh would find you. If you slept, you would dream of her arms around your waist. So, you simply refused to sleep.

Your colleagues noticed. Your chief resident, a close friend named Dr. Lucas Méndez, had tried to intervene multiple times. "Y/N, you look grey. Your hands are steady under the microscope, but you’re running on pure adrenaline and spite. You need to go home. You’ve done four craniotomies in thirty-six hours."

"I'm fine, Lucas," you had muttered, your voice raspy and thin as you stared at a set of MRI scans. "The department needs me."

The breaking point arrived on a rainy Thursday afternoon, precisely nine weeks after the night in the corridor.

You had just finished a grueling, five-hour emergency surgery to repair a ruptured aneurysm in an eight-year-old child. The procedure had been a complete success, but the physical and emotional toll was the final straw your system could bear. As you walked out of the scrub room, tearing your surgical mask from your face, a sudden, violent wave of dizziness hit you.

The sterile white walls of the corridor began to spin rapidly, turning into a blur of fluorescent light. A high-pitched ringing filled your ears, completely blocking out the sound of the hospital alarms. Your knees felt like water, your lungs refusing to expand as a cold, clammy sweat broke out across your forehead.

"Dr. Y/N?" a nurse called out, her voice sounding a million miles away. "Doctor, are you—"

Before she could finish the sentence, your vision went completely black. Your body collapsed like a deck of cards, your head narrowly missing the metal chart trolley as you hit the linoleum floor of the surgical ward, completely unconscious from sheer physical exhaustion, profound dehydration, and a heart that had simply run out of fuel to pump.

At the Ciutat Esportiva, the afternoon training session had just concluded. Alexia sat on the wooden bench in the locker room, her head bowed, staring blankly at the floor tiles while her teammates showered around her. She felt a heavy, suffocating dread in her chest all day, an unexplainable weight that made it hard to breathe.

Suddenly, her phone, resting on the bench beside her, began to vibrate violently.

An unknown, corporate landline number flashed across the screen. Normally, Alexia ignored unsaved numbers during training, but an instinct older than her career made her slide the screen open instantly.

"¿Sí?" she said, her voice raspy.

"Is this Alexia Putellas?" a sharp, authoritative voice asked. The background noise was a chaotic symphony of rhythmic bleeps, rushing footsteps, and overhead pages. A hospital.

Alexia’s blood turned to ice instantly. She stood up from the bench, her hand gripping the phone so hard the plastic creaked. "Yes. Who is this?"

"This is Dr. Elena Torres from the Emergency Department at Hospital Vall d'Hebron," the voice said, urgent but professional. "We have Dr. Y/N here. She collapsed outside the surgical theatres twenty minutes ago due to severe physical exhaustion, acute dehydration, and a critically low blood pressure spike. She’s stable now, but she's completely unresponsive to standard discharge protocols and is currently on an IV drip in ER Bay Three. Before she lost consciousness completely, she had her phone open to your contact info from an old chat archive. We need an immediate family member or designated contact to come down here, sign her medical leave forms, and take her home. She cannot be left alone in this state."

The locker room completely vanished from Alexia’s field of vision.

"I'm coming," Alexia choked out, a cold, violent wave of terror gripping her throat. "I’m ten minutes away. Please... please take care of her. I’m coming right now."

She didn't change out of her training kit. She didn't grab her bag. She threw her car keys into her pocket, ran out of the facility in her slides, and tore down the highway toward Vall d'Hebron like a woman running out of a burning building. The speed limit didn't exist. The traffic didn't exist. The only thing that existed in her universe was the terrifying image of your brilliant, funny, beautiful face lying pale under a harsh hospital sheet.

When she arrived at Vall d'Hebron, she didn't care about the people recognizing her in the lobby. She sprinted through the sliding glass doors of the Emergency Department, her chest heaving, her eyes wild as she scanned the signs until she found the high-security entrance to the treatment bays.

"Emergency Bay Three!" Alexia gasped to the triage nurse, slamming her palms down against the desk. "Dr. Y/N. I’m Alexia Putellas. They called me."

The nurse looked up, her expression softening with a mixture of recognition and gravity. She pointed down the long, chaotic corridor. "Bay Three is on the left, Captain. The attending doctor is waiting for you."

Alexia threw the curtain aside, her breath catching in her throat as she stepped into the small, sterile cubicle.

The sight broke something fundamental inside her soul.

You were lying on the narrow hospital bed, looking incredibly small beneath the coarse white blanket. Your face was almost translucent, your lips dry and chapped, with deep, purple-grey hollows beneath your closed eyes. A clear plastic oxygen cannula sat beneath your nose, and a thick IV line was taped to the back of your pale hand, pumping fluids into your exhausted system. The brilliant, sharp, hilarious Chief of Neurosurgery looked entirely deflated—broken by the very world she had tried so hard to cure.

Dr. Elena Torres, an older physician with a stern, no-nonsense expression, stood at the foot of the bed, reviewing a chart. She looked up as Alexia entered, her eyes dropping to Alexia’s sweaty training gear.

"You're the emergency contact?" Dr. Torres asked, her voice clipped.

"Yes," Alexia whispered, her eyes never leaving your face as she walked slowly to the side of your bed, her knees trembling so badly she had to grip the metal guardrail to stay upright. "What... what happened to her? She’s a doctor here. How did nobody see this coming?"

"Doctors are the worst patients, Miss. Putellas," Dr. Torres said with a heavy, tired sigh. "Your girlfriend has performed fourteen complex neurosurgical operations in the last three weeks alone. She has taken every night shift, skipped every administrative break, and according to her department’s cafeteria logs, she hasn't eaten a proper meal in days. Her body simply ran out of glucose and fluid. She didn't faint; her nervous system literally shut itself down to prevent a cardiac arrest from sheer stress and fatigue."

Alexia closed her eyes, a hot, agonizing tear sliding down her cheek, burning her skin. She did this because of me. I drove her to this.

"She needs absolute rest," Dr. Torres continued, handing Alexia a clipboard of medical leave documents. "I have signed her off from the surgical department for the next three weeks, effective immediately. Her keys are in that plastic basin. If you are going to take her home, you need to ensure she drinks fluids, eats solid food, and does absolutely nothing but sleep. If she stands up before tomorrow morning, her blood pressure will drop again. Can you handle that, or should I admit her to the observation ward?"

"No," Alexia said fiercely, her voice thick with emotion as she signed her name across the bottom of the forms with a shaking hand. "She’s coming home with me. I will take care of her. I swear to you, she won't lift a finger."

The drive back to the villa in Pedralbes was conducted in a heavy, fragile silence. You had partially regained consciousness when the nurses moved you to a wheelchair, but your mind was entirely hazy, your body feeling like it was encased in lead. You hadn't even had the strength to protest when you saw Alexia lifting you carefully into the passenger seat of her SUV, wrapping a thick fleece blanket around your shivering shoulders.

When she pulled into her private garage, she didn't let you try to walk. She reached into the car, sliding one powerful arm beneath your knees and the other securely behind your back, lifting your slight frame against her chest in one smooth, protective motion.

Your head automatically rolled into the crook of her neck, an ancient, instinctual habit your body refused to forget even through the fog of your exhaustion. You inhaled the familiar scent of her skin—laundry detergent, sweat, and that deep, intoxicating warmth that had always meant safety to your tired brain.

"Alexia..." you mumbled, your voice a tiny, dry scratch against her skin. "Let me down. I can walk. I have to go back to the ICU..."

"Cállate, mi vida," Alexia whispered fiercely, her voice breaking as she carried you through the private elevator straight into her massive, sunlit master bedroom. "You are not going back to any hospital. You are staying right here."

She laid you down on the giant, king-sized bed with an tenderness that felt almost holy. She carefully stripped off your stiff hospital scrubs, leaving you in a soft, oversized cotton t-shirt, and pulled the heavy, down comforter up to your chin.

For the next two hours, you slipped back into a deep, dreamless sleep. When you finally opened your eyes again, the harsh glare of the afternoon sun had softened into a warm, amber twilight, casting long, lazy shadows across the white walls of the room. The room smelled of fresh lavender and hot chicken broth.

You shifted your head slightly on the plush pillow, and your breath instantly caught in your throat.

Alexia hadn't left. She was sitting directly on the hardwood floor right beside your bed, her back resting against the mattress, her knees pulled up to her chest. She had finally changed out of her training kit into a pair of worn grey sweatpants, but she looked completely shattered. Her face was buried in her palms, her broad shoulders shaking with quiet, rhythmic sobs that she was desperately trying to muffle so she wouldn't wake you.

The sight of the formidable, unshakeable captain of Barcelona weeping on the floor like a heartbroken child completely dissolved the last lingering remnants of your defensive wall. You were a doctor; you knew when a wound had been cleaned, and you knew when it was time to let the tissue heal.

Slowly, with an immense effort, you slid your hand out from beneath the heavy comforter, your pale fingers reaching out until they gently brushed against the soft hair at the nape of her neck.

Alexia bolted upright instantly, her head snapping around, her hazel eyes wild and completely drenched in tears. When she saw that you were awake, your eyes clear and focused on her, a sharp, choked gasp escaped her lips.

"Hey," you whispered, a tiny, fragile smile touching your dry lips. "Why are you crying on the floor? You look like you're the one who survived a twelve-hour shift."

"Y/N," Alexia breathed, her voice a total wreck. She didn't hesitate. She scrambled up onto the mattress, moving with a desperate, frantic energy, but she stopped just an inch away from you, her hands hovering over your face, trembling violently, completely terrified to touch you without your permission. "Are you okay? Does your head hurt? Do you need water? The doctor said you needed to drink this broth, I have it right here—"

"Alexia," you said softly, interrupting her frantic rambling. You reached up, your hand catching her wrist, your fingers sliding down until they interlocked with hers, your grip surprisingly warm despite your weakness. "Come here."

A loud, broken sob escaped her lips at the simple invitation. The two months of agony, the walls of silence, the terrifying image of you on that ER bed—it all collapsed in a single second. She slid down onto the bed beside you, her powerful arms wrapping around your waist with a desperate, terrifyingly tight grip, burying her face into the crook of your neck as she wept openly, her entire body shaking against yours.

"Lo siento, lo siento, lo siento," Alexia cried into your skin, her voice thick and raw with an unbearable weight of guilt. "I am so sorry, Y/N. I am so sorry for the horrible, disgusting, cowardly things I said to those people in the lounge. I was terrified of the media, I was caught off guard, and I used the worst words in the world to protect a secret because I was a coward. I didn't mean a single word of it. I swear on my life, I swear on everything I am... you are not exhausting. You are not a puppy. You are my entire world."

She pulled back just enough to look down into your eyes, her hands framing your face, her thumbs desperately wiping away the stray tears that were beginning to pool in your eyes.

"I loved every single second you wrapped yourself around my back," Alexia wept, her hazel eyes burning with an intensity that left no room for doubt. "I loved the way you would sit in my lap for hours. I missed it so much, Y/N. I spent two months living in an empty house that felt like a tomb because my koala wasn't here. When the hospital called me today... when they told me you collapsed because you were working yourself to death to avoid me... I felt like my heart was being torn out of my chest. Don't do this to me again. Please. Punch me, scream at me, hate me if you have to... but don't run away into the dark where I can't protect you."

You stared up at her, your chest heaving as the sheer volume of her devotion completely filled the empty space in your soul. You saw the raw, bloodshot truth in her eyes. You saw the physical toll the separation had taken on her own body. She had spent two months fighting a war against the very walls she had built, and she had completely demolished them just to get to your bedside.

"Your apology is structurally sound, Putellas," you choked out through a tearful, wet laugh, your hands rising to grip her forearms. "But your tactical execution during that dinner was absolutely atrocious."

Alexia let out a loud, breathless laugh through her tears, her face lighting up with a radiant, emotional joy that made her look like herself again. "I know. I'm an idiot. A complete, total idiot. But I fixed it, Y/N. I swear I fixed it."

She reached into her sweatpants pocket, pulling out her phone and sliding the screen open with a shaking thumb. She turned the screen toward you.

It was a live post on her official Instagram account—the one with over three million followers. It was a beautiful, candid photograph you didn't even know she had taken months ago, showing you sitting on her terrace in the evening light, your hair loose, laughing at something she had said, looking absolutely breathtakingly beautiful.

The caption beneath the photo was written in large, bold letters in both Catalan and Spanish:

“The most brilliant mind in the world, the finest surgeon at Vall d'Hebron, and the only woman I will ever love.”

The comments section was already a chaotic, exploding waterfall of millions of likes, red hearts, and messages of support from fans, teammates, and the entire sporting community. She hadn't just thrown away the box; she had exploded it in front of the entire world.

Your breath completely caught in your throat, a fresh wave of hot, ecstatic tears blurring your vision as you looked from the screen back up to her face. "Alexia... your sponsors... the club executives..."

"Let them talk," Alexia whispered fiercely, tossing the phone onto the nightstand, completely dismissing the entire global media landscape with a wave of her hand. She leaned down, her face stopping just centimeters from yours, her breath warm against your lips. "Let the whole world write the stories. Out there, I am the player. But in this room, on this bed, I am just a woman who is completely, desperately in love with her girlfriend. I don't care about the cameras anymore, Y/N. I just need you. I need my clingy, beautiful doctor back. Please."

The final wall of doubt inside your soul completely turned to dust.

"Okay," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "But I told you... I am incredibly high-maintenance when I'm sick."

"Sé lo que me espera," Alexia murmured with a breathless, beautiful smile, and then she closed the final distance.

The kiss was entirely different from the cold, professional distance of the last nine weeks. It was deep, possessive, and filled with a profound, overwhelming warmth that completely healed every single broken circuit in your exhausted brain. Alexia’s lips parted yours with a smooth, intoxicating hunger, her tongue tracing your lower lip with a reverent sweetness that made your soul vibrate. Her powerful arms slid beneath your back, lifting your upper body off the mattress to pull you completely flush against her chest, holding you so tightly it felt like she was trying to fuse your ribs together.

You let out a soft, satisfied sigh into her mouth, your arms instantly locking around her neck, your fingers tangling into the short blonde hair at the base of her skull, pulling her closer, tasting the salt of her tears and the rich sweetness of the broth she had prepared.

When she finally pulled back, just an inch, she didn't let you move. She shifted her body until she was lying completely flat on the mattress beside you, her long legs tangling with yours beneath the heavy comforter, her arm sliding beneath your head to act as a permanent pillow.

The moment she was settled, the high-key, shameless clinginess that defined your relationship returned with a violent, roaring vengeance.

Now that the angst was gone, your body completely demanded the comfort it had been starved of for months. You shifted your hips, crawling across the sheets until your entire front was pressed tightly against her side. You threw your right leg completely over her powerful thighs, pinning her down, and buried your face directly into the warm crook of her neck, your fingers digging into the fabric of her t-shirt as if you were trying to burrow inside her skin.

Alexia let out a rich, deep laugh—that beautiful, raspy sound you had missed so much—and her arms locked around your waist instantly, pulling your hips even closer until there wasn't a single millimeter of space left between your bodies. She began pressing sweet, lingering kisses into your hair, your temple, and the soft skin behind your ear, her hand rubbing slow, soothing circles across your back.

"Madre mía, te extrañaba tanto," Alexia murmured against your skin, her voice full of a warm, sleepy contentment that vibrated straight into your chest. "My little koala is back."

"Shut up," you mumbled into her collarbone, your voice drowsy but full of an absolute, unbreakable happiness as the warmth of her body finally allowed your nervous system to fully cool down. "You said I was a lost puppy. Now you have to deal with the consequences."

"I will deal with them for the next fifty years," Alexia whispered softly, tightening her grip around you, her nose nudging your jawline affectionately. "Drink your broth first, and then you can sleep for three weeks. I’m not letting you go to the bathroom alone, understood?"

"Understood, Captain," you sighed, your eyelids growing heavy as the absolute safety of her presence finally allowed your brain to drift toward a deep, natural sleep.

Alexia Putellas sat on the edge of her plush, grey sofa—one of the few pieces of furniture that had successfully crossed the English Channel with her moving company. She was wrapped in an oversized fleece blanket, her hands clutching a mug of chamomile tea that had gone lukewarm twenty minutes ago.

The sporting world was still in a state of absolute, chaotic shock. The billboards across Catalonia were still being taken down, the ones thanking the legendary Capitana for her historic, trophy-laden years at Barcelona. When she had announced her transfer to London City Lionesses, seeking a final, grand challenge in the English league, the media had painted it as a triumphant march. A queen conquering new territory.

They didn't see her now. They didn't see the woman who, at thirty-two, felt entirely like a ghost trapped in an unfamiliar, damp cage. Her English was functional, but when the checkout clerks at the local Sainsbury's spoke to her in rapid, colloquial London accents, her brain stalled. The training pitches were excellent, her new teammates were respectful, but at the end of the day, she didn't have a car full of lifelong friends to drive back to Pedralbes with. She had a set of keys to a flat that didn't smell like home.

A sudden, sharp hiss from the corner of the living room made her bolt upright.

Alexia dropped the blanket, her eyes darting to the old, cast-iron radiator beneath the window. It began to shake, a violent, metallic rattling that echoed through the empty room, followed by a loud pop. Within seconds, a dark, rusty stream of water began to spray directly out of the main valve, pooling rapidly onto the polished hardwood floor.

"¡Joder!" Alexia hissed, rushing forward. She grabbed a decorative cushion from the sofa, trying to press it against the valve, but the water was scalding hot, soaking through the fabric instantly and burning her fingers. "No, no, no... ¡Para!"

Panic, cold and sharp, seized her chest. She didn't know where the main water shut-off valve for the building was. She didn't know the emergency number for a British plumber at 11:45 PM on a Tuesday, and even if she did, her mind couldn't formulate the English words to explain a ruptured radiator pipe without stuttering. The water was already spreading toward her expensive television cables.

Desperate, she threw the front door open, running out into the dimly lit, carpeted hallway of the residential building. She didn't care that she was wearing oversized grey sweatpants and a worn-out Barcelona training shirt. She ran to the door directly opposite hers—Flat 4B—and pounded her knuckles against the dark wood.

"Please," she muttered to herself, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Por favor, que haya alguien."

A moment passed. Then, the sound of a heavy brass deadbolt turning echoed from the other side.

The door swung open to reveal a woman who looked close to her own age, twenty-eight or twenty-nine, her dark hair tied up in a messy, loose bun held together by a stray carpenter's pencil. You were wearing an old, faded flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to your elbows, exposing forearms that bore a few faint scars and grease smudges. In your right hand, you were casually holding a heavy adjustable wrench.

You looked at Alexia, your eyes sweeping over her panicked expression, her damp shirt, and the faint, unmistakable smell of rusty radiator water radiating off her.

"Ruptured valve?" you asked. Your voice was British, but it carried a strange, unyielding crispness—an elite, highly educated cadence that belonged in a boarding school, though your current appearance completely contradicted it.

Alexia blinked, trying to translate the words in her head before nodding vigorously. "Yes. The... the heater. Water. Hot water, spraying everywhere. I don't know how to stop."

"Right. Stay here," you said instantly. You turned back into your flat, grabbing a thick canvas tool bag from the hallway floor and throwing a heavy roll of plumbers' tape over your shoulder. You didn't ask questions; you didn't hesitate. You marched past Alexia, crossing the hallway and entering her flat with an air of absolute, calm efficiency.

Alexia followed you inside, watching in sheer amazement as you dropped your tool bag right into the puddle of water without a single complaint. You knelt on the wet floor, your flannel shirt soaking at the knees, and evaluated the iron pipe.

"The threading on this old Victorian pipe is completely stripped," you muttered, mostly to yourself, your fingers working rapidly. "The landlord promised he'd bleed the system before winter, the lazy bastard."

You reached into your bag, pulled out a heavy pair of channel-lock pliers, and gripped the base of the valve. With a firm, powerful twist of your shoulders, you forced the metal to turn, gritting your teeth against the heat of the steam rising around your face. With your other hand, you wrapped the thick Teflon tape around the rupture, tightening a temporary brass cap over the leak until the spraying water slowed down to a dull, insignificant drip.

Within four minutes, the chaos was entirely contained.

You sat back on your heels, wiping a streak of dark grease from your cheek with the back of your hand, leaving a smudge against your pale skin. You looked up at Alexia, who was still standing by the sofa, looking entirely overwhelmed, her arms wrapped around herself.

"That'll hold until tomorrow morning," you said, breathing a bit heavily as you stood up, picking up your tool bag. "But you'll need the building management to replace the entire copper line. Don't let them charge you for it either; it's a structural failure."

Alexia stared at you, her mouth slightly open. "You... you fixed it. Just like that."

"I've lived in London long enough to know that if you call an emergency plumber at midnight, they'll charge you four hundred pounds just to look at the pipe, and then they won't even have the parts," you said, a small, cynical smile touching your lips. "You learn to do things yourself when spending money isn't an option."

Alexia’s eyes drifted to your face, noticing the sharp, aristocratic structure of your jawline, the quiet elegance in the way you carried yourself despite the grease on your shirt. "Thank you. Truly. I am... Alexia."

"I know who you are," you said softly, your smile turning a little more genuine. "The sports bars down the street haven't stopped talking about the London City Lionesses' new signing. I'm Y/N."

"Y/N," Alexia repeated, the name fitting perfectly into her mind. She let out a long, shaky breath, the residual adrenaline of the panic finally fading, leaving behind that familiar, exhausting wave of homesickness. She looked down at the ruined, wet floor. "I am sorry for the drama. I am still... learning how this country works. Everything is cold. Everything is broken."

You watched her, seeing past the international superstar, past the world-champion exterior. You saw the raw, hollow look in her hazel eyes—the look of someone who had left their entire universe behind and hadn't found their footing in the fog yet. You knew that look intimately. You had lived it.

"Tell you what," you said, setting your tool bag down by her door. "You have a kettle, don't you?"

Alexia nodded, confused.

"Go change out of that wet shirt. I'm going to dry this floor, and then I’m making you a proper cup of tea. Not that lukewarm stuff you were drinking."

Twenty minutes later, the living room was dry, and the scent of rusty metal had been replaced by the rich, comforting aroma of English breakfast tea mixed with a dash of milk.

Alexia sat on one end of the sofa, now wearing a clean, dry black hoodie. You sat on the opposite end, your long legs tucked beneath you, holding your mug with both hands. The initial awkwardness had melted away, replaced by the quiet, late-night intimacy that only forms after a shared crisis.

"So," Alexia said, her English flowing a bit more easily now that her heart rate had normalized. "You are not originally from London? Your voice... it sounds like the people on the BBC, but you said you had to learn to fix things to save money."

You let out a soft, dry laugh, looking down at the amber liquid in your cup. "I was born in England, yes. Windsor, originally. But I spent most of my university years in Paris and Edinburgh, trying to get as far away from my family as humanly possible."

Alexia tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. "Why away from your family? If I can ask."

You paused, a faint, familiar shadow crossing your features. You reached up, your fingers tracing the edge of your collarbone before you spoke. "My last name is Mountbatten."

Alexia’s eyes widened slightly. Even as a footballer from Spain, she knew the history of the British Isles well enough to recognize that name. The royal lineage. The old money. The monarchy.

"But," you continued, your voice steady but entirely devoid of warmth, "I'm from the exiled branch. The black sheep. My parents expected me to follow the traditional path—finishing schools, high-society marriages, charitable foundations that are just excuses for photo ops. But I wanted to study classical philosophy and art restoration. I wanted to work with my hands."

You looked at the tool bag by the door. "When I refused the path they set, they cut me off. Completely. No trust fund, no family allowance, no contact. They erased me from the lineage. To them, if you don't serve the Crown or the family image, you don't exist. So, I moved to this flat. I learned how to wire a light fixture, how to bleed a radiator, and how to survive on a budget that didn't involve a palace."

Alexia watched you, a profound sense of recognition settling deep within her chest. She had spent her entire life being the center of her family’s universe, surrounded by love and support, but she knew what it felt like to have a singular identity forced upon you. She knew what it was to be lonely in a room full of people.

"I am sorry," Alexia whispered, her hand moving across the fabric of the sofa, stopping just an inch away from yours. "To lose your family because you want to be yourself... that is a very high price."

"It was," you admitted, looking up to meet her eyes. "But I'd rather be a handywoman in a drafty flat in London, completely free, than a princess in a golden cage where nobody actually listens to a word you say. What about you, Alexia? You had the golden cage in Barcelona. Why did you leave?"

Alexia looked away, her eyes fixing on the dark window where the rain was still falling. "Because I was comfortable," she said softly, the truth tasting bitter in her mouth. "In Barcelona, I knew every blade of grass. I knew what the newspapers would say before they wrote it. I wanted to know if I was still great when everything was hard. I wanted to challenge myself."

She let out a ragged breath, her shoulders collapsing slightly. "But I did not know the winter here would start in November. I did not know that when I go to the supermarket, I would feel like a little girl who cannot speak. I miss the sun, Y/N. I miss my mother’s kitchen. I feel... out of place. Like a puzzle piece from a different box."

The vulnerability in her voice was devastating. Here was the most dominant athlete in the world, admitting she was terrified of the dark.

Without thinking, you shifted closer across the sofa, closing the final inch of distance between you. You reached out, your warm, calloused hand wrapping securely over hers. "Hey. Look at me."

Alexia turned her head, her hazel eyes bright with unshed tears.

"London is a miserable, grey old bastard," you said, your voice full of a gentle, comforting humor that made her lips twitch into a fragile smile. "It rains for nine months of the year, the people are polite but cold, and the plumbing is atrocious. But it's also a city where you can reinvent yourself every single day. You aren't a puzzle piece from a different box, Alexia. You're just building a new box. And you don't have to do it completely in the dark."

Alexia looked down at your joined hands. Your grip was steady, practical, and grounded—the grip of a woman who knew exactly how to fix things when they were broken. For the first time since she had landed at Heathrow airport three weeks ago, the freezing chill in her chest began to recede, replaced by a soft, creeping warmth.

"You will help me?" Alexia asked, her voice dropping to a hopeful whisper. "To learn how to live in this grey city?"

"Only if you promise to teach me how to say 'pass the ball' in Catalan," you teased, squeezing her hand. "Deal?"

"Deal," she murmured, a genuine, beautiful smile finally breaking across her face.

The next two weeks flew by in a blur of cold mornings and warm evenings.

True to your word, you became Alexia's unofficial anchor in London. When her apartment’s water heater inevitably gave out three days later, you didn't let her call the landlord; you marched over with an element wrench and a heating element you’d bought for fifteen pounds, fixing it while she watched from the kitchen counter, utterly fascinated. In return, she began taking you to a hidden, authentic Spanish tapas bar she had discovered in Soho, translating the menu for you and introducing you to the rich, bitter taste of proper vermouth.

The Instagram messages between Flat 4A and Flat 4B became a constant, daily rhythm.

alexiaputellas: The lights in my kitchen are flickering again. I think the ghost of your ancestors is in my ceiling. yn_mountbatten: That's just cheap British wiring, captain. I'll be over in five minutes with a voltmeter. Have the coffee ready.

The flirtation between you was subtle at first—a lingering touch of fingers when passing a wrench, the way Alexia’s eyes would track the movement of your hands, or the way you found yourself memorizing the specific cadence of her laugh. At twenty-nine, you were entirely content with your quiet, independent life, but Alexia’s presence was like a sudden, brilliant flash of lightning across a grey sky. She was attentive, deeply affectionate in that effortless, Mediterranean way, constantly wrapping an arm around your shoulders when walking down the chilly streets or pulling you close to shield you from the wind.

The real test came on a crisp Saturday afternoon in late November.

London City Lionesses were playing their first major home match of the winter cycle at Princes Park, and Alexia had left a VIP hospitality pass with the building’s concierge for you, alongside a heavy, fleece-lined club jacket.

When you arrived at the stadium, the atmosphere was electric. The stands were packed with thousands of fans wearing her name and number 11 on their backs. Sitting in the covered stands, you watched her step onto the pitch. The moment she crossed the white line, she transformed. She was an absolute general, directing the play, her movements precise, powerful, and utterly dominant. She scored the match-winning goal in the 74th minute, a brilliant volley into the top corner that sent the entire stadium into a deafening, roaring frenzy.

Watching seventy thousand people scream her name, you felt a sudden, familiar tightening in your throat. You remembered the palaces, the public scrutiny, the suffocating weight of an elite world. You wondered if you were making a mistake, if entering her orbit meant sacrificing the quiet anonymity you had fought so hard to build.

After the match, you were guided down to the private players' lounge. The room was buzzing with press, sponsors, and family members. You stood near the back wall, holding a glass of water, feeling entirely out of place in your worn jeans and leather jacket.

Suddenly, the heavy double doors opened, and the team walked in. Alexia was at the front, her post-match track jacket zipped to her chin, her face slightly flushed from the exertion. Sponsors immediately tried to corner her, but her eyes swept across the crowded room, entirely ignoring the flashing cameras, until they locked onto you.

Her face lit up with a smile that was entirely different from the one she gave the media. It was warm, relieved, and completely private.

She walked straight past the club directors, her eyes never leaving yours. When she reached you, she didn't care who was watching. She wrapped her powerful arms around your waist, pulling your back flush against her chest, and buried her face into the crook of your neck, inhaling the familiar scent of your vanilla oil and cedar.

"Estaba buscándote," she whispered against your skin, her voice raspy and breathless from the match. "Did you see the goal? Was it good?"

"It was brilliant, Alexia," you said softly, your hands rising to rest against her forearms, feeling the intense heat radiating from her body. "You were magnificent out there."

"Solo quería que tú lo vieras," she murmured, pulling back just enough to look down into your eyes, her hazel gaze intense and completely focused on you, blocking out the entire room.

Before you could say anything else, a few of her teammates—including the English core of the squad—walked over, their eyes full of curious amusement. "Alright, Cap? Aren't you going to introduce us to the woman who's been fixing your flat every night?"

Alexia didn't blush. Instead, her grip around your waist tightened, a deeply possessive, proud expression crossing her features. "Chicas, this is Y/N. My neighbor. The only reason I have hot water in London."

The teammates laughed, instantly pulling you into a casual, warm conversation about the match. They didn't care about your last name or the history you were running from; they saw the way Alexia looked at you—like you were the only solid ground in a city made of water—and that was more than enough for them.

By the time Alexia finally unlocked the front door of her flat that night, it was past midnight. The rain had stopped, replaced by a thick, silent London fog that blanketed the streets outside.

You walked inside behind her, intending to just drop her equipment bag and head back to your own flat across the hall. But as you turned to say goodnight, you noticed she hadn't turned on the main overhead lights. The only illumination came from the soft, amber glow of the small vintage lamp you had helped her rewire the previous week.

Alexia stood in the center of the living room, her track jacket discarded on the chair. She looked at you, her eyes dark and heavy with an emotion that made your breath catch in your throat.

"Y/N," she said softly, her voice carrying that low, intimate cadence that always made your knees feel a bit weak. "Don't go yet. Please."

You stopped by the door, your hand resting against the brass handle. "The match is over, Alexia. You need to rest. You have recovery training in the morning."

"I don't need recovery," she whispered, taking a slow, deliberate step toward you. "I need you."

She stopped right in front of you, the height difference between you just enough that you had to tilt your head back slightly to meet her gaze. She reached out, her hands surprisingly warm as they came up to cup your face, her thumbs gently tracing the line of your cheekbones, wiping away a stray lock of dark hair that had fallen from your bun.

"I was so afraid when I came to this country," Alexia murmured, her eyes searching yours with a terrifying, beautiful honesty. "I thought I would be alone in the cold. I thought I would spend every night looking at photos of Barcelona, wishing I had never left. But then... my radiator breaks. And I meet a woman who carries tools in her hands and a palace in her history, but who looks at me like I am just Alexia. Not the captain. Not the superstar. Just me."

Your heart was hammering so loudly you were certain she could hear it in the quiet room. "Alexia... my world is very quiet. I left my family because I couldn't handle the focus, the expectations. Your world is a stadium."

"Let the stadium scream," Alexia whispered fiercely, her face shifting closer, her breath warm against your lips. "Let them write the stories. Out there, I am the player. But here... in this room, across the hall... I am just a woman who is completely, entirely in love with her neighbor. I don't want to be your friend, Y/N. I don't want to send you messages from across the hallway anymore."

She leaned in, her forehead resting gently against yours, her fingers tangling into the dark hair at the base of your neck. "Quiero ser tu novia. Quiero que esta sea nuestra casa, no solo mi flat. Quiero protegerte del ruido, si tú me dejas."

The final wall of doubt inside your chest completely crumbled. The fear of the cameras, the memory of your parents' cold rejection, the isolation of your past—it all dissolved under the intense, consuming heat of her gaze. You realized that running away from Windsor hadn't been about hiding; it had been about surviving until you found someone who actually saw the person beneath the title. And Alexia saw you completely.

"Yes," you whispered against her lips, your voice thick with sudden emotion. "Yes, Alexia. God, yes."

The moment the word left your mouth, a low, shaky sigh of relief escaped her lips, and then she closed the final distance.

The kiss was deep, possessive, and filled with a profound, overwhelming passion that had been building since that first rainy night in November. Alexia’s lips parted yours with a smooth, intoxicating hunger, her tongue tracing your lower lip as her powerful arms wrapped around your waist, lifting you slightly off your feet to pull your body completely flush against hers. You tangled your fingers into the short blonde hair at the back of her neck, pulling her closer, tasting the salt of her skin and the sweetness of the vermouth from dinner.

She kissed you until the room spun, until the cold London fog outside the window didn't matter anymore, until the only reality that existed was the warmth of her mouth against yours and the steady, heavy rhythm of her heart beating against your ribs.

When she finally pulled back, just an inch, she didn't let you go. She kept her arms locked around your waist, her hazel eyes bright with a radiant, unshakeable joy as she looked down at you.

"Menos mal," she laughed softly, a breathless, beautiful sound that echoed in the quiet flat. "If you said no, I would have had to break my kitchen sink tomorrow just to have an excuse to see you."

"You're an idiot," you teased, a soft laugh escaping your lips as you reached up to press a sweet, lingering kiss to the corner of her mouth. "You don't need to break anything anymore, captain. I'm right here."

"Good," she murmured, leaning down to press her lips to your neck, her grip tightening around you with a protective, fierce warmth that was entirely yours. "Porque el invierno en Londres es largo, pero contigo... creo que me va a gustar el frío."

"Mapi!"

"Nope."

"People are staring."

"They stare at me anyway."

"You are impossible."

She pats the back of your thigh. "You like me."

Unfortunately, she's right. By the time you reach her apartment building, you're laughing so hard your stomach hurts. Mapi finally sets you down in front of the elevator. The second your feet hit the ground, you shove her shoulder.

She only grins.

"You carried me through half of Barcelona."

"You said walking was difficult."

"I was being dramatic."

"You? Never."

The elevator doors slide open before you can argue back.

Mapi's hand finds yours automatically as the two of you step inside.

The teasing fades a little then.

The small space suddenly feels quieter.

Closer.

You glance over to find her already looking at you.

Not joking.

Not smirking.

Just looking.

The expression catches you off guard.

"What?" you ask softly.

"Nothing."

"That wasn't a nothing look."

A small smile pulls at the corner of her mouth.

"I'm just trying to figure something out."

"What?"

She studies you for another second.

"How someone who lives in London managed to become my favorite part of this week."

Your heart immediately forgets how to function. The elevator reaches her floor before you can come up with a response. Coward that you are, you use that as an excuse to escape the conversation.

Mapi notices.

Of course she notices.

"You do that."

"What?"

"You run away when someone says something honest."

You unlock your gaze from the floor.

"I don't run away."

"You absolutely do."

"I flew back to Barcelona."

"Exactly."

You stop outside her apartment door.

Mapi nearly walks into you.

"What does that mean?"

For once, she doesn't answer immediately.

The playful confidence slips just enough for you to see what's underneath it.

Something nervous.

Something real.

"It means nobody asked you to come back."

Your chest tightens.

The apartment door remains forgotten between you.

The hallway is quiet except for the distant hum of the building.

"I know," you say.

Mapi swallows.

"But you did."

The words settle heavily between you. Because she's right. Nobody made you get on a plane. Nobody made you spend another weekend in Barcelona. Nobody made you seek her out again. You did all of that yourself. The realization feels both terrifying and obvious. Slowly, you step closer. Close enough that your shoulders almost touch.

"I came back because I wanted to."

Mapi's eyes search yours.

"And now?"

The question isn't really about Barcelona.

It's about tomorrow.

London.

Distance.

Everything waiting outside this apartment.

You don't have answers for any of it.

But for the first time, you don't feel like running from the question either.

"Now," you say carefully, "I want to see where this goes."

The breath she lets out sounds like relief.

Like she'd been holding it for hours.

Maybe days.

A smile spreads across her face.

Not the cocky one.

Not the teasing one.

The real one.

The one that feels increasingly rare and increasingly precious.

"Good," she says quietly.

"Good?"

"Because I was hoping you'd say that."

She reaches for your hand again. You let her. And this time neither of you pretend it's accidental. The apartment door finally opens. The city stretches beyond the windows, painted gold by the setting sun. For the first time since arriving in Barcelona, tomorrow doesn't feel quite so frightening. Not because the distance disappeared. Not because the complications suddenly vanished. But because when Mapi squeezes your hand and pulls you inside, you realize neither of you are facing those things alone anymore.

You head to her room, both of you thinking about what was said in the elevator but wanting to forget about it for the time being. That talk will be had later. Right now, you both just want each other. You undress each other. Once both of you are completely naked, Mapi walks over to her closet and opens a drawer, she pulls out a strap on and hands it to you.

"You said you would give me something better, come on then" she smirks as she goes to lay on the bed.

You put the strap on and get on the bed and sit on top of her, you slide the strap along her slit because she is already so wet, you dont need her to help you get it ready for her. You lean down and give Mapi a kiss and say

"ready for me baby?"

"Lets get it going, give me your best"

You slide the silicone cock inside in one smooth motion, Mapi moans at feeling so full. You are inside her to the hilt. You dont move right away but look at Mapi and she gives you a nod. You dont start off slow at all, you immediately grab her hips and start to thrust into her fast.

"Oh god! Y/N fuck! Didn't give me any time to get used to it. Fuck me! Keep going!" Mapi screams

As you have a hold on her hips you reach down with you right hand and start to flick her clit. It is so big and ready for you. Flicking her clit makes mapi start to shake and you can feel that she is becoming close by how hard it is starting to get to go in and out of her at an easy pace. Wanting her to get there quicker, you pull her up where her chest is right against yours. She moves her legs behind your back and you get off the bed and stand up to walk across the room to her window and push her back against it and start fucking her against the window where anyone could see.

"You look fucking amazing like this Mapi. Your back on the window where everyone can see what is going on. A fucking slut getting fucked so hard. My slut for right now. God you turn me on so much. I could cum right now"

Mapi says in small breaths "Cum with me. I am about to cum. Please. Please cum with me Y/N."

You thrust even harder after hearing Mapi beg for you to cum with her. You grab her ass and start to buck into her so fast you think the window might break.

"Fuck! Y/N keep going! Ah! Ah! fuck me hard! Baby you feel amazing! So deep! hitting the right spot! Im cumming! Im right there! cum with me please! AAAhhhhhhh!!!!!"

"Mapi im right there! I can feel you squeezing my cock. Im cuming too baby! yes! yes! fuck mapi!"

You give Mapi one more thrust and both of you cum at the same time. You both are breathing so heavily and Mapi is spasming around your cock while you have her pressed against the window still. You move back over to the bed and lay down.

"Im going to pull out okay? I know you are sensitive so be careful"

You pull out and Mapi gives out a small groan at the emptiness of you. You disappear for a minute and come back with a warm cloth to help clean her up with. After cleaning her up you both lay under the covers facing each other. Mapi is looking at you with longing eyes and leans over to give you a kiss on the lips.

"what was that for?" you say

"Just because. We need to have a talk but that can be later"

you give her a nod and turn around where your back is to her front. Mapi cuddles against you and you both fall asleep to a midday nap from all the festivities of the day.

---

Its been an hours and the apartment is quiet again.

Not silent.

Just comfortable.

The kind of quiet that settles after hours of laughter, conversations that wandered nowhere, and moments neither of you wanted to end. The city glows outside the windows. Barcelona at night. Cars moving below. Distant music drifting up from somewhere on the street. You lie on your back staring at the ceiling while Mapi traces lazy patterns across your stomach. Neither of you has spoken in several minutes. It's nice. Dangerously nice. Because the longer it lasts, the harder it becomes to ignore the thing sitting between you.

Eventually Mapi breaks first.

"What are you thinking about?"

You let out a quiet laugh.

"Do you really want the answer to that?"

"Probably not."

"Then why ask?"

"Because you're making that face."

You turn toward her.

"What face?"

"The one where you're overthinking everything."

You groan.

Mapi smiles against your shoulder.

"See? That's exactly the face."

For a moment you consider brushing it off.

Making a joke.

Changing the subject.

But you're getting tired of pretending.

And judging by the way Mapi suddenly goes still beside you, so is she.

"What happens when I go back to London?"

The words hang heavily in the room.

Mapi's hand stops moving.

There it is.

The question both of you have spent days avoiding.

She rolls onto her side to face you completely.

"I don't know."

The honesty surprises you.

"You don't?"

"No."

Mapi reaches for your hand.

Her fingers weave through yours automatically.

"I know I don't want this to be the last time I see you."

Your chest tightens.

She continues before you can respond.

"I know that every time my phone goes off, I hope it's you."

A small smile tugs at your mouth.

Mapi notices.

"Don't laugh."

"I'm not laughing."

"You are a little."

"I'm smiling."

"Same thing."

You squeeze her hand.

The nervousness in her voice feels strange.

This is Mapi.

Confident.

Fearless.

The woman who talks to strangers like they've been friends for years.

Yet somehow this conversation seems to terrify her.

That realization makes your own fear ease slightly.

"Good," you say softly.

Mapi raises an eyebrow.

"Good?"

"Because I was hoping you'd say that."

For a second neither of you speak.

The smile that appears on her face is almost shy.

Almost.

Then it disappears as reality creeps back in.

"London is still London."

"Barcelona is still Barcelona."

"Neither of us can exactly move tomorrow."

"No."

Mapi exhales.

"No."

The room falls quiet again.

Not uncomfortable.

Just thoughtful.

Real.

"What are we doing then?" she asks eventually.

You look down at your joined hands.

The answer should probably be complicated.

A list of logistics.

Flights.

Schedules.

Time zones.

Instead the answer feels surprisingly simple.

"We try."

Mapi studies you carefully.

"We try?"

You nod.

"We see each other when we can."

A small smile appears.

"We call."

The smile grows.

"We text."

Now she's grinning.

"You hate texting."

"I'll suffer for love."

You immediately regret the words.

Mapi freezes.

Your eyes widen.

Her grin becomes enormous.

"Oh my god."

"Don't."

"You said love."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did."

You cover your face with your free hand. Mapi laughs so hard she nearly falls off the bed. For several seconds you consider throwing a pillow at her. Then she catches your wrist and pulls your hand away. The laughter fades. Something softer replaces it.

Her thumb brushes gently across your knuckles.

"We try," she repeats quietly.

This time it sounds less like a question.

More like a promise.

You squeeze her hand.

"We try."

And for the first time since coming back to Barcelona, neither of you feels quite so afraid of tomorrow.

--

Neither of you says much after that. The conversation lingers in the room long after the words stop. We try. Simple. Terrifying. Somehow enough. Mapi eventually shifts closer until her head settles against your shoulder. You automatically wrap an arm around her. Outside, Barcelona continues moving as if nothing has changed. Inside, everything feels different. Not fixed. Not solved. Just acknowledged. For the first time since meeting her, neither of you is pretending this is temporary. That realization follows you into sleep. The next morning arrives far too quickly. You wake to sunlight spilling across the bed and the unmistakable feeling of someone staring at you. Your eyes open slowly.

Mapi immediately closes hers.

You snort.

"You're terrible at pretending to be asleep."

One eye peeks open.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You absolutely do."

"No."

"Mapi."

She grins.

The smile fades slightly when her eyes drift toward the suitcase sitting near the bedroom door. The one you'd packed before bed.

Reality.

Again.

Neither of you mention it.

Instead, Mapi insists on making breakfast.

That turns out to be a disaster.

You discover very quickly that Mapi's definition of cooking consists primarily of making a mess and hoping for the best.

"There is no way that's how you're supposed to crack eggs."

"It worked, didn't it?"

Half the shell lands in the bowl.

You stare.

Mapi stares.

Then she quietly fishes it out.

"It worked eventually."

"You live alone?"

"Barely."

You laugh.

Mapi smiles at the sound.

For a few minutes things almost feel normal. Like this isn't your last morning in Barcelona. Like there isn't a flight waiting for you. Like you aren't already counting down the hours. Eventually your phone buzzes. The airline notification appears immediately. Check-in reminder. The knot in your stomach returns.

Mapi sees it.

Of course she does.

The smile slips from her face.

Neither of you says anything for a second.

Then she reaches across the table and squeezes your hand.

"Hey."

You look up.

"We said we'd try."

You nod.

"I know."

"So stop looking like someone just told you football was cancelled forever."

A laugh escapes despite yourself.

Mapi points triumphantly.

"There she is."

The rest of the day passes too fast.

You walk through the city together one last time.

No grand sightseeing.

No plans.

Just wandering.

Stopping for coffee.

Sharing pastries.

Taking pictures neither of you will admit you're taking.

Trying to stretch a few remaining hours into something longer.

At one point you catch Mapi taking a photo of you while you aren't looking.

"What are you doing?"

She immediately lowers her phone.

"Nothing."

"You just took a picture of me."

"No I didn't."

"Mapi."

"Okay, maybe I did."

"Why?"

She shrugs.

"So I can remember your face."

The answer steals every sarcastic response you had prepared.

You don't tell her that you've already taken half a dozen pictures of her yourself.

By late afternoon the sky begins turning orange.

And suddenly there are no more distractions left.

No more cafés.

No more walks.

No more pretending.

Just the drive to the airport.

The closer you get, the quieter the car becomes.

You spend most of the ride staring out the window.

Not because you're interested in the scenery.

Because looking at Mapi feels worse.

Every glance reminds you what's coming.

The airport appears far too soon.

You hate it immediately.

Mapi parks near the drop-off area and turns off the engine.

Neither of you move.

People pass outside.

Suitcases roll across pavement.

Announcements echo faintly through the glass.

Inside the car, everything feels still.

"This sucks," Mapi says eventually.

You laugh quietly.

"Very eloquent."

"I know."

For once she doesn't smile afterward. Your chest tightens. Because beneath the joke, she means it. This sucks. It sucks that she lives here. It sucks that you live there. It sucks that after everything that's happened, you're getting on a plane. You turn toward her. Mapi is already looking at you. That same expression from the elevator. The one that always catches you off guard.

Soft.

Open.

Dangerously honest.

"I'm glad you came back."

The words hit harder than they should.

You swallow.

"So am I."

Mapi reaches over.

Her hand finds yours instantly.

Like it belongs there.

"You better answer my texts."

You smile.

"I thought you hated texting."

"I do."

"You literally complained about it."

"I'll suffer."

The joke is familiar now.

Comforting.

A small piece of normal in a moment that feels anything but.

You squeeze her hand.

"I'll answer."

"Good."

"And you better answer mine."

Mapi places a hand dramatically over her heart.

"I am deeply offended that you'd question me."

"You once left me on read for six hours."

"I was busy."

"You were posting Instagram stories."

"I was busy posting Instagram stories."

You laugh.

So does she. The sound fades quickly. The silence that follows feels heavier. Neither of you wants to say goodbye. Because saying it makes this real. Finally, you reach for the door handle. Mapi's hand tightens around yours. Just for a second. You look back. Her eyes are shining slightly in the afternoon light. Not crying. Just close enough to make your heart ache.

"You'll call me when you land?"

The question comes out quieter than usual.

Vulnerable.

You nod immediately.

"I'll call."

Mapi swallows.

Then leans across the center console.

The kiss is soft.

Not desperate.

Not dramatic.

Just lingering.

Like neither of you is quite ready to let go.

When she pulls back, her forehead rests briefly against yours.

"Okay," she whispers.

You smile sadly.

"Okay."

Neither of you moves.

A few more seconds.

One more look.

One more moment to memorize.

Then you finally step out of the car.

The cool air hits immediately.

Mapi gets out too.

Of course she does.

She walks around the vehicle and pulls you into a hug before you can say anything.

A real one.

The kind that squeezes all the air from your lungs.

You bury your face against her shoulder.

Mapi holds you tighter.

For a second, neither of you lets go.

Then reality wins.

Slowly, reluctantly, she steps back.

"Go," she says.

You laugh weakly.

"You're kicking me out now?"

"If I don't tell you to go, neither of us is leaving."

Fair point.

You grab your suitcase.

Mapi watches every step as you start toward the terminal.

Halfway there, you glance back.

She's still standing exactly where you left her.

Hands in her pockets.

Watching.

When she notices you looking, she raises a hand.

You wave back.

Then force yourself to keep walking.

Inside the terminal, your phone buzzes before you've even reached security.

You already know who it is.

MAPI: Miss you already.

A smile spreads across your face.

The reply comes easily.

Y/N: It's been thirty seconds.

Three dots appear immediately.

MAPI: Exactly.

For the first time since arriving at the airport, the knot in your chest loosens.

Because goodbye doesn't feel quite as permanent anymore.

Not after yesterday.

Not after "we try."

Not after her.

And as your flight boards for London, you realize something that would've terrified you a week ago.