you can send requests through the inbox! all you need to include is the writing style you want (texts, head canons, fanfiction, etc), the year the story's happening in, and the plot / song!
you can find the most recent work on the #carlos alcaraz fanfic tag i have on this post!
made my own theme, dividers are @/saradika-graphics
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saw that you take requests/anons but is there anything ur not willing to write?? just so ik what to request and what to avoid
hiiii
i've honestly never thought about what i wouldn't write
i guess i wouldn't like writing about sensitive topics, like someone's parents dying, chronic illnesses, or such, and i've never written smut, so i'm not sure how that would go
you can always ask in the inbox if i'm okay with writing something, and i'll gladly respond. but also if you request something and i don't want to write a certain part of the request, i'd just find an alternative or such
i hope this was helpful, i feel like it's all over the place lol
summary: How your boyfriend, Carlos Alcaraz, would act while watching your countries play against each other at thw World Cup.
warnings: none!
word count: 568
pre a/n: just a funny concept i thought of
the moment spain gets drawn against your country, he starts smiling. not because he thinks it'll be easy, but because he already knows watching the match together is going to be chaos.
"you know you're supporting the wrong team, right?"
he starts teasing you days before the match, sending football edits, highlights, and random messages like "just checking if you've changed sides yet."
you haven't.
he acts personally betrayed when you show up wearing your country's jersey.
"really?"
"really."
"after everything we've been through?"
despite all the teasing, he's secretly happy you're patriotic too. he likes people who care about things and get passionate.
he spends the entire pre-match buildup talking about football, even though he's not some massive football expert.
he gets competitive very quickly.
every prediction turns into an argument.
"we're winning."
"no, we're winning."
"we'll see."
he keeps looking at you during important moments instead of focusing completely on the game.
half the entertainment is your reactions.
if spain scores, he's immediately on his feet.
lots of celebrating.
lots of spanish.
probably enough spanish that you only understand about half of what he's saying.
he definitely points at the screen and says "vamos" at least twenty times.
if your team scores, he just stares at the television for a second.
then comes the excuses.
"okay, but that was lucky."
somehow every good thing your team does is lucky.
every good thing spain does is pure talent.
if the referee makes a decision against spain, suddenly he's convinced something suspicious is happening.
"how is that a foul?"
five minutes later the referee gives a decision against your team.
"good call."
he doesn't even realize he's being biased.
he gets nervous during close matches.
bouncing his leg.
running his hands through his hair.
sitting down and standing up every few minutes.
he's the same watching football as he is during tennis matches: emotionally involved in every single point.
if you start celebrating, he acts offended.
not genuinely upset.
just dramatic.
"can you not do that in front of me?"
if your team misses a big chance, he tries so hard not to smile.
he fails every time.
if spain are winning late in the game, he becomes impossible.
suddenly he's reminding you of every prediction he made.
"remember what i said before kickoff?"
"carlos."
"i was right though."
if your country wins, he'll take it surprisingly well.
he's competitive, but he's also someone who respects good performances.
he'll admit when the better team wins.
eventually.
after a little sulking.
he'll pull you into his side and say something like, "fine, they were better today."
emphasis on today.
because he's already thinking about the next match.
if spain wins, you are never hearing the end of it.
he'll bring it up randomly weeks later.
"remember the world cup game?"
"please move on."
"i have."
he absolutely has not.
through all the arguing and teasing, he's constantly reaching for your hand without thinking.
sitting close enough that your shoulders touch.
sharing snacks even while claiming he doesn't want any.
because for him, the best part isn't actually spain winning.
it's spending the entire match laughing, arguing, celebrating, and suffering through every minute with you beside him.
and by the end of the night, regardless of who won, you'll somehow end up cuddled together on the sofa while he's already finding another sport the two of you can disagree about.
summary: Your boyfriend, Carlos Alcaraz, comes to your house for the first time, and gets surprised by what he sees there.
word count: 376
warnings: none!
pre a/n: i liked both cat photos and couldn't choose one. also not sure if this is considered imagines or a short oneshot, but i wrote it as imagines in my mind
request: Carlos visits reader's home as her first official boyfriend and is overwhelmed by the number of cats she owns(5, 6 maybe??)and Carlos just looks at reader with a defeated, melting smile, realizing he has to share her heart with a whole cat kingdom.
The first thing Carlos noticed when he stepped into your house wasn't the framed family photos or the smell of something baking in the kitchen.
It was the cat.
Then another cat. And another. And another. And... another one sitting on top of the refrigerator, staring at him like a security guard.
Carlos froze in the doorway.
You were already trying not to laugh. "Don't panic."
"I'm not panicking." A fluffy orange cat immediately wrapped itself around his ankle.
Carlos looked down. Then another appeared from somewhere behind the couch.
Then a third jumped onto the armrest. "Cariño." He said slowly. "How many cats do you have?"
You scratched the head of the one perched on your shoulder. "Six."
"Six?" You nodded proudly.
Carlos blinked. He had known you loved cats. He just hadn't realized you were apparently running an entire feline nation.
One of them climbed into your lap the second you sat down. Another stretched across your legs. A third demanded attention by repeatedly bumping its head against your arm.
Carlos watched the scene unfold in silence. Then he glanced at the photos on the shelf.
Cats.
The lockscreen on your phone.
Cat.
The mug you were drinking from.
Cat.
"Carlos?"
He looked at you. Then at the cats. Then back at you.
A slow, defeated smile spread across his face. The kind that made his eyes crinkle. The kind that said he'd already accepted his fate. "I thought I was your favorite."
You laughed. "I never said that."
He groaned dramatically and dropped beside you on the couch.
Immediately, one of the cats abandoned your lap and settled onto his. The betrayal was instant.
You pointed at the cat. "Looks like you've been accepted."
Carlos looked down at the purring animal, then over at you.
"I have two dogs."
"I know."
"You have six cats."
"I know."
Carlos shook his head. Then he wrapped an arm around your shoulders anyway. The cat kingdom might have been intimidating.
But as he sat there with a cat on his lap, another sleeping beside him, and you tucked against his side, he figured sharing your heart wasn't the worst thing in the world.
Even if he was currently ranked somewhere below six cats.
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summary: How your boyfriend Carlos Alcaraz would act if you passed your driving test.
warnings: none!
word count: 1057
pre a/n: another headcanon! it's entirely inspired by me passing my driving test, so enjoy it!
he knows you're nervous long before the test day. you don't even have to tell him. suddenly you're rereading road signs out loud, talking about roundabouts at random moments, and checking your test date every five minutes. he just watches you with an amused smile. "you're going to pass, cariño."
except he doesn't actually think saying "you're going to pass" magically fixes anxiety. he knows that. so instead of dismissing your nerves, he lets you complain about them.
if you start spiraling with "what if i forget everything?" he immediately interrupts. "you know how to drive."
"but what if i forget how to park?"
"you know how to park."
"what if i hit a cone?"
"then the cone has a bad day."
he makes you laugh when you're panicking because he knows once you're laughing, you're breathing.
the night before the test, he's texting you constantly.
not because he's worried you'll fail.
because he's worried you'll stay awake until 3 a.m. convincing yourself you'll fail.
"go to sleep."
"i can't."
"yes you can."
"what if i fail again?"
"then we deal with it tomorrow. now sleep."
on the morning of the test, he's somehow calmer than you.
he's probably more nervous than he lets on, but he refuses to let you see it.
he gives you one of those forehead kisses before you leave.
"just drive like you always do."
"that's not helpful."
"okay. drive slightly better than usual."
if you grab his hand because you're nervous, he squeezes yours immediately.
he doesn't make some dramatic speech before the test.
that's not really him.
instead he keeps it simple.
"you've worked hard for this."
"i'm proud of you already."
"whatever happens."
and he means it.
while you're taking the test, he's absolutely checking his phone every five seconds.
tries to act chill.
is not chill.
if he's with friends or family, everyone knows exactly what he's waiting for.
if you don't text immediately after finishing, he starts wondering.
maybe she's still talking to the examiner.
maybe she's driving home.
maybe she forgot.
maybe she crashed into a tree.
he immediately rejects that last thought because now he's stressing himself out.
the second your name appears on his screen, he's opening the message before it fully loads.
if the text simply says "I PASSED"
he's smiling so hard his cheeks hurt.
immediately calls you.
doesn't even text back first.
calls.
"YOU PASSED?"
he's practically shouting.
he sounds more excited than when he wins some matches.
not because passing a driving test is bigger than tennis.
but because he knows how badly you wanted this after failing the first time.
that's what gets him emotional.
he knows how much the first failure upset you.
he remembers you doubting yourself.
remembers you saying maybe driving just wasn't for you.
so seeing you prove yourself wrong makes him ridiculously proud.
if you're together when you get the results, he's wrapping you in a huge hug immediately.
lifts you off the ground.
probably spins you around.
nearly drops both of you because he's too excited.
"you did it!"
he keeps saying it over and over.
like he's still processing it.
he absolutely tells everyone.
his parents know.
his siblings know.
his friends know.
his team probably knows.
somebody at practice is eventually hearing:
"my girlfriend passed her driving test."
and the smile on his face says he's been waiting all day to tell someone.
he insists on celebrating.
doesn't matter if you say it's not a big deal.
to him it is.
because it mattered to you.
that automatically makes it matter to him.
dinner.
ice cream.
your favorite takeaway.
something.
you're celebrating.
end of discussion.
if you joke that now you can drive him around, he immediately narrows his eyes.
"let's not get carried away."
because now comes the real issue.
his car.
his precious car.
the car he babies.
the car he parks carefully.
the car he probably checks for scratches that nobody else can even see.
when you ask if you can drive it...
silence.
just silence.
he stares at you.
you stare at him.
he stares some more.
"you're joking."
"no."
"my car?"
"yes."
"the one i love?"
"i thought you loved me."
"don't do this."
he becomes dramatically protective for about ten minutes.
talks about insurance.
talks about expensive repairs.
talks about how you've had your license for approximately seven seconds.
eventually gives in.
because it's you.
and because he knows saying no forever isn't realistic.
but the first time you're behind the wheel of his car?
he's tense.
so tense.
both hands gripping the passenger seat.
pretending he's relaxed.
failing miserably.
"you're doing great."
five seconds later:
"slow down."
"i'm doing thirty."
"just making sure."
every tiny sound gets his attention.
every bump.
every pothole.
every brake.
"what was that noise?"
"the indicator, carlos."
"right."
after twenty minutes he finally relaxes.
mostly because he realizes you're actually a decent driver.
and because he's tired of you laughing at him.
once he's comfortable, he starts acting like a backseat driving instructor.
"check your mirrors."
"i checked."
"check again."
"carlos."
"safety first."
if you parallel park perfectly, he looks genuinely impressed.
like you've just won wimbledon.
"that was beautiful."
"it's parking."
"art is art."
every time you drive somewhere alone for the first few weeks, he wants a text when you arrive.
not because he's controlling.
because he's a worrier.
especially about people he loves.
"text me when you get there."
"i'm twenty-three."
"text me."
eventually he starts asking you for rides just to tease you.
sits in the passenger seat acting like some celebrity.
"driver, take me home."
then immediately laughs at his own joke.
he never lets you forget how nervous you were before the test.
especially once you've been driving confidently for months.
"remember when you thought you were going to fail?"
"stop."
"remember when you thought you couldn't park?"
"stop."
"remember when you-"
"carlos."
but every time he teases you, there's always that same smile behind it.
the one that's equal parts proud and affectionate.
because the thing he'd love most isn't the license itself.
it's seeing you accomplish something you genuinely doubted you could do.
and every time he watches you casually grab your keys and drive somewhere now, a small part of him still thinks:
summary: You're a runner, and your boyfriend, Carlos Alcaraz, is your biggest supporter, throughout the whole race.
warnings: none!
word count: 1520
pre a/n: this was a very cute concept to write!
request: Could you do one with Carlos, where reader is a Marathon runner and he comes and support her. Maybe standing at the finish line
The last thing you heard before the starting gun went off was your own heartbeat.
Not the chatter of the runners around you. Not the announcer's voice echoing through the city streets. Not even the music blasting somewhere near the start line.
Just your heartbeat. Steady. Fast. Ready.
You bounced lightly on your toes, shaking out your arms as thousands of runners crowded together beneath the morning sky. Months of training had led to this moment. Early mornings. Long runs. Sore muscles. Missed weekends.
A marathon wasn't won on race day. It was won every day before it.
The horn sounded. And suddenly everyone was moving.
—
The first half felt easy. Almost suspiciously easy.
Your legs were fresh, the weather was perfect, and the crowds lining the streets carried you forward with endless cheers and signs. You knew better than to get carried away.
Marathons were cruel like that. They let you believe you were invincible before reminding you exactly how human you were.
Still, you smiled when you spotted familiar faces throughout the course. Your coach. A few teammates. Friends waving homemade signs.
And then, somewhere around kilometer fifteen, you saw him. Carlitos.
Standing behind a barrier. Baseball cap pulled low. Sunglasses. Trying and failing to look inconspicuous.
You nearly laughed.
A woman beside him was staring openly, clearly recognizing him despite the disguise.
Carlos noticed you approaching and immediately started shouting. "Vamos!"
Several heads turned.
You shook your head despite the grin threatening to break across your face. "You're supposed to be undercover!"
He pointed dramatically at himself. "Me? Never!" The woman beside him laughed.
You rolled your eyes and kept running.
The energy from that brief interaction followed you for the next several kilometers.
—
By kilometer thirty, everything hurt.
Your legs felt heavy. Your shoulders were tight. Even breathing seemed like work.
The famous wall. Every marathon runner knew it. And every marathon runner hated it.
You lowered your gaze to the road ahead and focused on the next step. Then the next. Then the one after that.
The city that had felt loud and exciting earlier now blurred together. The cheering crowds became background noise. The only thing that mattered was moving forward.
You repeated the same thought over and over.
One more kilometer. One more kilometer. One more kilometer.
At thirty-three kilometers, you genuinely considered slowing down.
Not stopping. Never stopping. But slowing down.
Giving yourself permission to just survive the final stretch. Your pace had started slipping anyway. Nobody would blame you. The race was already hard enough.
Then you heard a familiar voice. Again. Somehow. "Come on!"
You looked up. Carlos was there. Again. How? You had absolutely no idea.
Maybe he'd taken a shortcut. Maybe he'd sprinted through three city blocks. Maybe he'd stolen a bicycle. With Carlos, all three felt equally possible.
"You look terrible!" He shouted.
You stared at him in disbelief. "What?"
"I mean strong! Very strong!" You laughed despite yourself.
His expression brightened immediately. "There she is!"
The few seconds it took to pass him felt absurdly normal. Like you weren't deep into a marathon. Like he wasn't one of the most famous athletes in the world. Like you were just two people encouraging each other through difficult things.
Then he disappeared behind you again. And you kept running.
—
The final kilometers were a blur.
Pain. Determination. Crowds. Footsteps. Sweat.
The world narrowed into a tunnel. Somewhere in the distance, you could hear the finish area growing louder.
You checked your watch. A personal best was still possible. Barely. But possible.
Your lungs burned. Your legs screamed. Every muscle demanded that you stop.
Instead, you accelerated. Just slightly. Just enough.
You had not spent months preparing for this race to leave anything behind. You pushed harder. The finish line appeared in the distance. A giant arch.
Crowds packed tightly on both sides. The clock ticking above it.
Your vision blurred.
Not from emotion. Mostly from exhaustion. But maybe a little from emotion too.
Because after all the training and sacrifice and doubt, there it was.
The end.
You were going to make it.
—
The noise hit first. Thousands of people cheering. Clapping. Yelling. Celebrating.
You crossed the finish line and immediately felt your body protest. The momentum that had carried you for forty-two kilometers suddenly vanished.
A volunteer placed a medal around your neck. Someone handed you water. Another volunteer tried directing you toward the recovery area.
You nodded politely. Then ignored all of them. Because you were searching for one person.
You found him almost immediately.
Carlos stood near the barriers, looking significantly more stressed than someone who had merely watched a race. The second his eyes found yours, his entire face lit up. And just like that, every kilometer suddenly felt worth it.
You slowly made your way toward him. Slowly because your legs were no longer functioning properly. And because apparently walking after a marathon was a forgotten skill.
Carlos met you halfway. The moment you reached him, his hands found your shoulders. "You did it."
You laughed breathlessly. "I think so."
"No." His smile softened. "You really did."
For a moment neither of you said anything. The crowd continued moving around you. Runners crossed the finish line. Volunteers shouted instructions. Photographers snapped pictures. But everything felt strangely quiet.
Carlos looked at the medal hanging around your neck. Then back at you. "I'm so proud of you."
The sincerity in his voice hit harder than expected. You swallowed. "Thanks."
"You know," he continued, "watching you was stressful."
"Stressful?"
"Very."
You laughed. "You weren't the one running."
"Exactly. I couldn't do anything." He pointed dramatically.
"You were suffering and all I could do was stand there and scream."
"I noticed."
"My support was excellent."
"It was very loud."
"That's what makes it excellent."
You shook your head. Some things never changed.
—
A few minutes later, you were sitting on the grass near the finish area. Carlos sat beside you.
Your medal rested against your chest. Your shoes were untied. And every part of your body ached.
But it was the satisfying kind of ache. The kind that came from accomplishing something difficult. The kind you earned.
Carlos handed you a sports drink. You accepted it gratefully. "Thank you."
"See? I'm useful."
"Debatable."
He placed a hand dramatically over his heart. "That hurts."
You bumped your shoulder against his. He bumped you back.
For a while, the two of you simply watched runners continue crossing the finish line. Some cried. Some laughed. Some collapsed dramatically into the arms of family members. Every single one looked emotional. Every single one looked proud. As they should.
Carlos watched them quietly. Then he glanced at you. "Do you know what I like about marathon runners?"
You raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"They're crazy." You laughed. "No, seriously." He pointed toward the finish line. "You wake up early. You run for hours. You destroy your legs voluntarily."
"Sounds familiar."
He paused. "Okay, maybe tennis players are also a little crazy."
"A little?" "Very." You both laughed.
—
The sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky by the time the crowds started thinning out. Your body was already stiffening. Tomorrow was going to hurt. Probably a lot.
Carlos seemed to notice the way you winced while standing. He immediately offered his arm. You looked at him. "You know I ran forty-two kilometers today."
"Exactly."
"I don't need help walking." The look you gave him must have been convincing because he lowered his arm.
Then you took three steps. Immediately regretted it. And grabbed his arm anyway.
Carlos burst out laughing. You glared. He laughed harder.
The walk back toward the car was slow. Very slow. But neither of you minded.
The city felt calmer now. The excitement of the race had settled into something softer. Something warmer.
You looked down at the medal still hanging around your neck. Months ago, the race had felt impossibly far away. There had been days when training went badly. Days when you doubted yourself. Days when quitting would've been easier. Yet somehow, you had made it here.
Carlos followed your gaze. "You should be proud."
"I am."
"Good." His answer came immediately. As if there were no alternative. As if anything less would be ridiculous.
You smiled. "So are you coming to every marathon now?"
"Obviously."
"You know they're all this long, right?"
"Unfortunately."
You laughed. "And you're still coming?"
Carlos looked at you like the answer should have been obvious. "Of course." The simplicity of it made your chest tighten.
Not because it was grand. Not because it was dramatic. Because it wasn't. It was simple. A finish line. A long race. A tired runner. And someone who had shown up.
Sometimes that was all love really looked like. Showing up. Again and again. No matter how long the road was.
Carlos squeezed your hand gently. "Next time," he said, "I need a bigger sign."
You groaned. "No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Maybe glitter."
"Carlos."
"Lots of glitter."
You covered your face.
He laughed.
And together, at the end of forty-two exhausting kilometers, you continued walking home.
summary: When Carlos Alcaraz injures his wrist during the clay season, during the tournaments in his country, how does he handle it? His wife, a physiotherapist, tries in every way she can to lift his mood, and keep him from spiraling. (part three)
warnings: none!
word count: 1508
pre a/n: this is the end of the three part fic! i hope y'all liked it! tell me if you'd want me to make another multi part fic like this
The first thing you noticed was that Carlos was loud again. Not physically. Emotionally.
The injury had stolen that from him for a while.
During those first weeks after Barcelona, he'd moved through days with a quietness that never quite belonged to him. Even when he laughed, some part of him remained elsewhere, worrying about recovery timelines, training schedules, the tournaments he'd missed.
But now? Now he was back.
Not fully. Not one hundred percent. But enough.
Enough that you could hear him arguing with his team during practice again. Enough that he came home talking with his hands. Enough that he left tennis balls scattered around the house like breadcrumbs. Enough that he was driving you absolutely insane.
Which, oddly enough, felt wonderful.
"You know." You announced one afternoon, watching him bounce a tennis ball against the kitchen counter for the fiftieth time. "I think I preferred the injured version."
Carlos caught the ball one-handed and stared at you. "You cried because you couldn't open a water bottle."
"And yet I was quieter." You respond in a teasing tone.
"You're horrible."
"You married me."
He pointed the tennis ball at you immediately. "Stop using that argument."
"It works every time."
Unfortunately for him, it did.
A grin appeared despite himself before he crossed the kitchen and wrapped both arms around your waist.
Both arms.
That still made you smile.
No brace. No careful movements. No winces.
Just Carlos. Healthy.
Your husband buried his face into your neck dramatically. "I'm starving."
"You ate an hour ago." You respond, hugging him back.
"That was a snack."
"You had a sandwich." But reasoning with Carlos never worked.
"A small sandwich."
"You had two sandwiches."
Carlos lifted his head immediately. "Traitor."
"I was there."
"Details." You laughed softly.
God. You loved him. You'd always loved him. But lately the feeling had become almost overwhelming. For reasons he didn't know yet. Reasons you were trying very hard not to accidentally reveal before you were ready.
The pregnancy test sat hidden inside your bedside drawer upstairs. Three tests, actually.
Because after the first positive result you'd convinced yourself it had to be wrong. After the second positive result you'd cried. After the third one, you'd sat on the bathroom floor staring at the little lines for nearly ten minutes.
Then you'd laughed. Then cried again. Then immediately started wondering how on earth you were supposed to tell Carlos Alcaraz he was going to be a father.
The thought still made your stomach flip. Not because you were scared. Because you knew him.
You knew how much family meant to him. How much love he carried inside him. How naturally it poured out of him every day.
You'd seen it with his younger cousins. With children who waited outside tournaments. With his dogs. With literally every living creature unfortunate enough to cross his path.
Carlos loved with his whole heart.
And somehow that made this feel even bigger.
—
The idea came to you three days later.
Simple. Small. Perfect.
You found the onesie first.
White. Tiny. Ridiculously tiny.
The sight of it nearly made you emotional right there in the shop.
Across the front, in simple black writing:
My Daddy Has a Good Forehand
You laughed so hard the woman working behind the counter looked concerned.
The miniature plush tennis racket sitting beside it felt almost too perfect.
Then came the note. Short. Because anything longer would probably make you cry.
Coming to a tournament near you: January 2027.
Love, Baby Alcaraz.
You stared at the card for almost twenty minutes before finally deciding it was enough.
Simple. Honest. Very Carlos.
—
The opportunity arrived a week later.
Carlos came home from practice looking happier than he had in months. The kind of happy that only appeared after good training sessions.
His curls were damp with sweat. His face was sun-kissed from hours outdoors. And the second he stepped through the front door he started talking. Immediately.
Like a man physically incapable of keeping thoughts to himself. "The wrist feels normal."
You smiled. "That's good."
"No, cariño. Normal normal."
There was a difference. You heard it immediately.
Carlos dropped his tennis bag near the entrance before continuing.
"I hit serves today."
"You've been serving for two weeks."
"I know."
"But?"
"But today I stopped thinking about it." Your heart squeezed. Because you understood exactly what he meant.
The injury had occupied space inside his head for weeks. Every serve. Every forehand. Every movement. Constant awareness. Constant caution.
Today had been different. Today he'd forgotten. Which meant healing had finally become recovery instead of survival.
Carlos grinned. "I think I'm back."
The words hung softly between you. And suddenly you knew.
Tonight. It had to be tonight.
—
After dinner, you told him there was something upstairs you wanted to show him.
Carlos immediately became suspicious. "What did you buy?"
"Nothing." You rolled your eyes at his first guess. He loved to tease you about your love for shopping.
"You bought something."
"I didn't." You insisted, but Carlos was relentless.
"You definitely bought something." You rolled your eyes again.
He followed you upstairs anyway. Still talking. Still guessing. Still completely unaware that his entire life was about to change.
The box sat on the bed. Small. Wrapped simply. Nothing extravagant.
Carlos frowned immediately. "What is it?"
"Open it."
His eyebrows lifted. "Now?"
You nodded.
For the first time all evening, nerves finally arrived. Suddenly your hands felt shaky. Your heart was pounding. You'd imagined this moment a hundred different ways over the last week. Now that it was actually happening, you couldn't remember a single thing you'd planned to say.
Carlos sat down on the edge of the bed. "You're making me nervous."
"Just open it." He laughed softly. Then reached for the lid.
The first thing he saw was the note. You watched his expression change as he read it.
Confusion. Then concentration. Then confusion again.
His eyes moved across the words once. Twice. Three times.
Silence. A long silence. Long enough that you started wondering whether he'd understood.
Then his head snapped upward. Fast. Almost comically fast.
His eyes found yours immediately. And for perhaps the first time since you'd met him, Carlos Alcaraz looked genuinely speechless. "You..." He stopped. Started again. "You..." Nothing.
His eyes dropped back toward the note. Then to the tiny onesie underneath. Then the plush tennis racket. Then back to you.
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
You were suddenly crying. Which wasn't helping. Not remotely. "Carlos."
His eyes immediately filled. Instantly. Like somebody had flipped a switch.
"¿De verdad?" The words came out barely above a whisper. Really?
You nodded. "Yeah."
His hand flew over his mouth. Actually flew. And for a second he just sat there staring. Then he stood so quickly he nearly knocked the box off the bed.
"Cariño..." His voice broke.
That did it. You started crying harder.
Carlos crossed the room in two steps. One second you were standing there. The next you were wrapped in his arms. Tightly. Safely.
Like he couldn't quite believe you were real. "You're pregnant?"
You laughed through tears. "Yes."
"Pregnant pregnant?"
The ridiculous question made you laugh harder. "Yes, Carlos. Pregnant pregnant."
"Ay Dios mío." He buried his face into your shoulder. Then immediately lifted his head again.
Then hugged you again. Then pulled back. Then hugged you again.
Unable to settle. Unable to process. Unable to stop smiling. You'd never seen him look like this before.
Not after winning tournaments. Not after marriage. Not after anything.
Pure joy. Completely unfiltered.
His hands settled carefully against your waist. Almost reverently. As though something precious existed there already. Which, technically, it did.
"We're having a baby."
You nodded. "We're having a baby."
Carlos laughed. Then cried. Then laughed again. The combination was honestly impressive.
"Ay Dios mío." He kept saying it. Over and over. Like his brain couldn't find any other words.
Finally he looked down toward your stomach. Then back up at you. Then down again.
A smile spread slowly across his face. Soft. Wondering. Disbelieving. The kind of smile you'd remember for the rest of your life.
"I get to be a dad." The quietness of those words nearly broke your heart. Not because he sounded uncertain. Because he sounded grateful. Like it was something he'd been gifted.
You reached up and touched his cheek gently. "You do."
Carlos closed his eyes briefly. Then leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you needed to.
Outside, Murcia settled into evening.
Inside, the future quietly rearranged itself.
And for the first time since Barcelona, since the injury, since all the frustration and disappointment and uncertainty, everything felt exactly as it should.
Not because tennis was back.
Not because his wrist was healed.
But because life, stubborn and beautiful and completely unexpected, had given both of you something far bigger to look forward to.
And judging by the tears still sitting in Carlos's eyes, he already loved that baby with his whole heart.
soo i might've gone mia, but that's just because i'm preparing oneshots, fics, head canons, imagines and texts for a brand new releasing schedule (multiple times a week)
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summary: When Carlos Alcaraz injures his wrist during the clay season, during the tournaments in his country, how does he handle it? His wife, a physiotherapist, tries in every way she can to lift his mood, and keep him from spiraling. (part two)
warnings: none!
word count: 1892
pre a/n: posted this today as an apology for not posting anything last week! this part is a bit shorter
Three days later, the two of you drove back to Murcia.
The second the city disappeared behind you and the roads began stretching wider beneath the afternoon sun, you noticed the shift in him almost immediately.
Carlos relaxed near home the way people relaxed after taking off tight shoes. Gradually. Without realizing it.
One hand rested lazily on his thigh while music played softly through the car speakers, his left fingers tapping absently against the seat to the rhythm. The brace still sat heavy around his right wrist, stark black against his skin, but for the first time in days he wasn’t staring at it every five minutes like it personally offended him.
“You know,” you said casually from the driver’s seat, “you’re significantly less annoying outside Barcelona.”
“That’s impossible. I’m always annoying.”
“True.”
He grinned slightly and tilted his head back against the seat. Sunlight slipped gold across his face through the windshield, catching the soft scruff growing along his jaw after several miserable days of neglecting to shave properly.
“You know what I missed?” He asked suddenly.
“What?”
“My dogs.”
You smiled immediately. “Your own wife sitting right here and you choose the dogs.”
“They don’t force me to rest.”
“They also eat socks.”
“They understand me emotionally.”
You laughed softly, glancing over at him. He looked younger already.
Still sad underneath it, still carrying disappointment like a bruise beneath his ribs, but lighter than he’d been in Barcelona.
Home helped.
Murcia always helped.
—
The dogs nearly knocked him over when you arrived.
You barely had time to open the gate before they came sprinting toward him at full speed, tails wagging violently while Carlos burst into startled laughter for the first time all week.
“Hey! Hey, tranquilos!” He laughed, crouching awkwardly to avoid putting pressure on his wrist while both dogs practically climbed into his lap.
Your chest tightened instantly at the sound. That laugh. God. You hadn’t realised how badly you needed to hear it again.
One of the dogs jumped high enough to smack directly into his braced wrist accidentally and Carlos hissed sharply through his teeth. “Shit.” You said immediately.
“No, no, I’m okay.” But his face tightened.
You moved toward him quickly anyway, fingers brushing carefully over the brace. “Did that hurt?”
“A little.”
“A little?”
Carlos sighed dramatically. “Sí, mamá.”
“Oh, don’t start.”
He grinned despite himself while the dogs continued circling him excitedly, entirely unaware they were currently terrorising one of the best tennis players in the world.
For the rest of the evening, he stayed outside with them almost the entire time.
You watched from the patio while he wandered slowly through the garden with one leash looped loosely around his left wrist, talking softly to the dogs in Spanish while the sunset painted everything gold around him.
No cameras. No press conferences. No expectations. Just Carlos.
At one point he stopped near the grass and tilted his face toward the evening sun while one of the dogs pressed against his leg lazily.
Peaceful. That was the word for him here.
You realised then how exhausted he’d become during the last few months. Monte Carlo. Training. Travel. Pressure. Barcelona.
He’d been running on adrenaline so long that stillness felt unnatural now. But maybe stillness was exactly what he needed.
—
Later that night, after dinner, you found him sprawled across the couch in grey sweatpants and one of your hoodies while a football match played quietly on television.
Well. “Watching” was generous. Carlos was half asleep already.
“You’re drooling.” You informed him as you settled beside him.
“No estoy durmiendo.”
“You literally have your eyes closed.”
“Resting.”
“Like an elderly man.”
His eyes opened immediately. “You’re very disrespectful to your husband.”
“My husband is snoring.”
“I do not snore.” One of the dogs lifted its head from the floor and looked at him like it disagreed personally.
You pointed immediately. “Witness.”
Carlos narrowed his eyes at the dog. “Traidor.”
You laughed quietly, leaning into his side.
For a few minutes, things stayed soft and quiet. The television hummed in the background while his left hand rested absentmindedly on your thigh, thumb tracing lazy patterns against your skin through your sweatpants.
Then you noticed him flexing the fingers of his right hand carefully inside the brace. Testing.
Your physiotherapist instincts kicked in immediately. “Pain?”
“A little stiff.”
You reached for him automatically. “Let me see.”
Carlos hesitated for half a second before carefully undoing the brace straps with his left hand. You noticed the slight wince the second the pressure released from his wrist.
Inflammation. Still there.
Your expression softened immediately as you took his hand gently into yours. Even after years of studying injuries and treating patients, touching his pain always affected you differently. Because it was him.
“Tell me if anything hurts sharply.” You murmured.
“I know.”
Your fingers moved slowly along his wrist and forearm, gentle and practiced while you worked carefully around the irritated tendons. Carlos watched you silently for a minute before his shoulders started relaxing one by one beneath your touch.
“There.” He murmured quietly after a while.
You adjusted pressure slightly.
“Better?”
“Mhm.” His voice had gone sleepy.
You smiled faintly to yourself while continuing the massage, working through the tightness caused by overuse. Too many serves. Too many explosive forehands. Too many tournaments stacked together because Carlos always wanted to play everything.
His body had finally demanded attention the only way it knew how.
“You know what your problem is?” You asked softly.
“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
“You never stop.”
Carlos let out a quiet breath through his nose. “I stop sometimes.”
“You played Monte Carlo with pain already starting.”
“That was different.”
“You say that every time.”
He looked down at your hands moving carefully over his wrist. “I just hate missing things.”
“I know.”
“You know what’s stupid?” He murmured after a second. “Part of me still thinks maybe I could’ve played through it.”
Your hands stilled briefly. Then you looked up at him carefully. “No.”
Carlos looked away immediately.
“That’s not me being your wife talking.,” You continued gently. “That’s me being a physiotherapist.” Silence settled quietly between you while the football commentators shouted somewhere faintly in the background.
“You know what would’ve happened if you kept playing?” You asked softly.
He sighed. “Don’t.”
“Carlos.”
“I know.”
“No.” You said carefully, thumb brushing lightly over his wrist. “You know the words. That’s different.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
You softened your voice further. “You pushed too hard because you love tennis. I understand that. But your body was asking you to stop.”
Carlos stayed quiet for a long moment before finally muttering, “I hate when you’re right.”
You smiled a little. “Occupational hazard.”
That finally made him laugh softly. “Thank you.”
Your fingers slowed against his skin. “For what?”
“For taking care of me.” The sincerity in his voice made something ache warmly in your chest.
You leaned forward carefully and kissed his temple. “Always.”
Carlos turned his head slightly then, eyes softer than they’d been all evening. “Mi mujer.”
Three years together. Six months married.
And those words still did dangerous things to your heart.
—
A week later, you took him to a MotoGP race.
The idea had started as a joke.
Carlos had been sulking dramatically at breakfast because he couldn’t train properly yet, endlessly bouncing his left leg beneath the table while scrolling through tennis highlights he absolutely should not have been watching.
You’d finally reached across the table and stolen his phone entirely.
“Hey!”
“No torture devices during breakfast.”
“I was just checking scores.”
“You looked one Rafael Nadal interview away from emotional collapse.”
Carlos groaned loudly while you locked his phone and set it facedown beside your coffee. “Then what am I supposed to do all day?”
The answer came to you almost instantly. “You wanna go watch people more insane than you?”
He blinked. “What?”
“MotoGP.”
The effect was immediate. His entire face changed.
Actually changed.
Eyes brighter. Posture straighter. Excitement flickering across his expression so suddenly that you nearly laughed.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“You’re serious serious?”
“You’re twenty-two, not five.”
But he was already grinning. And honestly? Seeing him excited about something again felt worth everything.
—
The paddock was loud chaos and engine noise and heat shimmering off concrete beneath the afternoon sun. Carlos loved every second of it. You could tell instantly.
The brace still sat around his wrist, still limiting movement, still reminding both of you that recovery wasn’t finished yet, but for once he wasn’t focused on it.
Instead, he watched the bikes tearing around corners with complete fascination, explaining things to you a mile a minute while his left hand animated wildly through the air.
“That overtake was insane.”
“I have no idea what just happened.”
“Cariño!” He looked personally wounded. “Did you not see that?”
“All I saw was speed and potential death.” Carlos laughed loudly, bright and unrestrained enough that several people nearby glanced over.
You’d missed that sound more than you realised.
At one point during the race, he got so invested in a battle for position that he grabbed your hand suddenly with his left one, shouting something rapid and excited in Spanish while the crowd roared around you.
You didn’t even fully understand what he was saying. But the happiness in his voice made you grin anyway.
Later, while walking back toward the car as the sun began setting, Carlos nudged your shoulder gently.
“Thank you for today.”
“You had fun?”
He looked at you like the answer was obvious. “Obviously.”
You smiled softly.
Then his expression gentled unexpectedly. “I forgot about tennis for a little while.”
The honesty of it hit you harder than you expected. You reached for his left hand automatically, fingers intertwining. “You’re allowed to.” You said quietly.
Carlos looked down at your joined hands for a second before lifting them to kiss your knuckles lightly. “I know.” He murmured.
But the way he said it made it sound like he was still trying to convince himself.
For a moment, neither of you said anything else. The noise from the track still echoed faintly in the distance, engines roaring somewhere beyond the orange glow of the evening sky, but here, walking beside him with his hand warm in yours, everything felt quieter somehow.
Carlos glanced over at you after a few steps, curls shifting in the warm breeze. There was still sadness sitting behind his eyes, still frustration he hadn’t fully let go of yet, but it wasn’t swallowing him whole anymore.
That alone felt like progress.
When you reached the car, he opened the passenger door for you automatically before realising halfway through that he’d used the wrong hand.
The sharp sting crossed his face instantly. “Carlos.” You sighed softly.
“I know, I know.” He laughed under his breath, shaking his head at himself while carefully flexing his fingers inside the brace. “Apparently my brain still thinks I’m indestructible.”
You stepped closer, gently fixing the collar of his hoodie before leaning up to kiss him once, slow and soft beneath the fading Spanish sunset.
“You don’t have to be.” You whispered.
Something in his expression softened completely then.
And for the first time since Barcelona, Carlos looked a little less like someone mourning tennis and a little more like himself again.
summary: When Carlos Alcaraz injures his wrist during the clay season, during the tournaments in his country, how does he handle it? His wife, a physiotherapist, tries in every way she can to lift his mood, and keep him from spiralling. (part one)
warnings: none!
word count: 2722
pre a/n: this was supposed to be a two part series, but as i started writing it a few weeks ago, i realised it's gonna be much longer (currently at three parts)... aaand because i didn't post last week, the second part comes out tomorrow!
Barcelona didn’t feel the same when Carlos wasn’t playing.
You noticed it the second you stepped out onto the hotel balcony that morning. The city was awake already, loud and golden beneath the spring sun, the streets around the club buzzing with tennis fans in caps and tournament shirts, kids dragging oversized rackets behind them while parents hurried after them with coffees in hand.
Usually, Carlos loved this part.
Barcelona was close enough to home that familiar voices always found him here. Childhood friends. Cousins. Coaches who’d known him before the trophies and interviews and impossible expectations attached themselves to his name. The tournament always softened him somehow. Made him lighter.
This year, the atmosphere only seemed to make him quieter.
You turned back inside the room and found him exactly where you’d left him twenty minutes earlier, sitting on the edge of the bed with his phone in one hand and his immobilising brace strapped tightly around his right wrist. The television played silently in front of him, some morning sports segment cycling through highlights from Monte Carlo.
You caught the exact moment his own face flashed across the screen.
The Monte Carlo final.
The loss to Jannik.
The endless rallies.
The forehands.
The strain.
Carlos reached for the remote almost immediately and muted the television entirely before tossing it onto the bed beside him with an annoyed sigh.
“Morning.” You said softly.
“Hmm.”
Not bad. Not good either. Just tired.
You walked toward him slowly, stopping between his knees. Even now, after six months of marriage and three years together before that, something inside you still melted whenever he looked up at you like this. Sleep-mussed curls, oversized hoodie, gold wedding ring catching the morning light while his left hand rested against your thigh automatically, like touching you had become muscle memory.
His right wrist looked angry inside the brace.
You hated that brace. Carlos hated it more.
“You sleep at all?” You asked gently.
“A little.” That meant no.
You brushed your fingers carefully through the curls at the back of his neck and felt him lean into your touch instantly. It was tiny, almost subconscious, but you noticed it anyway. You always noticed.
“How’s the wrist?”
“It’s there.”
“Carlos.”
He sighed dramatically, dropping his head against your stomach. “It hurts, cariño.”
There he was. Not tennis-star Carlos. Just your husband being honest for five seconds.
You rested your hand over the back of his head, smoothing your fingers through his curls slowly. “Sharp pain or soreness?”
“Both.”
“When?”
“When I move it.”
“Very helpful, thank you.”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth against your shirt. “I’m an excellent patient.”
“You’re one complaint away from me revoking your rights.”
“You can’t revoke my rights. We’re married.”
“You think marriage protects you from me?”
Carlos finally looked up at you properly then, tired brown eyes softer than they’d been all morning. “No.” He admitted quietly. “That’s the problem.”
You laughed under your breath, leaning down to kiss his forehead lightly.
The last week had been brutal.
Monte Carlo had already pushed him harder than he should’ve gone. You knew it, his team knew it, and somewhere deep down, Carlos probably knew it too. But he’d kept playing through the discomfort because that was who he was. He loved tennis with a kind of reckless devotion sometimes. Loved it enough to ignore warning signs his own body screamed at him.
Then came Barcelona. One match. One win.
And afterward, he’d barely been able to grip a bottle properly with his right hand.
You remembered the exact look on his face when the doctor started talking about inflammation from overuse. About stress. About rest.
Rest. Carlos hated that word more than losing.
Your phone buzzed on the bedside table. Another notification. Another message.
Carlos didn’t even look up.
At first, he’d answered everyone. Friends, family, other players, coaches checking in after the withdrawal announcement. But sometime around midnight he’d stopped opening messages altogether.
Too many people saying the same thing.
Take care of yourself. Rest up. Heal soon.
As if recovery were something he could simply decide to finish by next Tuesday.
You picked up your phone, glanced at the screen, then locked it again.
“Your mother says if you don’t stop sulking, she’s personally driving to Barcelona to annoy you back to health.”
That got a quiet snort out of him. “She would.”
“She also says she loves you.”
His expression softened for a second before the sadness crept back in again. It kept doing that. Like clouds passing over sunlight. Tiny moments where he forgot for a few seconds, only for reality to settle heavily onto his shoulders again.
You hated how small he seemed when he was hurting emotionally.
Not physically small. Carlos had always carried himself with too much presence for that.
But diminished somehow.
As if disappointment folded him inward.
“You hungry?” You asked.
“No.”
“You said that yesterday too.”
“I ate yesterday.”
“You ate half a protein bar and stole one of my fries.”
“That counts.”
“That counts as survival instinct.”
Carlos sighed dramatically again, letting his head fall back. “Mi vida, please don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m starting.” You informed him calmly. “You withdrew from a tournament, Carlos. You didn’t ascend into ghosthood.”
A reluctant smile appeared. Tiny. But real.
God, you missed his smiles quickly when they disappeared.
You took advantage of the improved mood immediately, sliding your hands onto his shoulders. “Come on. Shower.”
“I already showered yesterday.”
You stared at him.
He stared back for exactly two seconds before groaning. “You’re horrible.”
“And yet you married me.”
“You tricked me.” Carlos rolled his eyes, but he let you pull him to his feet anyway.
The second he stood, his expression pinched faintly. Pain.
You noticed immediately.
His left hand instinctively moved toward the brace around his wrist before stopping halfway there, frustration flashing across his face.
“Easy.” You said quietly.
“I know.”
But his voice had sharpened.
Not at you. At himself.
That was the hard part.
Carlos rarely got angry outwardly when he was injured. The frustration turned inward instead, settling beneath his skin until every tiny inconvenience became another reminder that his body wasn’t cooperating.
You followed him into the bathroom, leaning against the counter while he struggled one-handed with the strings of his sweatpants for a moment before muttering something deeply annoyed under his breath in Spanish.
You bit back a smile. “Need help?”
“No.” Three more seconds passed. “…Maybe.”
You stepped forward without teasing him for it, gently helping loosen the knot while he stared stubbornly at the wall.
“You know,” you said carefully, “asking for help won’t kill you.”
“We don’t know that.”
“Drama queen.”
“Only for you.”
His left hand found your waist automatically while you worked, thumb rubbing absentminded circles against your hip beneath your shirt. Even upset, even frustrated, he always reached for you somehow. Little touches. Tiny anchors.
Once the knot loosened, you looked up and caught him watching you.
Not speaking. Just watching.
“What?” You asked softly.
Carlos shrugged one shoulder. “Nothing.” But his expression said otherwise.
You knew him too well now. “What is it?”
His gaze dropped briefly to your wedding ring before returning to your face. “I just…” He exhaled quietly. “I hate this.”
“The wrist?”
“All of it.”
Your chest tightened.
The vulnerability in his voice always arrived unexpectedly. Carlos spent so much time trying to be easy-going for everyone around him that the honest moments felt startlingly intimate.
“I know.” You murmured.
“I feel useless.”
“You are not useless because your wrist is injured.”
“But I can’t even open things properly right now.” His voice turned frustrated again. “Yesterday I almost dropped my phone in the sink because I forgot.”
You reached up instinctively, brushing your fingers along his jaw. “Cariño.”
“I know it sounds stupid.”
“It doesn’t.” It really didn’t.
Athletes were used to control. Precision. Capability. Their bodies weren’t just bodies, they were careers and routines and identities all tangled together. Losing even temporary control over something as important as his dominant wrist felt catastrophic to him, even if he tried to laugh it off.
Carlos leaned forward suddenly until his forehead rested against your shoulder.
You wrapped your arms around him immediately.
“I should be playing today.” He mumbled.
You closed your eyes briefly.
Outside the hotel window, distant cheers drifted faintly through the city. The tournament continuing without him.
“I know.”
“That court…” He swallowed hard. “I love playing there.”
Your hand moved slowly through his curls. “I know, baby.”
He stayed quiet for a long moment before pulling back slightly. “Can we leave the hotel today?”
Relief flickered through you immediately.
The room had been swallowing him whole since the withdrawal announcement.
“Yes.” You said quickly. “Anywhere you want.”
“No tennis.”
“No tennis.”
“No journalists.”
“I’ll fight them with my bare hands.”
That finally made him laugh properly, warm and short-lived but real enough to loosen some of the heaviness sitting between you.
“You’d lose.”
“You underestimate me.”
“You’re tiny.”
You gasped in mock offense. “Tiny?”
Carlos grinned for the first time all morning. “Very tiny.”
“You know what? Make your own breakfast.”
“I can’t.”
The smugness disappeared from your face instantly while his grin widened.
“Manipulator.” You accused.
“Marido injured.” He corrected dramatically, lifting his braced wrist slightly.
“Oh, suddenly you’re delicate.”
“Extremely.”
“You were carrying three suitcases two days ago.”
“That was before my tragic accident.”
You narrowed your eyes at him while he fought back another smile.
Good.
You’d take teasing over silence any day.
—
An hour later, the two of you were wandering through quieter streets near the Gothic Quarter with baseball caps pulled low and sunglasses on. Barcelona buzzed around you in soft afternoon warmth, alive with scooters and café chatter and the smell of coffee drifting through open doorways.
Carlos walked beside you slowly, his left shoulder brushing yours every few steps.
The brace stayed visible. People noticed it constantly.
You saw their eyes flick toward it before recognition settled in.
Some stared. Most didn’t approach. A few offered sympathetic smiles instead.
Carlos handled it well externally, but you felt the subtle tension every time someone looked too long.
“You doing okay?” You asked quietly as you crossed the street.
“Yeah.” Lie. Not malicious. Just automatic.
You slipped your hand into his left one anyway, fingers threading together naturally. Carlos squeezed once in return.
The little bookstore near the corner ended up being your idea. Mostly because it was quiet. Partly because you knew Carlos loved wandering around places where nobody expected anything from him.
Inside, the air smelled like old paper and espresso from the tiny café tucked into the back. Soft music played overhead while people sat reading near the windows.
Carlos visibly relaxed almost immediately. “No one here cares who I am.” He murmured.
“That’s because you’re deeply uncultured and this is a bookstore.”
He bumped his shoulder lightly against yours. “Cruel.”
“You started the tiny comments.”
“You are tiny.”
You pointed threateningly at him. “Don’t make me leave you here.”
“You’d miss me.”
Unfortunately, he was right.
You drifted through the shelves together slowly, Carlos occasionally pulling books out one-handed before realizing too late that balancing them with the brace was annoying.
At one point he attempted to tuck a novel under his arm while reaching for another and nearly dropped both.
“Joder.” Carlos groaned immediately, frustration flashing across his face again. “This is so annoying.”
You handed the book back gently. “Here.”
“I hate this brace.”
“I know.”
“I feel like a child.”
“You feel injured.”
“That too.”
You watched him stare down at his wrist for a second too long. Then, deliberately casual, you nudged his side lightly. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“Emergency café intervention.”
Carlos blinked. “That sounds fake.”
“It’s very serious medical treatment.”
“You’re abusing your degree.”
“Constantly.”
The café in the back corner was nearly empty. You managed to steal the small table by the window, sunlight spilling across the wooden floor beside you while Carlos settled into the chair with a tired sigh.
For a while, neither of you spoke much.
And honestly, that was one of your favourite things about him. Silence with Carlos never felt uncomfortable. It felt lived in. Easy. Like sitting inside warmth.
He watched people passing outside while you stirred sugar into your coffee, noticing the way his expression softened slightly whenever children walked by holding tiny tennis rackets nearly their own size.
“You miss it already.” You said quietly.
Carlos looked over at you. He nodded once. “It’s stupid because it’s only been two days.” His fingers tapped lightly against the coffee cup. “But everything feels weird when I’m not playing.”
“That’s normal.”
“I don’t know how to rest.”
You smiled faintly. “That’s also normal.”
His eyes drifted down toward the table. “After Monte Carlo I should’ve stopped.”
The guilt in his voice made your chest ache immediately. “Carlos.”
“I knew my wrist was bothering me.”
“But you also made the final.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to you.”
He shook his head slowly. “I kept hitting through it because I thought it would calm down.” That sounded exactly like him.
Too competitive for his own good. Too hopeful sometimes. Convincing himself pain was temporary because the alternative scared him more.
You reached across the table and took his left hand gently. “You didn’t do this on purpose.”
“I know.”
“But you’re acting like you should’ve been able to predict the future.”
Carlos let out a quiet breath through his nose. “I just feel stupid.”
“You are many things.” You said thoughtfully. “Annoying. Dramatic. Slightly obsessed with forehands.” A tiny smile appeared. “But not stupid.”
His thumb brushed slowly against your knuckles while he looked at you with that soft expression that always made your stomach tighten a little.
Three years together and he still looked at you like that sometimes. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.
“You always know what to say.” He murmured.
“Occupational hazard.” You replied lightly, smiling into your coffee cup. Carlos huffed a quiet laugh at that, the tension around his shoulders easing just a little. You’d always loved making him laugh when he was upset because it reminded you that he was still there beneath all the frustration. Still your Carlos. Not just the athlete everyone else saw.
His gaze lingered on your face for another second before dropping toward your intertwined hands. The gold band around his finger caught the sunlight spilling through the café window, and something warm twisted low in your chest at the sight of it.
Married. Sometimes the word still startled you a little. Not in a bad way. Just in a holy-shit-that’s-my-husband kind of way.
Carlos noticed your expression immediately because of course he did. “What?” He asked softly.
You shook your head, smiling to yourself. “Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“I’m allowed private thoughts.”
“No secrets from your husband.”
“You sound eighty years old.”
“I am wise.”
“You cried yesterday because you couldn’t open a water bottle.”
His jaw dropped in betrayal while you dissolved into laughter. “Cariño.” He gasped dramatically, scandalised. “Why would you expose me like this?”
You nearly choked on your coffee laughing while Carlos shook his head at you in mock betrayal, curls falling into his eyes beneath his cap.
“You looked personally victimised by that bottle.” You informed him.
“It was slippery.”
“It was plastic.”
“It was fighting me.”
“Mmhm.”
Carlos narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but the smile lingering at the corners of his mouth gave him away completely. It was the most relaxed he’d looked since withdrawing, and you held onto the sight greedily.
You’d missed him. Not physically. He’d been beside you the entire time. But emotionally.
Injuries always stole pieces of him at first. Made him retreat inward, quieter and sharper around the edges until the frustration settled somewhere manageable inside him. You’d seen it before after difficult losses or exhausting stretches of the season, but this felt worse somehow because Barcelona had mattered emotionally, not just professionally.
And Carlos loved tennis so much that being unable to play it made him feel untethered.
So you started thinking differently. Not about recovery. About distraction. About reminding him there was still life outside courts and schedules and rankings.
I absolutely LOVE your writing, how long have you been writing for?? your quality is so good 🥹🥹🤞 please pleaae please write more Carlos and in more Spanish 🫶🫶💗
thank you so so so much for the sweet words! 🫶🏻💋
i've been writing for a bit over a month, and the work you see here is all the work i've ever seriously written (tried to write for a different fandom but it only ended up was a forgotten, never finished draft)
Hii how are you? Are you posting anything this week? Just asking cause you said to check around wednesday or thursday in case you post late, but it's friday here, so just checking in. Have a good dayyy!!!
hii! i'm good, thanks for asking! 🫶🏻
i was busy this week, which is why i'm answering to this late (sorry)
i'm mosty free today so i'll try to write as much as i can today, and hopefully this will never happen again
summary: An alpine skier struggling to rebuild her career after years of injuries finds unexpected comfort in Carlos Alcaraz after their shared Olympic heartbreak in Paris 2024. Together, they learn how to survive failure, pressure, and recovery, all the way to career-defining victories in 2026
warnings: none!
word count: 3058
request: reader is an alpine skier struggling with injuries and her form since winning silver in 2022. she meets carlos in paris 2024 after his olympic final loss, and they bond over their shared silver heartbreaks and start dating. carlos stays by her side through her recovery and setbacks. in early 2026, she watches him complete the career grand slam at the australian open before the milano cortina winter games, where he cheers her on as she finally wins olympic gold
pre a/n: this is my longest work so far, and i know nothing about skiing of any kind, so i hope i did good! also, i added translations which was requested in the asks, so i hope you like it
The first time you meet Carlos Alcaraz, he is sitting alone in a hallway beneath Court Philippe-Chatrier with a silver medal hanging around his neck like it personally offended him.
Not because silver is bad.
Nobody in the world would call an Olympic silver medal bad.
But second place has a particular kind of sting. It crawls under the skin. It whispers about the one point you missed, the one turn too wide, the one ball that clipped the net and died on the wrong side.
You know that feeling intimately.
So when you walk past him after your own media duties, still dressed in your national team jacket, still exhausted from answering questions about your latest withdrawal and whether you’ll “ever return to 2022 form,” you recognize the look instantly.
The thousand-yard stare of an athlete mourning something nobody else can see.
He’s leaning forward, elbows on knees, hair damp from sweat. Reporters swarm nearby like flies around blood, but they haven’t reached this corridor yet.
You should keep walking. Instead, you stop.
“You should probably smile.,” You say quietly. “People get uncomfortable when silver medalists look sad.”
He lifts his head. Brown eyes. Tired. Red around the edges.
Then he laughs once through his nose. “Sí?” Yeah?
“Apparently.”
He studies you for a second, then glances at the accreditation hanging around your neck. Alpine skiing.
Recognition flashes over his face. “You won silver in Beijing.” Not a question.
You nod. “And everyone treated me like I died.” You say.
That earns a real laugh. A small one, but real.
“Exactamente.” Exactly.
He drops his head back against the wall dramatically.
“People keep telling me I should be proud.” He switches into an exaggerated interviewer voice. “‘Carlos, Olympic silver at twenty-one is amazing.’”
You snort. “The worst sentence in sports.”
“Yes!” He points at you immediately, animated for the first time. “You understand.”
“Because what they really mean is,” you continue, “‘you almost got the thing you actually wanted.’”
“Madre mía.” Mother of God. He presses a hand to his chest. “Finally. Someone says it.”
And just like that, something loosens.
Not fixed. Not healed.
Just… understood.
You sit beside him. For a while neither of you speaks.
The muffled roar of Paris hums above your heads. Somewhere distant, cameras click endlessly. Athletes pass through the corridor in clusters, carrying triumph and devastation in equal measure.
Carlos rolls the medal between his fingers. “When you got silver,” he asks softly, “did it make you scared after?” The question catches you off guard.
You stare ahead. “Yes.” He waits. “In 2022 everything happened too fast. Podiums, interviews, sponsors, people calling me the future of skiing…” You swallow. “Then the injuries started.”
Knee first. Then ankle. Then your back.
Tiny things at first. Then bigger things. Crashes. Withdrawals. Bad finishes. Your confidence eroding one miserable weekend at a time.
“I started skiing carefully.” You admit. “And careful skiing is slow skiing.”
Carlos nods immediately like he understands every word. Because he does.
“Tennis is the same.” He murmurs. “When you stop trusting yourself, everything becomes late.”
You glance at him. The Olympic silver gleams between his fingers. “And now?”
He exhales sharply. “Now I feel…” He searches for the word. “Jodido.” Fucked.
You bark out a laugh before you can stop yourself.
He grins. “There she is.”
“What?”
“The athlete laugh.” He points at you. “Very rare species.”
“You’re annoying.”
“Sí. Everyone tells me.”
Then he offers his hand. “Carlos.”
You stare at him flatly. “I know who you are.”
“Okay, perdón.” Sorry. He wiggles his fingers impatiently anyway. “Do it properly.”
Rolling your eyes, you shake his hand.
And somehow that tiny moment becomes the beginning of everything.
───
The first thing you learn about Carlos while dating him is that he refuses to let silence become heavy. Especially after bad days.
Your relationship starts quietly after Paris.
Late-night texting becomes calls. Calls become visits.
Visits become him sprawled across your hotel bed during training camps while eating cereal directly from the box and complaining dramatically about jet lag.
“You’re the most dramatic person I’ve ever met.” You tell him one morning in Austria while taping your wrist.
He looks scandalized. “Impossible. I am Spanish.”
“As if that explains anything.”
“It explains everything, cariño.” Darling.
Then he steals your coffee.
You nearly stab him with a ski pole.
He laughs so hard he falls backward onto the bed.
Carlos in private is somehow both exactly like the public version and completely different. The energy is real. The warmth is real. The chaotic puppy-like excitement is very real. But so is the discipline.
You start noticing the invisible routines behind the smile.
The way he stretches even while watching TV. How carefully he manages sleep. How hard he trains after losses. How deeply losses actually cut him despite the jokes.
People see sunshine when they look at Carlos Alcaraz. You discover the storms underneath it.
───
One evening in December 2024, after you finish twenty-third in a downhill race you were once favored to win, you come back to the hotel ready to explode.
You throw your gloves across the room. “I’m so sick of this.”
Carlos looks up from the couch immediately.
Your physio had warned you not to race after lingering knee pain. You did anyway. And now the pain is worse.
“I can’t ski like this.” You snap. “I used to attack courses and now I ski like I’m waiting to crash.”
Carlos says nothing at first. Which somehow irritates you more.
“You know what the commentators said today?” You continue bitterly. “‘Still searching for the form that won her Olympic silver.’” You laugh harshly. “As if I died in 2022.”
Carlos stands slowly. Then walks over. “Ven aquí.” Come here.
“I don’t want comfort right now.”
“Tough.” He wraps his arms around you anyway.
You resist for maybe three seconds before collapsing against him.
His hand rubs slowly up and down your spine. “You know what I think?” he murmurs into your hair.
“What?”
“I think you are angry because you still believe that version of you is gone.”
You close your eyes. “And what if she is?”
He pulls back just enough to look at you. “She isn’t.”
“You can’t know that.”
“Yes, I can.”
“How?”
“Because I see how much this hurts you.” His thumb brushes beneath your eye gently. “People do not suffer this much for something they stopped loving.” Your throat tightens. “You still love skiing.”
“Of course I do.”
“Then you’re not finished.”
Simple. Matter-of-fact. Like he genuinely cannot imagine another outcome.
Sometimes Carlos believes in you loudly. Sometimes quietly.
This is the dangerous kind.
The kind that starts sounding like truth.
───
Recovery is ugly.
Nobody tells the full truth about it.
People post comeback montages with cinematic music and triumphant captions, but they never show the boredom. The humiliation. The endless repetitions of tiny movements while your body relearns trust.
In March 2025, you withdraw from another race weekend after your knee swells again during training.
The headlines are brutal.
Questions about retirement start appearing.
You stop reading articles entirely. Carlos starts reading them for you instead. Not because he cares what they say. Because he knows you’ll spiral if you do.
“You banned me from Twitter.” You accuse while lying on the physio table one afternoon.
“Correct.”
“You changed my password.”
“You were stalking comments.”
“They were insulting me!”
“They insult everybody.” He shrugs. “Internet people are insane.”
Easy for him to say. He’s one of the most loved athletes on earth.
But then again, maybe that’s why he understands fame better than anyone.
───
Late one night after a painful rehab session, you sit on the balcony of his apartment in Murcia staring blankly at the city lights.
“I think people are getting tired of waiting for me.” You admit quietly.
Carlos walks out carrying two mugs of tea.
“People?” he repeats.
“The fans. Sponsors. Federation people. Everyone.”
He hands you a mug. “Do you know what my coach tells me?” You glance at him. “When you play for other people too much,” he says, “you forget how to play for yourself.”
You stare down into the tea. Steam curls upward into the warm Spanish night.
“I don’t even know who I am without skiing.”
Carlos goes still for a moment. Then he reaches over and flicks your forehead.
“Ow!”
“You are very stupid sometimes.”
“Excuse me?”
“You think your value comes from results.” He leans back in his chair. “That’s athlete disease.”
“You literally cried after losing the Olympics.”
“Yes, because losing sucks.” He says it like it’s obvious. “But if you retired tomorrow, would I love you less?”
Your chest aches instantly. “No.”
“Then why do you think everyone else decides who you are?”
You blink rapidly.
Carlos notices immediately. “Ay, no llores.” Don’t cry.
“I’m not crying.”
“You are absolutely crying.”
“You’re annoying.”
“And handsome.”
“That’s unrelated.”
“It helps.”
You laugh despite yourself.
He smiles softly then.
Victory. Tiny but important.
───
By the end of 2025, things finally begin changing.
Not dramatically. Not magically. But enough.
Your body holds together longer.
Your turns sharpen. The fear starts loosening its grip little by little.
You still aren’t winning.
But you stop surviving races and start attacking them again.
Carlos notices before anyone else. Of course he does.
“You’re skiing angry again.” He says excitedly over FaceTime after one race.
“What does that even mean?”
“You know.” He gestures wildly. “Like boom boom boom.”
You burst out laughing. “That explained nothing.”
“Yes it did.”
Then he squints suspiciously. “Also you stopped making that face.”
“What face?”
“That scared face before starts.”
You go quiet. Because he’s right.
You hadn’t even realized it disappeared.
───
January 2026 arrives in a blur of airports and pressure.
The entire tennis world descends upon Australian Open with one storyline screaming louder than all the others.
Career Grand Slam.
Carlos has already conquered the US Open, Wimbledon Championships, and French Open.
Only Australia remains.
You’ve never seen him this tense before.
Not outwardly. Outwardly he’s still smiling, still joking in press conferences, still making crowds laugh during practice.
But at night you feel it. The restlessness. The pressure humming beneath his skin.
Before the semifinal he lies awake beside you in the dark hotel room.
“You’re thinking too loud.” You mumble sleepily.
“Sorry.”
“You’re doing the eyebrow thing.”
“I can’t believe you know my eyebrow stress tell.”
“You literally twitch like a cartoon villain.”
He huffs out a laugh. Then quiet again.
You turn toward him. “What scares you?”
Carlos stares at the ceiling. “What if people are right?”
“About?”
“That I should already have this.” His voice is softer now. “That if I lose again it means maybe I’m not…”
He trails off.
You prop yourself up on one elbow. “Not what?”
He finally looks at you. “As good as they think.”
The honesty in his face nearly breaks your heart.
Because for all his confidence, Carlos still carries doubt like every elite athlete does.
Invisible. Heavy. Human.
You brush your fingers through his curls.
“When I met you in Paris,” you say quietly, “you had just lost the Olympic final.”
He groans immediately. “Please don’t remind me.”
“You know what I remember most?”
“What?”
“How kind you still were.”
He frowns slightly. “That’s weird.”
“No.” You shake your head. “That’s who you are.” His eyes soften. “You don’t have to earn being loved with trophies, Charly.”
A long silence follows.
Then:
“Coño.” Fuck. He drags a hand down his face dramatically. “Why are you always saying emotional things before matches?”
“Because somebody has to balance out your nonsense.”
“That’s fair.”
He pulls you against his chest. “Stay tomorrow?”
“Obviously.”
“No.” He says quietly. “Like… really stay.”
You tighten your arms around him. “I will.”
───
The final is torture.
Five brutal sets under the Australian sun.
You sit in his box beside his family, your heart attempting escape from your chest every thirty seconds.
Carlos rides emotional waves like a man wrestling thunderstorms.
Brilliance. Frustration. Joy. Fury.
At one point he screams “¡Joder!” toward his player box after missing an easy forehand.
His mother covers her face. You nearly laugh from stress.
Then comes the fourth set. And suddenly something shifts.
You recognize it instantly because you’ve seen it before in great athletes.
The click.
The moment fear stops driving. Carlos starts playing free.
Not careful. Not desperate. Free.
By championship point you’re barely breathing. The rally stretches endlessly.
Then Đoković sends the ball long. For one second the entire stadium freezes.
Carlos drops to the court.
You feel tears hit your face before realizing you’re crying.
The roar inside Rod Laver Arena is deafening.
Career Grand Slam.
At twenty-two years old.
Carlos looks up toward the box almost immediately. And finds you. Always you.
His grin is wild and disbelieving.
───
Three weeks later, the 2026 Winter Olympics begin.
Italy is cold enough to bite. Your nerves are worse.
You haven’t stood on a major podium in years.
Most analysts don’t even consider you a medal favorite anymore.
You pretend not to care.
Carlos sees through you immediately.
The night before your event, you sit curled beneath hotel blankets staring at race footage on your laptop.
Carlos closes it gently. “You need sleep.”
“I need to stop thinking.”
“Impossible mission.”
You exhale shakily. “What if I mess up again?”
He crouches in front of you. “What if you don’t?”
“That’s not helpful.”
“It’s true.”
You look away. “I’m scared.”
Carlos nods. “Bien.” Good.
You blink. “Good?”
“The day you stop being scared means you stop caring.”
Easy for him to say.
Except no. Not easy. Because he means it.
He takes your hands. “You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think you already won.”
You snort softly. “I definitely haven’t.”
“Yes, you have.” He squeezes your fingers. “Because two years ago, you were afraid to ski.”
Emotion climbs suddenly into your throat. “And now? Now you want to fight again.” His eyes lock onto yours. “That matters more than medals.”
You almost believe him. Almost.
Then he kisses your forehead. “Also,” he adds, “if anyone says stupid things tomorrow, I will hit them with a ski.”
You laugh through tears. “That seems illegal.”
“Only if they catch me.”
───
Race morning arrives sharp and silver beneath the Italian sky.
The mountains loom enormous around the course. Beautiful. Terrifying.
Your stomach twists violently while clicking into your skis at the start gate.
Below you, thousands of spectators blur together. Somewhere among them sits Carlos.
He flew halfway across the world less than forty-eight hours after winning the Australian Open just to be here.
You’d told him not to. He ignored you immediately. Classic Carlos.
At the start gate you bounce lightly on your skis, forcing air into your lungs.
The old fear creeps in.
What if you crash? What if you fail again? What if—
Then you hear it. A voice from farther down the course.
“¡VAMOS, MI AMOR!” LET’S GO, MY LOVE!
Loud enough to echo off the mountain. You actually start laughing at the gate.
Only Carlos would scream like a football fan at the Olympics.
The starter gives you a confused look. You shake your head, still smiling.
Then you push off. The course attacks immediately.
But something is different today. You stop thinking.
Your body remembers before your mind can interfere. Turn. Edge. Fly.
Every gate comes instinctively. Aggressive. Fearless.
You hear nothing except wind.
For the first time in years, skiing feels like yours again.
Not painful. Not fragile. Yours.
By the final sector your legs burn violently.
You attack anyway. One last jump. One last turn.
Then the finish line.
You cross and glance up instantly.
First.
The green number flashes beside your name.
You stagger to a stop in disbelief.
There are still racers left. Many of them.
But suddenly you can’t breathe properly. Commentators scream somewhere overhead. Your hands shake uncontrollably.
At the bottom of the hill, athletes and coaches crowd around giant screens waiting for the remaining times. One by one they fail to beat yours Tenths. Hundredths. Close but not enough.
Then the final racer crosses. Slower. Silver position.
You stare blankly for half a second as realization detonates inside you.
Gold.
Olympic gold.
After everything.
After all the injuries and withdrawals and ugly recoveries and nights spent wondering if you were already finished.
Gold.
You break instantly.
Tears pour down your face before you can stop them. Someone wraps a flag around your shoulders. The crowd roars like an avalanche.
And through all of it, one person barrels toward you like an overexcited golden retriever escaping containment. Carlos.
Security barely stops him from wiping out on the snow. He reaches you breathless and half-laughing already.
“¡HOSTIA PUTA!” HOLY SHIT!
You start laughing and crying harder simultaneously.
“You did it!” He shouts, grabbing your face. “You actually did it!”
“I—” No words come out.
Carlos looks like he might cry too. Actually cry.
His eyes are shining wildly.
“I’m so proud of you,” he says, voice cracking. “Joder, bebé.” Fuck, baby. “You have no idea.”
Then he kisses you right there in the snow while cameras explode around you.
Neither of you cares.
───
Later, during the medal ceremony, you finally find him in the crowd again.
This time he isn’t wearing silver.
Neither are you.
The gold medal settles around your neck with surprising weight. You look down at it. Then back up at him.
Carlos grins so hard it looks painful.
And suddenly you remember Paris.
A lonely hallway beneath a tennis court. Two silver medalists grieving dreams that almost happened. Neither of you knowing yet that heartbreak was only teaching you how to survive long enough for this moment.
Carlos places both hands around his mouth and yells across the crowd:
“¡ESA ES MI CHICA!” THAT’S MY GIRL!
You burst out laughing on the podium.
The cameras capture it instantly. But they don’t capture the whole story. They don’t capture the years between silver and gold.
The fear. The patience. The love.
The nights spent rebuilding yourselves piece by piece.
Only the two of you know that part.
And somehow, that makes the gold shine even brighter.
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summary: How Carlos would act when facing your period for the first time ever.
warnings: none!
request: Can you write a headcanon about how Carlos would act if his girlfriend was on her period? Maybe it could be the first time since they started dating
pre a/n: this is my first head canon, tell me how i did!
he notices something’s off before you say anything.
not in a “i’ve figured it out” way, more like… he keeps glancing at you, trying to read you.
“¿estás bien?” soft, a little concerned, but not pushing.
you say “i’m fine,” and he doesn’t fully believe you, but he lets it sit for a bit.
he googles things at some point. not immediately. like… after 20 minutes of overthinking.
his search history is chaotic: “period pain help what to do boyfriend”
when you finally tell him, he goes quiet for a second.
not weirded out, just processing how to help.
“vale… okay. what do you need?”
very practical suddenly.
he insists he can handle it.
he cannot fully handle it.
he shows up with snacks… but it’s a mix of perfect and completely random.
chocolate? yes.
your favorite? no.
something he likes? also yes.
“i brought you this… and this… didn't know which one you'd want.” he’s slightly out of breath like he rushed.
he forgets one very important thing you actually asked for.
you stare at him.
he realizes.
“mierda. espera, i'll go again.”
he will go back out to get it. immediately.
he’s naturally affectionate, but now it’s softer.
like he’s afraid of pressing too hard.
his hand hovers before touching your stomach.
“¿puedo?”
if you say yes, he’s weirdly focused on doing it right.
like this is a skill he must master.
“is that okay?”
he checks every few minutes.
if you say no, he looks mildly offended at himself.
he tries to make you laugh when you’re moody.
sometimes it works. sometimes it absolutely does not.
if it doesn’t work, he backtracks fast.
“vale, vale, lo siento… i didn't want to bother you.”
he’s not perfect with moods. if you snap, he goes quiet instead of reacting.
not cold quiet. just… thinking quiet.
later he’ll come back softer.
sits next to you, nudges your shoulder.
“oye… ¿todo bien ahora?”
he doesn’t fully understand the pain, but he respects it.
if you say it hurts, he believes you immediately.
he’d offer to get medicine, but double-checks everything like it’s a tennis strategy.
“are you sure it's this?”
he lowkey panics in the pharmacy but tries to hide it.
he becomes a bit protective without realizing.
walking slightly closer to you, hand always near yours.
if someone annoys you, his patience is shorter than usual.
he still teases you, just… gentler.
“you're crazy today, huh?” (half-smile)
if you glare at him, he raises his hands in surrender.
he likes when you lean on him more during those days.
won’t say it, but you can tell.
if you’re lying down, he automatically adjusts so you’re more comfortable.
blanket? already there.
water? he brings it, even if you didn’t ask.
he forgets things sometimes though.
like you’ll ask for something and he’ll get distracted halfway.
comes back like nothing happened.
you stare.
“…¿qué?”
then realization hits.
he hates seeing you in pain.
like genuinely, it unsettles him a bit.
“i wish i could take the pain away from you...” it slips out quietly.
if he has training or a match, he checks on you before and after. always.
messages like: “¿cómo estás ahora?”
even if he’s exhausted.
if you don’t reply, he sends another one.
not spammy, just… making sure.
he doesn’t get grossed out by anything. it’s just normal to him.
but he does get a little awkward buying pads/tampons the first few times.
after that, he’s fine.
still double-checks brands like it’s serious business.
he listens more than he talks during those days.
but when he does talk, it’s simple, honest.
no over-the-top speeches.
“estoy aquí, ¿vale?”
if you cry, he freezes for half a second.
then pulls you into a hug like instinct.
he’s not the best with words in that moment, but the hug says enough.
once you start feeling better, his energy slowly comes back.
the teasing returns first. always.
“ya estás mejor… ahora vuelves a ser peligrosa.”
he doesn’t make it a big “i took care of you” thing after.
it’s just… normal for him.
but you notice he stays a little softer with you for a while after.
like he remembers how those days felt for you.
overall, he’s not perfect, not always smooth, sometimes forgetful…
but he tries. every time. and you can feel that effort in everything he does.
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