ju

Alexia nodded once toward Cata, "Take her home."

Cata was already moving before the words had fully left her mouth, "This way."

You looked back instinctively.

Alexia was still standing exactly where you'd left her, one hand tucked into the pocket of her trousers, the other already gesturing for two men near the railings to come closer.

Nobody questioned her, or hesitated, they simply moved.

You swallowed and followed Cata down the narrow corridor leading towards the lower deck, neither of you spoke.

The yacht suddenly felt different, less like the floating palace it had seemed when you'd first stepped aboard and more like somewhere people obeyed orders.

Crew members moved with purpose, no one looked panicked, just practiced as though everyone knew exactly where they were supposed to be.

Cata walked several paces ahead of you, you simply followed, the route wasn't the same one you'd taken to Alexia's cabin.

This one wound through narrower corridors, quieter passages used more by crew than guests.

Halfway down the corridor Cata's earpiece crackled, she pressed two fingers against it, "Sí." A pause, another voice you couldn't hear. She sighed quietly, "Entendido."

She glanced apologetically towards you.

"One second."

Before you could answer she'd turned down another passageway, you hesitated before following.

She stopped beside several members of Alexia's inner circle you'd noticed earlier in the evening, the ones sitting with Alexia around the table before you'd arrived.

Patri stood with her arms folded, the joking smile she'd worn earlier nowhere to be found.

Mapi was speaking quietly with Misa, who was giving instructions to two suited security guards.

Ingrid stood a little further back, her face pale as she handed bottled water to someone sitting against the wall.

No one noticed you, their attention was fixed elsewhere.

"The boss wants the lower deck cleared before the police arrive."

One of them nodded, "And the body?"

Your stomach tightened, Cata's expression didn't change, "Same instructions."

She turned to leave, you followed or at least, you tried to, because as you rounded the corner your eyes betrayed you.

You hadn't meant to look, you'd promised yourself you wouldn't, every instinct told you not to, but human curiosity had always been stronger than common sense.

Near the far wall, surrounded by two members of security, lay a body beneath a hastily drawn white sheet.

You looked away immediately, then without meaning to you looked back, only for a second. The sheet covered almost everything, except one foot.

A snakeskin boot protruded awkwardly from beneath the fabric, twisted slightly onto its side. One leg bent awkwardly where whoever had covered them clearly hadn't wanted to touch them any more than necessary.

Something... Something about those boots. It tugged at something in the back of your mind, you'd seen those boots before. Somewhere recently.

You frowned. Where? The answer refused to come, just a flicker of recognition that disappeared the harder you chased it.

You frowned, they looked familiar, not enough that you could place them or to know from where. Just enough for something at the back of your mind to stir, like recognising a song without remembering its name.

Cata's voice broke your concentration, "This way."

You tore your gaze away, neither of you spoke for the next several minutes, the two of you continued towards the gangway in silence.

Outside, the cool night air hit your face. You hadn't realised how suffocating the yacht had become until you stepped off it.

Behind you, men moved with quiet efficiency, no panic, no shouting, just Alexia's orders being carried out.

You found yourself glancing back towards the enormous yacht one last time. Its lights still glittered against the dark water, from a distance it looked like every other luxury party drifting across the Mediterranean.

Elegant, untouchable, beautiful, only now you knew better.

You glanced back one last time, she'd appeared on the upper deck now, silhouetted against the lights of the yacht.

Someone approached her, she listened, said something the man nodded once before disappearing again.

💪🏼

You climbed into the waiting car beside Cata, fastening your seatbelt as engine started.

The marina slowly disappeared behind you as you stared out of the window, barely seeing the lights reflected across the water.

One thought chased another. Who exactly was Alexia Putellas?

Because whatever she'd told you she did, whatever you'd assumed it clearly wasn't the whole truth.

The way everyone had deferred to Alexia without hesitation.

Boss.

Until tonight, you'd almost convinced yourself it was affectionate, a nickname, an inside joke between friends.

Now, there wasn't a single part of you that believed that anymore.

She wasn't called the boss. She was the boss. Whatever Alexia did, whatever empire she'd built around herself, everyone aboard that yacht answered to her. And despite everything you'd seen, your mind kept drifting back to one small, insignificant detail.

Those snakeskin boots, you couldn't remember where you'd seen them, but the feeling that you should know refused to let you go.

The drive back to the city was almost painfully quiet.

The gentle hum of the engine filled the space where conversation probably should have been, while Barcelona drifted past the windows in streaks of gold and white

The marina disappeared behind you as the car slipped onto the quieter roads leading back towards the city.

Cata drove with one hand resting lightly on the wheel, eyes flicking between the road and the mirrors every few seconds with practiced routine.

You tried looking out of the window, that lasted all of thirty seconds before your own thoughts became far too loud.

You hated your own brain sometimes, it refused to let anything go, with a quiet sigh, you reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone.

The familiar Sudoku app opened almost automatically, anything to stop yourself thinking, a few moments passed before Cata broke the silence, "What are you doing?" She was still watching the road, but there was the slightest hint of suspicion in her tone.

You didn't look up, "Sudoku." You filled another number into one of the squares, "You never played?"

"...No."

"It's quite addictive."

"Mhm." Cata gave a quiet hum that suggested she remained unconvinced.

Another silence, you solved another row, Cata glanced sideways briefly before looking back to the road.

The traffic light ahead flicked to red, the Rolls Royce came to a smooth stop, you heard Cata exhale almost like she'd made a decision she wasn't entirely happy with.

Her fingers tapped once against the steering wheel, twice, then she let out a quiet breath, "I shouldn't do this."

You finally looked away from your phone, "What?"

Without answering immediately, Cata reached across to the glove compartment.

She pulled out a small notepad and a pen, quickly, neatly, she scribbled down a phone number before tearing the page free.

She held it out to you, "If you ever need anything..." She paused, "...my number."

You looked down at the scrap of paper in your hand, the words were simple so matter of fact, but they carried more weight than she probably intended.

"Thank you."

She nodded once, "I mean it."

The traffic lights changed, she pulled away smoothly.

You folded the paper carefully instead of stuffing it into your pocket, sliding it safely into your phone case.

"You don't trust many people."

You said it quietly, it wasn't really a question.

Cata was silent for several seconds, "No, but when the boss does." You looked across at her, "That's enough for me."

There it was again, not Alexia, the boss. The title rolled off Cata's tongue so naturally it was obvious she'd used it a thousand times before.

"I've worked for her a long time," Cata continued, eyes never leaving the road. "Long enough to know she likes control." Another pause, "But also long enough to know she doesn't like innocent people getting caught in the middle of things."

You turned your attention back to the glowing Sudoku grid, but the numbers blurred together. You filled in a three where a seven should have gone, deleted it immediately.

For someone trying very hard not to think about Alexia, she was proving remarkably difficult to get out of your head.

The rest of the journey passed in companionable silence.

You'd insisted Cata drop you back outside the club, she hadn't argued.

She'd simply nodded, pulled the Rolls Royce to the curb a street away from the marina and waited while you climbed out.

"Goodnight," she'd said.

"Goodnight."

The car had disappeared into traffic almost silently, leaving you standing beneath the glow of a flickering streetlight, only then had you started the walk home.

The city felt different after the yacht, luxury gave way to cracked pavements and graffiti covered shutters the further you walked.

The apartment block came into view exactly as it always had, peeling paint, a temperamental security door that only locked if you slammed it hard enough. The light above the entrance had been broken for nearly six months.

You dug your keys from your bag and let yourself in, the familiar smell of stale cigarettes and someone's overcooked dinner lingered in the communal hallway.

Nothing had changed, halfway up the stairs you heard it.

"You never listen to me!"

"Oh, don't start again!"

Your neighbours, again.

The couple at the end of the corridor seemed to have perfected the art of conducting every disagreement at maximum volume.

Tonight was apparently no exception, a door slammed, someone shouted something muffled through the walls.

You kept walking, past them, past the peeling wallpaper and the broken light fitting that nobody ever seemed interested in fixing.

Your own front door finally came into view, you unlocked it, stepped inside and locked it again behind you. Only then did you realise how tightly you'd been holding yourself together.

Your shoulders dropped, you kicked your shoes off by the door and let your bag fall onto the sofa.

The shower was the first thing you wanted, you twisted the tap as hot as it would go and stood beneath the spray until the room filled with steam.

The water washed away salt from the sea air, the lingering scent of Alexia's perfume, the expensive cologne that had clung to the yacht.

None of it managed to wash away the memories, you scrubbed shampoo through your hair with perhaps a little more force than necessary.

By the time you climbed into bed, your hair was still damp, the digital clock on your bedside table read 1:47 a.m.

You switched off the lamp, darkness settled over the room, sleep didn't. You rolled onto your side, then your back, then the other side.

Every time you closed your eyes, your brain picked a different detail to obsess over.

The feel of Alexia's strap in you, Cata quietly handing you her phone number. The way everyone aboard that yacht had listened the second Alexia spoke.

You thought about your own flat. The uneven radiator that clanged every winter, the mould stain above the kitchen window you kept meaning to deal with, the shouting neighbours.

Then you thought about Alexia's world, the probable fortress disguised as a home, the yacht, the security, the people who would quite literally kill for her.

The contrast was almost laughable.

You wondered whether she'd even remember you in the morning, whether you'd simply become another face from another party. Someone she'd flirted with for a few weeks before life inevitably pulled her attention elsewhere.

You told yourself that was the sensible outcome, the safest one.

Eventually, sometime after three, exhaustion finally won.

Your thoughts blurred into dreams.

The last thing you remembered before sleep claimed you was a pair of hazel eyes watching you from between your own thighs.

💪🏼

By the time Cata returned to the yacht, the lower deck looked as though nothing had ever happened.

The blood had been scrubbed away, the body was gone.

Fresh glasses had replaced the shattered ones.

The guests had either gone home or been discreetly encouraged off the boat. Security remained doubled around the perimeter, but the frantic urgency had faded into quiet efficiency.

Alexia was exactly where she'd been told she'd find her, on the top deck not entertaining anyone, a whiskey sat untouched beside her.

Mapi lounged across one of the outdoor sofas eating an ice lolly she'd found somewhere, despite it being well after two in the morning.

Patri was halfway through a cigarette.

Alexia looked up the second Cata appeared, "What did she say?"

Cata stopped beside her, "She asked me if I played Sudoku."

Alexia slowly turned her head, "...What?"

Cata shrugged, "I'm not fucking with you." For the first time all evening, the bodyguard let out a small, genuine chuckle, "She barely spoke."

Alexia frowned, "She didn't ask about tonight?"

"No."

"About me?"

"No."

"The shooting?"

Cata shook her head, "She got in the car, sat in silence for about ten minutes, then pulled her phone out and was playing Sudoku."

There was a pause, Alexia blinked once, "I'm sorry"

Cata folded her arms, "I know."

"After everything that happened"

"Mm."

"she played Sudoku?"

"Mm."

Alexia looked genuinely baffled, "I don't understand." Alexia's gaze drifted back towards the coastline, she'd expected questions, fear, maybe anger not... Sudoku.

From the sun lounger nearby came Mapi's voice, "Elite game, to be fair."

Everyone looked over.

Mapi was sprawled on her back wearing an oversized shirt over her bikini, lazily chewing on an ice lolly as though they weren't discussing the strangest woman Alexia had ever met.

She pointed the half melted ice lolly in Alexia's direction, "Very calming."

Patri looked horrified, "You play Sudoku?"

"I do."

"I don't think I know you anymore."

"It's numbers."

"It's witchcraft."

"It's literally numbers."

Patri shook her head dramatically, "You all scare me."

Alexia ignored them both, "Cata."

"Hm?"

"She really didn't ask anything?"

"She looked like she was trying very hard not to think."

Mapi raised her ice lolly thoughtfully, "Which is exactly why she opened Sudoku."

Alexia looked at her, "What?"

Mapi shrugged, "It's keeps the mind busy,"

Patri snorted, "You would say that."

"I'm serious." Mapi gestured with the melting ice lolly, "You can't spiral if you're trying to work out where the seven goes."

Alexia barely heard either of them, "She didn't ask about the body" She said it more to herself than anyone else.

Cata watched her quietly, "I did give her my number."

That made Alexia turn around much faster than before, "You what?"

Cata met her eyes without flinching, "I know."

"You know I don't like surprises."

"I do."

"You gave a civilian your personal number."

"I did."

Patri nearly dropped her drink, "Oh, this is getting interesting."

Alexia folded her arms, "Explain."

Cata's voice remained calm, "She walked onto this yacht because her friend was invited to a party."

Alexia said nothing.

"She witnessed something she never should've seen."

Still nothing.

"And then she walked back into an apartment by herself."

Alexia's expression softened almost imperceptibly.

"I thought..." Cata chose her words carefully, "...if she ever found herself scared... or confused... I'd rather she called me than the police."

Alexia held her gaze for a long moment, then nodded once, "Thank you."

Cata looked almost surprised, "You aren't angry?"

"I was." A tiny smile appeared, "For about three seconds."

Patri grinned, "A new record."

Alexia ignored her, instead, she found herself smiling despite everything.

The image formed in her head almost involuntarily. You. Fresh off a yacht where someone had opened fire. Ignoring every dramatic question available to you,m opening a Sudoku app.

She laughed quietly to herself, Mapi pointed with the remains of her ice lolly, "What was that?"

Patri looked over, "What?"

"She did the smile."

"The smile?" Patri gasped theatrically, "Oh no."

Alexia raised an eyebrow, "What now?"

Patri sat upright, "Boss..." She struggled not to laugh, "...I think you've got a crush."

Six seconds of complete silence followed, Alexia stared at her, then picked up the nearest cushion and threw it.

Patri caught it effortlessly, laughing so hard she almost fell off the sun lounger, "I'll take that as a yes."

Alexia rolled her eyes, but she couldn't quite suppress the smile threatening at the corners of her mouth.

For someone she'd only met twice, you occupied an alarming amount of space in her thoughts.

And somehow, the fact that your coping mechanism after witnessing chaos was to quietly solve number puzzles only made you more fascinating.

💪🏼 Sunday dinners had never changed, no matter what was happening in the rest of your life, no matter how chaotic work became or how many business trips your father took or how many arguments your siblings had accumulated throughout the week.

Sunday meant everyone came home.

The dining room was already loud by the time your mother called everyone to sit down.

Your sisters were arguing over who'd stolen whose charger.

One of your brothers was winding the other up over a football result.

Your mother floated effortlessly between them all, pretending not to hear half of it while setting dishes onto the table.

Your father sat at the head as always.

Alongside him were two of his oldest business associates, men who'd been appearing at these dinners for so long you'd stopped questioning it as a child.

Nobody questioned it anymore, it had always been this way. You'd long ago stopped asking why half the people at your family table weren't actually related to you.

Your mother certainly never did or rather she pretended not to, it was an unspoken agreement everyone seemed content to keep.

The conversations were always careful, business was discussed.

Never specifics, never in front of your mother, or in front of you girls, it had always been an unspoken rule.

Your mother pretended not to notice, you and your sisters had learnt to do the same. Your brother's less successfully.

You reached for the serving spoon just as your mother emerged from the kitchen carrying another roasting tray.

"Right." She smiled, "Before your father steals all the potatoes..."

"He absolutely would," one of your sisters muttered.

"...everyone help yourselves."

Chairs scraped, hands reached, the usual chaos began, one of the older men looked around the table, "It's strangely civil tonight."

Your father smiled into his wine, "Manuel isn't here."

A chorus of amused agreement circled the table, "That's why there's enough food."

Someone laughed, "He'd have been first in the queue."

"As always."

"...Where is Manuel?" Your father barely looked up from pouring himself another glass of wine.

Another voice joined in, "He's probably late because he's polishing those ridiculous snakeskin boots."

The table laughed, "They're his pride and joy."

"I swear he'd save those before he'd save his own wife."

More laughter, you smiled automatically, then stopped, your fork froze halfway to your mouth, snakeskin boots.

Something cold slid through your stomach, no, your mind immediately pushed the thought away, coincidence.

There were plenty of snakeskin boots in the world, your heart, however, had already begun beating a little faster.

"...his trademark," someone was saying.

"You could spot Manuel from across the room just by those bloody things."

Your grip tightened around your fork, your breathing became noticeably shallower, your stomach lurched. No. No...Surely not.

You heard your own voice before you realised you'd spoken, "...Manuel?"

The conversation faltered, your father looked over, "Hm?"

You swallowed, "Where..." Your mouth suddenly felt dry, "...where is Manuel?"

One of the men shrugged, "Haven't heard from him since yesterday."

"Probably nursing a hangover."

Another chuckled, "Or avoiding work."

Your father didn't laugh, he simply took another sip of wine, your eyes stayed fixed on him.

He noticed, for just a fraction of a second, something unreadable crossed his face, then it was gone.

Your mother appeared beside you, "You alright, sweetheart?"

You blinked, "What?"

"You've gone pale."

Had you? You forced a smile, "I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Mhm."

You weren't, not even close, because all at once the memories of the previous night came crashing together. Those boots, those stupid ridiculous snakeskin boots.

You looked down at your untouched dinner, around you the conversation had already moved on. Your mother was asking someone to pass the vegetables. Your sisters were laughing at something. One of your brothers was telling a story.

You heard yourself asking before you'd properly decided to, "...Where is Manuel?"

The room quietened just enough for your father to look over, "Told you. Running late."

Your stomach tightened, "...Is he alright?"

Your father studied you for a second, "I've not heard otherwise."

Another associate chuckled, "He'll probably walk in halfway through dessert pretending nothing happened."

The laughter returned you couldn't join in, your mind was moving too quickly.

You'd always known, not known known, but known. You'd always known your father worked complicated jobs, you'd overheard enough conversations growing up. Seen enough expensive watches exchanged after closed door meetings, watched enough unfamiliar cars arrive late at night, but it had always remained abstract.

A line you deliberately never crossed, your father dealt in things respectable businessmen didn't.

Your mother never asked, neither did you, that had always been the arrangement. Don't ask questions, don't look too closely, everyone stayed safe that way.

You'd accepted that long ago, but now you'd looked and once you had you couldn't unsee it.

A horrible thought settled into the pit of your stomach if Manuel really was the man on Alexia's yacht then your father's world and Alexia's were far closer together than you'd ever imagined.

Until a phone vibrated, your father's right hand man glanced at the screen before excusing himself with a quiet, "Sorry." He excused himself quietly, stepping through the open doors onto the terrace.

Nobody paid him much attention, calls happened, business never really stopped.

You weren't entirely sure why you watched him, maybe because your stomach still hadn't settled. Maybe because once your brain had made the connection, it refused to let it go.

He answered the call with his back to the room, you couldn't hear a word, didn't need to. You watched his posture instead, the easy confidence disappeared, his shoulders stiffened, his jaw clenched.

Something inside you dropped, he ended the call almost immediately, walked back inside but didn't sit.

Instead he bent slightly, placing one hand on the back of your father's chair before leaning down to whisper into his ear, you saw your father's face.

The warmth disappeared, the smile he'd worn all evening simply vanished, his expression hardened into something you rarely saw at home.

Your father didn't ask a single question, he just stared ahead for a second thinking, then he stood.

The scrape of his chair across the wooden floor silenced the room, even your mother looked up.

Your father snapped his fingers once, every man seated around the table looked towards him immediately, your father didn't raise his voice.

"With me."

That was all, nothing more. The business associates stood, so did your brothers.

Your eldest brother barely glanced at the rest of the family before following. Your younger one hesitated only long enough to kiss your mother's cheek, then he was gone too.

The room suddenly felt much larger, much quieter, your mother sighed softly, "They never finish dessert."

She sounded almost amused, as though this happened every week, she began collecting plates.

Your sisters resumed their conversation life continued, only you remained frozen, because you'd seen your father's face before.

When someone spoke his surname with too much confidence.

When a deal had gone wrong.

When he'd come home late with bruised knuckles and your mother had silently placed dinner in front of him without asking where he'd been.

You knew better now than you had as a child.

When you were little, you thought people respected your father because he was successful, because your family had money, because everyone seemed to know him.

Now you knew it was something else, your surname travelled before you did. You'd seen strangers falter halfway through saying it. Watched arguments dissolve the second someone realised whose daughter you were.

Doors opened, people apologised, voices lowered, not because your father was wealthy, because your father was feared.

You'd never asked why, you'd never wanted the answer, your mother had perfected the art of looking away.

You had inherited it until last nigh

You looked towards the hallway where the men were a silent procession, coats collected, phones checked, weapons...

The front door opened then closed, engines started outside, then silence the house fell strangely still.

A horrible feeling settled low in your stomach if that phone call had confirmed what you thought, then your father already knew. Which meant he would also want to know who had done it.

Your thoughts leapt somewhere across the city to Alexia. You didn't know what role she'd played, you didn't know whether she'd ordered it.

You knew almost nothing, except that if was on her boat and your father wasn't a man known for patience or mercy.

You looked instinctively towards your phone lying beside your plate, you wished, with sudden desperation, that you'd asked Alexia for her number.

A horrible helplessness spread through your chest, because all you knew a convoy of very dangerous men had just left your childhood home. And they were heading straight towards the woman who may never get to finish what she stared in her cabin.

Your father wouldn't care about the reasons, he'd care that someone had killed one of his own and if there was one thing everyone knew about your father. It was that nobody touched his people without paying for it.

You hesitated, if you called your father to plead with him, you would be stepping directly into a war you had spent your entire life pretending didn't exist.

If you didn't the collision between your father's empire and Alexia's was coming whether you wanted it to or not.

And somehow you couldn't stop thinking that the woman who'd asked you to trust her deserved to know exactly what was heading her way.

You wrapped your arms around yourself and stared out across the table, trying to make sense of the knot tightening in your chest.

It wasn't fear it was confusion, because your first instinct hadn't been relief that your father was handling whatever had happened.

It hadn't been loyalty, it had been Alexia., the thought landed heavily enough to make you close your eyes. Your very first thought had been how to warn her, how to protect her.

Your eyes looked to the little bit of paper in the back of your phone, you didn't know if the number was secure, you didn't know who might answer. You didn't even know if she'd be able to pick up, every second mattered. You were moving before you'd even fully decided to, your chair scraped violently across the wooden floor.

Everyone looked up, "Y/N?"

You barely heard your mother's voice, you were already halfway across the kitchen one second you were sat frozen in the dining room, the next you were heading for the garage.

Behind you came your mother's voice, "Y/N?" The garage lights flickered on as you shoved the side door open. "Y/N!" she called again, louder this time, or closer you weren't sure.

Your brothers' cars filled one side, your father's sat immaculate beneath its cover, in the far corner your eldest brother Luis' motorbike.

Your mother caught up just as you were pulling a helmet from the shelf, "Y/N, what are you doing?" Your mother sounded genuinely frightened.

You didn't answer immediately, you threw one leg over the bike and reached for the keys hanging neatly on the wall.

Your mother stared, "No."

You jammed the key into the ignition, "I'm borrowing Luis' bike."

Her eyes widened, "You're doing what?"

"It'll be fine."

"Y/N."

The engine roared to life, the sound filled the garage, your mother flinched, "You haven't ridden in years!"

"I know."

"Then get off it!" You thumbed the control for the garage door, it began crawling upwards, "Y/N!"

"I'm bringing it back."

"Y/N!" Your mother stepped towards you, "Your father will—"

"I know." You pulled your visor down, "I'm sorry I have to go"

"Go where?"

"I..." The answer caught in your throat, because you couldn't exactly say, To warn the woman who might have just killed one of Dad's men.

The automatic garage door began crawling upwards, too slowly, you revved the engine once, twice, the gap became just wide enough.

You didn't wait, the bike lurched forward, your mother shouted your name.

You squeezed beneath the rising door with inches to spare before tearing down the driveway.

The evening air hit like a wall, the front gates were still opening, just enough, you leaned the bike slightly and shot through the narrowing gap then you were gone.

The engine screamed beneath you, streetlights blurred into long golden streaks cool evening air whipped through the gaps in your helmet.

Your heart beat almost as loudly as the motor you had no plan, only destinations.

The bar, you'd met Alexia there, maybe she was there, you pulled up outside barely ten minutes later.

You killed the engine and hurried inside, the bartender recognised you, offered you your usual, "Have you seen Alexia?"

His smile faltered, "No."

"You sure?"

"I haven't seen her."

"What about..." You realised you didn't know anyone else's names, "...her friends?"

He shook his head, "They're not here tonight."

You thanked him anyway before hurrying back outside, the marina, it had to be. The bike tore through the city once more, you parked illegally this time and ran.

Past rows of expensive yachts, security barriers, empty berths, your trainers echoed against the wooden walkways.

The place was eerily quiet, the yacht was gone, only dark water rocking gently against empty moorings.

You turned slowly in a full circle, your breathing came hard you ran a hand through your hair.

No towering yacht, no black Rolls Royce, no sign of Alexia, the marina felt wrong. Too quiet, after everything that had happened the previous night, you'd expected police, tape.

Instead there was nothing, as though the yacht had never existed, as though no one had died, a chill ran down your spine. The silence around the city felt deliberate, like something enormous was happening just out of sight.

You stared at the folded piece of paper in the back of your phone, for a long moment, you simply looked at the number.

Then you unfolded it completely, typed each digit into your phone, our thumb hovered over the call button, "If this is a terrible idea..."

You pressed it anyway, the phone rang, three times, by the fourth ring you were convinced it was going to voicemail.

Then, "Hello?"

Cata, you'd never been so relieved to hear someone's voice.

"Cata..." There was a pause, "...It's Y/N."

Recognition was immediate, "Y/N." You could almost picture her straightening where she stood, "Is everything alright?"

"I need to speak to Alexia."

Silence, when Cata spoke again, her voice had become noticeably more guarded, "No."

Your stomach dropped, "No?"

"You can't just demand to speak Alexia, she's busy"

"What?"

"You need to forget about her."

"Cata—"

"I'm serious." Her tone was calm, professional, "The less you know about her world, the safer you'll be."

"I don't care about that."

"You should."

"I don't."

Another silence, when Cata spoke again, there was genuine regret beneath her words, "I'm sorry. I can't help you."

She was about to end the call, the tiny shift in the line, words tumbled out before you could stop them, "It's about Carlos Hernandez."

Nothing, not even breathing, the line went completely still.

"Cata?"

No answer, you pulled the phone away to check the call hadn't disconnected. It hadn't.

"Cata?"

When she finally spoke, her voice was entirely different, "...Say that again."

"Carlos Hernandez." Another pause, "He's my dad, he's after Alexia, I need to speak to her"

Then, "Hang on."

The line clicked, not disconnected, just muted, inside the estate, Cata lowered the phone slowly.

There were only a handful of people who should even know that name so she believed you.

She turned immediately, crossing the home with purposeful strides, past the kitchen where Ingrid, who looked up from washing dishes.

Past Mapi and Patri arguing over a football match in the sitting room, she stopped outside a closed door.

Knocked twice, firm, several seconds passed. The door opened, Alexia stood there in a grey T-shirt and loose jogging bottoms, reading glasses balanced low on her nose, obvious irritation written across her face.

"I said I didn't want to be—" She stopped, Cata never interrupted without reason, "...What happened?"

Cata held up the phone, "It's Y/N."

Alexia frowned, "Why is she calling you?"

Cata hesitated, "She says it's about Carlos Hernandez."

Every trace of annoyance disappeared from Alexia's face, Cata nodded once.

Alexia didn't move, she simply stared at Cata for a long second, as though trying to decide whether she'd misheard her, "...You're certain?"

Cata nodded once, "She said, 'Carlos Hernandez is my dad.'"

From the sitting room doorway came the unmistakable sound of a television being muted.

Patri appeared first, "What happened?"

She took one look at Alexia's face before the smile she'd been wearing disappeared.

Mapi followed a second later, curiosity quickly giving way to concern, "What is it?"

Cata held up the still connected phone, "Y/N."

Patri blinked, "The yacht girl?"

Alexia still hadn't spoken, she was thinking, Misa emerged from the hallway, drying her hands with a towel after finishing a training session downstairs, "What did I miss?"

Mapi answered before anyone else could, "Apparently Boss's mystery woman is Carlos Hernandez's daughter."

Misa stopped walking, "...What?"

"The one from the yacht."

Misa looked from Mapi to Cata, searching for the joke, finding none, her expression hardened immediately.

"Are you fucking kidding?" Alexia finally looked up, Misa stepped closer, "That's too convenient." Nobody interrupted, "She appears out of nowhere." Misa began counting on her fingers, "She meets you in a bar, ends up on the yacht. And now,"

She shook her head.

"...she suddenly reveals she's Carlos Hernandez's daughter?" Her eyes settled on Alexia, "Boss." The word was clipped, "I think she's a plant."

Patri frowned, "That's a hell of an accusation."

"It's a logical one." Mapi folded her arms but didn't disagree, Misa continued, "Carlos has been trying to get close to us for years."

She nodded towards the phone.

"Now suddenly his daughter just happens to walk into your life?"

Alexia remained unreadable, Misa took another step, "Bring her in." Silence, "I'll go get her, we need to end this now." She spoke with complete certainty.

Patri grimaced, "Misa..."

"What?"

"That's a bit..."

"A bit what?"

"A bit harsh."

"We've done worse."

"...Fair."

Alexia's eyes drifted to the floor, thinking, every person in the room recognised the look, nobody spoke while she weighed the possibilities.

If you were telling the truth, you represented the biggest security breach she'd experienced in years.

Slowly, Alexia looked up, "Misa." She met her gaze, "No."

Misa frowned, "You don't think she's a plant?"

"I think she might be." That answer caught everyone slightly off guard, Alexia continued, "I also think if Carlos Hernandez wanted someone close to me..." A faint smile appeared, "he'd choose someone considerably better trained."

Patri snorted, "True, she copes with trauma by playing Sudoku."

Even Misa's mouth twitched despite herself.

Alexia looked towards Cata, "Find out where she is." Alexia didn't hesitate, "Bring her to me."

Misa raised an eyebrow, "Just like that?"

Alexia met her eyes calmly, "If she's lying..." Her voice was steady, "...she can try to lie to my face."

"And if she's telling the truth?"

Alexia's expression became unreadable once more, "Then Carlos Hernandez has just declared war."

Nobody argued with that.

Cata lifted the phone back to her ear as she quietly stepped into the hallway, "Y/N?" Her voice was calm again, "I need your location."

She listened for a moment before nodding to herself.

"I'll be there in ten minutes."

The call ended.

Cata slipped the phone into her pocket.

"She's at the marina."

Alexia was already retreating back into her office, "Go" 💪🏼

You hadn't moved from the marina, the low growl of an engine pulled your attention from the water, a familiar black Rolls Royce eased to a stop beside the pavement.

The driver's door opened, Cata climbed out, immaculate as ever in a black suit despite the late hour.

She looked around once before her eyes settled on you, "Get in."

You instinctively reached for the front passenger door.

"The back."

You looked up, "What?"

"The back, please."

There was no edge to her voice, just quiet professionalism.

You nodded, "Right."

Climbing into the rear felt strangely different this time, the first time you'd sat back here, everything had been exciting, mild blowing, now it felt intimidating.

Cata pulled away from the curb without another word, the city slipped past in silence.

You tried counting traffic lights, buildings, anything to stop your mind spiralling.

It didn't work, eventually you cleared your throat, "Am I in trouble?"

Cata looked at you briefly through the mirror, her silence wasn't exactly reassuring. Neither of you spoke again for the remainder of the journey.

The gates appeared out of nowhere, tall stone walls stretched away in both directions, disappearing into trees.

The gates swung open before the Rolls Royce even slowed, you watched cameras follow the car as it wound along the long driveway.

The estate looked elegant, beautiful and somehow intimidating.

The car rolled to a stop outside the front entrance, Cata climbed out first, she opened your door, you looked at her waiting and swallowed.

Your legs felt strangely heavy as you climbed out onto the gravel, the house towered above you.

It looked less like someone's home and more like somewhere history had happened.

"This way."

You followed closely behind Cata, the front door opened before she reached it, aomeone inside had clearly been watching.

The entrance hall was enormous, polished wooden floors reflected the warm light from chandeliers overhead, paintings lined the walls, fresh flowers sat on a table beneath a sweeping staircase.

It was beautiful and unnervingly quiet, you became acutely aware of your own footsteps.

Cata led you deeper into the house, past a sitting room where voices murmured behind half closed doors, past a kitchen that smelled faintly of fresh bread and coffee. Someone laughed somewhere upstairs, the normality of it all felt almost surreal.

This was the headquarters of a criminal empire and someone was apparently baking.

Your eyes wandered as you walked, a bookshelf stretching floor to ceiling, old family photographs, a grandfather clock ticking steadily in the corner.

You were so distracted looking around that you failed to notice Cata had stopped.

You walked straight into her back, "Oh—" You stumbled a step backwards, "Sorry."

She didn't seem remotely bothered, she simply raised her hand and knocked twice on the door in front of you.

You suddenly realised your heart was hammering, the handle turned, the door opened.

Alexia stood on the other side, she was in a grey t-shirt, loose dark jogging bottoms and reading glasses resting low on her nose.

She looked...fuck, but also unexpectedly ordinary. If you ignored the fact she ran one of the most feared organisations in the city.

Her eyes met yours immediately, she studied you for a long second, then stepped aside, opening the door wider.

"Thank you, Cata." Cata inclined her head, Alexia looked back at you, "Come in."

You hesitated only briefly before stepping over the threshold, the room felt private, lived in, books covered one wall, screens with live pictures of all the cameras on the property on the other.

A large desk sat in the middle of the room, scattered with neatly organised paperwork.

A chessboard stood abandoned on a side table midway through a game, nothing about it resembled the office of the woman you'd imagined.

You heard the door close behind you, then the unmistakable sound of a lock turning, your shoulders tensed after you flinched at the noise.

Your flinch was barely noticeable, but Alexia saw it. Of course she did.

For a fleeting moment, something passed across her face, not annoyance or amusement.

She rested one hand lightly against the now locked door, "I locked it," she said quietly, "to make sure nobody interrupts us." She held your gaze, "Not to stop you leaving."

The words hung gently between you, there was no pressure in them, just an acknowledgement that she'd noticed your reaction.

Alexia took a slow step away from the door, giving you more space rather than less.

"I think," she said, removing her glasses and setting them carefully on the desk, "we both have quite a few questions."

You realised you weren't the only nervous person in the room.

Alexia didn't speak, she simply watched you.

The room had become impossibly quiet, the ticking of the antique clock somewhere behind you suddenly sounding far louder than it should have.

She hadn't asked you to sit down, you hadn't took it upon yourself either.

She leaned one hip against the edge of her desk instead, arms folded loosely, giving you space to speak first, "You said..." Alexia began carefully, "Carlos Hernandez is your father."

You nodded once, "He is."

"And you came here to warn me."

"Yes."

"Why?"

The question wasn't accusatory, it was genuine. You looked down at your hands before answering, "Because I know what my father is like."

Alexia's expression remained unreadable.

"I think..." You sighed quietly, "I think I've spent most of my life pretending not to know who my father really is."

The admission felt strange to say aloud.

"My mum..." You let out a humourless laugh. "She's always had this incredible ability to not ask questions." You smiled faintly, "I used to think she genuinely didn't know."

Your eyes drifted towards the bookshelf rather than Alexia.

"I don't think that's true anymore. I think she made a choice."

Your voice had become quieter now.

"She chose not to know." You looked back at Alexia, as you searched for the right words, "If Dad comes home late, she doesn't ask where he's been. If someone appears at our dinner table covered in cuts and bruises, she doesn't ask why. If people lower their voices when business comes up..."

You shrugged.

"...she walks into another room." Alexia listened without interrupting, "I copied her."

You laughed once, not because anything was funny, "Actually, all my sisters did. We all just...looked the other way."

You met Alexia's eyes again.

"It was easier."

"You knew he wasn't legitimate."

"I knew..." you corrected gently, "I knew he wasn't selling insurance." That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of Alexia's mouth, "And I copied her. I knew Dad dealt in..." You searched for the right word, "...things."

You shrugged helplessly.

"I knew people were scared of him. I'd hear stories growing up. I'd catch bits of conversations. I knew there were conversations I wasn't supposed to hear, but I never asked. It was easier."

Alexia hadn't moved, "You never asked?"

"I never wanted the answers." Silence settled again, "I thought..."You swallowed, "I thought if I didn't know, then none of it had anything to do with me."

Alexia's gaze softened almost imperceptibly, "And then you saw what happened on my yacht."

You nodded, "And then I saw what happened on your yacht." Another humourless laugh escaped you, "I think that illusion disappeared pretty quickly. And I realised by meeting you and being there, I was in the middle of something I had no idea of"

Her arms remained loosely folded across her chest, "And now?"

You swallowed, "This is me stopping pretending."

Your eyes met hers properly, Alexia looked down briefly before looking back at you, "You understand how this looks."

It wasn't a question, "I do" You answered immediately. "I saw Manuel." Alexia's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, "I didn't boot the boots I saw to the person who would come for dinner at my home not until today",

You closed your eyes briefly.

"Dad got the phone call. I watched his face change." The image replayed vividly, "The second he stood up I knew."

Your breathing steadied.

"I've never seen him look like that unless someone is about to have a very bad day."

Alexia looked away for the first time since you'd entered, "So, you came to warn me of what exactly?"

"I don't know, that I think he knows he died on your yacht, or that.. I don't know honestly"

You drew a steady breath.

"I'm not here because my father sent me. I'm not here because I've been spying on you. I'm here because I watched my dad leave dinner looking like he was going to start a war and the first person I thought about was you."

The words lingered in the silence, Alexia's expression slowly faded, not because she was angry, because something about what you'd just admitted had landed deeper than she'd expected.

She unfolded her arms, walked past you, towards the wall of monitors, her hands slipped into the pockets of her joggers as she stared at them.

When she finally spoke, her voice was almost thoughtful.

"You know..." She glanced back over her shoulder, "Cata said you played Sudoku when she took you home."

Heat immediately rushed to your face, "I was trying not to have a panic attack."

Alexia let out the quietest laugh, "I know."

"If I were you..." You shook your head, "I wouldn't trust me"

Alexia didn't respond, you took a slow breath.

"I need you to understand something." She waited, "No one knows I know you"

You stepped forward without really thinking.

"Lily doesn't know. My family doesn't know. My dad..." You gave another small shake of your head, "...would lose his mind if he knew I was standing in this room."

Alexia studied you carefully.

"I looked for you before I called Cata, I was terrified"

"Of your dad?"

You hesitated, "...Partly."

"And the other part?"

You looked directly at her, "You."

Alexia blinked, you gave an embarrassed smile.

"I mean..." You rubbed the back of your neck awkwardly. "I'm not blind, you have this..."

You gestured vaguely, "...presence?" Alexia raised an eyebrow.

"You..." You searched for words that didn't sound ridiculous, "...have an aura. I don't know how else to describe it. You walk into a room and everyone watches you. You barely raise your voice and people move."

You laughed quietly at yourself.

"So yes... I was slightly afraid of whoever you turned out to be."

Alexia's expression didn't change.

"I'm not blind. I know you're dangerous."

There. You'd finally said it.

"I don't know exactly who you are. I don't know what you do exactly, but..." You shrugged faintly, "...I figured getting on your bad side would probably not be a good idea"

You took another careful breath, "I'm not asking you to trust me."

Alexia remained completely still.

"I know I haven't earned that. I know who my father is. I know what that means now. I know what it probably looks like from where you're standing." Your voice cracked ever so slightly, "I'm not asking you to trust me" You held her gaze, "...I'm asking you to believe me."

Then she turned fully to face you again, "I do believe you."

Your shoulders sagged with relief before you could stop them.

"But..." The word made you tense again, "I can't promise you I won't react if something was to happen" Alexia said gently.

The truth settled heavily between you both, because whether you'd wanted this world or not you were standing in it now and there was no pretending otherwise.

You nodded, understanding even as your throat threatened to erase all your words. You didn't want promises, not from her, not from anyone.

Alexia seemed to sense it, your hands flexed at your sides there was a flicker of indecision when you met her eyes.

"You don't want anything from me," she said, not as a question. "You just want me to know."

You laughed, short and sharp, a sound you didn't even recognise, "Wanting anything would be madness," you admitted.

She stepped toward you, the distance closing to nothing, "I'm not afraid of madness," she said, and then she touched your face, light as static, as if to prove there was no such thing as too much exposure.

It didn't feel like the first time she touched you by now it felt like you'd already spent a lifetime circling this exact collision point. Her thumb traced the hollow beneath your eye, moving down to the line of your jaw, the touch reverent and curious all at once. She searched your face as if she could read the loyalty in your skin.

A thought occurred to you, maybe this was forbidden love, or something adjacent to it, so hard and bright it made every other thing in your life taste of cardboard.

"You're shaking," Alexia murmured, thumb resting at the hinge of your jaw.

"I hadn’t noticed." You leaned in, not for a kiss, but for confession, "I don't even know your last name."

She smiled, and it broke the tension the way a glass shatters "Putellas," she said, "If you say it around here, the maids will faint."

You repeated it, and it sounded like a secret you weren't meant to learn, "So what happens now?"

Alexia drew in a measured breath, "Now you decide if you want to go home and forget all of this" a look, clean and clinical, "or you stay for a little while."

You didn't know how to answer. For a second, you tried on the idea of leaving, of walking out of this fortress and back to your mother's kitchen, resuming the old, soft habit of pretending. You looked at the lock on the door, she'd left the key in it, a deliberate statement. "I want to stay," you said at last, and it felt like the bravest and stupidest thing you'd ever said.

Alexia nodded, "Good." She released your face and turned away, crossing to the drinks cart, "I'm going to pour us something truly disgusting," she said over her shoulder. "We might both need it."

You tried to laugh, found yourself trembling, then realised it was the first time in hours you'd let yourself feel anything that wasn't either terror or shame. She poured two glasses of something brown and viscous, then handed you a glass. Your hands brushed. You pretended not to notice the brush of her fingers as you took the glass. You watched her settle back against the desk and sip without ceremony, without flinching, giving you nothing. You brought it to your lips and your face did something involuntary.

You held the glass to your chest, eyes drifting around the room. She was watching you over the rim of hers, "You're thinking," she said quietly before taking another sip and setting the glass down beside her. You looked back at her, "What about?"

“Didn’t have you down as a reader” Her clasped into her lap as she looked amused at you, “I won’t take offence at that”

You let your gaze wander around the office, the books stacked in lopsided towers or slotted sideways to make room for chess sets, dusty trophies, and the occasional bottle of aged liquor. You tried to picture Alexia reading for pleasure, and failed. You pictured her instead using books as blunt objects, slamming them shut, leaving them face down in the middle of a chapter as if daring somebody else to tidy up after her.

"I was thinking," you said, "about what you'd be like if you ever took a day off." You raised your glass, then sipped.

Alexia’s lips curled, "I don’t believe in holidays," she said, "Life gets too messy while you’re gone and when you come back, there’s a backlog of mess, and then you need another vacation to recover from it."

You kept your eyes on her, not flinching from the challenge in her tone, "Does anyone ever get close enough to see the mess, or do you have it all cleaned up before the doors open?"

She cocked her head, weighing you, then shrugged as if the entire world was a game of acceptable losses. "Some people don’t know how to look. Some know and pretend they don’t." Her mouth twisted. "You seem like the sort who can’t help but look."

You didn’t disagree, "You seem like the sort who likes being watched." You let the words hang, and the air in the room shifted, sharp and electric.

"That’s dangerous," Alexia said.

"Not for me."

She saluted you with her glass, drained it, and set it down with a sharp clack. "You’re still shaking," she observed, but her voice was lower now, not clinical, something almost hungry in the way she watched you.

You shook your head, then laughed, "Maybe you have that effect on people."

She took a step nearer, then another, until the difference between your bodies was centimetres. You caught yourself tensing, every muscle braced for violence or for touch, you didn’t know which you wanted. With a single finger, Alexia traced the inside of your elbow, then followed the line up to your shoulder. She stopped, considering the curve of your neck as if it was the first time she’d seen it.

"Last chance to run," she said, softly. 

"I’ll take my chances," you replied. 

She smiled wolfish, as if privately delighted and pushed you back, not hard, not gentle. You let it happen, let her guide you until your spine met the bookcase, the impact sending a tremor through every shelf. Several spines toppled, a copy thumped to the carpet.

She kissed you then, open mouthed and demanding, the taste of smoke and whiskey sharp between your teeth. Her hands bracketed your face, thumbs pressing under your jaw, holding you steady as her tongue traced the seam of your lips. You clung to her like she was the only thing sturdy enough to stand up to you.

You parted for air, and she didn’t let go, her hands sliding down to your waist as she tucked her forehead to yours. She let her hands drift down, fingers skimming the bottom of your shirt, and you gazed at her in daring.

“Are you going to ask?” she said, and you almost didn’t know what she meant, then you did.

You pressed a kiss to her lips, then to the line of her strong jaw, “I want you.” you whispered in to her ear.

She exhaled, sharp, and kissed you again, harder this time, her hands sliding under your shirt and up your ribs. You dug your fingers into her hair, pulling her closer, and she made a sound in the back of her throat that you felt in every nerve.

The pressure of her body against yours was overwhelming, and you let her pin you with her hips, the aggression of it both a threat and a promise.

She let go long enough to pull your shirt over your head in one smooth movement, then she just stared at you for a beat, unhurried, as if she had all the time in the world and you were the only thing worth paying attention to.

You felt the flush rising up your neck, but you held her gaze, refusing to look away even as you were bared to her. Alexia nodded approval, then leaned in, tracing her mouth down your throat, the scrape of her teeth a warning. “You sure?” she breathe.

Instead of saying yes, you hooked two fingers into the waistband of her sweatpants and pulled her so close the air shattered, “If I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t be here,” you told her. “And if we’re being honest? I want you to make it impossible for me to leave.”

She blinked, stunned, then let out a slow, shaky laugh, “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“Good,” you said, and watched her resolve crack, just a little, she kissed you again, hands exploring more now, and before you knew it she’d walked you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of her desk.

She lifted you to perch on the edge, Alexia stayed standing, looming above you. She studied you as if she was deciding what to do with a beautiful problem.

You sat obedient, looking up, a flush working down your chest. She trailed her fingers lightly over your shoulder, then your breast, then down your side. “Lay back,” she commanded, and you did, let yourself go limp, arms spread as she pressed at your chest until your back hit the desktop, cold against your spine, breathe stolen from your chest as she bit softly up the column of your throat. Her hands made a map of your body, every line and shadow of muscle catalogued, claimed, learned.

She unbuttoned your jeans, peeled them down your hips, mouth following the line of exposed skin as if she’d never had you before and was determined to do it right this time. You wanted to watch her, but your eyes fluttered closed every time her hands tightened, every time her tongue found a new place to linger.

For a second she went still, her breath hot against the inside of your thigh. You lifted your head just enough to see her watching you, not just with hunger but with something curious behind it. Like she wanted to see if you’d be too proud to beg. You weren’t, not even close.

“Don’t stop,” you said, and she laughed once, soft, then fit her mouth to you as neatly as if it had always belonged there. She licked you open slow, savouring you, coaxing your body to trust her again. She always did this to you, made you forget everything else, made you a body before you remembered you were a person.

And she didn’t stop. Not even when you bucked against her mouth, not even when you moaned her name into your bicep to avoid being heard by the rest of the house. She pinned your knees apart, setting a pace that had you panting before you could remember what you even had to say. At the edge, she slowed, let you hover, dragged her tongue lazy through your folds, letting you tremble while you waited for her to finish you off.

She drew it out for as long as she could stand it, which turned out to be almost as long as you could. Then, in a move you should have expected, she inserted one finger inside you, then two, curling them up until you saw stars, breath catching so hard you thought for a second you might pass out.

She fucked you with her hand, gentle at first, then harder until the sound of it was slick and obscene and the only thing you could hear in the room. She worked you with a patience that bordered on cruelty, your body growing so desperate you ached. When she brought her mouth back to your clit, tongue circling, alternating light and pressure, you came so hard you knocked your head on the edge of the desk.

You shuddered, a sound escaping you that was half sob, half desperate laughter. Only then did Alexia draw back, wiping her mouth with a knuckle, staring at you with the predatory satisfaction of a cat who’s just caught something too slow to escape.

You lay there, spent, limbs heavy and useless, and she ran her hand down your thigh, soothing the aftershocks,she made her way back up your body, mouth trailing heat, and kissed you deep enough that you tasted yourself on her tongue.

You pushed yourself up with a force that surprised even you, fingers skimming the hem of her shirt before she tugged it off herself. The fabric whispered over her skin, and then your mouth was on her tracing the ridges of her stomach, your tongue tracing the line of her abs. Her palm found the back of your head, guiding you higher, until your lips closed around her nipple, already hard against your tongue.

You hooked your fingers into the front of her joggers, the soft fabric clinging to her hips, and tugged at them. Your mouth found her breast again, teeth grazing her nipple, tongue pressing flat against the heat of her skin as you moved to the other.

Your hands slid around her waist, fingers splayed against the small of her back before dipping lower, tracing the curve of her ass. She arched into you, a silent permission, and you took it, your hands slipped into the back of her joggers, your palms cupped the full weight of her ass, kneading the soft flesh.

She made a sound, low and rough, as you dug your fingers in just shy of too hard, before the elastic snapped against her thighs, and then yanked the joggers the rest of the way down, letting them pool at her ankles.

Your mouth trailed down her torso, a slow pilgrimage of heat and teeth and worship, until you reached the soft plane of her lower stomach. Her palm tightened in your hair, not pulling you away but holding you there, a silent plea for more. She lifted one leg planting her foot firmly on the edge of the desk to open herself to you. You moved in without hesitation, your tongue finding the wet heat of her folds, tasting salt and musk and the sharp, taste of her arousal.

She let you kneel, not just let you, but guided you to it, one hand in your hair, the other braced on the desk behind your head. The power shift was instant and total, you knelt at her feet, the taste of her already slick on your tongue, and she watched you with the kind of sharp, proprietary interest usually reserved for chess pieces and difficult problems.

She adjusted her stance, widening, and you took the hint, mouth finding her again, tracing the seam of her pussy with your tongue, then plunging in, slow and deep, until you felt her thighs tense on either side of your face. She said nothing for a long time, just watched, the only sounds her breathing and the wet, obscene noise of your mouth working her. Each time you flicked her clit, her fingers tightened in your hair, a silent command, a praise, a dare.

You used everything you had, tongue, lips, even the tip of your nose, the whole time aware of the way she rocked into your mouth, chasing sensation with a focus that bordered on violence. When you looked up through your lashes, her eyes were half lidded, mouth parted, and you thought you could watch her come apart for hours and never get bored.

But then she did something unexpected, she stepped forward, crowding you until you had to tilt your chin up to keep your mouth where she wanted it, her scent overwhelming, the heat of her body swallowing the air. She rode your face with exquisite control, using you for leverage, one hand still tangled in your hair, the other braced so she could set her own pace.

You let go, surrendered completely. You focused on her clit, the pressure and speed she liked, learning her rhythm, matching it beat for beat. She tasted like sweat and salt and something dark, and you wanted every drop.

She fucked herself on your mouth, hips rolling, and you felt the tremor in her thighs before you heard it in her voice, the way her hands changed from controlling to clutching, how her breath came ragged, how her body started to stutter on the edge. She said your name, just once, a surprised, reverent curse, and then she came, hard, her thighs clamping around your jaw, her hand yanking your head in so close that for a moment you couldn’t breathe. You let her, let her use you until she was done, until her body shivered with aftershocks and a tremor running through her whole body.

Her mouth found yours when she guided you back to your feet, tongue pushing in, tasting herself, and you let her do that, too, let her take everything she wanted from you until you were dizzy with it.

She kept one hand on you as she pulled open drawer after drawer, unhurried, like she had all the time in the world. When she found what she wanted, she didn't ask this time. She stepped into the harness and buckled it with the practiced ease of someone who knew exactly what came next, then slicked the length of it slowly, deliberately, her eyes on you the whole time.

You watched her, nerves buzzing. Alexia was a vision, sweat slicked skin, hair knotted at the nape, abs smeared with a cameo of lipstick and saliva. She stepped toward you, black harness buckled low and hungry between her thighs, the silicone cock rigid and already glistening from her own hand, and you wondered how many times she’d worn it for lovers in this same room with these same bruised bookcases as witness. You held her gaze, refusing to shrink from the wolfish smile as she guided you back and up, seating you on the lip of the desk.

You spread your legs without being asked, and she stepped between them, hands bracing on either side of your hips, chest to chest, heat vibrating between you.

You reached for her, tangled a hand in her hair, but she caught your wrist and pinned it gently behind your back. She leaned in, her tongue flicking the shell of your ear, “This won’t be gentle,” she whispered, as if you had ever wanted it any other way.

She lined the head up, letting it brush slick through your folds, teasing, and you arched your hips, tried to get her inside, but Alexia only smiled, eyes half closed, and held you there, dangling between need and its answer.

“The room is soundproofed,” she said, a purr at the edge of her voice, “Let me hear you” She thrust in slowly, letting you feel every inch, the stretch of it, the exquisite, burning fullness. You gasped, and she captured the sound in a kiss.

Then she started to move, slow at first, and then, as you loosened and opened and gave yourself to her, faster, until the rhythm was desperate and deranged.

She smirked as you got louder, her hand travelled up between your breasts to hod your neck, “Atta girl”

Alexia’s hand stayed at your neck, forcing you to look her in the eye as she fucked you. The approach of orgasm was sharp and hot and wild, nothing like what you’d known before. And just as you started to spiral, she stopped, cock buried inside you, mouth at your ear. “You only come if I say,” she said. “Understand?”

You whimpered, nodding, and she resumed, setting a different rhythm, more brutal now, more like she was trying to hammer something out of you.

“I want you ruined for anyone else,” she said, and you realised you already were.

It hit you sooner than you expected. You squirmed under her grip, the edge rushing up fast and merciless, and heard yourself say it before you could stop it, "I'm going to come."

She showed no signs of stopping, "Did I say you could?"

You couldn't answer, you were past words. She pulled out entirely at the sound of your moan. “Fuck” you groaned legs pressing together.

She tapped your ass once, sharp. "Turn over."

You took your time, rolling slow onto your stomach, and felt her patience snap before you'd finished her hands finding your hips and angling them exactly where she wanted, no negotiation. The desk was cool against your breasts, the edge of it biting into your thighs. Behind you, the blunt head of the cock rested against you, not pushing, just present, a reminder of who was deciding the pace. Her palm came down on your ass, not cruel, but definitive.

"Good girl."

You turned your head and looked back at her over your shoulder, let the look say everything. Her pupils had gone almost fully black, "Do good girls get to come," you said with an innocent tone to it, "boss?"

She leaned over you, cock lined up, one hand twisted in your hair, the other bracing your hip. "Only if you beg," she whispered, almost sweetly.

You didn’t hesitate, pride already long since shredded, "Please," you gasped, and she pushed all the way inside, the force of it making you groan louder than you meant to. It was not gentle, not even close, but she wasn’t rough for the sake of it. Every thrust became its own command, her hips slamming into the backs of your thighs, the desk creaking with each merciless repetition.

"Again," she said. 

"Please, Alexia, let me come, please," you cried, and she bent over your back, mouth at your ear. 

"You take it so well," she growled.

She filled you so utterly that it burned, but you moaned for it, not caring how ragged and raw you sounded. Every muscle in your body locked and trembled. Her hand gripped your jaw, turning your face so you had no choice but to watch the reflection in the glass of a bookcase. You saw yourself, slick and ruined, face shining with sweat, lips parted, hair wild. You’d never seen anything like it, never wanted anything more.

You watched in the glass as Alexia’s hips snapped into you with relentless, perfect tempo, as if she could see your limits and chose to ride just up to the edge and hold there. She kept you at that edge on purpose, until you begged absolutely shamelessly, and even then, she didn’t immediately grant you the release she wanted you wrung dry, fucked past pride or posturing, nothing left to offer but the truth of what you wanted.

She leaned forward, her slick chest plastered to your back, and you felt her mouth at your ear, her voice barely audible, "Come for me," she said, and you came instantly, the whole world narrowing to the fierce wet heat in your belly, the way your body convulsed around her.

You cried out into the wood of the desk, hips bucking as you rode it out, heard yourself sob her name as if it were the only word you remembered. Alexia braced you, held you together as you fell apart, her palm pressed to the small of your back until every spasm had passed. Only then did she slow, letting the movement ease into a lull, gentle now, almost apologetic.

You lay there, cheek pressed to the lacquered wood, body limp and spent. Eventually, Alexia withdrew, the absence of her almost as sharp as the fullness had been. You couldn’t move for a moment, and she seemed to like that, seemed to savour the way you had to relearn your own body after what she’d done to it.

"Oh my god," you managed, voice muffled by the desk or maybe just your own disbelief.

She laughed, still bent over you, and kissed the back of your neck. It was the softest thing she’d done all night. She stood, slid the harness off with a casual click of the buckles, and tossed it onto the side table. She found her shirt and cleaned you up with it, her hands surprisingly gentle, then turned you to face her.

You looked up at her, still breathless, and she smiled really smiled at the sight of you. She laced a hand behind your neck, drew you in, and kissed you with a tenderness that was almost jarring after what had just happened. When she broke away, she pressed her forehead to yours, and both of you breathed in tandem for a while. Then she let herself drop into the chair behind her desk, sprawled out, utterly self satisfied, like a cat in a sunbeam.

Alexia watched you, her gaze soft but still predatory, as if she was planning the next move already, you rested your heels onto the arms of her chair as you lay back on her desk.

The bar wasn't somewhere you usually came alone, yet here you were. A long week had finally ended, and the thought of going straight home to your empty apartment had somehow sounded worse than sitting in a crowded bar with strangers.

At least here there was noise, a bit of life, something to distract you.

You sat at the bar, nursing a drink you were in no rush to finish, occasionally glancing towards the television mounted above the bottles behind the counter.

The place was busy, people squeezed around tables, couples laughed in corners, groups of friends shouted over the music.

Nobody paid much attention to anyone else which was why it took you a second to realise someone was looking at you.

You felt it before you saw it, a pair of eyes lingering. You glanced up and froze.

Across the room sat a woman you'd never seen before, brunette hair, sharp features. The sort of confidence that seemed to radiate from her without any effort. The second your eyes met, she smiled, not politely or accidentally a smile meant entirely for you.

Your stomach immediately betrayed you, the sensible thing would've been to look away. Instead, you held her gaze, the smile transformed into a smirk, and you watched her lift her glass almost like a silent greeting.

Before you could stop yourself, you mirrored the gesture, something flashed in her eyes, amusement, maybe victory. You weren't sure, but suddenly your drink wasn't nearly as interesting anymore.

A few minutes passed or maybe only seconds, you couldn't tell, but every time you looked away, your eyes found their way back to he and every single time she was already looking.

The ridiculous thing was that neither of you seemed embarrassed about it, most people would've looked away eventually. She never did. Then, without warning, she stood.

Your pulse jumped, no, surely not you thought to yourself, but she was already moving through the crowd walking directly towards you, each step seemed impossibly confident as if she already knew exactly how this conversation was going to go.

She stopped beside your stool close enough now that you could see the tiny flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, close enough that she somehow became even more attractive.

"Hi." Her voice was smooth, warm and dangerously charming.

You cleared your throat, "Hi."

A grin immediately tugged at her lips, "Nervous?"

You laughed, "Confident, aren't you?"

"Usually." She tilted her head, "Although I have spent the last ten minutes wondering if you're going to tell me to go away."

"You walked across the entire bar without knowing"

Alexia shrugged, "Worth the risk."

Your heart did something deeply unhelpful, "That's a lot of confidence for someone approaching a stranger."

"It's a lot of staring for someone who wasn't interested."

You couldn't even argue, because she was right, Alexia's eyes dropped briefly to your drink, then back to you.

"I'm Alexia."

The way she said it made it sound important, not because she expected you to know who she was. Just because she knew exactly who she was. You smiled, "I'm—"

"Beautiful."

You blinked, "What?"

"I was going to let you tell me your name." Alexia looked completely unapologetic, "But then I got distracted."

Heat immediately rushed into your face, the smile she gave you in response was downright smug.

"See." She pointed at you, "That."

"That what?"

"The blush."

"There is no blush."

"There absolutely is."

You laughed, the sound seemed to make her soften slightly. For the first time since she'd walked over, something gentler appeared beneath all the confidence, something genuine.

She looked at you for a second longer than necessary, then said quietly, "I've been trying not to come over here all night."

Your eyebrows lifted, "Oh?"

Alexia nodded, "Thought I'd make a fool of myself."

That surprised you, because nothing about this woman suggested uncertainty, "And yet here you are."

Her gaze met yours steady and unwavering, "Yeah."

The smile that followed was smaller now, more honest, "Turns out the thought of not talking to you felt worse."

For a moment the noise of the bar seemed to disappear, the music, conversations, the glasses clinking together. None of it mattered, because suddenly all you could focus on was the woman standing in front of you.

The woman who had looked at you from across a crowded room and somehow made everyone else disappear.

Alexia glanced at the empty stool beside you, then back at you, "So." She rested an arm against the bar, "Are you going to let me buy you another drink?"

You smiled, "Depends."

Her eyes sparkled, "On what?"

You leaned slightly closer, close enough to see her own confidence falter for the first time all evening, "Whether you're planning on flirting with me all night."

Alexia's grin was immediate hopelessly pleased, "Oh." She pulled the stool out and sat down beside you, "I was planning on doing a lot worse than that."

The words settled between you dangerously. The kind of comment that could be interpreted a hundred different ways.

The kind that made your pulse immediately pick up whilst Alexia looked entirely too pleased with herself.

You shook your head, trying and failing not to smile, "Does that line usually work?"

"Line?"

"The one where you pretend to be charming."

"Pretend?" she repeated, placing a hand dramatically over her chest.

You laughed, Alexia's eyes lingered on you for a moment a second too long. Something shifted, the teasing was still there, but now there was something else underneath it.

The bartender appeared and Alexia ordered another round without taking her eyes off you, "You're very confident."

"So I've been told."

"You don't seem worried I might reject you."

Alexia considered that, then shrugged, "I don't think you will."

The certainty should have annoyed you, instead, it made your stomach flutter, "And if you're wrong?"

Her expression softened not by much, just enough to notice, "Then I'd thank you for the conversation and spend the next week being embarrassed." The honesty caught you off guard, Alexia noticed immediately, "You didn't expect that answer."

"No."

She smiled into her drink, "People assume confidence means fear doesn't exist."

"And does it?"

Her gaze lifted to yours, "All the time."

The admission hung there suddenly the conversation felt different, more personal, less like a game.

You found yourself studying her, the way she held herself, the way she watched you while pretending not to, the way she seemed completely present in every moment.

It was unsettling, most conversations drifted, this one didn't, Alexia's attention never wandered, not once.

A group squeezed past behind her, and she shifted her stool closer without thinking. The movement left her shoulder brushing yours, neither of you moved away and neither of you acknowledged it.

You became painfully aware of every point of contact, the warmth of her arm, the scent of her perfume, the tiny smile threatening at the corner of her mouth.

She knew exactly what she was doing, "You're staring again."

You rolled your eyes, "You started it."

"I know."

"You admit that awfully easily."

Alexia laughed, "Why would I deny it?" The answer came so naturally that it stole your next response, "You have really expressive eyes, you know."

"Do I?"

"Very." You looked away,which only made her grin wider, "There. You did it again."

"Did what?"

"Got shy."

You immediately scoffed, "I am not shy."

"You're blushing again."

"I'm not."

"You absolutely are."

The look she gave you made it impossible to maintain eye contact for more than a few seconds.

Every time you met her gaze, the air seemed to tighten as though the rest of the room had disappeared and the only thing that mattered was the space between the two of you.

Alexia leaned forward slightly, not enough to invade your space, but enough that you noticed, enough that your attention dropped briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes.

A mistake, because the second you looked back up, you knew she'd seen it her smile became almost unbearably smug. “What?”

Alexia took a sip of her drink, slowly, deliberately, then she set the glass down, "Nothing."

The liar.

You both knew exactly what had happened and judging by the look in her eyes, she was enjoying it far too much.

The conversation continued. One drink became two then three.

Neither of you seemed interested in leaving, every topic somehow turned into flirting. Every joke became an excuse to lean a little closer. Every glance lasted a little longer than it should have. Eventually there was a pause, not an awkward one, the opposite, the kind where neither person feels the need to fill the silence.

Alexia was the first to break it, her fingers drumming against the condensation on her glass, then, with a kind of lazy certainty, she let her hand fall to your knee. Not an accident, not a conversational pat. Her palm pressed warm and steady just above your kneecap, the pressure light but deliberate. You felt a slow, electric ripple climb your thigh, radiating outward from that single point of contact. Your breath caught in your throat.

She didn’t look at her hand or at your lap. Instead, she watched your face carefully, waited for the microexpression that would tell her how to proceed. You tried to keep your face neutral, but it was impossible. Alexia’s thumb drifted, slow, tracing a circle on bare skin just below the hem of your dress.

“Is this okay?” she asked quietly. The question was so uncharacteristically gentle, it almost broke your focus.

You blinked, then nodded, hoping you didn’t look as desperate as you felt.

Her smile deepened, eyes glinting. “You can tell me to stop,” she murmured.

The implication, she wanted you to say don’t was devastating. You managed, “I don’t want you to.”

She squeezed your knee, her hand moving fractionally higher, pinky brushing the inside of your thigh. You suppressed a shiver, acutely aware of every molecule of space between you and her and every molecule she was now invading.

The bartender dropped off your new drinks, misreading the intimacy as a casual touch. You reached for your glass a little too quickly, almost knocking it over. Alexia grinned, leaning in, her voice pitched for only you to hear. “You seem nervous.”

You took a sip, swallowing against the heat in your cheeks. “You keep saying that.”

“Maybe I like it.”

You tried for an eye roll, but your voice was softer than you meant it to be, “You’re a menace.”

“I’m very well behaved,” she said, the words landing somewhere between truth and open dare.

You glanced at her, weighing it, and found yourself thinking about what well behaved could possibly mean to someone like Alexia. Her hand had not moved from your thigh. If anything, she’d gotten bolder, her palm sliding by literal centimetres higher each time you answered a question, until now it was only the thickness of your dress between her skin and the rest of your leg.

Alexia leaned closer still, her temple nearly touching yours, the air around her glittering with the sharp notes of her perfume. “Tell me something true,” she said.

You pulled in a breath, felt your pulse hammer inside your wrist, “Something true?”

She nodded, watching your lips. Her pupils were blown wide, dark, a little dangerous.

You thought about lying, about saying something clever, but the truth snuck out. “I haven’t done this before.”

Alexia stilled, her hand pausing mid-motion. “Done what?”

“This,” you gestured vaguely at the two of you, the not-quite-touch, the careful choreography. “Let a stranger pick me up at a bar.”

She grinned, slow and predatory. “I’m hardly impersonal,” she said. “I’d like to think we’re both somewhat invested at this point.”

“Somewhat,” she conceded, though she could barely remember the last time she’d felt this alive and fidgety in her own skin.

Alexia’s hand, still at your thigh, moved with slow intent now, her knuckles grazing the delicate skin above your knee, then wandering upward, fingers splayed, as if claiming territory. Your breath came shallow, and you crossed your legs, trapping her hand between them. She didn’t seem bothered by the escalation if anything, she seemed to approve. Her lips curved upward, like she’d just watched a dog perform a new trick. She looked at you in a way that made your whole body feel like the center of a searchlight beam.

“Tell me another thing,” Alexia murmured, voice pitched for your ear alone. “Something only I get to know.”

You considered, momentarily at a loss. “That feels unfair,” you said, “since you already know how to make my heart beat faster.”

Alexia’s thumb drew a lazy semicircle along the inside of your thigh. “Then I’ll trade,” she said. “I’ll tell you something first.”

You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you nodded.

“When I walked over here, I was so nervous I nearly forgot how to speak English,” Alexia said, her eyes darting to yours to see if you’d buy it.

“I don’t believe you,” you said.

“You’re right.” Her grin flashed. “I was only nervous for about five seconds, but they were very intense seconds.”

You snorted, and Alexia’s hand squeezed your thigh, anchoring you to the moment. “Are you always like this?” you asked, without looking away.

Alexia tilted her head as though considering. “Not always.” Her expression gentled, suddenly earnest. “Usually only when I actually like someone.”

You blinked, trying to process the cliché and sincerity in one breath, “I don’t believe you,” you said again, but there wasn’t any heat behind it.

Alexia shrugged, as if to say, take it or leave it. “Truth or dare, then?”

“Are we twelve?”

“Would you prefer spin the bottle?” She laughed at her own joke, and the sound did something strange to your nervous system. You found yourself grinning despite the tension, despite her hand, despite the fact that your skin was now abuzz with anticipation.

“Truth,” you said, because you genuinely wanted to know what she’d ask.

Alexia’s eyes went soft for a moment, like she saw something she liked. “What do you want to happen next?”

The question stole your breath. You’d been bracing for innuendo, for some predictable escalation, but this was much riskier. It required an answer, a real one.

You took a sip of your drink, stalling, the ice clinked against your teeth.

You met Alexia’s gaze and said, “I want you to keep touching me.”

If she was surprised, she didn’t show it, if anything, her satisfaction sharpened. “Permission granted, then.”

You expected her to move her hand immediately, to go for the dramatic show, but instead she left her hand exactly where it was palm firm, fingers spread, thumb still tracing that single path, up and up, until your whole leg felt like a live wire. There was no hurry, she seemed to know exactly how long you could stand to be touched and how long you could stand not to be.

Neither of you spoke for a moment. All the words in your body seemed to have gathered somewhere behind your ribcage, hiding. Alexia’s thumb edged beneath the hem of your dress, just a centimeter, maybe two. The contact was delicate, almost accidental, but the intent behind it was not. It was a dare, pure and simple.

You forgot how to breathe.

Alexia leaned her face against her palm, elbow on the bar. She looked at you, eyebrows high and lazy. “You’re very easy to read, you know that?”

You wished you were better at lying, wished you could pull off even a little of her composure. “Not my fault,” you said, voice embarrassingly hoarse.

Alexia smiled, pleased as a cat, and then said, “I’d invite you to get out of here with me, but I don’t want to be rude.”

You almost laughed, but all that came out was a small, open-mouthed sound. “Is that why you’ve been doing this the whole time?” you asked, gesturing at your thigh, your face, the space between you.

Alexia shrugged, not even pretending. “Maybe I just like making you blush.”

“This is a lot for a first conversation,” you said, though you weren’t pushing her away. Every ounce of you wanted her closer.

“I’m not in the habit of apologising for knowing what I want.” Her fingers played a restless tattoo on your leg. “But if it’s too much—”

“It’s not,” you cut in, surprising yourself with the urgency in your voice. “It’s not too much.”

The look she gave you was so direct, so unwavering, it made you wonder if you’d ever actually been seen before tonight.

“Okay,” Alexia said, soft and steady. “So let’s go.”

You felt for your purse, hands a little clumsy, aware of how sharply the world had contracted to the two of you. The rest of the bar was background noise, lights smeared by alcohol and adrenaline. Alexia watched you reach for your coat, then she stood, not offering a hand because she seemed to know you wouldn’t want that. Instead, she waited, gaze never leaving you.

Outside, the Barcelona night air hit you like a splash of cold water. It should have helped, it didn't. If anything, stepping away from the noise of the bar only made you more aware of Alexia walking beside you.

The city buzzed around you, cars drifted past, distant laughter echoed down the street. Yet somehow all of your attention remained fixed on the woman at your side.

You had barely taken three steps onto the pavement when Alexia glanced towards the darkness beyond the entrance, "Get the car."

The words were calm, matter of fact, as though she'd done this a thousand times before.

Your eyebrows furrowed, a figure emerged from the shadows, a woman. A little taller than Alexia, professional, completely unsurprised, "Yes, boss."

Boss? Before you could process the exchange, she was already moving away.

You stared after her, then slowly turned back towards Alexia.

Alexia, meanwhile, looked entirely unbothered, almost amused by your expression, "What?"

You narrowed your eyes, "Nothing." Her smile suggested she knew you were lying.

The questions immediately started piling up in your head. Who was that? Why had she called Alexia boss? Why was there apparently a woman waiting in the shadows for instructions? And perhaps most importantly, what exactly did Alexia do?

The sensible part of your brain told you to ask, the other part was currently too distracted by the way she was looking at you.

So instead you said nothing, Alexia's smile widened, "You're thinking very loudly."

"I'm trying to decide whether you're secretly running a criminal empire."

She laughed, the sound warm and genuine, "I can neither confirm nor deny that."

"That's exactly what someone running a criminal empire would say."

"Good point."

You were still trying to work out whether she was joking when headlights appeared at the curb, a sleek black Rolls Royce glided to a stop in front of you.

You blinked, once, twice.

The same woman stepped out from the driver's seat and without hesitation she walked around the vehicle and opened the rear door for you.

Your brain completely short circuited, Alexia seemed far more interested in your reaction than the car itself, "You look concerned."

"I'm standing outside a bar with a stranger whilst another opens the door of a Rolls Royce for me."

"Fair."

The woman remained waiting patiently as though this was all perfectly normal, which somehow made it stranger.

Alexia stepped closer, not enough to crowd you, but enough that the warmth of her presence settled beside you again. Then her hand found the small of your back, the touch wasn't possessive it was reassuring.

You looked up at her, the city lights reflected in her eyes, "Trust me?" she asked quietly.

The question should have been difficult, it wasn't not really, because despite the mystery, the unanswered questions and despite her being a complete stranger you met an hour ago you found yourself nodding.

Alexia's smile softened, "Good girl."

You rolled your eyes immediately, "Don't make it weird."

"Too late."

The woman holding the door looked suspiciously close to smiling, you pointed at her, "See? Even she's judging you."

Alexia glanced towards the driver, the driver instantly looked away, professional once more, "I pay her to pretend I'm charming."

You laughed, the sound escaped before you could stop it, Alexia's expression immediately brightened as though she'd won something, "That joke wasn't funny."

"It was a little funny."

"It wasn't."

"It was." Still smiling and despite your hesitation and better judgment, you ducked into the car. The interior was ridiculous, soft leather, ambient lighting, enough space to comfortably fit half the bar.

You slid across the seat trying very hard not to look impressed, trying and failing, a moment later Alexia climbed in beside you.

The door closed and the outside world vanished instantly, silence settled around you, it was private, comfortable and dangerously intimate.

The driver pulled away from the curb and as the city lights began sliding past the windows, you finally turned towards Alexia.

Alexia watched you for a long moment, her eyes so steady and unblinking it was impossible to decide if she was about to say something of consequence or if she was simply cataloguing which way your hair fell, whether you’d keep avoiding her gaze, how you were pressing your knees together under the hem of your dress. The car glided through the city, the silence between you both like a suspended breath.

Then, without warning, Alexia curved her hand around your jaw and kissed you.

There was no hesitation. No lean in, no shy, searching question in her eyes. One heartbeat you were staring forward at your own reflection in the privacy glass, the next you were tasting her: cold gin, salt from a half-remembered rim, something sweet you couldn’t place. She kissed the way she spoke, direct and unapologetic. Her lips were warm, soft but insistent, and her fingers splayed against the side of your neck, anchoring you in the leather-wrapped capsule of the car. It could have been rude if it hadn’t been so fast, so smooth, so exactly the right amount of pressure.

You froze, a breathless half second, not from shock, not exactly, but from the simple fact of being chosen, of being seen, and then immediately being claimed. Her mouth slid from yours to the corner of your jaw, then back again, as if she’d found the first taste promising and wanted to make absolutely sure. The confidence of it, the way Alexia didn’t bother with permission, only checked with pressure and the answering heat of your lips against hers it undid you like a single, practiced knot.

She pulled back, barely. Her forehead tipped against yours, the scent of her perfume mixing with your quickening breath. Close up, you could see the faint constellation of freckles across her nose, the near invisible scar above her left eyebrow. Her pulse beat beneath your fingertips where your hands had landed, one against her shoulder, one clutching the lapel of her blazer.

“Too much?” she murmured, not even bothering to disguise her amusement.

You were supposed to say something witty, reassert some sense of control over the situation, but all you could muster was, “No. Not enough, actually.”

Alexia laughed, and the sound vibrated through her chest to yours. She kissed you again, slower this time, a measured escalation, her tongue flicking the seam of your mouth before she deepened it. She tasted like adrenaline, like the distilled sharpness of citrus and want. Your body answered before your mind caught up, and you leaned into her, hungry, desperate to make up for every kiss you hadn’t had before this one.

It became clear within minutes that Alexia’s mouth was not the only part of her that lived on the offensive. Her hand found your thigh again, sliding up, warm and greedy, and this time it made no pretense of stopping at polite borders. She gripped, squeezed gently, fingers kneading the soft muscle under your dress hem, as if confirming that you were real and here and entirely at her disposal.

Alexia’s hand drifted with the certainty of someone who had never once been denied. She pressed higher, fingers trailing over the impossible heat where your thighs met, the only barrier a thin band of cotton. The touch wasn’t tentative nothing about Alexia seemed to be, her palm settled at the apex of your legs, fingers closing with almost lazy possession.

The whole world funneled to a single point of contact, you barely registered that the city was flying by outside, that the woman driving the car was a living, breathing witness to the slow burn undoing happening in the back seat.

Alexia’s lips moved to your neck, the pressure of her mouth making you tilt your head back against the seat. She kissed the soft skin under your jaw, then lower, slow and insistent, until your whole body was a single receptive nerve ending. You tried to bite back the noise that wanted to escape when her fingers pressed in, tracing the shape of you through the fabric, but a traitorous gasp slipped out anyway.

Your eyes flew open and landed in the rearview mirror. The driver’s gaze met yours for a heartbeat, cool, unreadable, with the faintest ghost of a smile before she looked away. A flush of something shamed and thrilling ran through you.

“Alexia,” you whispered, meaning it as a warning, a plea, something. She paused, her lips at your ear, her hand unmoving but present, holding you hostage against your own body.

She followed your gaze to the mirror, her lips quirked up. “Cata,” she called, voice just loud enough to be heard over the car’s hush. Like she shouldn’t have had to ask.

“Yes, boss,” the woman replied, sliding a pair of earbuds into place, a low, thrumming music started, insistent, and a moment later, the privacy partition slid up, transforming the rear cabin into a cocoon.

Now it was only you and Alexia, and the velvet black of the car, and the hum of terrible possibility.

Alexia’s hand moved again, this time with no witnesses. She gathered the hem of your dress in her fist and slid her palm beneath, skin to skin. Her touch was purposeful, a slow, winding trail up your thigh until her fingers brushed the edge of your underwear. She lingered there, just barely touching, reading your whole body through the trembling in your legs.

She kissed you again, deeper now, her tongue a soft demand. One of her hands tangled in your hair, the other pressed into your cunt through the thin layer of fabric, fingers moving in an excruciating, perfect rhythm.

You arched into her, breath coming short and fast. She nipped at your bottom lip. “Is this what you wanted?” she asked, not as a tease but a genuine question, her voice ragged around the edges.

You nodded, probably too eagerly.

Her mouth traced a slow line from your throat to your collarbone, then back up to the soft skin behind your ear. "Lift," she murmured against it, barely louder than the hum of the car.

You obeyed without thinking, hips rising, and she drew your underwear down in one unhurried motion, leaving it somewhere forgotten around your calves.

The air hit you first, then her hand, her thumb found your clit with the same faultless confidence she brought to everything else, pressing once, firmly, before beginning slow, deliberate circles that made your breath stutter and your fingers curl against the leather seat.

Your head tipped back against the headrest as her fingers pressed in, slow and deliberate, two knuckles deep before pausing there, letting you feel the stretch of it, the unbearable fullness of almost. Her thumb kept its own time, unhurried, entirely indifferent to the stillness of her fingers and then, without withdrawing, they began to move, curling upward on each slow stroke, finding the soft spot of you from the inside. 

The pace of it. The way her fingers explored with such calm, with such patient violence. It undid every prepared defence, all the quick answers you thought you’d have for this moment. Your hands went to her wrist, not to stop her but to anchor yourself, to make her real, the hard lines of her hand pressed so warm between your thighs.

The car blurred by city lights you barely registered the route, but the only place that mattered was here, in the tight private world of the backseat and the mess Alexia was making of your body. Her mouth returned to yours, rough this time, her tongue a slow demand, her breathing totally unlike the cool, precise woman she’d been at the bar.

You’d meant to perform better at this. You’d meant to be the kind of person who played hard to get, who made her work, made her wait. Instead, you were unraveling all over her hand, hips pressing up, head tipped back so you barely even saw her anymore, only felt the relentless, exacting motion of her fingers.

“Good?” she asked, voice a hoarse promise, lips brushing against your ear.

You couldn’t speak. You had to search for words, any words at all, but all that came out was a whimper. You clung to her shoulder, the soft wool of her jacket, as if something about the fabric could stabilise you. It didn’t.

Alexia withdrew her fingers, and you nearly whimpered at the loss until she brought her hand, glistening, to her own lips and sucked her fore and middle fingers into her mouth. Her eyes never left yours as she tasted you, and she smiled, a lazy, wicked thing, before she pressed her damp thumb to your lips and said, “Try.”

You did. You licked it, and her whole expression softened, she bit her own lip as if surprised.

“Jesus,” she said, and you felt every syllable like a bruise on your chest.

Alexia crowded closer, lips still parted from the last kiss. She tugged at your knee, insisting it fall open for her. You let it. She moved down the seat, somehow graceful in the confined space, until she knelt on the floor between your legs. There was a reverence to the way she looked at you then, a beat of assessment, the hot, clinical attention of someone memorising every square centimetre of bare skin and shiver.

The world was a dark blur outside the windows, the car eating the city block by block. Inside, only Alexia’s hands, her mouth, and the feverish heat pooling at the base of your spine.

She reached up, fingers spanning your thigh, and leaned in, lips grazing the sensitive skin just above your knee, a single deliberate brush that made every hair stand at attention. She trailed upward, slow as torture, kissing your inner thigh, then biting, just enough to leave a mark. You felt the indentation of her teeth long after she moved higher.

You didn’t dare look out the windows, certain the city would be watching, even though you both knew the glass was blacked out. All you could see was Alexia, her head haloed by the car’s ambient light, her eyes locked on yours as she kissed, licked, nipped her way toward the heat between your legs.

She hovered, a breath away from where you ached for her, and you could feel her exhale, warm and humid, her mouth finally, finally pressing in and up. The first pass of her tongue nearly made you convulse, a shock of sensation that stole your breath. She licked you slowly, methodically, hands holding your thighs apart, steady even as they trembled under her grip.

There was nothing gentle in the way she worked you open. She sucked, then licked, then sucked again, and when you gasped or moaned she’d smile, the vibration of it sending you higher. She was thorough, insistent, the kind of lover who wanted proof of her own effect, who liked to leave you shaky and overwhelmed and a little ruined.

You dug your hands into her hair, the silky strands fisting between your fingers, and she responded by moaning into you, the sound so raw and animal it short circuited your brain. Her tongue circled your clit, then pressed, then flicked so fast and so relentless that you lost track of time, of the world, of everything except the wet, obscene sounds and the mounting, unbearable pressure.

She slipped two fingers into you, the same ones that had made you fall apart already, and curled them just right, just as her mouth closed around you and sucked you hard enough to tear a cry from your chest.

Her tongue slid lower, firm and slow as a prayer, flattening along your clit until your vision shimmered at the edges. Then, a slick tease, she pressed the tip just inside you. She drew lazy, savouring circles with her tongue, working you open in increments so small it was almost agony, and when you dug your heel into the seat edge for leverage, she moaned as if you’d given her a gift.

You wanted to say something clever, something cutting, anything to keep this from feeling like pure, animal surrender, but Alexia stole every syllable from you, translating want into sensation, pleasure into pressure, until all you could do was gasp and cling. The world outside the car ceased to exist. There was only the rough texture of the leather beneath your hips, the velvet slide of her tongue, and the steady, unrelenting rhythm she set with her fingers.

She alternated between licking you and fucking you with her tongue, one moment teasing the rim, the next thrusting deep enough you felt your whole pelvis lift off the seat. Her hands, palms broad and sure, held you open, anchored you so tight it was impossible to run, though your entire body wanted to arch away and into her at once. Each time you came close to shattering, she’d back off, tongue circling languidly, a slow drag that made you sob with frustration, then she’d return, hungry and insistent, as if she was intent on mapping you molecule by molecule.

You barely recognised the sounds coming out of your mouth, didn’t believe yourself capable of the high, desperate noises echoing off the car’s plush interior. Alexia ate you like she was starving, like the world had ended and all that was left was this, your body, her mouth, the heat and salt and slick of you. You felt the build start low, a gathering storm, your thighs trembling so hard you worried you’d break her grip.

She must have felt it, the way your pulse skyrocketed, because her tongue redoubled, fast and relentless over your clit, and when she pressed inside you again, it was with her whole mouth, her face buried so deep she could have been breathing you. You came so hard you saw a burst of white behind your eyelids, your hips jackknifing off the seat as you lost all sense of yourself, of her, of the car or the city or even your own name.

When it passed, you were boneless, melting back into the seat with a sound that was half laugh, half staggered sob. Alexia surfaced, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes dark and almost tender.

"Lift," Alexia said, and you surfaced slowly, hands still trailing absently along your own calves, the word arriving a beat late. She was sliding your knickers back up your legs, matter of fact, almost tender. "What's your address? I'll have Cata drop you home."

You almost laughed. You had let this woman pull you into a blacked out car and come apart in her mouth, and yet something in you toyed at giving her your postcode. "Just drop me back at the bar." Alexia almost smiled, as if she’d expected that answer, maybe she had. Maybe this was the kind of thing she did on Fridays, collect women from dim bars, corral them into luxury vehicles, and see what they’d let her get away with before midnight, you only half cared. Your whole body still pulsed with spent energy, core tight and legs jelly weak, and you didn’t trust yourself to speak.

Alexia’s hands were smooth, methodical as she helped you gather yourself, dress tugged discreetly back into position, wrists steadied together momentarily. Not possessive, but careful, as if she knew exactly how fragile a person could be when they’d just let go of a lifetime’s worth of control in the span of a half hour. For a second you almost expected her to light you a cigarette.

“Cata?” Alexia called out after pressing a button near your head, as the divider slid down and the muted thrum of the city returned through her open window. “Back to Calle del Bruc, please.”

No one asked for clarification, Cata’s tone was even, automatic, “Yes, boss.”

Alexia looked at you sidelong, one corner of her mouth quirking in a private joke. “Don’t worry, there’s a shop at the corner if you need a tactical recovery snack.”

It hit you, belatedly, that you might actually be starving, “Don’t suppose you’d let me walk it off?”

“In those shoes?” Alexia made an exaggerated show of glancing at your feet. “You’d make it one block.”

She had a point. Your heels dug into the thick carpet, ankles wobbling, and there was something indecent about offering the stranger in a tailored suit this much leverage over your literal ability to stand, but you didn’t hate it. Instead, a laugh tumbled out, unguarded and light, and Alexia softened to it, slow, genuine, the sort of smile that only happened when she wasn’t trying for effect.

“Okay,” you said, “I’ll take the ride.”

Alexia stayed angled toward you, every line of her posture open, the pants of her suit stretched tight over muscled thighs, her fingers steepled together like someone interviewing for a position only you had no doubt who was being sized up for potential.

“Is this where I’m supposed to say something clever?” you asked.

She shrugged, not breaking eye contact, “Only if you want to.”

You could feel the blush return, but you didn’t try to hide it this time. “I don’t know if I can outdo you.”

“Maybe that’s not the point.” Alexia’s tone was different, now, less tease, more invitation. “Maybe you just enjoy the ride.”

The car settled into a red light outside a late night panadería. Neon flickered against the window, painting the interior in pinks and blues. Alexia tilted her head, as if waiting for you to look away. You didn’t.

Soon the club the night started in came back into view, your hand reached for the handle before you could the door was open Cata standing tall above you in your seat.

You got out from the car, legs unsteady on the pavement, almost forgetting the state of your own body, the way heat still flickered up your thighs with every movement. Cata gave you a single nod, bored or respectful, you couldn’t tell, then ducked back inside, returning to whatever in cabin playlist she’d engineered for herself.

The street seemed too bright, the laughter spilling from the bar at double volume, the world now in high contrast after the hush and luxury of the car. Alexia moved over into the seat you had been in, she looked as immaculate as she had hours ago, utterly untouchable, except for the smear of pink at the corner of her mouth, nearly the same colour as your lipstick.

You wanted to say something, anything to break the spell of the night, but the words were stuck behind your tongue. You were suddenly aware of what it meant to be seen together this way, to be half dressed and full of teeth marks, to have been made open so thoroughly and so quickly you barely remembered your own rules for how moments like this should play out.

“I didn’t get your name,” Alexia said, into the silence between you.

The breeze hit first. You folded your arms against it, against her, against the whole unbearable composure of her still sitting there. “I don’t think that matters much now, does it.” Not a question, you held her gaze one beat longer than was wise. “Bye... Boss.”

She smiled at your quip, you saw it fall the moment you turned away.

The bar door was loud and bright and full of strangers. Behind you, a car door closed, and the engine pulled away down the street as you stepped back into the place it all started.

The Rolls Royce merged silently back into the late night traffic, for the first few minutes, nobody spoke.

Cata's hands rested confidently on the steering wheel, eyes scanning mirrors as much as the road ahead. Years of driving for Alexia had taught her that silence was rarely uncomfortable.

Tonight, however, it felt... different, she caught Alexia's reflection in the rearview mirror still looking out of the window, watching the bar disappear into the distance.

"You want me to turn around?" Cata asked eventually.

Alexia didn't answer immediately, "No." A beat passed, "...Keep driving."

Cata's eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly.

Interesting.

💪🏼

The wrought iron gates rolled open before the car reached them.

The estate beyond was more fortress than home, hidden behind centuries old stone walls and towering cypress trees. Cameras tracked the Rolls Royce as it wound up the long drive before stopping beneath the portico.

Before Cata could step out to open the door, the front door swung open.

"About time." Patri bounded down the front steps wearing an oversized hoodie, a packet of crisps tucked under one arm, "We were taking bets."

Cata sighed, "I told you not to say any-"

"You also bet." Patri grinned, "And I won."

Alexia climbed from the car, smoothing invisible creases from her jacket, "What exactly did you win?"

Patri held up a handful of notes triumphantly, "Mapi said you'd be back in an hour."

"I said two," Ingrid called from the doorway, drying her hands on a tea towel.

"I guessed you'd bring someone home." Patri looked dramatically offended, "Which, for the record, would've won if you hadn't decided to be mysterious for once."

Alexia shot her an unimpressed look, "You're all exhausting."

"We know," Mapi replied, appearing beside Ingrid with a mug of coffee in hand, "That's why you keep us."

Inside, the house smelled unmistakably of fresh bread, garlic and slow cooked tomatoes, Ingrid smiled warmly as Alexia stepped through the doorway, "I kept your dinner warm."

Alexia loosened the top button of her suit jacket, "You always do, thank you"

That finally earned a small smile, the kitchen was already occupied, Misa sat at the island cleaning one of the training pistols they used in the private range beneath the house.

She glanced up briefly, "No bullet holes?"

"No."

"No stab wounds?"

"No."

"Disappointing."

Alexia rolled her eyes, "It was a quiet evening."

From the corner of the room came a snort, everyone turned, Pina was leaning against the counter, methodically sharpening a knife with the kind of concentration most people reserved for crossword puzzles.

Without looking up she asked, "So. Was she worth being late for the meeting you called?"

Silence, even Patri stopped eating, Mapi slowly lowered her coffee, Ingrid looked between them all, Alexia reached into the fridge, retrieving a bottle of water."I don't know what you're talking about."

Six voices answered simultaneously, "Boss."

Alexia unscrewed the cap, "I met someone."

Patri slammed both palms onto the counter,"I KNEW IT!"

"You owe me fifty euros," Jana said without missing a beat.

Patri groaned dramatically before fishing money from her pocket, "Worst night ever."

"You literally won the first bet."

"I've now lost the important one."

Mapi folded her arms, "So you met someone..." Alexia nodded, "...and?"

"There isn't an 'and.'"

"There is always an 'and,'" Misa replied.

Alexia took a long drink of water, hoping it would somehow delay the interrogation, but it didn't.

Pina finally looked up from the knife she'd been sharpening for Ingrid after complaining none of the knives she used for cooking was sharp enough, "What was her name?"

Alexia froze just for a fraction of a second, "...I don't know."

The room fell silent, Patri blinked, "You..."

Mapi blinked, "...don't know?" Mapi finished for Patri

Even Cata turned around, "You didn't ask?"

Alexia rested the bottle on the counter, "I did."

"And?"

"She didn't tell me."

Patri stared, then burst into hysterical laughter, "Oh, this is priceless."

Mapi joined in, "The great Alexia. The woman who has politicians returning missed calls. The woman whose enemies cross continents to avoid her...got rejected by a woman whose name she doesn't even know."

"I wasn't rejected."

"No?" Mapi grinned, "Then what's her name?"

Alexia's silence answered for her, Patri was laughing so hard she had tears in her eyes, "I love her already."

Ingrid hid a smile behind her mug.

Cata folded her arms, "So what did she call you? If you didn’t find the time to get names"

Alexia couldn't stop the smallest smile from tugging at her lips, "'Boss.'"

That only made everyone laugh harder, Pina slid the newly sharpened knife onto the counter and, for the first time all evening, smiled, "Interesting."

Alexia looked over, "What?"

Pina shrugged, "You've spent years making people fear you." She tilted her head thoughtfully, "And tonight..." A knowing smile spread across her face, "...someone walked away."

The laughter around the kitchen faded, Alexia found herself looking toward the dark windows overlooking the grounds.

She could still picture you disappearing through the door without looking back, without giving your name, or asking who Alexia really was.

For perhaps the first time in years, Alexia realised she wanted something she couldn't simply command, buy, or intimidate into her life.

She wanted another chance encounter, that prospect was far more unsettling than any rival family waiting in the shadows.

💪🏼

The marina shimmered beneath the last of the evening sun, rows of yachts bobbed gently against their moorings, each one more extravagant than the last, but they all paled in comparison to the one looming at the end of the dock.

You stopped walking., "...That's a yacht?"

Lily looked over her shoulder, grinning, "What?"

"That's not a yacht." You pointed towards the floating palace”, "That's a small country."

She laughed, "I know." The thing was absurd, multiple decks, floor to ceiling windows reflecting the orange sky, crew moving efficiently across polished teak decks.

You'd never seen anything like it outside of films, "Remind me," you said, tearing your eyes away for a second, "how exactly do you know someone with a yacht this size?"

"I don't."

You frowned, "You don't?"

Lily shook her head as if that was the least surprising part of the evening, "You know Jana? The one who comes into the coffee shop every morning?"

You hummed, "The one you think I don't know you're sleeping with... that Jana?"

Lily shot you a look, "I'm not sleeping with Jana."

"Her car is outside at the end of your shift four nights a week."

"Coincidence."

"There’s an extra toothbrush at your flat."

"Allegedly."

"You accidentally called her 'babe' while steaming milk."

"I was tired."

You snorted, "So... definitely that Jana."

Lily sighed dramatically, "Fine." A beat, "Maybe."

You bumped her shoulder, "I knew it."

She rolled her eyes, "Anyway, Jana invited me and told me to bring a friend, so I assume she knows whoever owns this ridiculous thing."

"Comforting."

"It'll be fine." You weren't entirely convinced.

The closer you got, the bigger the yacht seemed, people in expensive clothes laughed on the upper deck, champagne catching the fading light, staff moved with quiet precision. Everything about it screamed money, old money, the sort that never had to tell anyone it existed.

Lily was already digging through her handbag, "Found it."

She held up a sleek black invitation with gold lettering before presenting it to a member of staff stationed at the bottom of the boarding ramp.

The woman scanned it, smiled politely and stepped aside, "Enjoy your evening."

Lily flashed you an excited grin, "See? Easy." She bounded halfway up the ramp before realising you hadn't followed, "Y/N?"

You had turned, distracted by movement beside the entrance, your stomach dropped. No...

Standing a few feet away, dressed in a tailored black suit with an earpiece tucked discreetly behind one ear, was a woman you recognised instantly.

Cata. She recognised you at exactly the same moment, there wasn't the slightest flicker of surprise on her face however. Just that same unreadable expression she'd worn outside the Rolls Royce.

Your heartbeat picked up, she walked towards you with measured steps, professional and controlled.

When she stopped in front of you, neither of you spoke, not at first, "Can I check your bag?" Her tone was courteous, almost gentle.

You swallowed, "Yeah... of course."

You slipped the strap from your shoulder and unzipped the bag, holding it open.

Cata's inspection was quick and methodical, she barely disturbed anything inside before stepping back.

For one impossible second, your eyes met again. Did she actually remember you?

Of course she remembered you. She remembered everything.

She gave a single nod, "Enjoy your night."

You managed a small smile, "Thanks."

She stepped aside and you started walking, one foot in front of the other trying very hard to appear completely normal.

Your thoughts, however, had other ideas, Cata, not someone who merely resembled her, the same woman, the same driver, the same bodyguard, the same quiet, observant presence who had watched you climb out of a blacked out Rolls Royce only a few weeks earlier.

Your pulse refused to settle, there were only two possibilities.

Either Cata worked security for multiple wealthy people...or this yacht belonged to Alexia.

You weren't entirely sure which possibility made you more nervous.

"Y/N!" Lily called from further up the gangway, "You coming or what?"

You blinked yourself back to the present, "Yeah."

You forced your legs to keep moving, each step carried you further onto the yacht. Further toward answers you weren't sure you actually wanted and despite every sensible instinct telling you to turn around a small, traitorous part of you hoped with embarrassing intensity that Alexia was somewhere on board.

💪🏼

The upper deck hummed with effortless luxury, music drifted from hidden speakers, low enough that conversations never had to compete with it. Crystal glasses caught the evening sun, laughter rolled across the decking as guests wandered between the bar, the plunge pool and the shaded seating areas.

At the centre of it all sat Alexia, one ankle rested across the opposite knee, an untouched glass of whiskey balanced loosely in her hand.

She looked exactly as she always did perfectly composed and perfectly in control. It didn't seem to matter that half the yacht revolved around her, women drifted in and out of conversation with her, each one impossibly beautiful.

One leaned against the arm of her chair, laughing at something Alexia had said that wasn’t even funny.

Another perched on the edge of the sunbed beside her, making no secret of the fact she was trying to catch Alexia's eye.

Someone else appeared with two fresh drinks, offering one with a hopeful smile. Alexia thanked her politely, nothing more, it hadn't gone unnoticed.

Patri watched another failed attempt and leaned towards Mapi, "That makes..." She counted under her breath, "...eight."

Mapi didn't even look up from her beer, "Nine."

"The blonde by the pool doesn't count."

Across from them, Ingrid laughed quietly, shaking her head, "They'll keep trying."

"They always do," Misa muttered.

Alexia, blissfully ignoring the commentary surrounding her love life, took another sip of her drink.

She wasn't listening to the women competing for her attention, she was listening to the sea, the engines, the rhythm of the yacht beneath her feet.

Then something changed, not the music or the conversation, the atmosphere, someone approaching quickly.

Alexia lifted her head, Cata, she rarely hurried, which meant something had happened. Without waiting to be acknowledged, Cata crossed the deck, weaving effortlessly between guests until she reached Alexia's chair.

"Boss."

Alexia set her glass down, Cata leaned in, speaking quietly into her ear, the words lasted barely three seconds.

Alexia's expression changed instantly not dramatically, anyone who didn't know her would have missed it, but the people around her knew every tiny shift in expression she'd ever made.

"Bring her to me." Alexia picked her whiskey back up, settling into her chair as though the conversation were already over.

Cata didn't move. "I anticipated that. So I went to find her first." A pause, just long enough to be uncomfortable. "I can’t find her"

Alexia turned her head slowly, the glass pausing at her lips, "Then keep looking."

Cata stepped back with a single nod, "Yes, boss," and was gone, threading back through the crowd with the same quiet efficiency she'd arrived with. Alexia brought the whiskey to her mouth, and whatever had just crossed her face crossed it no longer. Across the seating area, Patri, Mapi, Ingrid, and Misa exchanged a glance. Not one of them said a word. They knew better to.

💪🏼

You were grateful for the relative anonymity of the bar that was built into the main deck, a sunken space filled with expensive people who all seemed to know, or want to know, each other. Lily had already vanished into a small knot of women near the bowling alley, because, of course, there was a bowling alley on this ship and you could see her holding court, basking in the attention of anyone who mistook her accent for novelty.

You hovered, uncertain. You tried to make yourself small, blending into the pale curve of the banquette near the glass doors, but every so often you'd catch eyes on you, some tracing the line of your outfit, some evaluating you for a social transaction you didn’t understand.

When you realised you’d been staring at the same drink for ten minutes, you made yourself get up and cross to the rail. The air was spiced with salt and ozone, the city’s skyline had already begun to blue out in the dusk, and the lights on the next yacht over blinked like landlocked constellations.

You felt aimless, suddenly, remembering the rush in the car, the way your own body had become unfamiliar, a stranger’s for a little while. You wondered if Alexia was here, if she ever thought about you, even as a punchline. If she was the kind of person who remembered or the kind who always needed newness.

You tried to picture her among these people, she wouldn’t be laughing in the way you saw the women laughing here. She wouldn’t be smiling for the camera or parading a new girl on her arm. She would probably be quiet, watching, drinking something brown and expensive while running a thousand unspoken calculations.

The thought made you smile, which was, mercifully, the exact moment someone cleared their throat beside you.

“You need to come with me” a low, familiar voice spoke.

You froze, then turned, Cata stood there in her suit, hands clasped behind her back, expression unreadable. "Took her longer than I expected," you said and something shifted at the corner of Cata's mouth, gone before it fully arrived.

"Follow me." She turned and walked, not waiting.

The upper deck was quieter, the music from below reduced to a low pulse through the floor. Fewer people up here, and the ones who were watched you the way people watch someone walk into the wrong room. You stayed close behind Cata.

"Boss." Cata announced you without ceremony.

"Kiss arse," you muttered thinking she wouldn’t hear you, evidently her hear was better than you gave her credit for.

Cata looked over her shoulder, “Speak when spoken to"

You held her gaze, "Yes, boss," you said, borrowing her own phrase back, and watched something that might have been respect flicker across her face before she turned fully toward you, close enough that you felt the shift in air.

"You have quite the smart mouth."

You let yourself smirk, "Thank you."

"Cata." Alexia's voice came from somewhere behind her, low and unhurried, and you felt it move through you before you even found her face. "Let her be." Cata held your eyes a moment longer, then stepped aside with a single nod, and the space she left open framed Alexia exactly as though it had always been arranged that way.

Alexia's eyes moved down your body and back up. You became aware, suddenly, of your shorts and tank top and the way you'd heard boat party and dressed for the weather instead of whatever this was.

“Come sit” Your feet didn't move, "Do I have to?" The words were out before you could stop them, and the silence that followed had a texture to it. Across the deck, four heads turned in unison, Patri, Mapi, Ingrid, Misa each of them suddenly very interested in you for the first time all evening.

“No” Alexia sipped her drink, you're guess of expensive brown liquid correct, “I’d like it if you did though”

You moved, then. What else could you do? You crossed the deck, conscious of every pair of eyes some curious, some dismissive, some openly assessing. Your body felt a half step behind you, as if your limbs needed reminders to carry out the simplest commands.

You reached Alexia, and even sitting she radiated a tethered energy, a gravity that made the upholstered benches and overfull glasses and even the Mediterranean itself seem like a backdrop for her benefit.

You took the seat she gestured to, two places down from her rather than the empty one directly at her side. It felt less like keeping your distance and more like making a point, though what that point was you couldn’t have explained. For a moment she didn’t look at you, her profile cut a sharp line against the glow of the city behind her, hair slicked back, lashes heavy. You took a breath, then another, and tried to remember how talking worked.

Alexia broke the silence first, “I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she said, as if this were her own birthday party and you were the surprise.

“I wasn’t really given the option,” you replied glancing to Cata, and watched a hint of pleasure arc across Alexia’s mouth.

“I run a tight ship,” she said, though you gathered from the yacht, the suits, the entire performance, that ‘ship’ was a flexible concept for her.

Someone behind you snorted, you glanced back. The four women at the other end of the seating area each with a drink, each angled for maximum eavesdrop were practically vibrating. One said something under her breath Alexia’s gaze flicked her direction and the group fell silent, as if their boss had snapped a leash taut.

You turned back to her, heart pinwheeling, but your hands were steady. “So what’s this?” you asked, gesturing at the yacht, the party, the entire orchestration, “Just another Friday for you?”

“Yes,” she said, as if finding the question quaint, “But not for you?” Her eyes didn’t blink as she asked it.

You shook your head, made yourself relax into the plush seat, “Where I come from, the closest thing to a boat party is watching old men play dominoes on the beach.”

She considered that, head tilted, as if calibrating how much of it was a joke. Then she smiled not the predatory smile from the car, but something private, almost delighted, “I would like to see that,” she said.

You almost said, “You wouldn’t,” but stopped yourself. Alexia already knew what she liked and what she didn’t, she didn’t need anyone to tell her.

A server appeared from nowhere, placing a drink in front of you gin, your favourite, garnished with a literal flower. You raised an eyebrow, “You have people following me?”

Alexia’s face resembled perfect innocence, “We have a good bar staff,” she said.

You sipped, it was, of course, the best thing you’d ever tasted and not what you had been served earlier. You allowed yourself a second sip before returning to the conversation at hand. “Do you always get what you want?”

Alexia didn’t answer right away. She looked at you for a while, fingers tracing a lazy orbit around the lip of her glass “Statistically,” she said, “more often than not.”

You scoffed, “I bet you hate losing.”

She grinned, small and sharp, “I prefer not to waste time on impossible things.” You liked that, or maybe you hated it. Either way, your blood ran a little faster, the gin burning a path down your throat.

“Why did you want me here?” The question surprised even you, the boldness of it, the edge, but Alexia seemed to enjoy it.

She set her glass down, leaned back in her chair, “Curiosity,” she said. “I think better in company.”

You looked around, “You seem to have plenty of company.”

She followed your gaze, the three women at the bar, the servers and silent security detail, the handful of guests now half watching the two of you from the pool, “Most people,” she said, voice dropping a little, “never say anything interesting to me.” She watched you, as if to see what you would do with that. “I like that you do.”

You felt the flush rising again, but met her eyes until she blinked firs, “That’s not a high bar.”

She laughed, and the tension in her posture eased a notch. Behind her, Patri leaned closer to Mapi, whispering “Wait, is she flirting with her?” and both burst into silent laughter.

Alexia ignored them, but you did not miss the flicker of annoyance that crossed her brow before it smoothed flat again. 

“So what do you talk about,” you asked, “when you’re not being entertained by strangers?”

She looked out at the water, considered, “Business, usually. Or Tv shows. Or why Catalan food is objectively superior to all other food and nobody wants to admit it.”

“I’ll admit it,” you said, “as long as you never make me eat a snail.”

It was meant as a joke, but Alexia’s face lit up as if you’d just offered a secret handshake. “Deal,” she said. “We’ll start with something easy. Croquetas.”

“Croquetas are not easy,” you said, remembering the last time you’d tried to make them, oil splattering across your forearms, half the batch dissolving into a kind of béchamel soup.

Alexia raised her glass in a small salute, “They are if you know the trick.”

“I bet you know a lot of tricks,” you said, before you could stop yourself. She looked at you with a look that could turn concrete to steam, and you felt a jolt of adrenaline, as if you’d taken a dare you never meant to accept.

“I do,” she said, very quietly, her voice dissolving the space between you. “Would you like to learn one?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. The urge to say yes was so loud it drowned out every other sound on the deck, but that was not what you said. You said, “Show me.”

She stood, unhurried, glass in hand. “Take a walk with me.” You followed, aware of every person watching, of Cata’s silent shadow two steps behind, and of the way your heart pounded against your ribs, trying to keep pace.

She led you to the prow of the yacht, past the glass walled gym and the helipad, out onto a private viewing deck where the rest of the party was a distant rumour. There was no one else up here, the wind caught your hair and the edges of Alexia’s shirt, untucking it slightly, exposing a bare inch of stomach that glowed under the lighting.

She leaned against the rail, folded her arms loosely, and looked at you as if waiting for the next move. For the first time, you realised she was maybe as uncertain as you were about how the rest of this would go.

You cleared your throat, “So, what do you want to know?”

She gestured to the empty air between you, as if the night itself was the question, “Start with something true.”

You swallowed, tried not to think of her mouth or the hum of the car, or the fact that you’d spent weeks replaying her name in your head until it made almost no sense. “I’m terrible at parties,” you said, surprising yourself with the confession.

She smiled, not in the predatory way, but with a slow warmth that made her eyes crinkle at the corners, “You’re doing better than most.”

You shrugged, suddenly shy, “That’s only because I don’t care what these people think.”

“Is that so?” she stepped closer, angling her body to block the wind, “Does it matter what I think?”

You considered it for a second, then, “Yes.”

She nodded as if she’d known it already, stepped forward until you were pinned by the intensity of her, the hush between your bodies as taut as cello wire. “I’ve been trying not to think about you,” she said, as if reading the lines of your own private screenplay. “It hasn’t worked.”

A laugh caught in your throat, unsteady, “I figured you would have plenty of distractions.”

She didn’t smile. Instead, she extended her hand, palm up, inviting, and after a moment’s hesitation you took it. She squeezed, her grip warm and dry, and drew you closer until your hips touched the railing and the heat of her arm pressed yours.

“I lied, before,” Alexia said, voice pitched low. “I did want you to tell me your name. I still do.” You stared at her, the way the city lights painted bars of gold and blue along her jaw, the sincerity unguarded in her eyes. Her thumb traced the line of your wrist, patient, “You don’t have to.”

For a moment you were six years old, hiding under the kitchen table from your mother’s temper, unheard and unseen until you wanted to be. The urge to withhold was a muscle, one you’d trained since girlhood. But here, in the wind and the hush and the unyielding steadiness of Alexia’s hand, you wanted the opposite.

You told her your name. It came out quieter than you meant, small, like you had to try it out for both of you at once.

She repeated it, tried its weight on her tongue, then, “It suits you,” like it was something valuable, a keepsake she’d been hoping for.

Her thumb lingered, the movement slowing as she watched your reaction, then she leaned in, brushed your cheek with the side of her knuckle. For a second, you thought she might kiss you again, and you weren’t sure if you were ready for it, or the kind of night spent in the blast radius of Alexia’s attention.

Instead, she let the moment stretch, the two of you suspended in the hush of approaching midnight, city lights flickering, the yacht’s gentle sway pulling you both out to sea, metaphorically or otherwise.

You said it again, your own name, like maybe this time it would count more.

She smiled, wider now, the kind of smile that could build bridges or break ribs, and for a moment you saw the edges of the woman you’d met in the car, the one with a whole private world hidden behind calculated calm and jokes that always landed halfway between tease and dare.

“Thank you,” she murmured, and you didn’t know if she was talking about the name or simply standing here beside her without stepping away.

Behind you, the city was already a collection of distant lights. Up here, you didn’t feel watched, or judged, or anything except anchored to the spot. You’d forgotten what that was like, to be in a place and not want to be anywhere else.

You leaned on the railing. Alexia joined you, her shoulder pressed to yours in a way you didn’t hate. She looked at the water, then at you, something thoughtful shading her face. “What do you want, really?” she asked, and for a split second you didn’t know if she meant here, now, on this deck, or in the cosmic sense.

You thought of your answer, surprised at how easy it was, “I want to do something that isn’t about what anyone else wants.”

Alexia’s gaze flickered, as if she’d been waiting for that, “And what would that look like?” Her voice was softer, the competitive edge blunted by something that felt damn close to hope.

You considered the question. There was a time you would’ve answered with the first clever thing to come to mind, but now, wind in your face, her gaze locked on yours, you went for honesty. “I don’t know yet,” you said, “But I think I’d like to find out.”

She nodded, as if this was the best answer she’d ever heard.

You looked at her, really looked, and realised that for all her show and sharpness she was just as curious about the next step as you were. “Show me a trick, then,” you said, and her face split wide, delighted.

“I was making an innuendo”

“What makes you think i didn’t know that?” She was closer now, her face a question. For a long moment all you heard was the wind rushing past the railing and the hollow thump of your heart under your ribs.

She leaned in, her lips finding yours as if the answer to every riddle was hidden in your mouth. This time the kiss was the opposite of the car, no performance, no urgency, a long slow hush that pulled at your bones. She kissed you like she wanted to remember every detail, taste every secret, build the anticipation to a point so bright it burned through all the layers you hid yourself under.

When it broke, she kept her face close to yours, breathing in the same inch of air. "You going to leave just as quick this time," she said, and you had to laugh, because you recognised your own pattern even as she named it.

"Maybe I like the chase," you said, and she traced her fingertip along your jaw, not quite smiling.

"Me too."

The world fell away, the city, the yacht, the crowd, until it was just you and her and the pressure of her hand against your lower back. Alexia drew you in until your hips rested together, her body angled around yours like a shield. You felt something unclench in your chest. The wind lashed at your hair, and she smoothed it behind your ear with unnecessary care.

You could see now that nothing about her was casual, not really. Every gesture, from the careless way she drank to the way she held you, was a tic of discipline learned so early it became invisible. She was always running a calculation, how much to reveal, how much to risk, how close to get before she startled herself into retreat.

You didn't pull away. Instead, you asked, "What now.. Boss?"

She smirked, let her hands drift down your arms, fingers trailing heat, "Sometimes," she said, "the trick is there isn't one."

You felt her smile against your cheek, the slow, coiling satisfaction of a plan coming together. Then her hands were at the backs of your thighs, and in one smooth motion, she scooped you up, your legs reflexively circling her hips. You laughed, startled and delighted, but the sound dissolved when she pressed you into the wall of a stairwell, her mouth capturing yours, hard and slick with intent.

You clung to her, fingers threaded in the fine hair at her nape, only distantly aware of the world beyond her, the city a smear of colour in the porthole window, the thudding bass of the party below now just a private drumline for the two of you. She kissed you with a kind of greedy discipline, her mouth coaxing yours open, teeth gentle but insistent, tongue sliding hot against yours until you forgot to breathe.

She carried you down, footfalls muffled by expensive carpeting, the darkness pressing in close and intimate. At the bottom of the stairs, she manoeuvred you through a heavy door before letting it swing shut behind you. The click of the lock was a perfect, surgical sound. You were alone, the hush of the room thick and absolute.

She set you down your back thudding softly onto a mattress that could have slept four. She loomed over you, all dress shirt and precision lines, the heat of her body radiating over your own. You reached for her, and she let you, gathering your wrists in one hand and pinning them above your head on the bed, her mouth returning to yours, then to your neck, then lower, each kiss a claim.

You arched into her, thighs falling open, and she slid between them, grinding in slow, deliberate pulses that made you whimper. She was all pressure and rhythm, the fabric of her trousers rough against the thin fabric of your shorts, each movement a study in controlled violence.

She never let up, never released your wrists, just moved her mouth lower, teeth scraping lightly at your collarbone, then the edge of your breast peaking out the side of your tank top. She shifted, stripping you carefully, exposing you to the cool air and to her.

She took her time then, as if mapping your body for later use, hands and mouth and tongue leaving a trail of heat from your ribs to your hips to the inside of your knee. She was patient, so patient, the kind of patience that only made you want her more, until you were writhing beneath her, pleading wordlessly for her to close the final distance.

She did, eventually. She knelt between your legs and slid her hands up, thumbs tracing the sharp lines of your pelvic bone before pressing your knees wider. Her mouth was a question, and your answer was in the way your back arched, the way your hands found her hair and pulled. She licked slow at first, almost lazy, but when you gasped, she smiled into you, then licked again, harder, faster, tongue and fingers working in unison until your vision went white and the only thing you felt was her mouth, her tongue, the burning pleasure that built and broke, built and broke, until you unravelled so violently you nearly sobbed her name.

Alexia gave you no room to recover. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes gone almost black, hair a mess from your grip. She slid off the bed to her feet, unhurried, pulling you to the edge with one hand under your arm.

She then paused to look at you really look, as though you were something rare she’d found washed up on the sand. You lay there, breathless, skin prickling with the rush of exposure, and for a second you wondered if she’d make you wait for it, if she’d force you to beg. But she only smiled, a crooked, open hunger, and slowly began to work open the buttons of her shirt from top to bottom slowly.

She wore nothing underneath, the sight was enough to make your mouth go dry, the lines of her body sharp and golden under the room’s dim light. She was sculpted, almost severe, the kind of body that came from discipline and war with herself. She stood at the edge of the bed, letting you stare, and when you reached for her, she didn’t slap your hand away, but caught it, kissed your wrist, and pressed your palm to her toned stomach.

“Good?” she asked.

You nodded, unable to manage a syllable.

“Want more?”

Your voice was ragged, “Yes.”

She bent to kiss you, slow and exploratory, her whole weight pressing you into the mattress. She tasted of whiskey and salt, and her hands roamed your body as if memorising every detail for later. When she broke the kiss, she nipped your bottom lip, then traced her tongue along the seam of your mouth, teasing until you were shaking with want.

“I have a strap,” she murmured, voice rough with intent. You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you nodded, throat tight. Your gaze locked onto her as she turned toward the dresser, the drawer slid open with a whisper, and her fingers brushed against the leather, the buckles, the polished metal. She lifted it out like it was something sacred, something dangerous.

You watched, breath shallow, as she stepped out of her trousers, the fabric pooling at her ankles before she kicked them aside. Her underwear followed, black lace discarded without ceremony. The strap was already in her hands, the harness fitting snug against her hips with the ease of someone who’d done this a hundred times before. The way she adjusted the straps, fingers skillful, movements precise made your pulse hammer in your throat. There was no hesitation, no fumbling. Just the quiet authority of someone who knew exactly what she wanted.

Your lungs locked when she turned, when the mattress dipped under her weight, when her knees bracketed your skull like the jaws of something beautiful and inevitable. The words came low, scraped raw, “I want your tongue.” You obeyed without thought, extending it flat, exposed, a living offering.

Then her hips began their movement, deliberate, her pressing the tip on your tongue. Each roll of her body drew a slow, wet path from the tip of your tongue to the roof of your mouth, her breath hitching when you flicked instinctively against her, a betrayal of control neither of you acknowledged.

You watched her hips move, the liquid confidence there, the way she didn’t treat you like a prop but like an accomplice, an equal participant in whatever this was between the two of you. She made a small, approving sound as you adjusted angle, depth, pressure, all of it on instinct, as if your own body ran algorithms to anticipate what she’d like most.

She kept her hand in your hair, not to force or dominate, but to feel each trembling, hungry movement you made. The slick, silicone weight of her slid over your tongue, filled your mouth, and each time your lips dove deeper, the muscles of her legs tensed around your head, thighs caging you in the dark. Her breath came ragged, every inhale a shudder that vibrated through her skin to yours, her composure cracked and light poured through the seams.

She looked down at you, hair falling across one cheek, brows knit in focus, an expression you’d never seen on her before. It was completely unguarded, almost raw. The knowledge that you had done this unravelled the perfect Alexia, lit you up from the inside. You doubled down, hollowing your cheeks, flattening your tongue, letting her fuck the softness of your mouth at her own pace.

She started slow, a testing roll of her hips, but soon she found the rhythm she liked, thrust, grind, retreat each stroke making her breath catch at the top, mouth slack and beautiful. You gripped her ass, pulled her closer, and Alexia let her head tip back, a perfect, silent moan written across her throat, the line of her jaw sharp under the pressure.

"Jesus," she muttered, the word both a warning and a surrender. You took her deeper, feeling the fullness in your mouth, the slight burn at the corners of your jaw. She liked that, liked it even more when your breath came short and needy. Every time you tried for air, she’d slow, let you catch it, then start again, showing you that patience you’d already learned from her hands and her tongue.

The world narrowed to the taste and the weight of her, the shuddering in her thighs, the salty sweat on your tongue, the quiet, desperate noises that slipped out of her despite every attempt to restrain them. You lived for those noises, for the messy, unprofessional honesty of them.

Her hands cradled your head gentle, then rough, then gentle again. At one point she cupped your jaw, thumb stroking the hinge, and you nearly broke from how careful she was, even when fucking your mouth. Every inch of her screamed confidence, but the way she held your face, the way she watched you, none of it was cruel. You realised then, in the dark, that you wanted her to break, to lose every scrap of composure with you.

You forced your eyes open, met her gaze, and watched the exact moment her control snapped. She swore, a soft Catalan curse, and pumped into your mouth with a rhythm that was almost punishing, almost needy. You let her, relaxed your jaw, took her as deep as you could and then further. The base of the harness kissed your lips, the heavy drag of it forcing your tongue flat and your eyes watering, but you didn’t stop. You gagged, for real this time, an involuntary spasm that made her flinch like she might pull away, but you gripped her hips tighter, pushed back, let the embarrassment burn through every inch of you and transform into something shameless.

She watched you, transfixed. You knew it wasn’t about dominance or humiliation, Alexia was too careful, too precise for that. It was about proof, about seeing how much of her you’d take, how much you wanted, how much you could stand to bear for the taste and feel of her. You blinked tears from your lashes, swallowed around her, and when the next wave hit, you welcomed it, the fullness and the ache, the sweet stretch of being bruised open for her.

She rocked her hips, short and sharp, a rhythm you felt all the way to your core, and with each pass she said your name, sometimes a whisper, sometimes a growl. You lost yourself in the sound of it, in the heat, in the pure intent of her body moving with yours, for you, because of you.

Eventually her pace faltered, hips slowing, and she dragged herself out, slow and slick. The silicone glistened, your spit threading in lines between you and the tip, and she wiped it on your tongue, a final, deliberate press. You licked your lips, Alexia smirked down at you, “Atta girl”

Your hands found her thighs, the muscle there dense and unyielding under your palms. You traced upward, over the curve of her ass, the harness straps cutting neat lines across it, then up and over her hip bones, then the chiseled marble of her abdomen, each ridge rising to meet your fingertips as they climbed.

Her breasts were softer than the rest of her, a contrast that made you pause, palming her breasts, and you flicked your thumb across a nipple. It hardened instantly, and the noise she made was almost a laugh, almost a threat. You rolled it, pinched, rolled again, and caught the way her jaw clenched, the way her hips rocked forward in reflex.

The cock bobbed just inches from your mouth, shining, and you licked it again, slow, letting the tip bump your lower lip, then your cheek, then your tongue. You looked up to see Alexia watching you really watching, pupils huge, face flushed with the kind of hunger you’d never had directed at you before.

You grinned up at her, hands sliding down her thighs to brace yourself and guide her backwards until, you sat up, chest to chest with her, and held her gaze as you wrapped a hand around the length of her with the other you encouraged her to lay back. You put your leg over her hips and guided it between your legs. You were still shaking, still slick, still wide open from before, but the pressure of the harness against you sent a fresh bolt of heat through your entire body. You lined the cock up, rolled your hips down, and took the whole length in one, trembling motion.

Alexia groaned, and you felt her hands grip your waist, holding you steady as you started to move. The first few strokes were slow, measured, you both watching the way her cock disappeared inside you, the way your bodies slotted together. 

She let you set the pace, her hands resting on the small of your back, just above the swell of your ass, anchoring you in place. You started to ride her, slow at first, then faster, watching her face for every twitch, as you bounced on her lap.

Your hands found her shoulders, and you braced yourself, using her body as leverage. Every time you dropped down, you could feel her fill you, the thickness of the cock stretching you out perfectly, and the soft rub of the harness against your clit.

It was better than any other strap you’d ever taken, because Alexia made it feel like an extension of her will, her control, her desire for you. She didn’t just fuck you, she orchestrated your pleasure, built it up with every roll of her hips and every hungry sound from her throat.

You started to perform for her, grinding down harder, circling your hips at the bottom of each stroke, letting your head tip back so your hair fell in a wild curtain, your breasts bouncing with every movement. You moaned, loud and shameless, and her hands clenched tighter at your waist. You could feel her watching, totally focused, as you rode her, faster and harder, the slap of your skin against her thighs echoing through the room.

“Fuck,” she hissed, a wild, broken sound, and you rode her even harder, chasing sensation, chasing that next impossible edge. She sat suddenly and twisted a nipple with her mouth, teeth scraping, and you nearly lost it, your whole body lighting up with pleasure and pain, the sensations blurring until you were nothing but nerve endings and hunger.

You pulled her in for a kiss, biting her lower lip, still rolling your hips against her in a slow grind, when the ceiling above you thumped. You both stilled, a beat of silence, then voices, sharp and overlapping, somewhere high on the yacht. Alexia's eyes cut to the door.

A single gunshot. Two screams, then nothing.

She was off the bed before the echo died, the harness hitting the floor with a heavy buckle clank. She dressed fast, the efficient movements of someone who had done this before. She was pulling open a drawer, rummaging, when she said, without looking at you, "When I leave, lock the door. Don't open it until I tell you." She found what she was looking for. You didn't see what it was. The door clicked shut behind her, and you were still sitting there, flushed and breathless and completely alone.

The lock clicked, then silence, not true silence.

The engines still hummed beneath the yacht, but inside the cabin the quiet felt oppressive.

You stared at the door, your pulse was still racing, only now for an entirely different reason.

Another shout echoed from somewhere above, closer this time.

You slid off the bed, hastily pulling your clothes back into place with hands that suddenly refused to cooperate. Your fingers fumbled with buttons you'd managed perfectly well only minutes earlier.

Another dull thud reverberated through the ceiling, not another gunshot, footsteps lots of them heavy and running.

You crossed the room before stopping yourself, Alexia had been very clear. Lock the door. You checked it anyway, locked.

Your eyes drifted around the cabin for the first time, it wasn't just a guest suite.

The shelves held books in three different languages. A chess board sat half finished on a side table. One wall displayed framed photographs of coastlines and mountains instead of people.

Nothing about the room felt temporary this was hers, another voice barked somewhere outside, firm and controlled.

You couldn't make out the words, then "CLEAR!"

It was Misa, you recognised her voice from earlier.

Another answered almost immediately, "Port side secure!" that was Patri.

You frowned, they sounded calm not frightened and certainly trained. Your stomach tightened, Alexia hadn't been exaggerating about her world. This wasn't some glamorous fantasy she'd built around herself. It was real, every bit of it.

The sound of footsteps approached your door, you instinctively stepped backwards as someone stopped outside. A shadow crossed beneath the gap, your breathing slowed to almost nothing.

A single knock, three short taps, not Alexia, you didn't move, the was handle tested once, then whoever it was walked away.

Only after the footsteps disappeared did you realise you'd been holding your breath. Minutes crawled by or maybe only seconds time had become impossible to judge.

Then voices again, this time much closer.

"...one in custody."

"...sweep the lower deck."

"...check every cabin."

You caught Alexia's voice among them, steady and completely unshaken.

"No unnecessary casualties." A pause. "I want answers before sunrise."

You closed your eyes, she sounded exactly the same as she had ordering a drink earlier that evening, that frightened you more than the gunshot had.

Eventually, the voices faded, a key turned in the lock, your entire body tensed. The door opened and Alexia stepped inside, her white shirt sleeve was rolled to the elbow now, and there was a faint smear of blood across one cuff you couldn't tell if it was hers.

She closed the door quietly behind her, for the first time since you'd met her she looked tired, not physically, just heavy.

Her eyes found yours immediately, "You listened."

"I wasn't exactly tempted to ignore you."

The corner of her mouth twitched, "Good."

You looked at the stain on her sleeve, "What happened?"

Alexia followed your gaze, she glanced down at the blood almost absently, "Someone made a very poor decision."

"Is everyone okay?"

There was a brief pause, "My people are."

The wording wasn't lost on you, you took a careful step closer, "Alexia..."

She looked at you, really looked at you, the composed facade she'd worn all evening had cracked just enough for you to glimpse the woman underneath.

"I told you," she said quietly. “My world is... complicated."

You thought back to the party, it had looked almost normal, and now you understood why they all watched the exits.

Why Cata searched every bag herself.

Why Alexia always seemed to know exactly where everyone was.

"This happens often?"

Alexia was honest, "Often enough that everyone knows what to do." The answer settled heavily between you, she reached for a clean shirt folded over a chair, unbuttoning the stained one with practiced movements. Then she stopped, "You should leave."

You blinked, "What?"

"Cata will take you ashore."

"And you?"

"I'll be busy."

There it was again, the invisible wall she'd built around herself, the one that separated her life from everyone else's.

You studied her for a long moment before asking quietly, "Are you trying to protect me...or push me away?"

Alexia opened the door. Cata was already there, hands clasped behind her back, expression unreadable.

"Cata will take you home."

You hate football.

You hate the sound of a ball striking a boot, that sharp crack that seems to follow you everywhere no matter how many years you spend trying to distance yourself from it. You hate the smell of freshly cut grass because it instantly transports you back to training grounds and stadium tunnels and endless afternoons spent waiting around while other people obsessed over a game you never cared about. You hate the sight of floodlights illuminating a pitch at dusk, hate the television commentators who speak about football as though it is the most important thing in the world, hate the way complete strangers seem to believe they know your family simply because they know your surname.

Most of all, you hate the way football consumed your childhood.

Your papa’s playing career had already ended when you were still young enough to think adults knew everything, but by then his managerial career was ascending so quickly that it felt as though football had just found a new way to claim him. Success turned into reputation, reputation turned into influence, and influence eventually became something larger than any individual person. It became legacy.

People spoke about him with a reverence that sometimes bordered on worship. Journalists dissected every decision he made as though it were a matter of national importance. Fans crossed streets just for the chance to shake his hand. Other managers studied his teams, copied his tactics, and spent entire press conferences discussing his ideas. Everywhere you went, there were reminders that your father was not simply a man anymore.

He was a symbol.

Maybe, at twenty-eight, you should appreciate that more than you do.

Maybe you should be grateful for the opportunities his career created for your family, for the doors that opened before you ever had to knock, for the experiences that most people only dream about. Maybe you should feel proud every time somebody recognizes your surname and their eyes widen in admiration.

You try. You really do. But it is difficult to feel grateful for a legacy that demanded so much from the people who loved him.

It is difficult to celebrate football when football stole countless evenings that should have belonged to your family. Difficult to romanticize success when it meant birthdays spent waiting for him to return from away matches, school performances where an empty seat sat beside your mother, and holidays interrupted by phone calls that inevitably dragged his attention back to training sessions, injuries, transfers, and tactics.

Football never stopped asking for more.

And because football never stopped asking, neither did life.

One day you were running barefoot across the warm sand of Barcelona’s beaches, speaking Catalan with your friends, convinced that the Mediterranean sun would shine forever. The next, your entire life had been packed into boxes because your father had accepted a new challenge in Munich.

You still remember how cold it felt.

The language sounded harsh and unfamiliar, all sharp consonants and impossible grammar, and no matter how hard you studied, you never felt as though you truly belonged there. The city was beautiful, people always insisted that when you complained, but beauty means very little when you are eleven and homesick. What you remember is the grey sky, the endless winter, and the feeling that everyone around you understood a world that remained stubbornly closed to you.

Before you could fully settle, football moved your family again.

Manchester was somehow worse.

The rain seemed endless. The sky existed in varying shades of grey. Entire weeks passed without seeing proper sunlight, and you became convinced that British food was an elaborate punishment disguised as a national cuisine. Every conversation somehow circled back to football. Every newspaper featured football. Every radio station discussed football.

You could never escape it. Not even in your own home.

And yet, despite everything, despite your resentment and frustration and the years spent insisting that you wanted absolutely nothing to do with the sport that had dictated so much of your life, you never stopped loving your father.

Because your papa never brought football through the front door with him.

The moment he stepped inside, he became simply Papa. 

The father who woke you up early on weekends for bike rides along the coast whenever the family was back in Spain. The father who spent hours researching restaurants because he wanted to surprise you with somewhere new. The father who never missed an opportunity to take you to the cinema, even if it meant staying out far later than he probably should have before training the next morning.

When you graduated from law school, he celebrated with more enthusiasm than he had ever shown after winning a trophy. When you secured your first prestigious internship, he called every member of the family before you even had the chance to tell them yourself. When you received the offer for your dream position back in Catalonia, he looked prouder than any photograph you had ever seen of him lifting silverware.

Football trophies decorated museums and boardrooms. Your achievements decorated conversations. And there was never any doubt which mattered more to him.

You were the apple of his eye and everyone knew it.

Your brothers teased him about it relentlessly, your mother rolled her eyes whenever he tried to deny it, and even he occasionally admitted it with a sheepish smile when he thought nobody important was listening.

You were his little girl - always.

So when you finally came home, part of you wondered if something in him had quietly settled too.

After nearly two decades of living abroad, after years spent building a life around airports and moving trucks and temporary addresses, you returned to Barcelona for good. You found an apartment overlooking streets you actually recognized. You reconnected with old friends. You started the career you had worked so hard to build.

For the first time in years, home felt like home again.

And not long after you settled back in Catalonia, he announced he would be leaving Manchester. Maybe it was coincidence or maybe he was simply ready to rest and enjoy everything he had spent decades building instead of always chasing the next challenge. But regardless, the football world reacted with the kind of dramatic disbelief usually reserved for royal abdications.

Television channels dedicated entire evenings to discussing his decision. Former players gave emotional interviews. Journalists wrote lengthy retrospectives examining every trophy, every tactical innovation, every rivalry, and every triumph. Fans treated it like the end of an era.

Your father just seemed relieved.

While the rest of the world searched for hidden meanings and secret plans, he spent his days taking long walks with your mother, drinking coffee on terraces overlooking the sea, and rediscovering hobbies that football had stolen from him years ago. For the first time in your life, he looked like a man who wasn’t carrying the weight of an entire club on his shoulders.

He was sometimes a little too relaxed though, in your opinion.

You arrive at your parents’ new house on a warm afternoon, letting yourself in through the front door without bothering to knock. The house sits along the coast, tucked away from the attention that had followed your family for most of your life, and it already feels more like home than any of the temporary houses you had occupied in Munich or Manchester. Sunlight pours through enormous windows overlooking the water, filling every room with a warm golden glow. The distant sound of waves drifts through the open terrace doors and mixes with the faint commentary coming from a television somewhere deeper inside the house.

Following the noise into the living room, you find your parents exactly where you expected them to be.

Curled together on the sofa, practically intertwined, your mother’s legs stretched across your father’s lap while his arm rests comfortably around her shoulders. Some football match plays quietly in the background. The local women’s side, you think after sparing the screen barely a second of attention before immediately losing interest.

The sight would probably make most people smile. It mostly makes you roll your eyes.

Thirty years of marriage and somehow they are still disgustingly in love.

The moment they notice you, their faces brighten in perfect unison. They exchange identical smiles before rising from the couch together, both already reaching for you before you’ve even crossed the room. Your father gets there first, wrapping his arms around you with enough enthusiasm to make it clear that retirement has done absolutely nothing to reduce his affection. You lean into the embrace for a brief moment before your mother steals you away for one of her own.

They have become unbearable since you moved home.

Years of complaining that you lived too far away have apparently convinced them that physical affection must now compensate for every lunch, celebratory dinner, and ordinary afternoon they missed while you were building your career elsewhere.

You allow it because, despite your complaints, you’ve missed them too.

The three of you settle into the living room and fall easily into conversation. Your mother disappears briefly to bring coffee and pastries while your father asks about work, genuinely interested in the answer despite understanding almost nothing about corporate law. He listens anyway, nodding thoughtfully while you complain about difficult clients and impossible deadlines, asking questions with the same focus he once reserved for post-match tactical analysis.

The conversation drifts naturally between subjects until you notice a look pass between your parents.

The tiny exchange lasts less than a second, but after twenty-eight years of being their daughter, you recognize it as something immediately.

Your father suddenly becomes very interested in his coffee while your mother struggles to hide an amused smile behind her hands.

You narrow your eyes. “What?”

Your mother’s smile widens. Your father sighs. And suddenly you know with complete certainty that whatever is about to happen is going to inconvenience you.

“Carinyo…” your father begins, setting his drink down on the table with a level of caution that makes you suspicious. “I have a favor to ask you.”

You narrow your eyes at him.

Across the sofa, your mother seems very interested in stirring her coffee despite the fact that she hasn’t added anything to it.

That alone tells you everything you need to know.

“What kind of favor?”

Your father shifts slightly in his seat.

“Your mother has that baby shower tomorrow. You know, for your cousin.”

A very distant cousin, but yes, you know exactly which baby shower he means. Your mother has been talking about it for weeks despite the fact that neither of you could confidently identify the woman in a lineup.

You wait patiently for him to continue.

“Well,” he says, drawing the word out slightly, “Barça is hosting a gala tomorrow night for the foundation. They’ve asked me to speak because apparently they think seeing your old man back in blaugrana colours will encourage people to donate more money.”

He rolls his eyes as though the idea is completely ridiculous, which is particularly rich coming from a man who could probably convince half of Catalonia to buy bottled tap water if he attached his name to it.

You continue staring at him. The favor still hasn’t arrived. Your father notices your blank look and suddenly looks far less confident.

The sheepish expression that crosses his face is answer enough.

“Oh no.”

His shoulders sag, “Listen-”

“No!”

“I haven’t even asked yet.”

“You don’t need to.”

A laugh escapes your mother before she quickly hides it behind her coffee cup. Your father points at her accusingly before turning back toward you.

“I was wondering…” He hesitates for a moment, clearly aware that this conversation is not heading in his favor. “Well, since your mother can’t come…”

You already know where this is going. You know it before he even finishes the sentence. You know it so certainly that your eyes close in defeat.

“Maybe you could come with me?”

There it is. The disaster. A football gala.

An entire evening surrounded by former players, club executives, sponsors, journalists, donors, and every other category of person you have spent your entire adult life trying to avoid.

“Be my date?"

“Papa,” you groan, dropping your head back against the couch cushions and staring up at the ceiling as though divine intervention might still save you.

“It won’t be that bad.”

It will undoubtedly be that bad.

Your father, unfortunately, mistakes your silence for uncertainty and quickly launches into his defense.

“You can pretend it’s some lawyer event! There’ll be loads of lawyers from the club there.”

Wonderful, your favorite.

An entire room filled with wealthy old men who would spend the first few minutes of every conversation staring at your chest and the remainder trying to impress you with stories about their glory days. At least until they realized who your father was, at which point they would inevitably begin treating you like some extension of him rather than an accomplished lawyer in your own right.

The more you think about it, the worse it becomes.

Unfortunately, Papa is looking at you with the same hopeful expression he has worn your entire life whenever he wants something from you, and that expression has always been your weakness.

He rarely asks for anything at all so when he does you’re basically a goner.

The sigh that leaves your mouth is long and dramatic enough to make your mother smile.

“Okay. Fine… I’ll go.”

The relief that floods your father’s face is so genuine that it almost makes the sacrifice feel worthwhile. Almost.

You hold up a finger before he can thank you.

“But I expect to buy a beautiful new dress on your dime.”

His grin arrives instantly. He doesn’t seem remotely surprised or concerned about the expense.

“Done.”

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. That agreement had come far too quickly.

Your father only looks more pleased with himself, leaning back into the sofa with the satisfied expression of a man who had anticipated every step of the negotiation before it even began.

And perhaps he had.

After all, his daughter might be a lawyer and a professional negotiator, but he had spent twenty-eight years studying her habits, weaknesses, and bargaining tactics.

In many ways, he was the only person in the world who negotiated with you better than you negotiated with everyone else.

------

The following evening, a sleek black town car waits outside your apartment building, its polished exterior reflecting the golden glow of the streetlights as the driver stands patiently beside it. The entire scene feels unnecessarily dramatic, which is exactly what you would expect from an event connected to football. Somewhere along the way, the sport had apparently decided that everything needed to feel larger than life.

The chauffeur moves toward the rear door the moment you emerge from the building, but he barely has time to reach for the handle before the opposite door swings open.

Your father steps out. You can’t help smiling.

For all the wealth and status and prestige that surround him, he has never quite mastered the art of letting other people do things for him.

His face brightens when he sees you and for a moment, he just stares.

The expression is familiar. It’s the same expression he wore at your university graduation. The same expression he wore when you passed the bar exam. The same expression he wore whenever you accomplished something that made him proud.

Only tonight you’re fairly certain he’s just admiring his beautiful daughter.

The black gown hugs your frame perfectly before flowing elegantly toward the floor, simple enough to be sophisticated and expensive enough to make your father wince slightly when the credit card bill eventually arrives.

“You look stunning, darling.”

A warmth spreads through your chest despite yourself.

“Gràcies, Papa.”

You step closer, reaching up automatically to straighten his bow tie. It has shifted slightly to the left, something no one else in the world would probably notice. Your father remains perfectly still while you adjust it, smiling softly the entire time.

“There,” you murmur. “Now you look presentable.”

He laughs. “Thank you for coming.”

The words are simple, but there is a sincerity behind them that softens whatever complaints you had prepared.

“I really am happy you’ll be by my side tonight.”

"Me too." You squeeze his arm affectionately. “And when you inevitably get kidnapped by hundreds of middle-aged fanboys who want to tell you where they were when Barça won some trophy fifteen years ago, you can find me at the open bar.”

His laughter echoes across the quiet street. The look he gives you says he knows you’re absolutely right.

Unfortunately, you are.

The moment the two of you arrive at the gala and step into the ballroom arm in arm, it feels as though half the room suddenly remembers your father exists.

People begin approaching from every direction almost immediately.

Former players, executives, sponsors, club officials. Men who have apparently spent the last decade waiting for an opportunity to tell your father the exact same stories he has heard three dozen times before.

Hands are shaken. Introductions are made.

Your father proudly introduces you at every opportunity, his arm occasionally settling around your shoulders as though he cannot resist reminding people that you are his golden child. For a few brief moments the conversations remain balanced, the guests politely asking about your work and your life before inevitably gravitating back toward football.

They always gravitate back toward football. Every single time.

You stand there smiling politely while listening to conversations about matches, transfers, tactical systems, club politics, and moments from seasons that happened so long ago they should probably be considered historical events.

The muscles in your face practically ache from resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

Eventually your father catches your expression.

His mouth twitches and a small apologetic grimace flashes across his features as another group begins steering him toward a gathering of board members and club leadership waiting across the room.

You simply gesture toward the bar. He nods in understanding.

You have performed this dance together your entire life. He gets absorbed into football. You escape. Everyone wins.

The bar occupies one corner of the ballroom beneath a cascade of crystal chandeliers, and you settle onto one of the empty stools before ordering a glass of wine. The bartender delivers it moments later and you take a long sip, grateful for both the drink and the temporary solitude.

From your seat, you can observe the entire room.

The gala is fully alive now. Clusters of elegantly dressed guests fill every corner of the space. Women in designer gowns drift between conversations while men in tailored tuxedos cradle glasses of expensive liquor. Laughter rises above the soft music playing in the background. Waiters weave effortlessly through the crowd carrying silver trays piled high with champagne flutes.

The amount of wealth concentrated inside the ballroom is honestly staggering.

You suspect there are enough questionable offshore accounts in attendance tonight to single-handedly support several Mediterranean economies. The thought makes you smirk into your wine.

Unfortunately, your solitude doesn’t last long. It never does.

You notice the older man approaching several seconds before he reaches you.

Expensive watch, expensive suit, and the particular confidence of someone who has spent decades assuming that women will be delighted by his attention.

You suppress a sigh. What exactly about sitting alone at the end of a bar while staring into a glass of wine suggests that you are hoping to be interrupted?

You brace yourself for whatever painfully rehearsed line he is about to deliver.

Thankfully, he never gets the chance.

Another figure appears seemingly out of nowhere, slipping smoothly into the space between the two of you before the man can even open his mouth. The movement is so natural and effortless that it takes you a moment to realize what has happened.

The woman leans casually against the bar beside you, one arm resting lightly on the polished countertop as she lifts a hand to catch the bartender’s attention.

“Sparkling water, please.” Her voice is warm and confident.

Then she glances toward you. “And another…”

The sentence trails off as she gestures politely for you to finish the order yourself.

“White wine,” you tell the bartender. “Please.”

Only then do you risk looking past her shoulder.

The older man has stopped several feet away, apparently receiving the message loud and clear. After a brief moment of hesitation, he turns and heads toward another bar on the opposite side of the ballroom.

Your shoulders relax immediately.

The stranger notices, a faint smile touches her lips.

Moments later, the bartender returns with both drinks. She thanks him before carefully taking your wine glass and handing it to you.

For the first time, you properly look at the woman who has just rescued you. And for the first time all evening, something about the gala becomes interesting.

“Thanks,” you say as your fingers wrap around the stem of the glass.

The woman offers a small shrug, as though stepping in to save complete strangers from uncomfortable conversations is something she does every day.

“No problem. I saw him making a beeline toward you and you didn’t seem particularly interested.”

You let out a quiet laugh at that.

“Yeah,” you admit. “Definitely not.”

Her smile widens slightly, seemingly pleased that her assessment had been accurate. For a moment neither of you says anything, the comfortable silence settling naturally between you as the noise of the gala swells around the bar. Conversations overlap across the ballroom, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional clink of crystal, while somewhere near the stage a photographer calls for attention from a cluster of former players posing together.

The woman lifts her sparkling water in a small gesture of farewell and begins to turn away.

For reasons you can’t entirely explain, you find yourself stopping her.

“I didn’t catch your name.”

She pauses and glances back over her shoulder.

“Alexia.”

Just Alexia. No surname or explanation or attempt whatsoever to clarify who she is.

You find yourself studying her more openly now that you have an excuse to do so. 

She is undeniably beautiful, though not in the polished, manufactured way so many people at events like this seem determined to be. Her beauty feels effortless. 

Her dark hair falls loosely over one shoulder, framing striking hazel eyes that seem to miss absolutely nothing, while the understated elegance of her dress somehow draws more attention than the far more extravagant gowns scattered throughout the ballroom.

There is a quiet confidence about her, the sort that cannot be purchased or practiced in front of a mirror. She carries herself like someone completely comfortable being noticed, yet entirely uninterested in demanding attention.

Perhaps she notices your prolonged inspection or perhaps you’re just less subtle than you think. Because when your eyes meet hers again, there is unmistakable amusement dancing there.

“Alexia no last name?” you ask lightly, attempting to recover some dignity by shifting the attention back onto her.

The knowing smile that follows is immediate. The sort of smile that suggests she understands exactly what game you’re trying to play.

She merely nods.

You can’t stop your own smile from appearing.

“Fair enough.”

Extending your hand, you introduce yourself exactly the same way she had, offering only your first name and nothing else. If she wanted to play mysterious, you were more than capable of meeting her on equal footing.

The look in her eyes brightens instantly. The challenge has been accepted.

When she takes your hand, you’re struck by how confident the gesture feels. Her grip is firm without being aggressive, practiced without feeling rehearsed, and accompanied by steady eye contact that somehow manages to feel both professional and deeply personal at the same time. It reminds you vaguely of networking seminars during law school, where entire lectures had been dedicated to first impressions and the psychology of handshakes.

Yet nothing else about her suggests lawyer.

She carries herself differently, more comfortably and naturally. She is far too sun-kissed to spend every day trapped inside offices, conference rooms, and court buildings. And there is none of the carefully managed tension that seems to plague everyone in your profession. 

Instead, she appears completely at ease within herself, as though she has long since stopped worrying about how others perceive her.

Your curiosity grows.

“So what brings you to the gala?” you ask, hoping to fill in at least some of the increasingly obvious gaps in her story.

Alexia takes a slow sip of her water before answering.

“I’m affiliated with the club.”

The response is so vague that it borders on parody. The smile she gives you is suspiciously innocent.

You stare at her. She stares right back, completely serious. Your head tilts slightly and her smile widens. 

Before you can press for clarification, she smoothly redirects the conversation back toward you.

“And you?”

The challenge is obvious.

You laugh softly despite yourself. “My father is affiliated with the club.”

For the first time, genuine amusement flashes across her face. The corners of her eyes crinkle slightly. Touché.

The conversation continues from there with surprising ease.

What begins as polite small talk somehow stretches into something far more engaging, neither of you appearing particularly interested in discussing the things that should logically dominate a conversation between two strangers at a gala. Instead of careers or accomplishments or the carefully curated biographies that people usually exchange at events like this, the discussion drifts effortlessly toward entirely different subjects, as though both of you have silently agreed that those details can wait.

You compare childhood neighborhoods and debate which corners of Catalonia are still worth visiting before tourists inevitably discover them. You argue over the best cafés in Barcelona, exchange stories about terrible landlords and nightmare neighbors, laugh about absurd encounters with overly entitled strangers, and commiserate over the strange experience of returning to a city that once felt like home only to discover that it has somehow changed while remaining exactly the same.

One topic melts into the next so naturally that you eventually lose track of how the conversation keeps evolving. There are no awkward pauses, no desperate searches for something new to discuss, no moments where either of you scans the room for an escape route. Every answer seems to create three new questions, every story sparks another memory, and before long the noise of the gala has faded into little more than background static.

At some point you find yourself telling her about growing up in Barcelona before moving away, about how strange it felt watching your childhood disappear through the rear window of a moving car while every adult around you insisted that the next city would be an exciting adventure. You tell her about Germany and the endless struggle of learning a language that always seemed to have twice as many rules as necessary, about England and its relentless grey skies that somehow managed to make even summer feel overcast, and about the peculiar loneliness that comes from constantly arriving somewhere new only to know that eventually you’ll be expected to leave again.

Most people hear stories like that and immediately begin searching for opportunities to tell stories of their own. They wait just long enough for you to finish speaking before redirecting the conversation back toward themselves, eager to compare experiences or share an anecdote that proves they understand exactly how you feel.

Alexia doesn’t. Instead, she listens. Actually listens.

Her attention never seems to wander despite the chaos unfolding around you. She doesn’t glance over your shoulder searching for someone more important. She doesn’t check her phone. She doesn’t interrupt with stories designed to redirect the spotlight back onto herself. She just watches you with genuine interest, occasionally asking a question that reveals she has been paying far closer attention than most people ever do. 

It is unexpectedly disarming.

You have always been a gifted storyteller. Long before law school taught you how to construct arguments and command a room, you possessed an instinctive understanding of narrative, timing, and audience. You know how to hold someone’s attention. You know how to make people laugh at exactly the right moment. You know how to guide a conversation wherever you want it to go and leave people feeling as though they arrived there naturally.

Yet with Alexia, you find yourself becoming unusually aware of that instinct.

You’re not even consciously trying to impress her, if anything, the realization sneaks up on you slowly. Somewhere between discussing childhood memories and trading stories about cities that never quite felt like home, you discover that you care whether she finds your stories interesting. You care whether she laughs. You care whether that attentive look remains in her eyes.

Every time her expression softens with interest, you find yourself elaborating slightly more than necessary. Every time she laughs, warmth spreads through your chest with surprising ease. Every thoughtful question encourages another story, another memory, another piece of yourself that you wouldn’t normally volunteer to someone you’ve known for less than an hour. 

Gradually the rest of the gala begins to fade into the background.

The donors and executives become little more than moving shapes beyond the bar. Conversations that had once seemed annoyingly loud blur into an indistinct hum. Bursts of laughter rise and fall somewhere across the ballroom without ever fully registering. Even Papa, who had been the entire reason for your attendance tonight, slips from your thoughts entirely as the world narrows down to the space occupied by two bar stools and a woman with hazel eyes.

For nearly an hour, the woman who introduced herself only as Alexia somehow becomes the most interesting person in a room filled with football legends, celebrities, politicians, and people wealthy enough to purchase entire islands if the mood ever struck them.

And judging by the way she continues looking at you, as though every story is worth hearing and every answer only creates a dozen new questions, you begin to suspect she is finding you equally difficult to walk away from.

The announcement comes far too soon.

A man’s voice echoes through the ballroom speakers, warm and polished in the way that only people who spend their lives hosting charity galas seem capable of sounding, thanking everyone for their generosity before informing the room that dinner would be served shortly and asking guests to begin finding their assigned tables.

Around you, conversations begin dissolving. Clusters of people separate with reluctant smiles and promises to continue discussions later, while waiters appear as if summoned from nowhere and begin directing guests toward the dining area.

Beside you, Alexia huffs softly in irritation. The sound pulls a smile from you because it mirrors your own disappointment almost perfectly.

You hadn’t realized how much time had passed until now. Somewhere between discussing childhood friends and comparing favorite vacation destinations, an hour had disappeared without either of you seeming to notice.

Apparently neither of you had wanted the conversation to end.

Alexia rises from her stool with obvious reluctance, smoothing a hand along her dress as she glances toward the dining area where guests are already beginning to find their seats. For a moment she just stands there, as though considering whether there might be some socially acceptable way to ignore the announcement altogether and remain exactly where she is.

Then her eyes find yours again and without a word, she extends her hand. 

The gesture is simple and effortless. Yet something about it makes your stomach do an embarrassing little flip.

You are perfectly capable of standing on your own. In fact, you have spent most of your life being fiercely independent, stubbornly refusing help even when you probably should have accepted it. Yet the offered hand feels less like assistance and more like an invitation, and you find yourself taking it before you’ve fully thought through why.

Her fingers close around yours warmly.

The contact is brief, lasting only long enough for her to help you from the stool despite the fact that neither of you actually needed the assistance, yet you become acutely aware of it anyway. The softness of her hand. The quiet confidence in the gesture. The way her thumb brushes lightly against your knuckles as she releases you.

By the time your feet are firmly beneath you, the moment has already passed. Still, the sensation lingers.

You hesitate for a second, caught between caution and curiosity, between the instinct to protect yourself and the increasingly powerful desire to see where this might lead. Normally you would overthink it and spend ten minutes analyzing every possible outcome before saying anything at all.

Instead, before your better judgment can intervene, you decide that being brave for once might actually be worth it.

“Come find me after the auction?”

The question leaves your mouth before you have the opportunity to reconsider it.

For the briefest moment, uncertainty flickers through you. Maybe she was simply being polite. Maybe she had enjoyed the conversation in the pleasant, fleeting way people often enjoy conversations at events like this, with no expectation of ever continuing them. Maybe you had mistaken friendliness for interest, curiosity for chemistry. Maybe the easy rhythm that had developed between the two of you existed only in your imagination.

The doubts barely have time to form before Alexia’s face brightens. The reaction is so immediate and so genuine that it erases every one of them at once.

“Yes,” she says, the answer arriving almost before you’ve finished speaking, as though there was never any possibility of a different response. “I’d like that.”

Something warm unfurls inside your chest.

It is an embarrassingly satisfying reaction, made worse by the fact that you cannot seem to stop the smile spreading across your face. For someone who prides herself on being composed, on remaining rational and measured and entirely unaffected by attractive strangers, you are suddenly doing a remarkably poor job.

Alexia notices. The amused softness that settles into her expression suggests she is having far too much fun watching you try and fail to appear unaffected.

Still smiling, you give her hand one final squeeze before finally letting go.

For a few lingering seconds, the two of you remain exactly where you are, standing beside the bar as though neither is particularly eager to be the first one to leave.

Eventually reality reasserts itself. Dinner, tables, responsibilities. The endless procession of speeches and fundraising and networking that accompanies every event of this kind. The evening begins pulling you in opposite directions, demanding your attention whether you are ready to give it or not.

Reluctantly, the two of you separate.

You take several steps toward the dining area before glancing back over your shoulder.

Alexia is already looking. The discovery sends an entirely unreasonable amount of satisfaction rushing through you. 

For a brief moment your eyes meet across the growing crowd, both of you caught in the act, and neither bothering to pretend otherwise. Then she laughs softly and shakes her head before turning toward her own table.

You continue walking with a smile that refuses to leave your face.

The ballroom has transformed while you were distracted. The lights have been dimmed slightly, softening the vast room into something warmer and more intimate, while the enormous chandeliers overhead cast everything in a golden glow that reflects off crystal glasses and polished silverware. Elaborate floral arrangements sit at the center of every table, their carefully arranged blooms competing for attention with the designer gowns, tailored tuxedos, and enough expensive jewelry to fund a small nation. Around you, VIPs, politicians, former players, sponsors, and donors settle into their seats, conversations gradually quieting as the evening shifts from cocktails and mingling into the more formal portion of the program.

Your own table appears to contain precisely the sort of people you had spent the first half of the evening trying to avoid.

The executives are already deep into discussions about sponsorship agreements and broadcasting rights. A politician whose face you vaguely recognize from television is attempting to charm everyone within earshot. Two former directors are comparing stories from decades ago as though they personally built the club brick by brick.

You slide into the empty seat beside your father, offering the polite smile expected of you before settling comfortably into your chair.

As soon as you settle in, your father leans slightly in your direction.

“Having a nice time?”

The question itself is perfectly innocent, his expression, unfortunately, is not.

You know that look. The faint curve threatening at the corner of his mouth. The glimmer of amusement dancing behind his eyes. The unmistakable expression of a man who has noticed something and is enjoying the fact that you haven’t caught up yet.

Your own eyes narrow instantly.

“Yes,” you answer honestly, because there is little point pretending otherwise. “It’s actually been better than I expected.”

The smile grows enough to send alarm bells ringing somewhere deep inside your head.

“I thought you always said no footballers.”

You blink. “What?”

The single word leaves your mouth before you can stop it.

For a moment your father appears as though he might elaborate. His smile widens further, clearly delighted by your confusion, and you can practically see the response forming behind his eyes.

Unfortunately, before he can say another word, the foundation president steps onto the stage.

The ballroom gradually falls silent - conversations fade and heads turn. Attention shifts toward the podium as the evening’s official program begins. Your father is forced to abandon whatever explanation he had been preparing and straighten in his chair, his focus returning to the stage.

The moment passes, at least for him. For you, however, the damage has already been done.

You barely hear a single word of the speech. The president could be announcing the discovery of extraterrestrial life and you aren’t entirely sure you would notice, your brain is too busy replaying that sentence.

For as long as you can remember, those two words had been one of the few constants in your life.

No footballers.

The rule had first emerged when you were a teenager, born out of years spent watching football dictate nearly every aspect of your family’s existence. You remembered crying to your mother after another school performance where your father’s seat remained empty despite his best intentions. You remembered holidays interrupted by transfer negotiations and urgent phone calls. You remembered constantly packing boxes and saying goodbye to friends because football had decided your family belonged in a different country. You remembered loving your father fiercely while simultaneously resenting the profession that always seemed to claim the largest share of him, no matter how desperately he tried to shield you from that reality.

Football had given him everything. Football had taken a great deal too. And somewhere amidst all those years of airports, moving vans, and missed moments, a rule had quietly taken shape.

No footballers.

The rule had only strengthened with age. 

When friends attempted to set you up with players, the answer had been no. When athletes approached you in bars and restaurants, the answer had been no. When people insisted you were being unfair, that you might be surprised if you actually gave one a chance, the answer had remained exactly what it had always been: no.

The specifics had never mattered - tall or short, blonde or brunette, funny or serious. None of it had ever been relevant.

The only requirement had always been painfully simple.

No footballers.

Which was precisely why your father’s comment now felt so suspicious. Because it hadn’t been random. Your father never said things randomly.

Not after decades spent navigating dressing rooms filled with enormous personalities, boardrooms filled with competing agendas, and press conferences where every word was analyzed from a dozen different angles. He observed everything. He noticed everything. Entire careers had been built on underestimating how much information he absorbed simply by paying attention.

If he had said it, there was a reason.

Slowly, your eyes drift across the ballroom. Toward the tables positioned near the stage. Toward the section where Alexia had disappeared after leaving the bar.

The realization begins forming before you consciously reach it.

Too tan to be a lawyer. Too young to be an executive. Far too comfortable in this environment to just be some donor or guest.

You had spent the better part of an hour trying to place her without ever quite succeeding. At various points you had convinced yourself she might be a doctor, something about her attentiveness and the way she listened fitting neatly into that image. Other times you had wondered if she was an entrepreneur, a foundation director, or perhaps someone involved with one of the club’s charitable projects. Her calm confidence, thoughtful questions, and complete lack of pretension had pointed your imagination in a hundred different directions.

Just not the correct one.

Because of course the answer had been staring you directly in the face the entire time. This was a Barça gala. A Barça foundation event. A room filled almost exclusively with people connected to football in one way or another.

Your stomach drops. The feeling is immediate and absolute.

Oh. Oh, shit.

Across the room, Alexia laughs at something someone says beside her, her head tilting back slightly as the warm light catches the features you had spent the last hour trying not to admire too openly.

And suddenly everything clicks into place.

The woman who had rescued you at the bar. The woman who had somehow made this entire evening enjoyable. The woman you had been looking forward to seeing again after dinner. Had to be a footballer.

The realization makes you close your eyes briefly and resist the urge to bang your forehead against the table.

Because after twenty-eight years of maintaining exactly one dating rule, after a lifetime spent insisting that footballers were categorically off limits, the first person to genuinely capture your attention in over a year had turned out to be the one thing you had always sworn you would never touch.

And the truly infuriating part was that the knowledge changed absolutely nothing about how excited you still were to see her again after the auction.

The eruption of applause around the ballroom drags your attention back to the present before you can disappear completely into your own thoughts.

You blink and straighten slightly in your chair as your father rises beside you, earning another standing ovation simply for existing. 

The reaction is almost comical at this point. Years have passed since he last stood on the touchline at Camp Nou, decades since he wore the club’s colors professionally, yet the affection people feel toward him remains almost untouched by time. Executives applaud enthusiastically. Former players beam at him from neighboring tables. Wealthy donors who probably couldn’t explain a single tactical system clap like devoted disciples greeting a prophet.

Your father, meanwhile, looks mildly embarrassed by all of it.

The sight makes you smile despite yourself as he buttons his jacket and begins making his way toward the stage. For all the attention football has forced upon him throughout his life, he has never quite become comfortable being the center of it. The trophies and documentaries and statues and endless praise have somehow failed to cure him of the instinctive discomfort that always appears whenever people celebrate him too loudly.

As he climbs the steps toward the podium, your attention begins drifting around the room again. Toward the hundreds of guests seated beneath glittering chandeliers. Toward a woman whose charming smile has managed to completely derail your evening.

Your father reaches the microphone and immediately attempts to begin speaking over the applause.

“Thank you. Thank you.”

Eventually the room settles enough for him to continue.

“I’m so honored to be invited to speak tonight and to be welcomed back with such open arms. This truly is the club of my life, and I know I strayed away for a little while.”

Laughter ripples throughout the ballroom at the understatement. Even your father smiles.

“But Barça always has been and always will be my home. No matter where football took me, no matter what challenges came next, this club and the people connected to it remained part of who I am. I owe so much to everyone in this room, and I owe even more to the supporters who believed in me long before I deserved it.”

The applause returns briefly before fading once more.

You have heard variations of this speech your entire life. Different clubs, different trophies, different cities. Yet the sincerity always remains the same.

Your father was never particularly good at pretending to care about things he didn’t actually care about, which is probably why people trusted him so much. When he spoke about football, about family, about loyalty, there was never any doubt that he meant every word.

His gaze sweeps across the ballroom before eventually landing on your table.

Instantly, a familiar feeling of dread settles into your stomach. You’ve known that look since childhood. The look that always appears right before he embarrasses you in public.

“And I cannot thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me and for my family. My beautiful wife unfortunately couldn’t be here tonight because of a prior commitment.”

A chorus of sympathetic murmurs rises from the crowd.

“But thankfully my wonderful daughter agreed to accompany me.”

There it is. You close your eyes briefly. The smile in his voice is practically audible now.

“You all know I’d be completely lost without her.”

The spotlight finds you immediately and the entire ballroom seems to turn as one. Hundreds of faces. Hundreds of eyes. Hundreds of people looking directly at you.

Years of practice save you and the panic never reaches your expression.

Instead, you straighten your shoulders, lift your chin slightly, and produce the polished smile that has been perfected through decades of public appearances, family photographs, charity events, and championship celebrations.

The crowd reacts exactly as expected. Applause breaks out throughout the room. Several people whistle. A few call your name.

The beloved daughter of their beloved manager.

You smile graciously while internally considering whether it is possible to legally disown a parent at twenty-eight.

Eventually the spotlight drifts away.

The sudden darkness leaves dancing spots across your vision and you blink repeatedly, waiting for your eyes to adjust while your father continues speaking somewhere above you. The words barely register. Something about community. Something about the foundation. Something about giving back.

Your attention is elsewhere.

As the dark spots finally begin fading, your gaze drifts instinctively across the room and immediately collides with Alexia’s. For a moment neither of you looks away.

The expression on her face is almost enough to make you laugh. 

It's shock - pure, unmistakable shock.

The easy confidence that had defined every second of your conversation disappears completely as her gaze flickers from you to the man standing at the podium and then back again, her brows drawing together as she tries to process what she’s seeing. You can practically watch the pieces falling into place in real time. 

The woman she’d spent the last hour talking to wasn’t simply attending with someone connected to the club. She was attending with the greatest manager to ever live. Who just so happened to be her father.

The realization unfolds across her features one detail at a time. First recognition, then disbelief, then understanding.

Suddenly every vague answer you’d given her begins snapping into focus. Every time you’d referred to your father as merely “affiliated with the club.” Every carefully sidestepped question. Every missing detail and intentionally incomplete explanation that had seemed amusing at the time.

You can almost hear the conversation replaying in her head as she reconstructs it with this new information.

And then, rather uncomfortably, you realize you’re doing exactly the same thing.

Because if she hadn’t recognized you, it means she hadn’t known who your father was when you were sitting together at the bar. Which means she hadn’t approached you because of him or stayed because of him or spent nearly an hour laughing at your stories because of him.

The realization sends unexpected butterflies through your gut.

Unfortunately, it also forces another realization to the surface. One that is significantly less comforting.

Because now that Alexia knows exactly who your father is, there is no longer any plausible explanation for how comfortably she had navigated this room, how effortlessly she had moved through a gala filled with football royalty, or why your father had immediately known who she was without needing an introduction.

Slowly, painfully, the final pieces click into place.

The confidence. The athletic build hidden beneath the elegant dress. The non-answers to your probing questions. The fact that she had introduced herself as simply Alexia and somehow expected that to be enough.

At the time, you had assumed it was part of the game the two of you were playing. A harmless attempt at mystery. A way of teasing each other while carefully avoiding the details that usually dominate conversations between strangers.

Now you realize it was something else entirely. Because even in a room like this, she didn’t need a surname. Everyone already knew it.

Your stomach drops.

The woman who had spent the last hour completely captivating you isn’t some reserve player or academy coach or random club employee.

She is important.

The kind of important that transcends introductions. The kind of important that allows a person to identify themselves with a single name and expect recognition. The kind of footballer whose face appears on billboards, whose jersey hangs in children’s bedrooms, whose name is spoken with familiarity by people who have never met her.

And judging by the slow, increasingly amused smile beginning to spread across her face from across the ballroom, she has reached exactly the same conclusion about you.

The two of you had spent an entire hour carefully concealing your identities from one another while unknowingly discussing everything except the one thing that connected you both.

Now, across a crowded ballroom filled with some of the most influential people in European football, you watch recognition fully settle into her beautiful hazel eyes.

And the worst part is that, instead of making her any less interesting, it somehow makes her even more so.

------

love, as far as you’re concerned, is mostly an administrative error.

that’s what you tell mapi one afternoon after training when she’s halfway through describing a tiktok she saw about soulmates.

“that’s the saddest thing you’ve ever said.”

you shrug. “i’ve said sadder.”

“no, i don’t think you have.”

“i once told jonatan that pineapple belongs on pizza.”

“that’s not sad. that’s criminal.”

you grin and lean back in your chair.

around you, the cafeteria buzzes with conversation. players drift in and out, grabbing food, arguing over music, complaining about training. normal things.

comfortable things. things that make sense.

love doesn’t. at least not to you.

you’ve never understood why people willingly make themselves vulnerable like that.

why they hand another person the ability to ruin their week, their month, their entire life.

it sounds exhausting.

you’ve had relationships before, technically. a few. none of them lasted.

mostly because eventually the other person wanted something more and you couldn’t understand why.

why wasn’t having fun enough?

why did everything have to become serious?

why did everyone act like love was some unavoidable force of nature instead of a choice people kept making over and over again?

you never got it. still don’t.

which is why the entire team has decided you’re emotionally defective.

“one day,” aitana says as she drops into the chair beside you, “someone is going to make you eat all these words.”

“unlikely.”

“you said that last time.”

“because it’s still true.”

across the table, mapi points at you dramatically.

“see? this is what i’m talking about.”

“you’re always talking about me.”

“because you’re fascinating.”

“i’m not.”

“you treat relationships like tax forms.”

“thank you.”

“that wasn’t a compliment.”

you open your mouth to respond when another voice cuts through the conversation.

“what’s happening now?”

you glance up.

and immediately regret it.

because alexia putellas is standing there.

which means everyone suddenly looks more interested.

more awake. more annoying.

alexia balances a coffee in one hand and studies the table suspiciously.

mapi lights up. “perfect. tell her she’s insane.”

alexia slides into the empty seat opposite you.

“that depends. what’s she done?”

“apparently love is fake.”

you groan. “that isn’t what i said.”

“it’s basically what you said.”

alexia raises an eyebrow.

then looks directly at you.

“love is fake?”

“love is dramatic.”

“same thing?”

“close enough.”

a laugh escapes her.

you hate that laugh.

not because it’s annoying.

because it isn’t.

because it’s warm.

because it always makes you want to hear it again.

which is a problem.

not a serious problem.

just a small one.

the kind you ignore.

alexia shakes her head.

“you’re impossible.”

“i hear that a lot.”

“for good reason.”

“yet here you are.”

“unfortunately.”

you grin.

she rolls her eyes.

and somehow everybody else at the table suddenly looks smug.

which immediately makes you suspicious.

“why are you all looking at us like that?”

“like what?” aitana asks.

“like you’re plotting something.”

“maybe we’re plotting something.”

“don’t.”

“too late.”

you point at alexia.

“control your children.”

“they don’t listen to me.”

“that’s true,” mapi says.

alexia sighs.

you laugh.

the conversation moves on.

eventually training gets discussed.

then travel schedules.

then a movie someone wants everyone to watch.

normal.

easy.

exactly the way you like things.

because reality makes sense.

people don’t.

especially not feelings.

feelings complicate everything.

you’ve spent years making sure your life stays uncomplicated.

and for the most part, it’s worked.

until three days later.

when the communications team asks you to come in after training.

you assume it’s routine.

a social media thing.

a sponsorship obligation.

something boring.

instead, when you walk into the meeting room, alexia is already there.

sitting at the table.

looking just as confused as you feel.

“that’s reassuring,” you say.

she glances up. “what is?”

“you look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”

“i was thinking the same thing about you.”

“good.”

you drop into the chair beside her.

“any idea what’s happening?”

“none.”

“great.”

“great.”

the door opens. and immediately you know this meeting isn’t routine.

because there are too many people. communications. marketing. sponsorship representatives.

everybody looks tense.

which is never a good sign.

you exchange a look with alexia.

she looks equally concerned.

one of the staff members clears her throat.

“thank you both for coming.”

already terrible.

nobody starts good meetings like that.

the presentation begins.

and somehow it only gets worse.

there’s a recent sponsorship campaign.

public engagement numbers. social media trends. fan demographics. media attention.

you stop listening after five minutes.

mostly because none of this seems relevant to you.

until it suddenly is.

“we’ve noticed,” someone says carefully, “that fan engagement surrounding interactions between the two of you is significantly higher than average.”

you blink.

alexia blinks.

silence.

then:

“what?”

the staff member clicks to another slide.

your face appears on the screen.

alexia’s face appears beside it.

you immediately hate where this is going.

“there’s been a growing amount of speculation online.”

“about what?” alexia asks.

nobody answers immediately. which is answer enough.

you lean back in your chair. “absolutely not.”

the room somehow becomes even more uncomfortable.

“we’re not suggesting anything inappropriate- ”

“you absolutely are.”

“hear us out.”

“i don’t want to.”

alexia covers her mouth.

trying- and failing- not to laugh.

you point at her. “don’t encourage them.”

“i’m trying not to.”

“try harder.”

she looks away. still smiling.

traitor.

another person jumps in. “we believe there’s an opportunity here.”

those words are never followed by anything good. ever. you’ve learned that.

“an opportunity.”

“yes.”

“for what.”

nobody wants to say it. which makes it worse.

finally:

“a temporary public relationship.”

you stare.

alexia stares.

the room waits. then you laugh.

a full laugh.

because that’s ridiculous. completely ridiculous. nobody joins in.

your smile slowly disappears.

“oh, you’re serious.”

they are. unfortunately. very serious.

the explanation continues.

something about public perception. something about sponsorship visibility. something about positive media attention.

you tune most of it out. why? because the proposal itself is insane.

fake dating?

seriously?

you’re surrounded by professional athletes at a legendary club and somehow this is the best idea anyone produced to get ratings?

incredible.

eventually the room falls quiet. everyone waiting for a response.

alexia looks at you.

you look at alexia.

then back at the staff.

“this is stupid.”

“it would only be temporary.”

“still stupid.”

“there are benefits.”

“for who?”

“everyone.”

“that sounds fake.”

alexia snorts.

the staff member sighs. “we understand it’s unconventional.”

“that’s one word for it.”

“we’re simply asking you to consider it.”

you should say no. immediately. a normal person would. a smart person definitely would.

except the more they explain it, the more you realise something.

it’s actually… practical.

you don’t have to be in love. you don’t even have to change much. people already think whatever they want. all you’d really be doing is giving them a story. a controlled one.

temporary. simple.

you hate that it makes sense. because as much as it doesnt, it does.

alexia is still listening carefully. thinking.

which means she’s considering it too. which means the thought of the two of you dating doesnt completely repulse her.

finally someone asks the question. “would either of you be open to it?”

the room waits.

alexia looks thoughtful.

you don’t.

because you’ve already made your decision.

“okay.”

the word leaves your mouth before anybody expects it. including you. the entire room freezes.

alexia turns toward you.

“okay?”

you shrug. “why not?”

“that’s your response?”

“seems easy enough.”

alexia looks genuinely surprised. which offends you slightly.

“what?”

“i thought you’d say no.”

“why?”

she laughs, actually laughs. “have you met yourself?”

fair. still.

you lean back in your chair.

“it’s temporary.”

“yes.”

“it’s practical.”

“yes.”

“nobody actually has to catch feelings.”

the marketing team looks relieved. alexia just keeps staring at you. like she’s trying to solve a puzzle. eventually she shakes her head, a small smile appearing. “okay.”

now it’s your turn to be surprised.

“okay?”

“why not?”

you narrow your eyes.

“don’t copy me.”

“i’m not.”

“you literally are.”

“maybe.”

the meeting ends shortly afterwards.

details can wait. contracts can wait. everything can wait.

except apparently the fact that you’ve just agreed to fake date alexia putellas.

which feels absurd. your career is established, and neither of you have any desire to become anymore famous than you already are. but still.

you and her walk out together. the hallway is quiet.

for a few seconds neither of you says anything.

then:

“well.”

“well.”

she laughs again.

there it is. that stupid laugh.

“this is going to be interesting.”

“that’s one word for it.”

“having second thoughts?”

“no.” you answer too quickly.

her smile widens. “confident.”

“always.”

“liar.”

“rude.”

you reach the end of the corridor.

both slowing automatically.

neither seeming particularly eager to leave yet.

which is strange.

alexia glances at you.

“so we’re really doing this.”

“looks that way.”

“you know everyone is going to be unbearable.”

“mapi is going to make my life hell.”

“she’s going to make both our lives hell.”

“good point.”

another silence. comfortable somehow. easy.

then alexia extends her hand. “partners?”

you stare at it. then at her. “that sounds suspiciously romantic.”

“i meant professionally.”

“sure.”

“you’re impossible.”

“that’s what everyone says.”

she rolls her eyes.

still smiling.

and keeps her hand extended.

waiting. eventually you take it. just a handshake. nothing complicated. nothing important. the kind people do every day. except neither of you lets go immediately.

just a second longer than necessary. maybe two. long enough to notice. long enough for something strange to flicker through your chest.

gone before you can identify it.

alexia seems to notice too. because her expression shifts briefly. something unreadable. then she’s stepping back. the moment disappearing.

“see you tomorrow.”

“yeah.”

she starts walking away.

you watch her go. then immediately regret watching her go. because that’s weird. 

and you’re not weird. you’re practical. logical. grounded.

you have a tight grip on reality. and reality says this is just an arrangement. temporary. simple.

nothing more.

you tell yourself that all the way home.

for some reason, it doesn’t sound quite as convincing as it used to.

——

the first problem is that nobody tells you how couples are supposed to act.

which becomes painfully obvious approximately twelve minutes into your first sponsorship photoshoot.

“closer.” the photographer barely looks up from his camera.

you and alexia exchange a glance. you’re already standing shoulder to shoulder.

“we are close.”

“closer.”

“any closer and i’ll be inside her skin.”

“perfect.”

“that was a joke.”

“closer.”

alexia bites back a laugh. traitor.

you sigh dramatically and shuffle a few inches toward her.

immediately the photographer shakes his head.

“still too stiff.”

“i’m literally standing here.”

“look like you want to be standing there.”

you stare. alexia stares. the photographer waits.

finally alexia leans toward you slightly.

“just pretend.”

you look at her.

“that’s what we’re doing.”

“pretend harder, amor.”

you hate that she’s funny.

you hate it even more because she’s trying not to smile.

the photographer brightens immediately.

“yes. exactly that.”

“what?”

“whatever you just did.”

you look away from alexia.

the camera flashes.

again.

again.

again.

for the next hour you’re forced into increasingly ridiculous situations.

sitting together. walking together. laughing together. looking at each other.

the last one is somehow the worst.

“eyes on each other.”

you and alexia obey.

the camera clicks.

except now you’re just staring at her.

which feels strange. not bad.

just strange.

because people don’t usually look at each other this long. not without a reason.

alexia’s eyes narrow slightly. “what?”

“nothing.”

“you’re staring.”

“you’re staring too.”

“because i’m supposed to.”

“same.”

another camera flash. the photographer looks delighted. you look away first. which annoys you. because you’re not entirely sure why.

—

the second problem appears a week later. interviews. you hate interviews. alexia tolerates them.

which means she gets to watch you suffer.

“you’re enjoying this.”

the interviewer is busy setting up equipment.

alexia doesn’t even try denying it. “a little.”

“rude.”

“you make funny faces.”

“those are my normal faces.”

“that’s concerning.”

you open your mouth to respond when the interviewer suddenly sits down. smiling. far too enthusiastically. “thank you both for being here.”

immediately suspicious. the interview starts normally. football, training, the season.

all safe. all boring.

then- 

“and how is the relationship going?”

there it is. you knew it was coming. alexia knew it was coming.

still.

hearing it out loud feels weird. you glance at her. she glances at you.

for half a second neither answers.

then alexia speaks- smoothly, effortlessly.

“it’s good.”

liar. professional liar. the interviewer beams.

“what’s your favourite thing about her?”

you nearly choke. alexia nearly laughs. the interviewer waits. apparently serious. unbelievable.

alexia turns toward you. and now she’s definitely trying not to smile. “this should be interesting.”

“don’t.”

“i haven’t said anything.”

“yet.”

the interviewer gestures encouragingly. alexia thinks for a second. then shrugs.

“she’s honest.”

you blink.

that wasn’t what you expected.

“honest?”

“painfully.”

“that’s not a compliment.”

“i think it is.”

“you would.”

the interviewer looks thrilled.

like he’s witnessing something adorable. which is unfortunate. because the next question comes immediately. “and what about you?”

you point at yourself. “me?”

“yes.”

“why?”

alexia starts laughing. the interviewer looks confused. you groan. “fine.”

you glance sideways at her. expecting something sarcastic to come easily.

instead your mind goes completely blank. which is ridiculous. you know alexia. you’ve been knowing alexia.

everybody knows alexia. she’s one of the most recognizable athletes on the planet. why are you struggling?

“well?” the interviewer prompts.

you sigh. “she cares.”

alexia looks at you.

the room suddenly feels warmer.

“cares?” the interviewer asks.

“about everything.” you shrug, trying to sound casual.

“football. people. random things nobody else notices.”

silence. alexia is still looking at you. you immediately regret saying it. because it sounds genuine. which is dangerous. the interviewer practically glows.

“that’s sweet.” 

you hate that word. “sweet is a strong description.”

“i thought it was nice.” alexia’s voice is quiet.

you glance at her. she’s smiling. a small one. different somehow. your stomach does something strange. you ignore it.

—

the third problem arrives through the team. specifically mapi. because of course it does.

“you held hands.”

you don’t even look up from your locker. “okay.”

“for seven minutes- your own personal seven minutes in heaven.”

“mentira.” you mutter under your breath.

“five.”

“still not true.”

“four and a half.”

“why are you timing us?”

“because i’m a scientist.”

“you’re many things.”

“thank you.”

you stare. she grins. insufferable. across the room, patri sighs.

“please stop encouraging her.”

“never.”

mapi immediately points toward the doorway.

“look.”

you don’t.

because that’s a trap.

“look.”

“no.”

“look.”

you finally give in.

and immediately regret it.

because alexia just walked in.

and mapi’s smile becomes dangerous. “there she is.”

“you’re weird.”

“you’re in love.”

“i’m literally not.”

alexia arrives beside the lockers, raising an eyebrow. “what happened?”

“nothing.” mapi responds with a grin.

“they’re bullying me.”

“we’re helping you.”

“by lying?”

“by opening your eyes.”

you close your locker. hard. “goodbye.”

mapi laughs. alexia looks confused. you keep walking.

—

the problem is that spending time being falsely romantically involved with alexia is supposed to feel like work.

that’s the entire point. it’s an arrangement. a role. a performance. instead it starts becoming normal. easy.

you don’t notice it happening at first. that’s probably why it’s dangerous. it starts with small things.

alexia learning your coffee order.

alexia saving you a seat before meetings.

alexia texting when flights get delayed.

nothing important. nothing unusual. except eventually you start doing it too. without thinking.

one afternoon you’re walking back from training when your phone buzzes.

alexia: where are you?

you stare at the message. confused.

you: walking.

alexia: obviously.

you: thank you.

alexia: come to physio.

you: why?

alexia: because i’m bored and i want company.

you laugh. actually laugh. alone. in public.

which is embarrassing.

you: that’s not my problem.

three dots appear immediately.

alexia: wow. heartless.

you: correct.

another pause.

then:

alexia: bring snacks.

you shake your head.

still smiling.

which is when you realize you’re already changing direction toward the cafeteria.

before you’ve even consciously decided to.

—

a few days later the team travels for an away match. nothing special, just routine.

except your flight gets delayed.

then delayed again.

then delayed again.

everybody’s annoyed, you included.

the airport lounge is crowded- half the team is asleep and the other half is complaining.

you sit alone scrolling through your phone. enjoying the peace. until someone drops into the seat beside you.

alexia. obviously. “you look miserable.”

“i am miserable.”

“dramatic.”

“we’ve been here for four hours.”

“three.”

“same thing.”

alexia laughs. then opens a packet of crisps, offering them to you automatically.

you take one automatically.

neither of you notices. because somehow this has become normal. she starts talking about something.

you only catch half of it.

mostly because you’re distracted. not by what she’s saying. by how comfortable this feels. when did that happen? when did being around alexia stop requiring effort? when did it become the easiest thing in the world?

the thought lingers longer than it should.

—

your first official public appearance happens two days later. a sponsor event- crowded, bright lights, too many cameras.

exactly your favourite environment. 

which is to say not at all.

“you’ll survive.”

alexia adjusts her jacket, calm as ever.

“unlikely.”

“you’re very brave.”

“thank you.”

“that wasn’t a compliment.”

“everyone keeps saying that.”

she smiles. you hate that smile too. there are too many things about alexia that have become familiar. you don’t like thinking about that. so you don’t. instead you focus on the event- the interviews, the photos, the endless conversations.

eventually someone calls you over for pictures.

you and alexia move automatically, standing side by side.

the photographer lifts her camera. “perfect.”

before you can react, alexia’s arm slides around your waist.

easy, natural, practiced.

you don’t think- you simply lean slightly toward her. the same way you’ve started doing during interviews. during flights. during team dinners.

the camera flashes.

again. again.again.

“great.”

you barely hear her.

because suddenly you’re aware of two things.

one: alexia’s hand is resting against your side.

two: neither of you consciously chose this position. it just happened.

the realization hits harder than it should. the photos end. people move on. the moment passes.

except the thought doesn’t.

because as you’re walking away, you catch a glimpse of one of the photos on a nearby monitor.

you and alexia. smiling. comfortable. happy. like a real couple. and for one brief, dangerous second- you wish it was. the thought vanishes immediately. buried before it can grow. before it can mean anything.

still, the damage is already done. because now you know the thought existed at all.

and that’s far more worrying.

—

at some point, alexia becomes a habit. you don’t notice it happening. that’s the problem. if you’d noticed, maybe you could’ve stopped it. instead it sneaks up on you slowly.

a seat left open beside you in meetings, a text after training, a shared look during team talks.

small things. harmless things. until suddenly they’re not.

“where’s alexia?” the question leaves your mouth before you can stop it.

silence. immediate silence. you look up. half the team is staring at you. mapi looks particularly delighted. which is never a good sign.

“what?” you ask in confusion.

“nothing,” mapi says.

lying- badly.

you narrow your eyes. “don’t.”

“don’t what?”

“whatever you’re about to do.”

“i wasn’t going to do anything.”

“that’s how i know you’re lying.”

aitana snorts into her water bottle. patri actually turns away to hide a smile. traitors, all of them.

you groan. “seriously. where is she?”

mapi clasps her hands dramatically. “look at that.”

“look at what?”

“she misses her girlfriend.”

“i don’t.”

“you literally just asked where she was.”

“because she usually sits there.” you point at the empty chair, immediately regretting it.

because now everyone’s smiling. great, fantastic, wonderful.

“you’ve become predictable,” patri says.

“that’s offensive.”

“it’s true.”

“i’ve never been predictable.”

“you look for her every day.”

you open your mouth. close it. open it again.

nothing comes out. why? because unfortunately she’s right. and that’s annoying. mostly because you hadn’t realized anyone else had noticed.

—

the thing is, alexia really is everywhere. not physically.

just- somehow.

you keep finding her in your routines. she’s there when you arrive at training. there after training. there during meetings. there during recovery sessions. there in your messages. there in your thoughts.

which feels unfair. one afternoon you’re halfway through physio when your phone buzzes.

alexia.

alexia: they put pineapple on my sandwich.

you stare at the message.

then laugh. immediately. without thinking.

the physio looks up. “good news?”

“no.”

you type back.

you: deserved.

alexia: wow. 

alexia: you wound me amor.

alexia: more and more everyday.

you: that’s the goal. 🤷‍♀️

three dots appear.

alexia: breaking up with you.

you roll your eyes.

you: thank god.

another response arrives almost instantly.

alexia: mean.

for some reason, your smile lingers.

which is unfortunate.

because now your physio is looking at you strangely.

“what?”

“nothing.”

“you’re smiling.”

“people smile.”

“not like that.”

you immediately stop. the physio laughs.

you hate everyone.

—

the first genuinely bad training session happens on a thursday. nothing catastrophic, nobody gets injured, nobody screams.

you just can’t do anything right.

every pass is slightly off. every touch feels wrong. every decision comes a second too late.

one of those days. the kind athletes hate. the kind that sits under your skin.

training ends. everyone starts heading inside. you stay. because you don’t feel like talking. don’t feel like pretending you’re fine. the sun is beginning to disappear. the pitch is quieter now.

empty.

you drop onto the grass. staring out toward nothing. trying not to think. it doesn’t work.

obviously.

a few minutes pass.

then: “there you are.”

you don’t need to look up. you’d know that voice anywhere. which is somehow another problem.

alexia walks across the pitch. holding two water bottles.

she offers one. you take it automatically. “thanks.”

“bad day?”

you shrug.

which answers the question.

alexia sits beside you.

close enough that your shoulders nearly touch.

not quite.

just enough.

for a while neither of you says anything.

the silence isn’t awkward.

which is irritating.

because most silences are.

this one isn’t.

eventually alexia takes a drink.

“you’re overthinking.”

you scoff.

“that’s your diagnosis?”

“yes.”

“very scientific.”

“i’m serious.”

you glance at her.

she is.

annoyingly.

“everything looked difficult because you were trying to make it perfect.”

“i wasn’t.”

alexia raises an eyebrow.

you sigh.

“maybe a little.”

“exactly.”

you hate when she’s right. mostly because she’s right often.

“it’s one training session.”

you stare ahead. “i know.”

“then stop acting like the world ended.”

“i’m not.”

“you absolutely are.”

you laugh despite yourself.

alexia smiles- small, soft, but it’s a smile nonetheless.

the kind she doesn’t show reporters. or sponsors. or cameras.

just people she trusts. the thought lands somewhere uncomfortable. you ignore it.

badly.

“you stayed.”

the words leave before you think about them. alexia looks confused. “of course i did.”

of course. she says it like it’s obvious. like there was never another option. something tightens unexpectedly in your chest.

“you didn’t have to.”

“i wanted to.”

simple.

matter-of-fact.

completely genuine.

and suddenly you’re aware of the fact nobody is watching. there are no cameras. no interviews. no obligations.

no reason for her to be here. except she wants to be. the realisation settles heavily.

because that’s different. that’s very different.

you look away first.

the conversation drifts somewhere easier after that.

football, travel, mapi being annoying (justice for mapi)

normal things. safe things.

eventually the stadium lights flicker on overhead. alexia stands. “come on.”

you stay seated. “what?”

“you’re buying dinner.”

“why?”

“because i spent thirty minutes fixing your mood.”

“that’s not how that works.”

“it’s exactly how it works.”

you groan.she grins.

and somehow you’re already getting to your feet.

—

later that night you’re sprawled across your couch.

exhausted.

half watching television. half asleep.

your phone buzzes beside you.

a message from your brother. a photo.

apparently his dog managed to get stuck inside a laundry basket.

you immediately laugh. the dog looks furious. humiliated. personally offended by existence.

you open your messages. without thinking.

your thumb automatically moves toward alexia’s contact.

look at this. that’s what you’re about to type.

the words are practically there already.

look at this.

you stop. completely. the room suddenly feels very quiet. your screen glows in the darkness.

alexia’s conversation sits open. waiting.

you stare. then stare some more.

because what exactly are you doing?

it’s a stupid photo- a random photo.

nothing important. nothing urgent.

yet your first instinct was to send it to her. not mapi. not aitana. not your family.

her.

why?

the question lingers. uncomfortable.

you don’t have an answer. or maybe you do.

maybe that’s the problem.

slowly, you lock your phone. setting it face-down on the coffee table. the apartment feels strangely empty.

you don’t like that thought either. for a few moments you sit there. staring at nothing.

trying to convince yourself this means nothing.

people text their friends. people share things. people get close.

normal.

completely normal.

except something about this doesn’t feel normal.

because alexia isn’t becoming someone you spend time with. she’s becoming the person you want to spend time with. the first person you look for. the first person you think about telling things to. the first person you notice is missing.

and maybe that should worry you more than it does.

your phone buzzes again. you glance down. a new message.

from alexia.

did your mood survive?

a pause.

then another message.

or should i send emergency snacks?

despite everything, you smile.

immediately. helplessly. you hate that. you really do.

because pretending wasn’t supposed to feel this easy. and you’re starting to suspect that’s exactly why it’s dangerous.

⸻

I. The First Impression

.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆₊ ♱ THERE WAS SOMETHING DIFFERENT ABOUT ALEXIA PUTELLAS. You had always known this; everyone knew this. But now being merely feet away from her, you could tell that there was something about her that just seemed so different, so unlike anything you have seen before.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆₊ ♱ From a distance, you had watched her, together with the rest of the world. People have always viewed Alexia with a sense of reverence and admiration. She was La Reina – the queen. She was the star of FC Barcelona, a philanthropist whose name graced youth academies and charitable foundations, a woman who carried greatness so naturally that the title just felt naturally hers.

Alexia had always been a great player; she was already deemed as one of the GOATS of football in her late 20s. But in recent years, something changed.

She started improving, playing better than she had been. Suddenly, extraordinary seemed an insufficient descriptor. “Great” started to become an embarrassingly small word to describe her..

.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆₊ ♱ It started when she came back from a minor injury years ago, back when she was 32. The club was vague about it: muscle fatigue and some sort of other illness. They didn’t say what it was exactly, leaving fans guessing.

She returned weeks later and she just seemed… different. It was not even a subtle change; it was striking and immediately noticeable.

During her first game back, a clip of her went viral, running past every single player on the opposite team, dribbling with ease and scoring a goal practically singlehandedly. A pundit aptly put: “We’re watching time reverse and we are seeing the same Alexia we did years ago when she won her first Ballon D’or but even better, faster, stronger.”

That seemed consistent in every game that followed. She was faster than she had been at age twenty. In fact, she was actually faster than the youngest players on her own team, faster than wingers who had been recruited specifically for their pace. And, she dribbled with an unseen grace and precision, as if she could hear the thoughts of the players around her, as though their next move was already known to her before their bodies had even committed to it. Her goals also broke records for the velocity at which they came, making headline after headline.

The most unbelievable part of it all was how calm and serene she seemed. It was almost eerie. She wasn’t just focused in the same way that other athletes were focused; it was more akin to the meditative calm and intensity of a predator hunting its prey.

At this point, commentators ran out of superlatives and began borrowing language from mythology. Suddenly, La Reina was not enough. People started calling her La Diosa. Fans of other teams called her El Monstruo, which was never really meant as an insult but as an awed surrender, like acknowledging that there was no way anyone could face her unscathed. And when she reached 37 and was still seemingly improving, a new title came: La Inmortal.

They said it as a joke, mostly, saying that there was no way someone like her, someone who seeminly improved with age was going to retire. It became the running joke amongst pundits and fans alike – that she would play until she was a hundred years old and even then, she would still be outplaying every single person on the pitch. It seemed like an exaggeration but anyone with eyes would concur that there was no sign of her slowing down any time soon.

Which was why her retirement announcement came so sudden.

Right before her 40th birthday, with her contract at Barcelona expiring and the club prepared to offer her something that had no precedent in women's football and with other clubs circling with offers that exceeded even that, Alexia Putellas announced her retirement.

The discourse erupted within minutes and did not settle for weeks. Pundits filled airtime with the kind of intensity usually reserved for scandal.

Some called it wisdom. They said that she was the rare athlete who leaves before leaving becomes necessary. “Know when you have to go before you’re forced out,” pundits said. Others called it waste, criminal, as if she was robbing them of something personal to them,

Part of you understood why. It wasn’t normal to see someone that great retire for no reason.

But then again, nothing was normal when it came to Alexia.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆₊ ♱ “Are you okay? You look pale,” Your best friend and coworker Lucia said, shaking you away from your thoughts.

“Yeah, just haven’t had a smoke for a while,” you said, sighing. “Can’t be smelling like nicotine when I finally get to see Alexia in the flesh. I’ve always had a small crush on her, ever since the last world cup.”

Lucia nodded. “Yeah, totally get it. She’s fine as hell.” She commented, re-adjusting her blonde hair into a neater ponytail. “I still can’t believe we get to work this catering gig, huh? I think this must be our biggest event. Alvaro must be geeking,” Lucia said, making a comment about your boss at this catering company as she looked around the room you were all getting ready in. “This place is pretty bougie too. It looks like something out of Bridgerton.”

You chuckled. “Well, it’s her birthday and retirement party so I assume she really is going all out.”

“I hope the players from the men’s team are invited too. I’ve got a huge crush on Gavi,” Lucia said, looking at the mirror to adjust her blonde hair, making sure there were no loose strands. “He’s so cute.”

“For your sake, I do hope he does but for me… I just wanna see Alexia,” you sighed. “Even if the only thing I’d be able to say to her is ‘Champagne?’”

Lucia laughed. “I hope Gavi asks me where the toilet is. I’d be so ready to tell him.”

“I can’t believe we’re fangirling over this.” You said, mimicking Lucia in brushing your hair back to make it sleeker and neater. “I feel like this is the only time we’d ever be this excited to do waitressing.”

“Yeah, well, it’s the first time we’re gonna have actual celebrities as our clients,” Lucia retorted. “But don’t get used to it cause next week, it’s back to old people birthdays and gender reveals.”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆₊ ♱ The hotel ballroom came to life as soon as the decorations were set up and the guests came pouring in, dressed in formal attire. The event was big enough to have a red carpet and press coverage. It seemed like every big name in Spanish football was here.

You threaded through the gilded room, dressed in the anonymous uniform of the catering staff. You held a tray of champagne, offering to everyone that came past you. You hummed, looking around, waiting for Alexia to arrive. Sure, it was nice serving all these other big names but you really only wanted to see Alexia.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆₊ ♱ As soon as Alexia arrived, the attention drifted to her. As much as you wanted to stand by and admire, you were quickly ushered toward the kitchen. You were pulled away to help prepare for the upcoming dinner, and by the time you surfaced again to the main floor, her retirement speech was already winding down and she was being taken to her table which was on the farther end of the room, away from where you were assigned to serve.

So much for my interaction, you thought to yourself as you sighed, picking up another tray of alcoholic drinks, readying to serve another round before dinner.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆₊ ♱ Even if you didn’t always like this job, considering how much you had to do for an event, barely allowing you time to breathe, it did come with its perks. The wages were decent. The hours were manageable. Unlike in the bars and clubs you used to work in, being nice and friendly wasn’t required. God, how it tired you out having to fake smile at some creep making a pass at you.

Sure, you might have always been on your feet but it was better than all those late-nights at the clubs. Hell, you might have liked it even better than your previous waitressing job cause at least here, you didn’t have to worry about some customer taking out their anger at food you didn’t even prepare.

Here, you were blissfully ignored and there was a strange kind of freedom in invisibility. It was a great change from all your jobs that required social interaction and fake niceties. You moved through rooms like this one, where everyone was too busy chattering and eating to even notice you.

Which was precisely why it was so disorienting whenever you were noticed.

You felt a prickling at the back of your neck, feeling that particular awareness of being watched. You turned around on instinct, scanning the room, looking for someone potentially flagging you down for a drink but there was no one.

But just as you were about to turn your head back, your gaze landed on her.

Alexia was across the room, perhaps fifteen feet away, standing tall, dressed in a sleek black dress. She was mid-conversation with a tall man in a well-fitted suit. She held a glass of red wine loosely in one hand, swirling it slowly, laughing at whatever the guy was saying.

You told yourself to divert your gaze, to not let your eyes linger long enough to make your gaze noticeable, but it was just so difficult for you to look away.

You had seen her earlier in the evening, in brief stolen glances between tasks but there had always been something in the way: a guest stepping into your line of sight, a tray needing balancing, your manager calling you over to serve another table. So, this was the first opportunity you had to really look at her.

She was stunning. You’ve seen her in photos and on the screen but none of it seemed to do her justice. Her skin glowed, almost impossibly so. She looked like she was made of a fine material like porcelain or glass. Her dark hair fell across her shoulder as she turned her head. The way it fell looked choreographed; it just looked too perfect, as if every strand settled exactly where it should. Her jaw was sharp and her cheekbones held shadow beautifully. Her mouth curved into a smile as she waved the man off as he seemingly excused himself from their conversation. Her teeth were incredibly white, not in the way that artificial veneer did; it looked more like fine ivory or marble. She swirled the wine glass again, bringing it to her face to sniff, but never drinking it.

And then, her eyes glanced up, meeting yours.

You were taken aback for a moment, feeling magnetized by her gaze, the way the chandelier lights caught in her eyes. And almost imperceptibly, her lips curled into a small smirk. You quickly blinked, pulling yourself back, embarrassed to be caught staring at her like that.

You turned away immediately, heat rising to your face. You were so distracted by your own shame and embarrassment that you had not realized that someone was moving past you and you walked directly into them.

The collision was immediate and the fact that you were too caught up in your own thoughts did not help. Your initial reflex was to save the tray, afraid of the glass falling and shattering, which proved to be a stupid decision because it meant your hands stayed up and occupied while the rest of you clumsily stumbled. You lurched sideways and went down hard with your hips and forearm taking the weight of your fall.

You winced upon impact, registering the cold spread of alcohol soaking into your clothes, the heat of embarrassment climbing your face. Then, the pain arrived. Your forearm was the only thing that was really able to break your fall, bearing most of your weight as you hit the floor.

When you turned over, you winced again, feeling a sharper pain. There was blood dripping down your arm. You figured that it must have landed on one of the glasses that had shattered. You pressed it instinctively to your side, and became aware, all at once, that people were looking at you.

You looked down, biting the inside of your cheek. Somehow the embarrassment felt worse than the pain.

“Are you okay?” You looked up to see Alexia, crouching directly in front of you.

You blinked. She had been fifteen feet away just a second ago. You were certain of it; you had just been looking at her. There was no reasonable way she was already here… and yet here she was, close enough that you could see the fine detail of her face. There was no sweat or tension in her face, no sign that she must have run over from there to here just now.

Before you could make sense of it, she took your hand and pressed a folded napkin firmly against the cut. You winced at the pressure.

“You took quite a fall there, huh?” She asked, voice low and calm.

The words caught in your throat, unsure of what to say. Alexia looked up, eyes meeting yours. There was a hint of amusement in her expression. “Hit your head too?”

You suddenly realized that you had been staring at her without saying anything, probably too taken aback by her presence and your confusion on how she made it to you that fast.

"Uh, no," you managed. "I'm fine. I'm sorry, Ms. Putellas, I'll just—"

“Alexia, we’ll take care –” The event coordinator hurriedly said, rushing to Alexia’s side, offering to take over but Alexia waved him off.

"I've got it." She said it simply, like it wasn't up for discussion, and turned back to you. "That cut looks like it needs more than a cloth napkin. I have a first aid kit in my room and some tweezers, just in case some shards got caught in there."

You nodded, still a bit stunned.

"We have one in the kitchen," you said quickly. "The catering company always comes prepared, so really, there's no need—"

She shook her head, and when the rest of your colleagues arrived in a small concerned cluster, she looked up at them with a smile, dismissing them. “I was the one who collided with her. I wasn’t looking. So, this is my fault,” she explained, lying about what happened. “It’s my responsibility so I’ll take care of it.”

Everyone acquiesced. Of course they did, it was impossible to say no to her when she smiled at you like that. It was hypnotizing.

You stared at her. You had taken a fall, not a blow to the head so you were also fairly sure that she had not been anywhere near you when you went down. She had been across the room. So why was she telling everyone otherwise?

She helped you to your feet, offering her arm, and you took it without thinking. The moment your hand closed around her forearm, two things registered at once: how cold her skin was, and how solid it was. It felt like holding onto marble.

Everyone clapped as the Catalan helped you up, swooping into the scene like some hero, and was now taking time out of her own celebration to patch some random nobody up. It gave everyone more reason to admire her.

Alexia guided you out of the ballroom and toward the elevator, unhurried, unbothered by the small scene being tidied up behind you by your co-workers.

As soon as you stepped into the elevator with her, the silence was immediate and complete. Just the two of you, the soft mechanical hum of the elevator, and the faint sting of your forearm reminding you that this was, in fact, real.

“Miss Alexia, you really don’t have to –” You started but she immediately raised her hand, silencing you before you could even say anything more.

She turned to look at you again. Now that she was closer, under the bright fluorescence of the elevator, you could see her eyes better: the warm hazel hue, the way the specks in her eyes caught the light like actual gold. “Please, you’re doing me a favor,” she said with a smile. “I was… getting bored of the same conversations about my retirement.”

You nodded, remembering that again just now. You bit your lip before saying, “Happy birthday, by the way.”

She chuckled. “Thank you.”

“You don’t look 40, at all,” you said meekly, mostly as a compliment but also as a fact. Even up close, you could see that there was barely any sign of aging on her face. Sure, she had a few, small smile lines around her eyes but aside from that, there was nothing. She looked the same as she did when she was 30 and a full decade has passed since then.

“That’s what good hydration gets you,” she commented. The elevator dinged. “We’re here. C’mon, let me help you out.”

.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆₊ ♱ Alexia guided you to sit on the edge of the hotel bed, fidgeting nervously, biting your lip. You took a quick glance at her as she walked into the hotel room’s separate washroom and closet area. As she did, you took the opportunity to look around the room.

It was the first time you had the chance to be in a fancy suite like this. The room was amazing and spacious. Everything was incredibly neat. The bed beneath you was pristine, sheets undisturbed. You figured that maybe had just come through, but then your eyes found the corner by the large, floor-to-ceiling windows where a silk blouse draped was over the back of the chair, hotel slippers seemingly hastily taken off on the floor, and a robe was thrown across the armchair in the corner the way people throw things when they're getting ready in a hurry. One of the two white Rimowa suitcases was left open on the floor, stuff clearly having taken out of it. It was an indication that the room was used but not slept in. You figured maybe she had come here to prepare and nothing more, but the amount of clothes Alexia brought suggested otherwise.

“Here we go,” your train of thought was broken through with Alexia walking towards you carrying a first-aid kit. This looked less like those readily assembled kits you could buy from groceries, and more like what a paramedic would have in their ambulance. It was assembled in a white case that was structured vaguely like a toolbox. She set it on the carpeted floor right by your feet before kneeling in front of you, her thick and heavy black dress pooling around you. “Glad I always come prepared.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to…” you said, feeling a bit guilty that this beautiful woman was kneeling before you in what looked like a couture gown, trying to clean up some wound that barely looked serious. “I don’t want you to ruin your dress.”

“This is a bigger priority to me than some dress,” she chuckled, gesturing to your gash. “Besides, when I was a kid, I kinda wanted to be a doctor or a nurse. Quickly disregarded that dream when I realized doctors had to deal with blood and needles. So, this is me partly living out that fantasy while having to deal with my fears.”

You nodded, acquiescing to it. Alexia seemed to actually be knowledgeable with wound care, judging by the ease in which she moved. You glanced again at her first aid kit. It wasn't the standard collection of plasters and paracetamol. It was organised and complete with gauze rolls, sterile dressings, antiseptic solution, antibiotic ointment, tweezers, medical tape. Everything labelled, everything in its place.

It seemed to be stocked specifically for wound care, curated with a knowledge that went beyond casual.

“You deal with wounds a lot?” You said, gesturing your head towards the kit.

Alexia’s mouth curled into a small smile as she looked through the kit, taking the squeeze bottle she seemingly just filled up in the hotel bathroom, using it to clean out your wound. “I’m an athlete so I guess you could say I do.” She said, nodding as she continued to clean your wound gently. “Athletes can be clumsy and get gashes too.”

You nodded. It made sense… partly. But you just figured that this was one of her quirks, living out her childhood fantasy or whatever. You just thought: who were you to judge when you had your own quirks as well.

Alexia inhaled deeply. "The glass cut deeper than I thought," she said quietly as she held her breath, seemingly not releasing it.

“Is it bad?” You asked.

She hummed. “No, but I might have to check if anything’s stuck. A glass shard or whatever.”

You watched her examine the wound with a careful precision, angling your arm a bit as she did. She was really focused, locked in at the task at hand. The room settled into a quiet with just the low mechanical hum of the air conditioning, and the sound of your own breathing filling the room. You became aware, after a moment, that you really couldn't hear her breathing at all, as if she was too focused to even breathe.

Without looking down she reached into the kit and produced a pair of tweezers.

"Can I borrow your lighter?” She asked.

You nodded, reaching into your pocket with your uninjured hand to hand her your lighter. She thanked you curtly before running a flame along the tip of the tweezers, unhurried, then set the lighter down and waited for the metal to cool just enough. When she leaned in, her grip on your forearm was light but completely certain. It was the kind of hold that says ‘don't move’ and so, you didn't.

Swiftly, Alexia extracted a small, barely visible shard of glass that caught the light just a second before she discarded it on a paper napkin. As she extracted it, a drop of blood welled, trailing a thin line down your forearm and wrist.

Alexia didn't reach for the gauze. She paused, seemingly growing still and stiff for a second before inhaling once more then looking up at you, voice coming out entirely measured. “Do you mind?”

You blinked. "What?"

She didn't answer with words. Instead, her eyes stayed locked on yours, and slowly and deliberately she raised your forearm toward her mouth. You felt her breath cool against your skin, sending a shiver from your arm that crawled up to your neck before feeling her tongue press flat against where the trail of blood ended up to where your gash was.

You should have pulled away. You knew this was fucking odd and weird, especially coming from someone who was essentially a stranger and technically your boss, as she did hire you to work for her. And yet… you didn’t pull away.

You couldn’t.

Not in the sense that she was gripping your arm too tight but more of in a sense that you couldn’t help it. You just didn’t feel like pulling away.

In the same sense, you couldn't look away from her eyes. They locked into your eyes as soon as she pressed her tongue onto your wrist, as if daring you to pull away or look away or say anything. At that moment, you realized that something changed. Her eyes… which you had catalogued earlier as a complex hazel-green, had darkened considerably so. The colour had deepened toward something almost black.

Then Alexia blinked before lowering your arm and she smiled, crookedly and reserved, as if trying to see how your reaction was going to be.

"You looked terrified," she said. The lightness was back in her voice, easy and warm, almost teasing. "Like a deer in headlights."

You laughed but it came out flat, almost fake, like you were just laughing for the sake of lightening the mood but your heart beating violently against your chest begged to disagree. And she was right: you were scared. It wasn’t enough to trigger a flight-or-flight response but just… at the borderline of it.

Alexia, unbothered, reached for the antiseptic. She stayed quiet, not addressing what she did, as if nothing odd had happened. Just as she was pressing the final strip of tape down, sealing the dressing, you heard yourself speak.

"Why are you doing this?" You asked, pausing. “I meant… the whole taking care of me. You don’t even know me.”

Out of all the questions in your head, you didn’t know why you had to blurt that one out. But Alexia seemed pleased with the question, pausing in thought before averting her gaze back to you,

"I care about the people who work my events," she said simply. "Like how I care about the staff at the club, the people who work during my shoots, just everyone I work with. If a teammate went down during training, I wouldn't just step over her. Would I? So, why would I feel any differently about someone working with me tonight?" She said it calmly and genuinely. You believed what she was saying. There was no use performing or pretending. It was just the two of you in this room.

And yet… something sat slightly incomplete about it. Like a sentence that had ended one word too early. It felt like she was still withholding something.

She put everything back into the kit, closed it, and after a moment added, almost offhandedly: "Besides, at a fundamental level, everyone is the same so there’s no use treating people differently.” She looked at you, explaining shortly after what she meant after seeing the confused look on your face. “I mean, all people are the same: same biology, same flesh, blood, a heart that keeps going until it doesn't." She smiled to herself. "That doesn't change based on who you are or what you do."

You looked at her. Something about the phrasing snagged at you — same flesh, same blood — though you couldn't have said why. "Don't you think you're different, though?"

She looked up, and there was a flicker of something in her expression, not offence, but genuine amusement. She raised an eyebrow. "Why would you say that?"

"Because you…" You started, and then the words came faster than you could manage them. "You're – I mean, you're Alexia Putellas. You've broken records that you set yourself. You play like… like the game is slower for you than it is for everyone else, like you already know what's going to happen. There's never been anyone like –" You stopped. The heat arrived in your face all at once. You had been rambling. You had been gushing, and the look on Alexia's face confirmed that she had noticed every word of it. You looked down. "Sorry. I just… I've followed your career for a while. I guess I am a fan.”

Alexia blinked, looking for the first time tonight, surprised at what you had said. It was the most expression you had seen on her face. “Really? You watch my games?”

“Of course, I mean… everyone does.” You said, voice smaller and meeker.

She smiled. “I didn’t know that.”

“What?” You furrowed your eyebrows.

She corrected. “I meant, I wouldn’t have guessed that about you… that you watched my games.”

You nodded. “Yeah, well, I mean… just like I said, you’re different, one of a kind. That kind of person… well, just attracts everyone’s attention, I guess.”

Alexia said nothing for a moment, seemingly taking in what you said.

"Football…" she said finally. “It’s just a job. I mean, it’s a job I love and gets a lot of attention…but still, a job. It doesn't make me different from you. Not in any way that matters."

You hummed, turning that over. You didn't entirely believe her. False modesty was common enough in athletes, and perhaps she had simply gotten very good at it. But then she spoke again, and her tone had shifted into something quieter, more careful, like she was deciding to say something she didn't often say.

"You, though." She tilted her head slightly. "You're the one who is truly different."

You blinked. "Me?"

She paused, nodding. “I’m able to read people well – a strong intuition, some would say. And I can usually tell what someone is feeling before they've finished deciding how to show it."

You frowned, failing to understand her point.

She continued. "Your colleague, for instance – the one with the blonde ponytail — she has a crush on Gavi. She's been deliberately filling his glass only halfway all night so he keeps having to flag her down to refill it.”

Your mouth opened slightly.

"The man I was speaking to when you first noticed me," she continued, without breaking rhythm, "was not there to celebrate anything. He had been using those new betting apps and had a thousand euros staked on me playing through next season. He came over under the pretense that his daughter had bought a season pass and had been crying about my retirement." She glanced up briefly. "He was trying to change my mind while pretending to appeal to my sentimentality."

You tried to smile, tried to meet the anecdote with the lightness it seemed to call for, but something cold had moved through you. Your body had registered something before your mind caught up: a low-frequency alarm. This was it: your flight-or-fight reflex slowly but surely creeping up to your consciousness.

But it felt like you couldn’t move. Again, you felt frozen.

"But you… I can't figure out your thoughts." Alexia said, tone light but mixed with a hint of frustration. She looked into your eyes, as if searching for something. “I can’t even guess what you would be thinking about right now.”

You frowned. "What do you mean? My best friend says I'm an open book."

"Maybe she can read your emotions well…” she said, tilting her head slightly. "But that's different. I can see what you let me see, what you feel on the surface. But I can't see how you think, what you want, what you're going to do next."

She paused, exhaling a breath that she had seemingly been holding onto for minutes. "You're the only person I've ever met where I can feel the emotion but not find the thought behind it." She paused again. “The only person I can’t figure out.”

You didn't know what to say to that, so you said nothing.

"Right now, for instance." She rose from the floor in one fluid motion, unfolding to her full height above you with an effortlessness that felt almost deliberate. She stood over you where you sat at the edge of the bed, and then leaned down, bringing her lips level with your ear.

"You're afraid of me." Her voice was low, almost amused, her breath cold against the shell of your ear in a way that raised every hair on the back of your neck.

Then her hand moved, two fingers pressed with precision to the base of your throat. She rested her fingers right on top of a pulse point, your pulse jumping beneath her touch immediately. She pulled back just far enough to look at you directly. This close, you could see every detail of her face with an unwanted clarity: the dark fan of her lashes, the way the low light caught the unusual depth of her eyes, the almost imperceptible curve at the corner of her mouth.

"But I wonder," she murmured, "if fear is all that is."

Her two fingers moved carefully from the base of your throat to the underside of your chin, tilting your face up toward hers. The touch was cold and certain and you let it happen, unable… or even unwilling to resist.

You had stopped breathing evenly. You were aware of it and you were aware that she was aware of it, that she could feel the way your pulse quickened, the way the air between you had changed quality entirely. Her gaze dropped, just briefly, to your mouth.

You saw her lips part. You saw, unmistakably, the slow drag of her tongue across her lower lip, licking it as if she was a predator ready to devour her prey.

You parted your lips to breathe in and just like that, her mouth was on yours.

You gasped, taken aback by the suddenness of it, body going completely still for a second. Unmistakably, that same fight-or-flight instinct you felt a while ago was now spreading throughout yoyr body. You put your hands on Alexia’s shoulders, ready to push her off. But as you felt her kiss you, the taste of her mouth, the smell of her skin, you felt your body practically dissolving into her kiss.

Alexia kissed so differently from how she did everything else. There was none of that calmness she had earlier today; there were no deliberate and slow movements. This felt almost feral, with a fervor that somehow felt like it bypassed lust and went straight into something more unsettling.

You had past lovers who were incredibly intense but never like this.

It actually felt less like just physical intimacy and more like Alexia was claiming you. When she licked your lips before letting her tongue enter into your mouth, it didn’t feel like she was asking permission. It just felt like she was taking… taking in a way that made you want to completely give in,

She gripped your waist and lifted you as though you weighed nothing at all, adjusting you with ease, so that you were on your back against the mattress and she was above you, her dark dress spreading around you both like a tide coming in as she settled between your legs.

She continued to kiss you as her hands moved around your body, gripping your waist. Her hands seemed careful and yet also firm, enough to surely leave a mark, something that would surely be a bit sore in the morning. And yet, you arched into it, moaning into her mouth, feeling her hands tighten further in response.

You felt a slight shift of her weight bearing down more fully against you as her other hand moved to your neck, fingers gripping around it. Your neck settled nicely into the space between her palm and pointer finger, feeling arousal at the firmness of the touch. Using her thumb she forced your head to turn to the side, allowing her face to have more access to your neck.

You gasped, feeling her hand steadily holding your neck and her mouth plant kisses from your lips to your cheeks and down to your jaw and eventually, your neck.

She took her hand off your neck, pressing it flat against the mattress beside your head and the other held onto your hip, keeping you exactly where she wanted you. Her mouth found the curve of your throat and she pressed one open, deliberate kiss there, swiping her neck firmly against the skin just as she did with your arm. In contrast to the intensity of her kiss, her tongue now moved slowly, unhurried, as if she was testing your reaction.

You moaned, shivering slightly at the coldness of her breath, the warmth welling up inside you providing contrast to her freezing mouth. Alexia pressed her tongue once more, even harder against your skin while simultaneously wrapping her lips around the area, creating a slight suction. Your hands moved to wrap themselves around the Catalan, lips parted as you raised your head upwards in pleasure.

“Alexa,” you moaned out loud.

The sound of her voice made Alexia hesitate, feeling a pang of guilt as she grew aware of her hands on you and the uncomfortable turn of your neck. She knew she should have stopped there. She knew this was her sign to stop, to keep hold of her control while she could.

But before she knew it, your hands were finding its way back to her hair, pulling her into a deeper kiss.

You didn’t know what had overcome you at that moment. You weren’t the type to just desparately make out with strangers, especially not famous footballers who were seemingly fucking insane and might have a blood fetish, but it felt like you were in a hypnotic daze. Everything about Alexia was hypnotic – her smell, her touch, the taste of her mouth. It was like nothing you have felt before.

Little did you know, Alexia was feeling the same thing. Ever since her turning, there were very few intimate encounters for the vampire; the proximity and the scents were too intense for her to control herself. It was the quickened pulse, the blood rushing through their veins, the pheromones attacking her nose, the warmth just beneath her fingertips. The two times she tried to hook up with a beautiful stranger were both a bust: the first she had drained before they even got started, and the second she had literally devoured mid-climax.

Both times had been intense for Alexia and yet nothing compared to this. Something about you was just bringing out a different hunger in her. Perhaps it was the taste of your blood from your arm still lingering in her mouth, or the absence of your loud thoughts interrupting the intimacy of the moment, or perhaps it was your saccharine scent. The way you smelled like fruit kissed by the sun, tender-skinned and fragrant, pure and begging to be eaten.

Alexia moaned into your mouth as she took in all sensations of you, practically equally dazed as you were now. Your hands wrapped around her brown hair, pulling her impossibly closer, arching into her as her tongue entered your mouth. Alexia’s tongue rolled against yours and it felt like you were hearing her let out breaths for the first time the entire night. You moaned as she kissed your lips harder, biting slightly at your lips.

Alexia’s fangs were partially out, practically signalling her to take a bite, to sink in. They pressed forward involuntarily, being teased by the graze of your lips, your skin, your pulse. Alexia grunted, lifting her hands and placing one flat against the mattress beside your head and the other on your hip.

Her mouth worked slowly down your throat, unhurried now in sharp contrast to the intensity of before. She placed gentle kisses on your neck, shoulder, down to just above where the two sides of your top met.

Alexia was barely holding on. At this point, her fangs were practically aching, begging her to sink into something. Her closer proximity to your heart did not help at all.

She redirected her energy into your top instead, taking it off with a swift motion. The fabric gave way, a button practically flying off as she did. You gasped and before you could do anything with that breath, her mouth was already on your chest, trailing slow, cold kisses across your skin while her hand found your breast, squeezing it lightly You moaned at the intensity of it, the feeling of her mouth and the tip of her tongue grazing your bare skin, the firmness of her hands against your flesh.

Alexia pulled the bra cup to the side, sucking your nipple into her mouth, and flicking it with her tongue with an unhurried steadiness but below that surface, she was burning. The proximity to your chest, the reverberations of your heartbeat against her lips, the warmth radiating off your skin… it pushed against her now crumbling self-control. Her fangs pressed forward again but she tried so hard to press them back. The effort left her jaw aching.

She lifted her head, looking down on you for a minute, in your state of disheveledness.

She watched you flushed beneath her, chest rising and falling in erratic waves, looking up with your eyes that just looked so innocent and trusting. She almost felt a pang of guilt seeing you all bare and laid out for her. Like a lamb for the slaughter.

“Please,” it escaped your mouth before you even realized it. “Please, Alexia.”

And that was the end of her hesitation.

Something shifted in Alexia. You could practically see it manifest in the way her eyes darkened and her mouth curved. It was a smirk but with the way your heart quickened and your anxiety started to surface, it felt more like she snarled at you.

And for a second, Alexia felt a rush of pride. Just the thought of having a prey beneath her, almost completely bare and helpless at her mercy and still begging to be devoured.

Alexia couldn’t help it anymore. She leaned in without saying a word. Her mouth found your jaw, your cheek, the line of your throat, hurried and impatient kisses, working their way roughly down your neck. Her eyes practically rolled to the back of her head as she felt your pulse now, violently thrashing against her tongue. She could practically taste it, taste you. Alexia bared her fangs completely and suddenly, you felt a sharp sensation, like teeth breaking your skin. You moaned loudly, the sound almost restrained in your throat.

And just as you did, the hotel phone rang, startling both of you.

You didn’t even get to see Alexia get up; you just felt her weight on top of you suddenly disappear. You blinked, slightly overstimulated as all your senses suddenly returned. As you slowly sat up from the bed, your eyes darted to the phone. The sound of it cut through the room. And the pain in your neck was sharper.

Alexia huffed before picking up the phone.

"Sí." Her voice was completely level and calm but her body told a different story entirely. She was rigid, every line of her body wound tight with a frustration she was choosing, carefully, not to express. Like she was trying not to explode or show emotion. She continued to talk to the other person on the other line.

She stood with her back to you, fingers white against the receiver, and listened to whoever was on the other end with the controlled stillness of someone exerting considerable effort.

You lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, chest rising and falling unsteadily. Your hand moved on its own, pressing to the curve of your neck where her mouth had been last, where the drag of her teeth had just barely started. The sharp pain you initially felt was slowly dissipating and yet you still couldn’t help but feel for any potential gash or wound.

"—sí. Ahora mismo." Alexia set the phone down, pausing. She nodded to herself.

"You need to go back down." She didn't turn around, seemingly hiding her face. Her voice was still measured but the edges of it were tight, barely contained. "I'll follow shortly."

You sat up slowly, still trying to locate your composure. “What?”

“We need to go back,” Alexia said, voice tighter as if she was trying to contain anger. “Go first. I need to freshen up.”

“Oh but –” your voice came out soft and unsure.

“I said leave.” Her voice was quieter this time but there was a tone that just felt final and commanding.

You got up carefully, still light-headed from kissing, adjusting your skirt and top. You looked around frantically for the missing top button as you ran a flat hand through your messy hair, putting your shoes on as you did

You must have been moving slowly because Alexia shouted, back still turned. “LEAVE.”

Even with your shoes barely on, sides of the shoes uncomfortable tucked into your feet, you hurriedly ran off, frightened by the sudden outburst. The phone conversation seemed perfectly normal. It was short, barely anything was discussed so you were certain that her reason for suddenly telling you to leave had very little to do with the call.

You practically ran out of the door, moving swiftly even as you were in the hallway, frantically pressing the elevator button as you felt your heart beating loudly.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖⋆₊ ♱ Alexia groaned loudly as she heard you shut the door behind you, frustrated at the caller but also at herself.

Her fangs still remained bared, refusing to retract, as though they had been teased by the promise of your taste. It hurt in a way nothing else ever had yet forcing them to pull back felt like its own kind of torture.

She sighed as she shook her head, willing herself to calm down. Part of her was still undeniably frustrated and tense, longing for more of your taste. But on the other hand, she knew she had to be thankful for this divine intervention.

She lost control. She just wanted a chance to talk to you, finally face you after she longed for you for months. As much as she tried to think about how she would love just another taste of you, she knew her control was slipping and there was a massive chance that she could have fully drained you.

Luckily, you were spared, saved even.

She stood up, ran a hand through her hair and headed to the vanity, staring at herself. Noticing her eyes had grown black. She took a deep breath, forced herself to relax and her eyes returned to its usual green hazelish color and her fangs fully retracted. She looked out at the bed, making a mental note of requesting a different room as soon as she heads back down, fully knowing she possibly couldn’t stay in a room that smelled like you.

As she finally fully calmed herself, Alexia let out a bitter laugh at herself and thought: What a horrible first impression.

next part ➜

a/n: just wanted to make it up to you guys for not posting and updating my fics in a while. anyway, if you want me to post the second part, just comment so i can tag u in it if ever. it's almost done but it needs polishing i guess? i'm not sure tho! just lmk! hope u guys like this!

song title inspired by this song btw. i made a vampire!alexia playlist ages ago too if u wanna check it out

taglist: @krazyyoung @hjjc23 @putellasgirl @x-ani @l4c1f3r @ihavenolife1234 @liverpoolfan96 @natalia-alianovna-romanova84 @charlotteonpoint @vlt503 @mywomankatarina @ravenfcb @ainsley9967 @jenny0818 @fluffykitten11 @coxlong @ainoha @oohtobeagooner @justareader7 @sannyone @littlelvmb @sevenbasquiat @hella-hecka-gay @yamaris-reputation

It had been a month since you two last saw each other. She was too busy winning trophy after trophy in England, and you had a work emergency to tend to in the United States.

That's how, a week after the Euros were over, Leah found herself catching a plane to another continent and intertwining herself within the sheets of your hotel room in the middle of the Bronx.

Leah's hands were anywhere and everywhere at once. Her fingertips were tracing your torso, her thumb brushing each rib bone carefully.

Her other hand was claiming your throat, restraining it just enough to constrict blood flow, getting you dizzy and lightheaded.

When your cheeks turned red and your lips crimson, she let go of your neck, bending down to kiss your throat at the same time that she cupped your jaw, turning it to the left, giving her free access to your neck.

Her lips were warm and wet, her tongue careful and skilled as she licked and tasted every inch of skin she could touch, as if she were trying to count each cell on your body, get acquainted with every part of you after weeks away.

You were dazed.

Maybe it was from your airway being tightened, or from being completely naked while Leah was on top of you, completely clothed, the zipper of her jacket cold on your naval.

Maybe it was the way her blonde hair tickled down your cheek, irritating your skin.

Still, you didn't dare move because Leah hadn't said you were allowed to touch her - and you didn't trust your voice (or your brain) well enough to form full, understandable sentences to ask her.

You gasped the moment Leah's hand trailed down, stopping at your lower abdomen.She touched your stomach with her fingertips, caressing your soft skin before gradually sliding her hand lower.

The captain didn't need to coax your legs open - they were already parted for her the moment she opened the hotel door and made her way inside.

Leah touched your inner thighs, smiling gladly when she noticed how wet you were.

Normally, Leah would tease you, asking why you were so soaked if she had barely touched you, but Sunday morning had a softness to it, and Leah was equally gentle with you, so she didn't.

Instead, she let her index and middle fingers rest on top of your clit, her other hand holding your hip down when you began moving, trying to oppose her stillness.

"Don't move," she whispered softly, though with a heavy undertone of warning in her voice. "You were doing so well for me a moment ago."

"Okay, sorry," you breathed out, trying to calm your body, letting it stay exactly how Leah wanted: still, pliant and beneath her.

"Perfect," Leah kissed your cheek, though you wanted to whine. She should be kissing your mouth. You wanted to taste her lips, her tongue, and wished to weave your saliva together into one.

Leah gently began rubbing your clit, and as if a switch had flipped, your body started producing sweet chemicals - enough molecules to make you wetter, to make your heart beat faster against your ribs, to leave you breathless, to make you want to pull Leah further into you, as if you were two nuclei of atoms condensing in a supernova.

She didn't let herself inside you. She didn't kiss your mouth either. It was punishment, you were sure, but you didn't know why; you had been behaving perfectly for her.

Leah moved slowly, as if mirroring the gentle and picture-perfect morning, a sharp contrast to the outside world. New York was still busy, boiling with car engines and new artists walking through its streets with goals in mind and places to go.

But it was still Sunday morning, and you and Leah had no place to go, no responsibilities to tend to. Well, Leah believed she had a responsibility, and that was bringing her wife some pleasure.

She got tired of holding herself on her knees and elbows, and that's when Leah let her whole body fall onto yours. You gasped at the pressure, the weight pressing down on your chest. Her head fell onto the pillow right next to yours, and you heard her breathing as she picked up her pace slightly.

"Want you inside," you asked, almost shyly, desperate for something to fill you, for Leah to make you whole again.

"Not right now," Leah said, and it was decided.

You closed your eyes, biting your lips, fighting the urge to whine, fighting the urge to demand, as if you could ever demand anything from her when it was Sunday morning, and you were naked, and she was not.

The blonde nosed at your cheek, her warm lips trailing down until they found your jaw, the spot she liked to kiss the most. You didn't know why she appreciated it so much; perhaps it was because the skin there was so thin, making her feel closer to you, to your skeleton.

She continued down to your neck, her fingers never stopping to pleasure you, not even when you asked her to stop, when it was becoming too much, when the pressure in your belly felt strange, and you didn't trust your body well enough to let go freely.

Leah didn't give you the grace of an answer. She just hummed in acknowledgement and continued massaging your clit. The pads of her fingers were wrinkled from your arousal.

She took a bit of skin between her teeth and tugged, making you moan, leaving a red mark on your neck and her teeth's imprint. With her free hand, she gently petted it, feeling the mark she had left. She wanted more, so she leaned closer to your neck again, repeating once, then twice.

The third time was a bit harder, and Leah tasted iron on her tongue, just enough to pull her from whatever trance she had been in, allowing her to focus fully on you again.

Leah kissed the bruise she left on your skin and cupped your jaw. Your eyes were doe-like, confused, just the way she liked it. She held your head in place as she withdrew her fingers from your clit, only to move them a few centimetres down, playing with your entrance, testing how wet you were.

She slid her fingers right inside you, going as deep as she could. She felt the rougher textures of your walls before finding the softer parts. She smirked, kissing your nose as she began curling her fingers.

You clutched at her forearm, holding yourself still, lips pressed into a thin line, teeth clenched tight.

"Leah, no," you said, trying to push her off, but losing all strength when she hit that sweet spot that always made your eyes roll.

You tried to stay still, to fight against that odd and consuming sensation, but you were starting to get sleepy, to give in, and Leah was just too good.

"Don't fight it, darling," Leah murmured. "I don't know why you can't just let go."

"I-it doesn't feel okay," you whispered, arching your back slightly as Leah picked up her pace. It felt so good, too good.

"Why?"

"Too much…"

"No," Leah said firmly, as if your own body's reaction belonged to her and not you. "You can.

"No, I-"

"You are going to come, right now," Leah said with a low voice in your ear, her thumb circling your clit as her other two fingers pumped into you.

It seemed like you were very good at following orders, after all.

You let that strange feeling possess you. You grabbed Leah's forearm as your teeth sank into her shoulder, your thighs trembling as your abdomen flexed. Sweet sounds escaped your throat as your body continued to shake.

The insides of your thighs were wetter now, and you felt liquid dripping down onto the mattress. You didn't know what it was; your breathing grew heavier, more uneven, and confused.

You had never felt such intense pleasure before. Leah had never brought you this kind of release; your own lonely hands had never come close to doing this as well.

It was as if your entire body had gone numb in the most delicious way possible, every opioid receptor in your brain occupied, creating a hazy, beautiful sensation you were completely lost in.

At the same time, it felt like your whole body (and mind) was enveloped by a soft cloud, but it was also overwhelming, almost scary.

Too many sensations at once. You couldn't feel your limbs, your lips were too dry, and suddenly your neck ached from the love bites and teeth marks Leah had carved into you.

You wanted to cry.

"Just like that," Leah murmured in your ear, letting her hand rest on top of your belly, pressing down briefly before releasing, coaxing whatever was inside you to spill free.

Leah gave you one last kiss on your forehead before moving down your body.

Your eyes were closed, the light coming through the windows felt too bright, too many photons hitting your retina. You were breathing in and out, counting to twenty in your head, trying to keep your mind here.

You felt Leah's hands spread your thighs open even further. She kissed right on top of your cunt, the action felt far more sensitive than it should have been.

Her thumb glided over your pussy from clit to hole, up and down in continuous movements.

You squirmed. It was too much.

"You squirted so pretty," Leah murmured, kissing the inside of your thigh, getting her lips wet in the process.

"I-I'm dizzy," you admitted, your hand resting on top of Leah's head, trying to pull her away.

Leah stilled, noticing your small, unsure voice. She wanted to stay there in the middle of your thighs for the rest of the day, tasting all your release, maybe bringing you to the edge a few more times, but other things demanded her attention now.

Leah got on her elbows, looking down at you, her face softer, gentler. She caressed your cheek, studying you, trying to understand what was going on in your mind.

"What's wrong?" Leah asked carefully. "Didn't it feel good?"

You looked at her with the most trusting eyes Leah had ever seen, and it made her heart swell with even more love than before.

"It did, but… I-I don't know," you whispered.

"What do you mean, my darling?"

"I- I got the sheets wet," you said, and that's when the first tears began to pool in your eyes.

You had messed them up completely.

You could barely feel your legs, you were confused, and Leah was looking down at you like you were a lost puppy that needed care. You were tired, too, but the dampness between your thighs reminded you that you desperately needed a bath. And you were still naked, and Leah remained clothed.

The world outside was quieter now, but somehow, you wished for noise, something to occupy your mind, something to make you forget about the trembling in your legs and the rapid hammering of your heart.

"It doesn't matter," Leah said softly, brushing your cheek with a tender smile. "I'll change them."

"But it's the hotel's sheets," you murmured. "The cleaning ladies… they'll see it."

"Baby," Leah whispered, cupping your cheek, "they see far worse than this. I can promise you that."

"I don't want them to," you said, turning your head to the side, your chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

"I'll take it down to the laundry myself," Leah said, as if on a mission only for you. She kissed your temple lightly. "How does that feel?"

"Okay," you breathed, the tension in your body softening under her touch.

Leah didn't seem to believe it was truly okay.

You could see it in the tension in her shoulders, the slight press of her lips. She grabbed the soft blanket that had been scattered on the floor and draped it over both of you. Then she lay down beside you, coaxing you to rest your head on her chest. You obeyed pliantly, exhausted and craving her warmth.

"I'm sorry it didn't feel good," Leah whispered after a few moments of silence, pressing her lips gently to your head. "I didn't mean it to feel overwhelming."

You tilted your head up to look at her, a shy smile on your face. "It felt good, Le. Believe me, I've never orgasmed like that before."

Leah wore the most beautiful pout, the one she usually reserved for teasing your dramatic tendencies, but now it was soft, tender. "You shouldn't be crying if it felt good."

"Funny of you to say that," you teased, feeling the adrenaline and haze of your orgasm slowly fade into your normal state of mind. "You always say you'll use your fingers until you make me cry."

"I mean a good cry," Leah grumbled softly, pulling you closer. "Not sad crying."

You chuckled before letting yourself nestle against her, listening to her heartbeat. "It wasn't a sad crying, just a… confused one"

Leah hummed at your response.

"Do you want a bath now or later?" Leah asked after a moment, her voice gentle.

"I don't know," you murmured, pressing your face further into her chest, breathing her in. "You're so warm. I missed you."

"I missed you, too, lovie," she said softly. "How's your neck? Let me see." Leah cupped your jaw carefully, tilting your head to the side so she could inspect the skin.

"A bit sore," you admitted with a smile. "You have an oral fixation, you know that?"

Leah rolled her eyes at your teasing, though her thumb was tender as it brushed over each mark. "I can't help myself, you're too sweet."

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes. "Damn, New York turned you into a simp."

"You turn me into a simp," Leah shot back without hesitation, a smirking appearance on her face. "That's your fault."

"Oh! It's my fault that my neck is filled with hickeys now, too?" you shot back teasingly.

"Don't act like I was the only biting, I have proof right here," she huffed, pointing at her shoulder. "I can count all thirty-two of your teeth."

"Twenty-eight," you said matter-of-factly.

"Huh?" Leah looked at you, confused, and suddenly, you wanted to fill her face with kisses, so you did.

"I. Don't. Have. My. Wisdom. Teeth." You said each word as you kissed her face, feeling Leah smile against you. "So… twenty-eight." Another kiss.

"Well," she said, tilting her head ot the side so you could kiss her jaw. "Twenty-eight is still a lot of teeth."

"Too much for you?" you asked teasingly.

Leah moaned as she sucked her neck. "Never too much, darling."

A/n: I hope you guys enjoyed this story! <3 Come talk to me about it if you feel like! It's been ages since I last wrote for Miss Williamson.

There was also a slow, rhythmic breath near your temples, a soft exhalation that stroked your skin. It was a warmth that caressed your back and pressed delicate kisses over your chin and jaw, handled with such care, it was as if you were too fragile and might shatter against those lips.

You weren't sure if you were dreaming, but even so, you didn't want to open your eyes. You didn't want to wake up. For once, you just wanted to exist within the heat and the affection.

The second thing you registered was the position of your legs. They were thrown carelessly over someone else's. You had a chronic habit of tensing your muscles while sleeping, a reflex that your physiotherapist constantly warned you about. 

You could almost hear her voice lecturing you on nerve pressure, circulation and injury risk, but for the first time in months, you felt those muscles perilously relaxed. Usually, you couldn't fight the rigidity. But now, you were soft, all pliant against the warmth that seemed to envelope you completely.

The third thing you registered was your arm, wrapped firmly around something that was definitely not a pillow. Your fingers were pressed against skin that didn't belong to you, yet it felt familiar, as if your touch had finally found its predestination.

You became conscious in stages.

First, your brain began to reconcile what you had dreamed with what was real. Then you remembered yesterday. The memories were opaque at first, but as they cleared, your body began to feel like your own again.

Your heart was beating, your blood running, and your skin listed a hundred points of contact at once as your diaphragm expanded, giving space to your lungs to take in as much morning air as greedily possible.

Your brain was faster now. The memories sharpened. The hotel room was no longer a fragment of a dream, but rather a fraction of reality  – reality that you shared with someone.

Away game. Plumbing incident. Shared hotel room… Alexia.

Alexia.

You opened your eyes in one go, your pupils constricting as narrow as a snake's in the light. Your once-pliant body went stiff, muscles tensing hard against her softer, relaxed frame.

You were, without a doubt, using Alexia Putellas as a human pillow.

Your cheek was on her chest. Your arm was locked around her waist. At some point in the night, your leg had decided to claim territory across both of hers. You had essentially annexed her entire left side; you were glued to her that you might as well have been one single organism. Symbiosis.

The meters of unused space on the queen-size bed felt deeply embarrassing, an indictment.

You turned your head toward her, very slowly, like a gazelle staring down the barrel of a hunter's gun. She looked back, though she didn't look nearly as intimidating as a hunter.

She was, unfortunately, very much awake.

Alexia was looking down at you with the most insufferably satisfied expression you had ever seen on her, which was saying something given the breadth of your experience with her moods and expressions.

She looked as though she had won some sort of prize in a competition you hadn't even known you were participating in. She had a smile on her face, one that had clearly been sitting on it for a while. She was absolutely delighted with herself, which meant she had finally been able to crack your shell, just a bit.

"Oh, hola, "she said, her voice entirely too sweet for these hours and circumstances. "Good morning to you, guapa."

You stared up at her, your brain already defensive and grumpy.

"Mhm, hi?" you muttered, the word coming out more like a question.

"Did you know," she began, her tone conversational, like someone who had been waiting patiently to say this for several hours, "that you are a cuddler?"

The word landed slowly. You blinked, processing it. "...What?"

"You slept completely glued to me." She looked genuinely pleased about this. "The whole night. Oh! And you also kick, just so you know."

"I don't–" You stopped, glancing down at the configuration of your bodies, the tangle of limbs. You snapped your eyes back to hers immediately. "...I kick?"

"A lot," she confirmed. "Your left foot specifically. I thought you were right-footed."

"I am."

"Good, I spent half the night wondering if you were going to take my place as the only left-footer on the team," she teased. "I was a bit scared to lose my spot."

She smiled at you. It was the smile of a beautiful sociopath.

The full reality of the situation arrived all at once. You had spent months carefully managing every point of physical contact between you. You had rules, both unspoken and self-imposed, that were religiously architectured by a state of hyper vigilance. 

You didn't stay over. 

You didn't sleep beside her. 

You never allowed yourself the specific and dangerous vulnerability of being unconscious and unguarded next to another person. 

…And yet, apparently, the moment you actually fell asleep next to her, your body had simply ignored every single one of those goddam rules and made itself completely at home.

You sat up so fast the room tilted. Alexia frowned instantly, moving her warm hand on your back to steady you. Before she could even speak, your mind was already spinning around its own axis.

"I'm sorry," you said, your voice still rough with sleep. "I-I didn't mean to, I don't normally do this. I'm sorry. I overstepped and–"

"Hey." Her other hand caught your wrist, gently halting your retreat out of the bed. "It's okay. I was just messing with you."

"I basically crushed you the whole night," you groaned, burying your face. in your hands "That's so embarrassing."

"You didn't crush me." She shook her head, watching you.

"My entire body was on top of you."

"Not your entire body." She tilted her head, considering. "Maybe seventy per cent. Which, for the record, was not enough. I would have preferred a hundred per cent anyway."

"Alexia–"

"It was nice," she said simply, cutting you off. The straightforwardness of it stopped you in your tracks. She wasn't teasing anymore; she was just being honest. "I didn't mind, Torito. I didn't move because I didn't want to wake you."

You didn't say anything. Your body was struggling to process her kindness.

"...You are cute when you sleep," she added, smiling again "You don't frown. You always frown when you are awake."

You ignored her and sat on the edge of the bed, your bare feet meeting the cold wood floor. Where the fuck were your socks? 

You reached up to touch your head; your hair was almost certainly a disaster. There was a headache growing on your frontal lobe, and for a second, you wondered what kind of broken genes your parents had passed down to make you physically ill the moment someone treated you with genuine care.

You felt it then, the familiar crease between your eyebrows. Alexia was right, you did frown a lot. But that was out of your control. It was just how your face sat.

There was sunlight leaking through the heavy, dark curtains. You could hear the distant sounds of the people outside the hallway, the hum of the elevators, doors being clicked open and shut, and the voices of your early-bird teammates heading down to breakfast.

"You should have woken me up," you said finally, tone thick with grumpiness, that was mostly a shield for your own embarrassment.

"Why? You were sleeping so well," she said from behind you. "You looked..." She seemed to consider the right word. "Peaceful. And you didn't get much sleep yesterday."

You turned to look at her. She was propped up on one elbow now, her brunette hair loose around her shoulders, her sleeping shirt pooled at her waist. Her tiny shorts had ridden up so much that her thighs were entirely exposed; she might as well have been in her underwear.

The sign of her triggered thoughts that had no business happening so early in the morning. Alexia looked like something from a masterpiece, someone who had no right looking that devastating in a hotel room at this hour.

"That's not an excuse," you said, though it came out with significantly less conviction than you intended. "I took a nap on the bus. I was okay."

"Have you ever considered, just for once-" she began, her voice dropping dangerously as she shifted, crawling toward you on her knees across the mattress, "-that I don't want you to just be okay? That I want you to feel good? Well-rested? Relaxed?"

Your whole body tensed when she wrapped her arms around your waist. She tucked her head against your shoulder, trailing soft kisses across your cheeks.

"We are doing a lot of that lately," you managed to say. Her lips lingered on your skin; they might as well have been dripping honey.

"What?" Alexia asked, her breath warm on your face.

"The kissing. The touching."

"You don't like that?" She whispered against the shell of your ear.

"It's just… different when I'm the one being kissed or touched," you admitted in a soft confession that you were too weak to keep to yourself.

"It shouldn't be, though," she murmured, shifting to press a kiss to your lips.

"You are doing it again."

"What?" she asked innocently. 

"Distracting me," you said, already starting to melt against her. "When I start spiralling."

"Guilty," she whispered.

You turned around completely, sliding your hands onto her waist and deepening the kiss. You felt her smile against your mouth, that quiet triumph of the hunter who had finally cornered the gazelle.

"I want to touch you," you said finally, the words coming by a sudden need "Can I, capi?

She smirked, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye. "I think I have a better idea…"

Despite your internal protest, you watched her get up and crossed the room to her bag. You watched her, you always did, and you had long since stopped pretending you had the willpower to look away.

When she turned back, she was holding something. She set it on the bed between you with the calm of someone placing a perfectly ordinary object on a perfectly ordinary morning.

A strap. It was a strap.

You looked at the silicone, then at the leather. Then you looked back up at her, your brain momentarily short-circuiting. "Alexia."

"Yes, torito?"

"You packed a strap," you said, the words came out slightly strangled.

She shrugged, completely unbothered. "I like to be prepared. You never know where destiny will take us, right?"

"A football match, Alexia," you said, your tone in complete disbelief. "That's where destiny was taking us."

"Football match… of course," she agreed pleasantly. "And yet…" She raised an eyebrow, that insufferable smile not moving a centimetre. "Here we are, cariño."

"There are literal teenagers on the other side of that wall," you whispered,  gesturing vaguely at the room's partition. "Vicky and Clara."

"Then we will be quiet." She tilted her head, her gaze locking onto yours. "You are very good at that… making me quiet, aren't you?"

You stared at her for a long moment. Your heart was doing something entirely unreasonable, a physiological rebellion that your brain couldn't understand. Despite every logical objection you were attempting to assemble, you were not moving away from her.

"You are truly unbelievable," you said, but the adrenaline was already surging through your bloodstream. Fucking Alexia was never something to be denied.

"You've mentioned that before." She sounded patient, far too certain of the response she was about to get. "So… are you going to touch me, torito?"

The air in the room shifted completely to something electric. You looked at her for a long moment, then slowly, you reached out and picked the strap up off the bed.

"Lie down," you said.

Something flickered through her expression, surprise, maybe, at the lack of negotiation. At the steadiness of your voice. She had likely expected more protest, more back and forth, more retreating. Instead, you were already moving.

She lay back, smiling, looking entirely too happy with herself.

You realised then that you were going to take your time with her. You were going to savour her. Screw breakfast, screw the game, screw the other girls in the hallway.

You were normally a stressed-out person, but you could be unhurried when it mattered. You were always deliberate when it came to Alexia, in a way that made her feel like the only thing in the universe worth paying attention to. 

You knew her body well by now. You knew where to press, where to be gentle and where to be firm; what made her moan and what made her go quiet in that concentrated way that meant she was struggling to hold herself together.

But the difference this morning was the weight of everything that had happened before you woke up. The cuddling, the kicking, the forced proximity that had felt so terrifying, and the hours she had lain awake just so she wouldn't disturb your rest. The fingertips on your wrist, the softness of her lips on your cheek…you wanted her to feel the weight of all of it.

You wanted her to understand that you had noticed every bit of it. You appreciate her, even if you couldn't find a way to say it that didn't scare the hell out of you.

So yeah… You took your time. More than you probably should have with such a tight schedule.

Her hands moved through your hair in a desperate grip, tightening and releasing it in time with her breath. She had a thing for holding your hair; you wondered if she did as a way to reclaim some form of control while you methodically dismantled her. You wondered if she wanted more.

You kissed her messily, your hands sliding over the fabric of her shorts to find her heat blooming and pooling beneath. You wanted her wet and ready for you. She let out a low moan against your mouth, a sound you gladly swallowed, catching every hum.

Then she gasped. It wasn't the nickname or Torito; it was your actual name. Something deep within you throbbed at the sound of it.

The physical reaction had very little to do with the sound itself and everything to do with the weight she gave it. It was as if saying your name out loud allowed her to reveal a side of herself that she usually kept hidden.

When you finally pulled your hand away from her shorts, she let out a sharp whine. Her lower lip jutted out in a pout so deep she seemed less like the Captain and two-time Ballon d'Or winner and more like a woman entirely bewitched by the person hovering over her — you.

"Undress while I put this on," you commanded.

Alexia didn't hesitate; she agreed quickly. She pulled her shirt over her head and threw it across the room, then she kicked her shorts and underwear off in one graceful motion. You didn't give yourself time to admire her; your focus remained on the harness.

You had already stepped out of your pyjama shorts, but kept your shirt on, as you usually did. With firm hands, you secured the strap over your white, cotton underwear.

Once the fit was perfect, you hovered back over her, sealing the space between you with a lingering, wet kiss.

Alexia lay open before you, completely naked, and you could not ignore her small breasts, begging to be tended to. You loved the weight of her breasts in your palm. It had been too long since you had given them the attention they deserved.

You caught one pink nipple between your humid lips, licking the peak before grazing it with your front teeth. Alexia arched off the mattress with a ragged intake of breath, but you kept her pinned, your hand on her hip to keep her grounded, unmoving.

You gently bit the tip before sucking it and soothing it with your warm tongue. Alexia writhed on the sheets, and your hand wasn't enough to hold her. She was stronger than you; if she wanted to take the upper hand, she could easily do so, but she wouldn't – she was obedient to a fault.

"Stay down," you murmured over her ribs, your mouth working on her nipple in the way she liked.

"More, Tori," she gasped, leveraging her hips against you, making it very clear what she wanted.

You held her down firmer. "No. Now you are going to wait," you responded. "You seem to think that because I usually cave to what you want, you can act like a brat whenever you feel like it."

"And when did I act like a brat?" she whispered, her voice a low whine. "I just want to be close to you."

She chased your lips hungrily, as if to show you how well-behaved she was. She pecked the corners of your mouth, and you felt yourself dissolving into a puddle of pure affection. Your brain couldn't compute the honeyed way she looked at you, so you closed your eyes and accepted her kisses, loosening your grip on her hips.

"Please? Tori?" She whispered, her voice both soft and wrecked, "Fuck me, por favor?"

Alexia Putellas was truly going to be the death of you. La petite mort, she had told you two nights ago.

"Okay," you agreed gently, your firmness crumbling into something much more urgent. "But keep it down, yeah? I'm not in the mood to traumatise the team today."

She nodded eagerly, her legs spreading to invite you in. You leaned down to kiss her chin, slowly sliding the tip of the strap up and down her slit. You teased the entrance, drawing out the friction until she was slick and desperate, before finally, and very slowly, sinking into her pussy. 

"Sí, sí," she moaned into your mouth. "You fill me so good, tan bien… don't go too rough, sí? We have the game, I can't be sore–"

"I know, Ale. I've got you," you managed to say, your voice was strained. You were overwhelmed by the sensation of your strap connecting you to her.

Alexia let out a shallow, broken noise as her hands found your shoulders before burying themselves back in your hair. The silicone parted her slick folds, sliding in centimetre by agonising centimetre. It was deliberate, a very clinical slowness that forced her walls to clench and stretch around the intrusion.

Her heat enveloped the length, pulling you deeper until your hips finally collided with hers, the base pressing firmly against her clit. Alexia's breath hitched, her eyes fluttered shut, and she caught her lower lip between her teeth to stifle a moan, remembering your warning about the girls next door.

You stayed there, buried fully inside her, letting her body accommodate the fullness. Her pussy throbbed around you, wet and welcoming. Leaning down, you captured her mouth in a deep kiss, your tongues tangling as you began to rock your hips just enough to grind the base against her sensitive clit.

She whimpered into the kiss, her nails digging into your shoulders, a silent plea for you to never stop.

"You feel so good, Ale,"  you murmured against her ear, pulling back just enough to watch her wrecked expression. 

Her cheeks were one of a feverish flush, her lips parted. You could see the raw need in her eyes, the way she was holding back, but trusting you entirely to lead her over. 

You started moving then, slow and agonising thrusts that dragged the strap out until it nearly escaped before sinking back in, each stroke building the friction inside her. You were careful, mindful of the rhythm, making sure the headboard didn't so much as graze the wall.

Her pussy gripped you tighter with every thrust, her own arousal coating the strap and making the slide smoother and effortless. You kissed her slowly, your hands mapping over her skin, and she made a low sound against your mouth that you swallowed before it could reach the wall.

"Alexia. The girls," you warned, your voice a low rasp.

"Lo sé, bebé," she breathed, but she immediately broke her promise when another hand moved to twitch her nipple. "Déu!" [I know, baby]

"Alexia."

"I'm trying," she insisted, though the look in her eyes said she was halfway to forgetting her own name. "Perdón, Tori."

"You are not trying at all."

"I'm trying a little," she countered, showing absolutely no shame with the lie that was escaping her lips. "Un poquito."

You kissed her again, mostly to hide the smile tugging at your lips. She looked breathtaking like this, all desperate and completely yours. 

Alexia arched her back again, pressing her breasts against your chest until you could feel her nipples rubbing through the fabric of your shirt. You reached between your bodies, your thumb finding her clit and circling it with firm pressure.

She gasped, her hips bucking up to meet you, but you pinned her down. Your free hand stayed on her thigh, maintaining your grip on the situation, keeping control she so clearly wanted to surrender.

"Not too fast, remember? Tenemos un partido," you reminded her softly, throwing her own words back at her even as your voice betrayed how badly you wanted to lose control and pound into her. [We have a game.]

She nodded, but her body failed her impatience; her legs hooked around your waist, her ankles locking behind the curve of your back, pulling you closer and urging you deeper. 

You finally gave in, increasing the pace. Your hips drove forward with more force now, the wet sound of skin slapping skin filling the quiet of the hotel room. 

The strap plunged into her pussy over and over, stretching her, filling her completely. You could feel her walls fluttering, squeezing the silicone desperately; you could feel the tension coiling in her muscles. Her breath came in short, jagged, hitched pants against your neck.

"Please, please," she whispered, her voice breaking, "Harder, okay? Just a bit. Forget what I said, por favor–" 

"We have a game in–"

"I know when the game is," she interrupted, her voice gaining a demanding edge. "I don''t care. More."

"You told me not to go too hard."

"I was being responsible." She shifted her hips deliberately, tilting her pelvis, trying to catch the base of the strap, rubbing herself against it. "I changed my mind."

"You don't get to change your mind."

"I'm pretty sure I do," she murmured, and you felt her smile against your jaw, "I can do whatever I want… and you'll do whatever I want, too."

"You might be wrong about that."

"Harder, please," she said once again. The request was as sweet as it was lethal.

You gave in because you always did – because when she asked like that, the analytical and logical part of your brain simply went dark.

You obliged, thrusting deeper and angling your hips to hit that spot inside her that made her moan harder. Your thumb pressed harder on her clit, rubbing in relentless circles until she shattered beneath you. 

Her pussy clenched hard around the strap, pulsing as the orgasm ripped through her. 

Her mouth fell open in a silent whine. You quietened her moans with a kiss. 

You rode out her orgasm, your own body humming with the intensity of watching Alexia come completely undone.

"Fuck," she breathed against your lips as you shifted into slow, simple strokes.

You rest your forehead against hers, your own breathing heavy. "Okay?" you whispered.

"Yes, molt bé," she exhaled, her eyes still squeezed shut. [very well]

But you weren't finished. As the tremors subsided, you slowed the pace but refused to stop, drawing out the aftershocks until she was writhing again, oversensitive and begging incoherently. 

You flipped her gently onto her side, lifting one of her legs over your hip to enter her from behind this time. The new angle allowed the strap to reach even deeper, the silicone grazing her G-spot with every thrust. 

"Joder," she moaned into the pillow.

Your hand snaked around to pinch her nipple, rolling it between your fingers while your other arm kept her flush against you. She gasped, and you pressed your mouth to her shoulder to muffle your own ragged moans.

"Déu," she breathed. "Sí….Like that– fuck fuck."

"Quiet," you reminded her in a low growl. "Or I'll stop"

"You be quiet," she countered, her competitive streak flaring even now, as if she were the one fucking you. "Don't dare stop, fuck… please."

"Brat," you groaned, but didn't stop. 

Alexia reached back, her fingers tangling in your hair to pull you down for a messy, desperate kiss over her shoulder. 

"I love this," she rasped, her voice husky. "Love you fucking me like this."

Your breath hitched. You knew she enjoyed your dominance, but hearing her say it so plainly and so vulnerably made your heart beat faster. 

You stared at the back of her head, your eyes widening as you took in the weight of her confession. It wasn't just about the sex; it was the fact that she was allowing you to see the side of her that didn't have to be in charge.

You responded the only way you knew how to, thrusting harder and deeper. The base of the strap rubbed against your own clit through the fabric of your underwear, sending sparks of pleasure up your spine. The room was thick with the scent of sex, of her arousal, your shared sweat.

"Come for me, Ale," you urged, your fingers returning to her clit, flicking it rapidly.

She did, her second orgasm crashed over her, more violent and intense than the first, more messy and wetter. Y

ou ground into her, prolonging the peak until she was trembling, finally collapsing with her into the damp sheets.

The silence that followed was heavy and sweet. You pulled away slowly, discarding the strap, but before the breeze of the room could settle in your skin, you gathered her in your arms without a second thought. There wasn't any kind of hesitation; you just needed her close. You pressed soft kisses to her damp forehead, her temples and finally her lips.

She was so sweet.

She nuzzled into your chest, and a soft and content sigh escaped her. 

"You are always rooming with me from now on," she murmured, her hand tracing lazy patterns over your arm. You held her tighter, resting your chin on the top of her head, and letting the warmth of her settle the last of your nerves.

For a long time, the room was quiet.

The morning light had shifted while you weren't paying attention, the pale stripe through the curtains was wider now, falling in a long, diagonal across the rumpled sheets.

Alexia lay on her back, one arm thrown over her face, her breathing gradually evening out into a (delicious) post-coital rest.

Then, your brain, which had been blessedly quiet for the last God knows how many minutes, began to reassemble itself, piece by piece. You became aware of everything. The game tonight. The pre-game meeting. The strict schedule.

You checked the clock on the bedside table.

Fuck. Breakfast was almost over.

You looked back at her, only to find her arm had dropped. She was already watching you without you noticing.

"You're staring," she said, voice raspy.

"You stare at me all the time," you countered, but your face warmed.

The corner of her mouth curved. "I know," she said. "It's a good view."

You looked away, twitching at the directness of the praise, but you couldn't suppress the smile tugging at your lips. Neither of you said anything about it, which felt like the perfect acknowledgement of what had just happened.

"You kept your shirt on," she noted quietly. It wasn't really an accusation, but rather an observation. She usually did that, mentioning things she knew you weren't ready to discuss directly, to prove that she did pay attention.

"I did."

There was a long pause. She reached you, her finger grazing the hem of your shirt before she pulled back. "Okay," she said softly.

That 'okay' settled something deep in your chest. It was a promise that she wasn't going to pressure you and that she was happy with whatever you could offer her. You felt safe. You felt–

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound shattered the bubble instantly.

Three sharp, rapid knocks echoed through the walls of the room. You and Alexia both went completely still at the same moment, like two animals hearing a predator in a nearby bush.

"Ale? Y/n?" Irene's voice came through the door. "Everything okay? Breakfast is almost over."

Alexia closed her eyes briefly. 

You watched it happen: that fraction of a second when La Capitana, the woman who was never caught off guard, was very much caught off guard. You saw the moment she reached for the metaphorical armband again, bracing herself to lead, to be back into position.

"Yes, of course! We'll be right down!" Alexia called back. Her voice was smooth and authoritative, and terrifyingly different from the broken sounds she had been making minutes ago.

It was genuinely impressive, and also deeply annoying, how easily she could navigate between the different gradients of herself. 

"Alright! See you on the bus," Irene shouted, and her footsteps retreated down the corridor.

The silence that followed lasted about five seconds before it curdled into something tense and grumpy.

"We are late," Alexia said sternly, sitting up and violently pushing her hair out of her face. "Fuck."

"Yes," you sighed, looking at the wreckage of the room. "We are."

"Breakfast started forty minutes ago!" she snapped, as if to make a point, as if you weren't already doing the mental maths of your missed meal and cup of coffee.

"I'm aware, Ale. I was there when they gave us the schedule." You looked around the room.

Your game bag should be ready by now, but it wasn't. The sheets were a disaster. You needed to make the bed before the cleaning staff arrived, and the room smelled embarrassingly of skin and sex and sweat.

"I knew what time breakfast was," you continued, your voice rising in a mix of panic and petulance. "I knew what time it was an hour ago, too, when this whole… situation started"

She tilted her head, her face set in a tense, defensive manner. "What situation?"

"The sex!" you hissed, pointing at the bed. "We shouldn't have done it. Not this early. Not when we have a game so soon."

Alexia snatched her shirt from the floor, clearly annoyed and not making any effort to hide her irritation. "I didn't hear you complaining an hour ago," she grumbled.

"Well," you said, standing up and scanning the floor for her discarded shorts. "I'm complaining now!"

"Now is too late!" She snapped. "We are going to have to eat whatever scraps are left, and then we'll be the last ones on the bus! The literal last ones, Y/n."

"Exactly! It's already late," you said, pointing an accusatory finger at her. "Which is why I don't understand why you are being short with me! You can't stand here and be annoyed about being late when you were the one who packed a strap for a one-night away game. This is entirely your fault!"

You shoved the shorts toward her. She snatched it and dressed herself. "Oh, don't act like you didn't like it," she muttered.

"Of course I liked it!" You countered, feeling a hot blush adorning your cheeks. "I loved it. That is the problem. You, as the captain, should have known that suggesting strap sex would make me want to have sex, and that doing it would make us late. You exploited my complete lack of impulse control!"

"I brought it because I have needs!" Alexia argued, sounding as if you were being deeply inconsiderate of her well-being.

"You brought it because you are a menace!" 

The strap was tangled somewhere in the sheets. You snatched it with the brisk efficiency of someone actively refusing to have feelings about the objects in their hands, shoving it into a plastic bag to be dealt with later.

For a minute or two, the room held that tense energy of two people navigating a small space while being privately irritated, not at each other, exactly, but at the clock, and the inevitable reality waiting downstairs. The thought of the team already sitting there, noticing your combined absence, sat heavily in your stomach.

Then, to make things worse, Patri knocked.

Patri's knock was nothing like Irene's. It was cheerful and slightly too loud, the knock of someone who had slept eight hours, eaten a balanced breakfast, and was feeling generous enough to check on her friends.

"Hola, nenas. Is everything okay there?" Patri asked through the door. "Breakfast is almost done, and we've got the team meeting after. Pere was asking about you–"

"We're coming, Patri," Alexia called out in the sharp voice she used when she needed a conversation to end immediately. "I literally just told Irene we were coming a minute ago. If you guys could practice some communication, that would be great."

"Stop being short with people!" you whispered-yelled at Alexia.

"I'm not being short, I'm-"

"Ay, Ale," Patri said through the door, her once cheerful tone changing to suspicion. "Woke up on the wrong side of the bed?"

You glared at Alexia, giving her a look that screamed be nice.

"I am sorry, Patri. We are fine," she called out, softening her tone just enough to be convincing. "We just… we slept too much. But we'll be right down."

"Oh… alright," Patri said, but her voice had a knowing tone to it that made her skin crawl. "Don't take too long."

You turned back to Alexia, the grumpiness now a weight on your chest. "She knows."

"She doesn't know anything."

"Alexia."

"She suspects," Alexia amended, which was not the reassurance she seemed to think it was. "And that's that. Now, let's just–" She ran a hand through her hair, assessing the room with focus."Let's shower together. It will be faster–"

"Absolutely not."

She blinked. "Oh, Déu meu. Torito! It would save us time!"

"You shower," you said, already moving toward the bathroom sink. 

You grabbed your toothbrush and tried to initiate your morning routine to look at least presentable. "I'll brush my teeth. You finish, I get in, you get dressed. We go down separately."

"Separately? We shared a room," she said, using the slow patience of someone explaining something very simple to a kid. "Everyone already knows we shared a room!"

"There is a difference," you said carefully, "between sharing a room because of a plumbing incident and-" you gestured at the air, "-emerging from said room together."

She looked at the bed. At the sheets. At the match bags, and finally at the plastic bag containing the strap. 

When she looked back at you, her expression seemed to be suspended somewhere between exasperation and fondness.

"For someone who has seen me in every possible position," she said, leaning in to add the last part in a whisper. "You are annoyingly private."

"Shower," you said, finishing brushing your teeth so she could have the bathroom.

She stood there a moment longer, arms loosely crossed, watching your reflection in the mirror with that look. Then she exhaled, a long and slow sound of someone accepting a situation they found mildly absurd, and turned to grab a fresh change of clothes.

You watched her leave, then looked back at your reflection. 

Your hair was a mess, and your face wore the hollowed-out expression of someone who had only slept for three hours and was experiencing low-grade panic. As the shower started to hiss behind the door, anxiety finally settled in your chest.

Patri's suspicion was subtle; it was something you could manage. 

Irene was a mother of two and honestly didn't have the emotional bandwidth to care who her teammates were sleeping with, as long as they showed up for kick-off. 

You just needed to be careful. You couldn't let the noise reach Vicky or the younger girls. The reality was already set, though: they knew you and Alexia hadn't made it to breakfast on time.

It was fine. It was going to be fine.

Deep beneath the denial, however, you were also quite certain it was not going to be fine at all. But that was a problem after the game. Right now, you have eight minutes to turn into two professionals who had simply overslept.

One thing at a time.

A/n: Hiiii, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. It's my favourite one so far.

/n: I hope you guys can see how much I care about this story <3

It takes the Barcelona captain a long, long time to pull herself out of bed on days off. 

Not… dreadfully slowly. She’s incapable of that, as much as she wishes otherwise. Years of alarms before sunrise and training schedules carved too deep into her bones for that. But slowly enough that when she finally opens her eyes, the room is bright already, with sunlight spilling through the thin gap in the curtains in one golden line across the floor. 

09:43AM.

“Hm.” 

Her voice comes out rough with sleep as she squints at the clock on the bedside table. Not even ten in the morning. Disgusting.

She stays there another minute, warm beneath the sheets, one arm tucked beneath the pillow.

Mid-season days off are strange things. Too rare to waste but too infrequent to know what to actually do with once they arrive.

Alba is with her girlfriend’s family. Her mother is on a beach somewhere, probably already ordering a variety of overpriced cocktails. Her friends are all working, she’d already asked weeks in advance if they were free, but alas not. And as far as she’s aware, everyone on the team is off doing their own thing.

And you–

Alexia’s hand moves for her phone before she’s fully conscious of doing it.

Blank lockscreen. No notifications from you.

Her brows pinch together. Weird.

Normally by now there’d already be at least four messages waiting for her. Some utterly pointless observation you’d had whilst trying to fall asleep. Maybe a photo of your breakfast since you always woke before her. Links to videos you found funny at unreasonable hours of the night.

But there’s nothing. 

No good morning, no nonsense, no running commentary from inside your head spilling directly into her phone like it belonged there.

Alexia stares at the screen another second. Then another.

“Hm.”

This one comes out more suspicious.

Because it isn’t as though the two of you are casual. Not really.

Casual people do not end up with designated sides of each other’s beds. They do not automatically reach for the other person’s hands during movies, or knowing which takeaway to pick up on the way to the one’s place without asking, or having an accidental stash of hoodies with the other’s perfume stashed in your wardrobes. 

Casual people definitely do not spend entire nights together beneath soft amber lamplight with half their clothes missing and absolutely no intention of putting them back on any time soon.

Though, it’d never properly… been given a name.

It had grown between you quietly over months instead. Something careful and warm and strangely precious, lit by a spark that’d struck after a short trip to Mallorca with Patri and Jana and a few others the previous summer. 

You were teammates. Friends first. Entangled now in ways that mattered more than either of you had figured out how to say without risking either the loss of it, or rocking the boat of the team dynamic. 

So instead, the two of you hovered happily in the space just before certainty.

Close enough that Alexia knew the sound of your sleepy voice at midnight. Close enough that you absentmindedly wore her clothes home. Enough that she sometimes caught herself imagining six months ahead before sharply stopping herself there.

But apparently not close enough to know why you’d vanished overnight.

Her frown deepens. The house suddenly feels too quiet. 

By half ten, she’s given up on waiting for her phone screen to light up and forces herself into motion instead.

She connects her phone to the speakers in the ceiling all over her house, and showers. A mixture of genres and languages so horrifying she’d been banned from controlling the locker room music after just one chance. After already being banned for two seasons before that. 

Music follows her through the house after that as she moves through the morning. She isn’t really paying attention to it, though, as she waters plants and folds laundry and wipes down kitchen counters that are already clean.

Every few minutes her eyes flick back to her phone where it rests face-up on the marble counter.

Still nothing.

She presses her lips together.

Ridiculous.

She is thirty-two years old. Captain of FC Barcelona. One of the best footballers in the world.

And somehow being ignored by you for twelve hours has turned her into this. 

Time ticks on until it reads 11:18 on her phone, which had gathered a few notifications, but none under the one name she was after. 

The house, despite all its cleanliness, has begun to feel stale around her somehow. Every room carries the faint sense that she is waiting for something. Or someone.

Alexia decides she needs air before she ends up checking your chat for the hundredth time like a teenager. 

So she pulls on the first clothes she finds– faded blue jeans, black trainers, a slightly oversized white shirt, and a fleece gilet that Alba once told her made her look like a middle-aged farmer from Girona. 

Alexia had pointed out that Alba owned the exact same gilet in beige; in fact, they had bought them in the shop together. Alba had replied that it was different because she was actually stylish. 

Alexia had hung up on her.

She grabs her keys from the counter on the way out, shoving her phone into her pocket with one last glance at the dark screen first. Still nothing.

The street outside is empty at the weekday’s midday hour, would be peaceful if it wasn’t for the silly amount of hedge trimmers going off at once. The first day of sun in a week or so always sends the gardeners mad.

The brunette goes to turn left out of her gate, before she pauses, then heads to her neighbour’s house across the street. Knocks twice in the familiar rhythm she’s used for the last few months.

There’s a shuffling noise from inside, followed by several high-pitched barks. 

The door swings open.

“Ah, Ale!” Her elderly neighbour, Beatriz, beams up at her immediately with a hand pressed to her chest. “Just you today?”

Alexia blinks once. “...Sí?” 

The older woman leans to the side, peering dramatically around Alexia.

“Where is that lovely new girl of yours?”

She nearly chokes on absolutely nothing. Heat flushes embarrassingly fast across her face as she palms awkwardly at the back of her neck.

“She’s– uh, busy today.”

The woman narrows her eyes in a way that makes Alexia feel strangely as though she’s being interrogated by a disappointed aunt.

“You haven’t messed it up, have you?” 

“W-what?”

“I quite like that one,” Beatriz continues, ignoring her completely. “Much better than the other girl.”

Alexia stares at her. “What other girl?”

“That brown-haired one who convinced you to go blonde. Terrible decision.” Beatriz scoffs. “I’m glad you became my neighbour when you were basically back to brunette again. I would’ve put hair dye in your shampoo.”

She closes her eyes briefly. Lost for words.

“It’s looking good now though. Much healthier. Keep it that way or I’ll stop giving you fresh tomatoes.” 

“I will, Beatriz, thank you.” She exhales through her nose, fighting the smile threatening at the corners of her mouth at the lack of filter. 

Another sharp bark erupts from somewhere deeper inside the house, followed by the frantic clicking of nails against the tiled floor.

“And no,” She says finally, softer this time. “I haven’t messed anything up, as far as I’m aware.”

The addition slips out before she can stop it. Beatriz catches it immediately, of course.

“Aha!”

“No– there is no aha.”

“There is always an aha.”

Alexia pinches the bridge of her nose. “We are both just doing our own things today. Does Boni need a walk?”

The tiny white dog comes skidding around the corner at the sound of her name like a possessed mop.

Unlike every other small dog Alexia has ever encountered, Boni behaves as though she is approximately the size of a small military tank. She launches herself directly at Alexia’s legs with startling confidence, barking furiously before demanding to be picked up.

“She is spoiled.” Alexia mutters, scooping the little dog into her arms anyway.

“And whose fault is that?”

Alexia chooses not to answer.

Five minutes later, she is back out on the street with Boni trotting at her side on a pink lead covered in tiny strawberries.

The contrast between them is ridiculous.

Alexia, all long limbs and composed athleticism beside a dog small enough to lose in a handbag.

Boni doesn’t seem bothered by this; she struts down the pavement like she is the celebrity. 

They walk without much urgency in the pleasant Spring weather, this particular route to her go-to cafe away from the tourists and also not yet touched by the lunch crowds. Light glints gold against house windows, somebody nearby is playing music through open patio doors, and vespas buzz through the streets like angry insects.

Every now and then people recognise her– a couple walking past smile politely in that restrained way locals often do around the players, not wanting to intrude. A little boy nearly walks straight into a lamppost because he’s staring at her instead of where he’s going.

Her phone stays stubbornly silent in her pocket. 

It’s not like she’s waiting for you to text her. She’s just… aware that you have not. There is a difference.

The air is warm enough that Alexia shrugs her gilet open as she walks, sunlight settling delightfully against the back of her neck. 

Usually, on mornings like this, you’d somehow end up appearing beside her halfway through.

Sometimes intentionally. Sometimes because one of you would call saying things like ‘What are you up to?’ before simply meeting up wherever either happened to be.

You liked walking with her. Said the city felt different with Alexia by your side. 

She’d rolled her eyes at that, even though she’d liked hearing it more than she should have.

Her chest tightens strangely at the thought now. Still nothing.

Hm.

The café near the little square is busy in the comfortable way all Barcelona cafés seem to be busy. Not loud or chaotic, just full, hearty.

Alexia pushes the door open with one hand, Boni trotting impatiently ahead of her like she owns the place. Which, considering the reaction from the staff, she may as well.

“Boni!” The girl behind the counter abandons steaming milk mid-pour to lean over and fuss the tiny dog, who accepts the attention with the solemn dignity of royalty greeting her subjects.

“And Alexia,” The girl adds a second later, glancing up. “You too, I suppose.”

“How kind of you.”

The girl grins. “The usual?” “Yes. And whipped cream for the cute, little rat.” 

“Alexia!”

She steps back outside a few minutes later balancing a latte in one hand and a tiny paper cup of cream in the other.

The terrace is dappled with sunlight beneath broad beige umbrellas, warm air drifting lazily through the square. She chooses a small at the end, settling into the chair with a quiet exhale as Boni immediately hops onto the empty seat opposite her. 

Spoiled.

Alexia slides the cream cup across the table anyway. “There.”

Boni plunges in face first, of course. Alexia shakes her head fondly before leaning back in her chair, fingers curling around the warm takeaway cup of her latte.

For the first time all morning, she properly relaxes. Even if there is still a faint restlessness beneath her ribs she can’t quite shake. But her shoulders do loosen slightly as she watches the square around her.

A cyclist weaves lazily between pedestrians. Two elderly men argue passionately over cards at a nearby table, giving Beatriz competitiveness at cards a run for their money. Alexia should give them her number.

Barcelona in late morning always feels softer. Sun-warmed and sleepy around the edges. 

Her phone stays in her pocket for almost six entire minutes. A personal best.

Though, habit eventually wins.

She unlocks it one-handed beneath the table, thumb automatically opening instagram without much thought. Mostly background noise more than anything else. Something to occupy the part of her brain still irritatingly aware of your silence.

A few stories flick by. She barely registers any of them, eyes drifting absently across the screen as she drinks her coffee. 

Then your close friends story appears. She pauses automatically.

A photo. Patri stands grinning at the camera somewhere bright and expensive-looking, Kika beside her mid-laugh with one arm slung around your shoulders while you smile between them.

There you are. Alive.

Interesting.

Her eyes narrow slightly.

So you do still know how to use your phone.

She almost taps past the story before something else catches her attention.

Flowers. White ones. Large arrangements spilling over tables in the background. People dressed formally behind you. A large manor house, decorated with elegant white ribbons and such.

Her thumb stills, but the next story loads automatically. And Alexia as a whole goes very, very still.

It’s you again. This time standing beside another woman.

Who is very clearly a bride. There’s no mistaking it.

She is very obviously wearing a wedding dress, elegant and fitted, all soft white fabric and delicate satin, bouquet tucked against her waist as she leans into your side laughing. 

And you–

Alexia sits up straighter.

You;re dressed in light colours too. Cream maybe. Or white. Something bright enough that, under the sunlight, it blends almost seamlessly beside the wedding dress.

One arm wraps around the bride’s waist. The bride’s arm rests around your shoulders.

And the two of you are looking at each other. Not posing for the camera.

Looking. 

Laughing properly. Heads tipped close together like there’s no one else around.

“...What?”

Alexia frowns harder at the screen.

No.

There had to be some explanation for this. 

A family member. A friend. Or–

Her thumbs moves before she can finish the thought, tapping onto Kika’s story instead.

A video this time.

The camera shakes slightly with laughter as it pans across the gravel yard in front of the house, music playing in the background, people gathered waiting for photos with champagne glasses in their hand.

The camera lands on you and her stomach drops.

You are standing beside the bride again, close enough that your bodies brush from shoulder to hip. The woman says something that gets lost beneath the music and chatter around you.

You lean in automatically to hear her better.

Too close.

Your mouth brushes near her ear as you say something back.

The bride laughs immediately, head falling against your shoulder for a second before she nudges you lightly with her bouquet. You laugh too– soft and familiar enough that Alexia feels it somewhere beneath her ribs like physical damage.

Then your head tips towards her again, foreheads nearly touching. 

Comfortable. Intimate. The kind of closeness built over time.

Alexia chokes violently on her coffee.

Latte goes down entirely the wrong way, hitting the back of her throat hard enough that she has to cough into her fist, eyes watering instantly as coffee splashes down the front of her white shirt and on her jeans. 

Boni startles so hard she nearly falls of the chair. The tiny dog stares up at Alexia with huge black eyes, whipped cream still smeared around her mouth. 

Alexia coughs again. A shadow appears beside the table.

Without a word, one of the café workers drops a thick stack of napkins beside her drink with the exhausted expression of somebody who has seen enough public romantic crises to identify one on sight.

There’s mild disgust there, but mostly exasperation.

Alexia looks up briefly, mortified. “...gracias.”

The worker glances once at the phone still clutched in her hand, then at the coffee all down her shirt. He sighs like it confirms something deeply unfortunate about humanity and walks off.

The midfielder grabs a handful of napkins, dabbing uselessly at the spreading stains across her abdomen and dotted over her thighs. 

Her heart is beating far too fast. The video has looped by the time she looks down again.

You laughing. The bride touching your arm. Your heads leaning together.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Her mouth goes dry. A horrible heavy feeling settles low in her stomach all at once, sick and dizzying.

No texts, no calls, no mention of any of this. 

Wedding. Bride. White outfit.

The thought crashes into place so suddenly it makes her feel stupid for not seeing it right away.

“Oh my God.”

Boni barks once; Alexia barely hears her.

She recognises the venue. Not from being there, just from research.

From nights months ago spent half-curled on her sofa with her notes app open while you slept against her shoulder, mindlessly saving things she liked without really thinking about why.

Venues and flowers and names and–

Ridiculous things. Tiny, impossible domestic fantasies she never let herself linger on for too long afterwards.

And this place? This exact manor house with its ivy-covered brick walls and enormous garden terrace?

It is sitting somewhere inside a locked note on her phone.

She feels abruptly nauseous. 

“No.” She mutters. 

Stares at the screen one last time. Then she stands so quickly the metal chair scrapes harshly against the pavement, scaring the life out of Boni.

“Ay, lo siento– come here.” 

Alexia scoops the tiny dog into her arms before she’s even finished her cream, grabbing the lead and her phone all at once in a frantic movement. The abandoned latte rocks dangerously on the wobbling table behind her.

Her pulse is hammering now. Because surely you would have told her if you were getting married. 

Wouldn’t you?

Boni spends the entire walk home yapping grumpily from Alexia’s arms, unaware that her temporary dog walker is currently experiencing what can only medically be described as a complete psychological collapse.

Her brain is moving too fast.

Wedding. Bride.

How long had this been happening? How had she missed it? Had everybody known except her? Was that why Patri had been weirdly smug lately? Was that why Kika kept making those cryptic comments about her needing to ‘say things before it’s too late’?

“Oh God!”

The tiny dog wiggles as Alexia unlocks Beatriz’s gate with fumbling hands.

The elderly woman opens the door before she can even knock. “Oh! Back already?”

“Yes.” Alexia thrusts the dog gently but urgently into her arms. “Emergency.”

Beatriz gasps. “What kind of emergency?” 

Alexia opens her mouth. Closes it again. 

Braces for a lecture.

“Romantic.”

Beatriz lets out the most dramatic gasp the brunette has ever heard. 

“I knew it!”

“I have to go, sorry!”

“Alexia Putellas Segura!” Beatriz calls after her as she’s already halfway down the path. “If you ruin things with that lovely girl, I will haunt you!”

“I know!” 

Then she’s gone.

She jumps into her car with the grace of a bull in a fine china shop. 

And the drive feels endless.

Every single red light in Barcelona appears specifically engineered to destroy her. Until she finally gets out of the city, just for the traffic on the highway to be dreadful. Though it only teases her, as she gets to a mile away from her junction and it all clears up like nothing ever happened.

She grips the steering wheel hard enough that her knuckles ache, coffee-stained shirt sticking uncomfortably against her skin while her thoughts spiral further and further into insanity.

The more she thinks about it, the worse it gets.

You’d said it was a family thing today. 

A family thing.

Not ‘I’m attending a wedding’.

Not ‘I'm in a wedding’.

And certainly not ‘by the way, I might be the person getting married’.

Her stomach twists violently.

“No,” She says out loud to the empty car. “No, no, no.”

The worst part is that she can suddenly see it. All of it. The silence and the white outfit and the venue and the way you looked at the bride.

Her brain stitches it together with horrifying efficiency until it becomes something terrible and impossible to ignore.

Maybe you hadn’t told her because you thought whatever existed between the two of you wasn’t serious enough to require it.

 Maybe to you, this had all just been–

No.

Her jaw tightens sharply.

No, because you looked at her like it was her you pictured your life with.

Another vicious twist to her stomach; how can she assume that when you hadn’t even labelled whatever was between you?

She takes the turn towards the countryside roads too fast. 

The manor house appears eventually through rows of tall trees, all pale stone walls and sprawling gardens behind wrought iron gates.

Alexia recognises it instantly– it looks exactly like the photos. Which somehow makes everything worse. 

“Madre de Dios.” She utters in awe.

Cars line the gravel entrance in neat elegant rows.

Alexia’s does not.

She parks at an angle so catastrophic it would probably get her arrested if she wasn’t on private land, barely remembering to kill the engine before shoving the door open and climbing out.

The late afternoon air hits her immediately, warm and carrying the distant sound of music and conversation drifting from somewhere deeper into the grounds.

Her heart is pounding now, hard enough to hurt. 

The gravel rocks crunch violently beneath her trainers as she rounds the front gardens.

Then she sees you. Standing outside near the tall entrance doors with Patri and Kika.

You’re laughing at something Patri is saying, sunlight catching against the pale fabric of your outfit while guests drift around behind you with flutes of champagne.

You look beautiful.

The thought lands with devastating force. 

She slows for half a second, enough for panic to properly catch up with her. 

Because this is real. It’s happening. You’re here, dressed like that. And if she doesn’t do something right now–

“No!”

The words tears out of her without inhibition.

Several heads turn immediately as she begins to run up the driveway.

You blink in confusion whilst Patri’s face goes blank and Kika lowers her drink.

“Please!” She calls desperately.

She’s still moving toward you across the long gravel driveway, every step slipping slightly against the loose stones beneath her trainers so that it feels absurdly cinematic, like she’s running through wet cement, in slow motion.

A few nearby guests stop talking altogether now. A few remove their sunglasses.

You stare at her.

“Alexia?”

She shakes her head immediately, breathless from the run and the panic and the sheer catastrophic momentum of this entire situation. 

“No. No, please don’t do it!” 

Patri looks genuinely alarmed now, your first time seeing that expression on her face in all the years of your friendship. 

“...do what?”

Alexia finally reaches the last stretch of gravel before the tiled path leading to the door, chest heaving as she looks directly at you.

At your pale outfit, the flowers, the wedding guests.

Then at the woman standing just inside the doorway in a wedding gown.

Her face crumples.

“Don’t marry her.” 

Silence crashes down around the front yard.

Well, not complete silence, because further inside the house music is still playing and guests are murmuring about the soap opera playing out before them, but enough that she can suddenly hear her own breathing.

Every single person within a twenty metre radius is staring at her.

A waiter has frozen mid-step with a tray of champagne. One man lowers the canapé he’d just been about to eat with a grumble at the request of his wife. Even the children had stopped their games to watch.

You blink at Alexia. Look at Patri and Kika. Then back to Alexia again. 

“What on earth are you saying?”

Her dark hair is windswept and her shirt is still stained with coffee in a way that would horrify her under any other circumstances. 

Right now though she barely notices because you still haven’t denied it.

“Please,” She says again, softer this time. Undeniably desperate. “Please don’t marry her.”

The bride standing in the doorway looks utterly baffled.

“Me?”

Alexia finally looks at her for the first time, properly.

Then at you.

And suddenly, something changes.

Tiny details begin slotting into place, her panic-riddled brain finally slowing down enough to process everything correctly.

Your outfit– not white. Cream. A soft, prosecco-coloured satin thing.

Formal, yes. Beautiful, devastatingly so, yes. But not bridal. 

Your hands– no ring. 

Bouquet– not bridal. 

And the woman in the doorway, Alexia’s eyes flick past her. Straight through the open doors of the manor house where a huge decorative sign sits in the hallway. Beside it, the actual groom. Who is incredibly concerned. 

She stops breathing for a second. 

Oh no.

Her face drains instantly of what little colour remained in it.

Next to you, Patri’s face changes in real time as understanding dawns across her face.

“Tía,” she says slowly. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Kika’s mouth falls open.

“Are you okay, Capi?” She asks, visibly fighting laughter. “Do you need an intervention?”

Alexia doesn’t know what to say. You stare at her with an expression somewhere between confusion and disbelief.

“You thought I was getting married?”

The sentence hangs there for exactly four seconds. 

Patri looks at Kika, Kika looks at Patri. 

Both of them turn toward Alexia’s stricken face and…

…immediately burst into laughter.

Loud laughter. The kind that takes people out at the knees. 

Patri doubles over so fast she nearly spills champagne down her chest, one hand clutching Kika’s arm as she wheezes helplessly. Kika outright cackles.

“No– no, wait–” She gasps between laughs. “She thought– she seriously thought–” 

“You drove here?” Patri chokes out. “You came all this way?”

Alexia remains frozen in place, still breathing too hard, humiliation beginning to crawl through her with devastating speed. 

“Oh my god!” Kika cries. “You were trying to stop the wedding!”

“I was not–”

“You literally shouted ‘don’t marry her!’”

“I panicked!”

It only made them laugh harder. Several nearby guests join in with them too.

Meanwhile you are still staring at Alexia.

Then, your face begins to change too. Confusion melts first, then the disbelief.

Something dangerously fond takes center stage instead.

“You thought I was getting married.” You say whilst biting back a smile.

Alexia wanted the gravel to open up beneath her feet and consume her whole. Colour floods her face so quickly it reaches the tips of her ears.

It is deeply unfortunate that she cannot sprint away now without making this even worse. 

“You idiot,” Patri laughs. “Oh my god, this is the best day of my life.”

Alexia glares at her, but the effect is somewhat ruined by the fact she still looks mildly panicked and has coffee down the front of her shirt. 

You laugh too, then. Not like Patri and Kika are laughing, not cruelly. Just soft amusement spilling out in little bursts as you gaze at her.

And that is somehow worse. She would almost prefer being publicly executed.

“Alexia,” Kika says, wiping beneath one eye dramatically. “You came here to stop a wedding.”

“It was a miscommunication.” She feebly tries to defend herself.

It only sends Patri into another fit of laughter. “Wait until the team hears this. Wait until Vicky hears this.”

“No.”

“Oh, absolutely yes.”

“No, Patri–”

“You thought she had a secret fiancée!”

Alexia drags a hand down her face. Because when they say it out loud like that?

Dear god.

You finally step forward then, now smiling to yourself as you gently shove Patri backwards by the shoulder.

“Enough,” You tell her through your own stifled laughter. “Leave her alone.”

“She interrupted a wedding!”

“She interrupted my cousin’s wedding.” You correct her.

“Exactly!”

You ignore her, eyes returning to Alexia instead, who is impossibly more red at the reveal of whose wedding it was.

The teasing softness in your eyes makes something twist in her chest.

“What made you think I was getting married?” You ask, trying to keep your laughter out of it but ultimately failing.

Alexia looks away. The gravel shifts beneath her shoes as she shuffles awkwardly against it, suddenly deeply interested in the ground.

“I saw things on Instagram.” She mutters defensively. “You looked like a bride.”

“A bride?”

 “You are wearing white!” She argues, shoulders up to her ears in a shrug.

You laugh gently, “I’m wearing cream, Ale.”

“It looked white in the photo.” She grumbled as you stepped closer. “And you were wrapped around a woman in a wedding dress.”

“She is my cousin!”

“How was I supposed to know that?!”

You stare at her again. Then laugh, quieter this time, shoulders shaking. 

“Alexia,” You say, grinning. “I’m the maid of honour.”

Her eyes flick over your outfit again now that her brain is functioning at least marginally better.

Definitely cream. Definitely no ring. 

Zero actual signs that you were the one getting married. 

“...oh.”

“Yes, oh.” You tease, taking another step toward her.

“You’re sure?” 

You gape at her.

“Yes!” You say incredulously. “I’m pretty fucking sure I’m not getting married!”

Kika makes a strangle noise beside Patri, leaning half her weight on her as she laughs silently.

“I just thought–”

“What exactly did you think?” Patri interrupts immediately, delighted. “That she forgot to mention a wife?”

“You said it was a family thing!” Alexia shoots back at you.

“It is a family thing!” 

“Well… well, you failed to specify there would be brides!”

You roll your eyes as you come to stand before her. “There was only one bride, and she is my cousin, as I said.”

Patri has tears streaming without a care in the world for her makeup. A guest openly snorts into his champagne.

You press your lips together hard as you tilt your head at her, trying and failing not to laugh yourself as Alexia continues spiralling.

Well, not spiralling really, more attempting to dig her way out of the ever-growing hole of embarrassment she was in.  

“You were looking at her like–”

“She was telling me her fake eyelashes were falling off.”

“–and you leaned your heads together.”

“It was loud!”

“You looked happy!”

You pause at that. The air shifts slightly as your expression softens.

“...well,” You say carefully. “I am happy.”

Alexia’s face turns red again.

Kika looks between the two of you, laughter beginning to fade into something more suspicious.

“Wait…” 

Patri straightens too.

Alexia visibly realises, a second too late, that she may have revealed too much already.

You fold your arms. A smile pulls slowly at your mouth.

“Alexia,” You say softly. “Were you jealous?”

“No.” She responds immediately.

“You drove an hour on your day off to stop me from marrying someone.” You drawl with a smirk.

“There was traffic on the way here, it took a bit longer than it should’ve.” 

“You were upset.” You tease, taking another step closer, the gap too small for the just teammates facade you’d been holding previously. 

Alexia looks for something to say but comes up empty. 

“You thought I was with someone else,” You continue, one hand rising to play with her coffee-free collar. You look up from her shirt to meet her eyes, clearly trying not to smile too much. “And you lost your mind.” 

She exhales sharply through her nose, gaze dropping away from you for a second toward the gravel again. 

Then she mutters under her breath quietly, trying to speak just for you.

“Of course I did.”

Judging by the noise Patri makes, she was not quiet enough. 

Alexia manages to ignore her and looks back up at you. Her eyes bore into yours as she speaks.

“I don’t want you with anyone else.” 

For once, nobody interrupts. Even Kika goes quiet.

You gaze at Alexia, something gentler flickering across your face beneath all the amusement.

“Ale…”

“What?” she grumbles instantly, defensive again now that the sentence exists outside her head. “You asked.”

“We’ve never even–”

You stop yourself, smile growing ever so slightly.

“We’ve never actually talked about what this is,” You land on instead. “And you’re already showing up to stop me marrying people?”

Alexia’s blush deepens to the point it looks painful.

“Well, when you say it like that, it sounds dramatic.” 

“It was dramatic.” Kika comments. “You ran up the driveway like somebody in a telenovela.” 

You laugh again, arms folding loosely across your chest as you look at her.

“So what exactly was the plan here, hm?” You question. “You were going to stop the wedding, and then what?”

Alexia stares blankly as you wait for her answer.

Admittedly, she had not thought that far ahead. Patri clocks it.

“She didn’t even have a speech prepared!” She exclaims, sounding far too pleased.

“I was panicking!” Alexia snaps at her.

You’re still looking at her though. Still smiling. 

“Ale,” You murmur. “You realise this is insane behaviour for someone who supposedly isn’t my girlfriend.” 

Alexia glances between Patri and Kika, who are both openly staring back.

Kika looks seconds away from combusting and Patri seems as if she’s already got a storytime voicenote brewing for the groupchat.

A few months ago, hell, even a few weeks ago, that would’ve been enough to make Alexia retreat back into herself. Brush it off, laugh it away, pretend.

But standing there now, coffee stained and breathless and publicly humiliated after driving across Barcelona because she thought she’d lost you…

Something in her just gives up. Or maybe gives in.

The truth is already standing between you anyway, broad as daylight. And judging by the looks on Patri and Kika’s face, it is not exactly being received with horror.

The brunette exhales slowly. Then lifts her chin slightly.

“And so what if I want it to be us getting married here someday?”

Silence as everyone stares in shock again. 

Neither Patri nor Kika speak for a full minute which for those two is honestly concerning. 

Until they both shriek simultaneously–

“What?!”

Several nearby guests turn again, this time with rather disapproving looks on their faces. 

Alexia seems as if she wants to launch herself directly into the Mediterranean and never resurface again.

Patri grabs Kika by both shoulders violently. “I knew it!”

“You said they were just sleeping together!”

“Clearly I was wrong!”

Kika turns to Alexia, and the captain gulps. “You planned a whole marriage before defining the relationship?”

“She has a venue!” Patri yells to back her up.

Alexia freezes. You narrow your eyes.

“You have a venue?”

“...no.”

“Alexia.”