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You know you’re overthinking. You always do. It’s practically a talent at this point. But you can’t remember the last time you felt nerves like this, sharp and restless beneath your skin, tangled with this overwhelming need to make a good impression. Honestly, it feels little like a job interview.

Except somehow worse.

Because this is Alexia’s family. And Alexia is… everything.

A warm hand settles against your thigh, squeezing gently.

“What’s wrong, amor?” she asks softly.

You glance at her, pulled from the spiral.

“Nothing,” you answer immediately.

Far too quickly. Entirely unconvincing.

Alexia’s eyebrow lifts slightly, though her eyes stay on the road.

“Your body language tells a very different story,” she teases.

Instinctively, you glance down at yourself, as though catching yourself mid-panic might somehow make it stop. It doesn’t.

Your knee is still bouncing like it’s personally trying to escape the car. You let out a slow breath and turn back toward the window.

“I feel sick,” you mumble.

There’s a brief silence. Then Alexia laughs softly.

You turn your head in disbelief. “It’s not funny, Alexia.”

“Amor,” she says, fighting another smile, “it’s going to be okay.”

“You don’t know that,” you argue dramatically. “This could be horrific.”

That earns you a fond shake of her head.

“I promise you, it will not be horrific. It’s going to be a lovely evening.”

You sink deeper into the seat with a groan, tipping your head back dramatically against the headrest.

“I can’t stop worrying.”

“About what?” she asks, quieter this time.

You exhale deeply, staring up at the ceiling of the car like the answer might be written there.

“What if she hates me?”

Alexia’s expression softens instantly.

“Amor,” she says gently, “mi mamí is not going to hate you. She’s excited to meet you. She’s been asking about you for weeks.”

Something in your chest loosens slightly at that.

“And I’m excited to meet her too,” you admit quietly. “Really. But I can’t stop thinking I’m going to mess it up somehow. Say the wrong thing. Do something embarrassing. I just…” You sigh. “I want her to like me. I want her to think I’m at least a somewhat competent human being.”

Alexia laughs again, softer this time, full of affection.

“Babyyy,” you whine.

“I’m sorry,” she says, reaching for your hand now, intertwining your fingers. “But look, you were terrified to meet my friend’s too, remember?”

You grumble under your breath. “That was different.”

“And what happened?”

You glance at her reluctantly. “They liked me.”

“They loved you,” she corrects easily. “And this will be no different.”

“With all due respect to your friends,” you say carefully, “meeting them is slightly less intimidating than meeting the mother of the love of your life.”

Alexia stills for half a second. Her fingers tighten around yours. And when you glance over, her expression has softened into something unbearably tender.

“What?” you ask quietly.

“Nothing,” she murmurs, though she’s looking at you like you’ve hung the moon. “It’s just… I’ve never heard you say that before.”

Your cheeks warm almost immediately. “Oh.” You duck your head slightly. “Well… you are.”

The smile that spreads across her face is soft enough to make your chest ache.

“How do you always manage to say the most life-altering things at the most random times?”

You let out a quiet laugh, some of the tension easing from your shoulders. “Another talent of mine I guess.”

She chuckles softly and lifts your joined hands to her lips, pressing a lingering kiss against your skin. Warmth blooms low and steady in your chest. For the first time since getting in the car, you almost feel calm.

Almost.

Your gaze drifts back out the window, watching the evening sunlight spill gold across the streets.

“I feel like I should have revised or something,” you mumble.

Alexia glances at you. “Hm?”

“My Spanish.” You sigh dramatically. “Let’s be honest, I should be way more advanced by now, but I’m not. And it’s not fair expecting you to translate everything all the time.”

Her thumb brushes across your knuckles. “I don’t mind, bebé” she says gently. “And neither will mi mamí.”

You hum uncertainly before another thought suddenly hits you.

“Do you think Alba will say anything?”

You don’t elaborate. You don’t need to. You haven’t seen Alba since… the balcony.

Apparently, she leads a busier life than most human beings, because despite the fact you’d shared a surprisingly pleasant breakfast together that morning, one that had ended with a warm hug, you still hadn’t seen her since.

And honestly? You were a little nervous.

Alexia huffs a dry laugh instantly. “If she values her life, she won’t.”

“Good,” you mutter. “Because your mamí finding out both of her daughters have seen me topless would create a very unfortunate first impression.”

Alexia goes quiet for a beat. Then—

“Sí,” she says thoughtfully. “She might start feeling left out.”

You whip your head towards her so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash.

“Alexia!”

She breaks into a low laughter beside you, entirely too pleased with herself.

“Sorry, amor. I’m trying to help you relax.”

“Relax?” you repeat incredulously. “You’ve just sent my heart rate into cardiac arrest.”

Alexia smirks, shaking her head as she turns into a quiet private parking area. The car rolls to a stop. Then silence. The engine cuts out, leaving only the distant sound of birds and the faint buzz of conversation drifting from somewhere nearby. Alexia’s hand squeezes yours gently.

“We’re here,” she says softly.

Your stomach immediately flips. You exhale slowly, trying to steady yourself. Again. When you glance at her, you manage an almost-confident nod.

Almost.

The two of you step out into the warm evening air, and you immediately reach into the back seat to grab the bouquets you’d picked up earlier that day. You’d texted Alexia during your lunch break to ask what her mamí’s favourite flowers were, then practically speed-walked to the florist when work ended.

Now, holding them in your hands, you can only hope it was the right choice. Polite. Thoughtful. Not too much. Not desperately trying to impress your girlfriend’s mamí.

Alexia rounds the car and stops beside you, her expression instantly softening when she notices the flowers again. “She’s going to love them,” she says warmly.

Then her eyes flick to the second bouquet. “You didn’t need to get Alba any, though.”

You let out a nervous laugh.

“I wanted to. It’s important to make a good… second impression.” You almost cringe at that.

Alexia laughs quietly, shaking her head with obvious fondness. Her hand slips into yours while you clutch the flowers carefully against your chest with the other.

“Vamos,” she says lightly, tugging you toward the building. “Time to meet the Putellas Seguras.”

Excitement sparks in your chest at the words. Bright enough to almost drown out the nerves.

Almost.

———————————

You both stand outside the apartment door, Alexia already pulling her keys from her pocket.

“Wait,” you say suddenly.

She pauses mid-motion, key hovering near the lock as she glances at back at you.

“Amor?”

You look down at yourself as best you can while balancing the bouquets awkwardly against your chest.

“Do I look okay?”

Alexia’s expression softens instantly.

“You look perfect.”

“And my hair?”

A quiet laugh escapes her.

“Sí, your hair is perfect too.”

“What about—”

“Amor,” Alexia interrupts gently, stepping closer. “You look beautiful. Same as always. Please don’t worry.”

Easier said than done. You’d spent far too long deciding what to wear, eventually settling on a soft floral dress that fell just below your knees, something balanced carefully between casual and formal. Not that tonight was formal, exactly, but this mattered. You wanted to make an effort. Meanwhile, Alexia stands there in blue jeans and a plain white t-shirt, somehow looking effortlessly breathtaking. It’s annoying, honestly.

“Sorry,” you mumble.

“Don’t be.” She leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

It eases the panic just enough. And when she pulls away smiling, you can’t help melting a little under the look she gives you.

“It’s going to be fine,” she murmurs.

You nod.

Then Alexia unlocks the door.

Soft music drifts through the apartment almost immediately, warm and gentle beneath the low murmur of voices somewhere deeper inside. The hallway glows gold beneath the dim lighting, the air carrying the smell of garlic, olive oil, and something rich cooking in the kitchen. This may be your first time here, but the apartment already feels full of life. Full of memories.

You can almost picture them, late dinners, laughter spilling between rooms, arguments over football, music playing too loud on summer evenings.

Alexia slips off her shoes by the door, so you quickly do the same. Then her hand finds yours again, fingers threading carefully through your own.

“Ready?” she asks with a steady smile.

You inhale slowly.

“Sí.”

She leads you further inside, the music growing louder with every step. Then you reach the doorway to the kitchen.

Two women look up.

“Hola, mamí,” Alexia says warmly.

The older woman immediately breaks into the most radiant smile you’ve ever seen.

“Mi amor,” she breathes.

She abandons the plates she’d been setting down and walks straight to Alexia, pulling her into a tight hug.

“T’he trobat a faltar, nena meva,” I’ve missed you my girl, she says, pressing kisses to both of Alexia’s cheeks.

Alexia laughs softly. “Et vaig veure la setmana passada, mamí, ” I saw you last week, mami.

Her mamí waves the comment away with a dramatic tut, hands still cupping Alexia’s face affectionately. And the way they look at each other makes something ache warmly inside your chest. There’s so much love there. So much familiarity. You can’t stop yourself smiling. Then Eli turns toward you. And somehow, her smile softens even more.

“Mamí,” Alexia says, her hand settling warmly against your lower back. “Això és Y/n.” This is Y/n

Your throat suddenly feels dry.

“Hola,” you say shyly. “Um… estos son para ti,” these are for you.

You offer the bouquet of soft pink peonies wrapped carefully in brown paper tied with cream ribbon.

Her mamí gasps quietly.

“Mi favorita,” she says, eyes lighting up as she takes them carefully. “Gracias, Y/n.”

“De nada,” you reply automatically, then before your brain can stop you, “I like them too. They’re actually really good pollinator plants.”

Silence.

You freeze.

Because apparently your response to nerves is becoming National Geographic.

You can feel the exact moment you realise you’ve switched back into English halfway through the sentence. Heat floods your cheeks. Alexia’s shoulders shake beside you with barely concealed laughter, and somewhere off to the side you hear another amused chuckle. You glance over to find Alba leaning casually against the counter, watching the entire interaction unfold while popping an olive into her mouth.

“Lo siento,” you mumble, gaze dropping to the floor.

But when you look back up, her mamí is smiling at you with an unmistakable warmth. She reaches out, taking your free hand.

“I love them,” she says carefully in English.

Then she steps forward and hugs you. The tension in your chest loosens instantly as you hug her back as best you can with the second bouquet still trapped awkwardly in your arm. When she pulls away, she keeps her hold for another second.

“I’m Eli,” she says slowly. “Very nice meet you.”

You can’t help smiling. “It’s really nice to meet you too.”

Then Alba pushes herself off the counter and walks over.

“Hola, Y/n,” she says, already smirking.

She pulls you into a hug before you can fully brace yourself.

And then, directly into your ear. “I almost didn’t recognise you with a shirt on.”

Your entire body short-circuits. Heat rushes violently into your face as she pulls away looking far too pleased with herself. Alexia reacts instantly, swatting Alba sharply on the arm.

“Hey. Shut your mouth,” she warns.

Alba only laughs harder.

“Um…” you clear your throat awkwardly and thrust the second bouquet toward her. “These are for you.”

That catches her off guard. Her expression softens with genuine surprise as she takes them carefully.

“Wow, Gracias.” She glances between the flowers and you, smirk slowly returning. “I can’t remember the last time a girl brought me flowers. Your girlfriend’s a charmer, Alexia.”

You blush all over again. Alexia rolls her eyes fondly.

“I told her not to bother buying you any.”

Alba gasps dramatically. “I can’t help being popular.”

“Desperate, more like,” Alexia shoots back.

“Puta,” Alba gasps, punching her lightly in the arm.

“Ow,” Alexia complains, immediately shoving her back. The two of them start bickering instantly.

“Ay Ay,” Eli sighs, swatting both their arms away. “Silly girls.”

You can’t help smiling at that.

“Come,” Eli says warmly, gesturing further inside. “Dinner nearly ready.”

Alexia’s hand returns to your back instinctively, grounding you again. You lean into her slightly as you follow.

“So much for her not saying anything,” you whisper.

Alexia grimaces apologetically. “Don’t worry. I’ll kick her ass if she tries anything else.”

You laugh softly. “I can see that.”

She smirks, gently guiding you further into the apartment.

———————————

The table is already crowded with food by the time you sit down. A thick tortilla española rests in the centre beside roasted vegetables glistening with olive oil, bowls of olives, warm bread, and little dishes scattered across the table filled with herbs, tomatoes, cheeses, and things you don’t even recognise. The entire apartment smells warm and comforting. The kind of meal made for sharing. And everything looks incredible.

“Vegetarian everything,” Eli says proudly, gesturing toward the table.

Your chest warms instantly at that. And the care behind it. The consideration. The fact she’d built the meal around you without making a big deal of it.

“Gracias,” you say softly. “That’s really kind. You didn’t have to do all of this.”

Eli waves the comment away immediately.

“Of course,” she says warmly. “Please, enjoy.”

“Gracias, mamí,” Alexia says beside you.

You settle into your seat while Eli sits opposite you and Alba drops into the chair across from Alexia.

The olives get passed toward you first. You smile politely, taking a few before adding some roasted vegetables and a slice of tortilla onto your plate, trying very hard not to look too eager.

Alba reaches for the bottle of cava, a posh one, and starts filling everyone’s glasses. Eli immediately points at yours when you instinctively try to protest. “Special occasion,” she insists with a smile.

Your cheeks warm. “Okay,” you laugh softly. The bubbles fizz gently in your glass as you take it carefully.

When you glance sideways, you find Alexia already watching you, smiling. There’s something so soft in her expression it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. Her hand settles on your thigh beneath the table, squeezing gently.

“Y/n,” Eli’s says slowly, carefully pronouncing your name. “Alexia says you work… environment?”

You smile. “Sí. Um…”

Your brain immediately short-circuits trying to figure out how to explain your job in Spanish.

Alexia notices instantly.

“It’s okay, amor,” she murmurs, placing a hand over yours. “Mamí understands a lot of English. I can translate if needed.”

You relax slightly, nodding before turning back to Eli.

“I work for a small environmental organisation in the city,” you explain. “We focus on sustainability projects, community outreach, education… just trying to improve things where we can.”

You shrug modestly.

Eli nods, though there’s a slight crease between her brows.

Before you can wonder whether she understood, Alexia turns to her mother and quickly translates, her Catalan flowing far faster than anything you can follow.

Eli’s expression immediately softens.

“Ahh.”

Alexia glances back at you.

“She says that sounds very admirable and that the world needs more people like you.”

Heat instantly creeps into your cheeks.

“Oh… gracias.”

Eli only looks pleased with herself.

Alexia’s thumb brushes across your knuckles.

“Y/n and her team have just partnered with some local schools,” she adds, unable to hide the pride in her voice. “They’re starting environmental workshops for children, climate awareness, how to take care of the planet.”

You immediately feel heat creep into your cheeks again at the way she says it. Like she genuinely thinks its impressive.

Eli smiles warmly. “Ah,” she says softly. “Very important work.”

You duck your head slightly, smiling.

“Children are usually the most open to changing habits,” you explain. “And they get excited when they realise they can actually help. Sometimes adults think environmental issues are too big to make a difference, but kids…” You smile a little. “Kids still believe small actions matter.”

You pause briefly before adding with a self-conscious laugh.

“My team will probably do most of the workshops though. Saves them translating everything for me.”

Eli laughs warmly at that.

“How did you get into it?” Alba asks, taking a sip of cava.

You pause for a moment, thinking.

Then you shrug lightly.

“I don’t know. I think I’ve always cared about it.” Your fingers trace absently around the stem of your glass. “When I was little, I used to spend hours outside. Watching insects, planting flowers, trying to rescue worms from pavements when it rained.”

Alexia smiles faintly.

“And when you get older…” You hesitate slightly. “You start understanding how much damage people do to the world without even thinking about it.”

Your voice softens.

“I guess I just wanted to do something useful. Even if it’s small.”

You glance down at your plate, suddenly aware you’ve been talking for far too long.

“Sorry,” you mumble. “That probably sounded very dramatic.”

But when you look back up, Eli is watching you with unmistakable warmth. And even Alba’s expression has softened.

Beside you, Alexia’s hand finds your thigh, grounding and reassuring. When you glance toward her, the look on her face nearly undoes you completely. Pride. Love. So much of both it makes your chest ache.

“If only Alexia was this inspirational,” Alba teases lightly, breaking the softness just enough to make everyone laugh.

Eli rolls her eyes affectionately while Alexia immediately glares at her sister.

“You’re just jealous you’re sat at a table with three inspirational women.”

Alba gasps dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest before sticking her tongue out at her. The easy familiarity between them sends warmth blooming through your chest. It’s comforting. Lived-in. The kind of dynamic that makes a home feel safe.

Alba leans back slightly in her chair, swirling her cava thoughtfully before looking back at you with a small smile.

“So, Y/n,” she says curiously, “what did you actually think when you found out the truth about Alexia?”

You blink, slightly caught off guard by the sudden change in subject.

Beside you, Alexia sighs quietly, somewhere between embarrassed and resigned.

“Alba,” Eli scolds gently. “Don’t interrogate the poor girl.”

“I’m not interrogating,” Alba insists with a laugh. Then she looks back at you, softer this time. “I’m genuinely curious. It must’ve been a shock, no?”

Instinctively, you glance toward Alexia. Not because you don’t want to answer. Just because you want to make sure she’s okay with it. Alexia told you a long time ago that both Eli and Alba knew everything. Still, you hesitate for half a second.

Alexia notices immediately. Her fingers fiddle absentmindedly with the edge of her napkin beneath the table, and without thinking, you place your hand gently over hers. Her movements still instantly. You squeeze softly. When she looks up at you, her expression melts into something warm and reassuring.

“It’s okay,” Alexia says softly. “I don’t mind.”

You hold her gaze for another moment, making sure.

“Well…” you smile faintly. ‘Yeah. I was pretty shocked.”

Alba laughs softly into her drink. “I think most people would be.”

You nod.

“But honestly? The football part didn’t bother me.” You glance sideways at Alexia teasingly. “I was actually kind of impressed.”

Alexia huffs a quiet laugh beside you.

“And the lying part?” Alba asks gently this time.

You pause briefly, considering your words carefully.

“I think… at first, I was a little hurt.” You shrug slightly. “But mostly because I didn’t understand it yet.”

The table grows quieter.

“I was looking at it from my perspective.” Your thumb brushes lightly across the back of Alexia’s hand as you speak. “I didn’t really stop to think about what it must’ve been like for her. The pressure, the fear, all the reasons she might’ve had for not telling me.”

You glance at Alexia again.

“And once she explained it…” A soft smile pulls at your lips. “Everything made sense.”

Alexia watches you so intently it almost makes your chest ache.

“She was still Alexia,” you continue quietly. “Still the girl who invited me to join her for drinks. Still the girl who took me to watch the sunset.” You laugh softly to yourself. “Still the person who gives me butterflies every time she smiles at me.”

Alexia’s expression visibly softens.

“And trusting her,” you say, voice quieter now, “ended up being the easiest decision I’ve ever made.”

Silence settles briefly around the table. Warm. Heavy in the nicest way.

Alexia looks at you like she’s trying to memorise every word. There’s so much in her expression you can barely hold her gaze for long. Love. Gratitude. Something deeper you can feel all the way down in your chest.

“Me too,” she says softly.

Your heart stutters a little.

When you finally glance back at Alba and Eli, both of them are smiling.

Eli’s expression is openly emotional.

Alba, meanwhile, is grinning shamelessly.

“Damn, Alexia,” she says. “You’re absolutely gone.”

You laugh softly while Alexia rolls her eyes, though the faint pink spreading across her cheeks gives her away instantly.

“Valé,” Alba says eventually, waving her fork. “Can we actually eat now before mamí starts crying?”

Eli swats her arm lightly while everyone laughs and finally starts tucking into the food.

———————————

Dinner carries on like that. Full of laughter. Stories about Alexia as a child, Alba’s chaotic adventures, Eli proudly telling embarrassing stories about both her daughters while Alexia threatens to leave.

And somewhere between the cava, the warm food, and the easy teasing bouncing around the table, you realise you’ve completely relaxed. The nerves that had practically consumed you in the car feel distant now. You feel comfortable here. Safe. Like this isn’t your first time sitting at this table, but one of many.

Alexia’s touch never strays far for long. A hand on your thigh beneath the table. Fingers brushing yours. An arm slung loosely around the back of your chair as she subtly scoots closer halfway through dinner.

Each touch grounding. Every touch saying you belong here.

You finish your last bite of tortilla, and lean back slightly in your chair, pressing a hand dramatically to your stomach.

“Wow,” you sigh. “Muchas gracias, Eli. I can absolutely see where Alexia gets her cooking skills.”

Alexia chuckles beside you, taking another sip of cava.

“I teach them well,” Eli says proudly, before glancing at Alba. “Or… I try.”

You laugh as Alba gasps in mock offence.

“I definitely need your tortilla secrets,” you tell Eli warmly.

Eli beams at that, clearly delighted.

You glance at her, suddenly determined to compliment the food properly in Spanish for once instead of relying on English.

“Está…” you begin carefully, trying to remember the word.

Alexia turns to you curiously.

You nod to yourself once, confident you’ve got it.

“Está muy… cachonda.”

Silence.

Complete silence.

Your smile slowly fades.

Alba immediately chokes on her cava. Alexia drops her head into one hand.

For two full seconds, Eli just blinks at you in confusion. Then her face crumples into helpless laughter.

Your stomach drops instantly.

“…oh no.”

Alexia looks up at you, trying very hard not to laugh.

“Amor,” she says gently, “you just called my mother’s tortilla horny.”

Heat floods your entire body.

“…what?”

Alba is practically bent over the table laughing now.

“No, no,” you panic immediately. “I meant delicious. I was trying to say delicious—”

Even Eli is laughing hard enough now that she presses a hand against her chest.

“And this,” you mutter, sinking lower into your chair, “is why I suck at Spanish.”

Alexia immediately leans over, pressing a kiss against your burning cheek.

“No,” she says through her laughter. “Your Spanish is perfect.”

You turn toward her slowly, utterly unconvinced.

“I’d actually like to know why your tutor is teaching you the word ‘horny’,” Alba adds teasingly.

Everyone breaks into laughter again, and this time you can’t help laughing too. Because somehow, instead of feeling embarrassed...

You just feel included.

———————————

You’d all sat at the table for a while longer after dinner, drifting through more stories, more cava, more laughter. Eventually, Eli stands and starts gathering plates.

“Oh, please, let me help,” you say quickly, rising from your chair.

Eli waves you off instantly. “No, no. You are guest.”

“It’s okay,” you insist warmly. “You’ve done more than enough already.”

Before Eli can argue further, Alba gently takes the plates from her hands and steers her back toward the chair.

“Sí,” she says fondly. “Me and Y/n will do it.”

You pause for half a second.

“Erm… sí. Of course.”

“Alba—” Alexia warns immediately from the table.

“Oh, relax,” Alba says with a grin. “I’m not going to interrogate your girlfriend.”

Alexia still looks suspicious.

You glance at her and smile reassuringly, trying to ignore the sudden nerves twisting in your stomach. Alexia gives you a look that very clearly says shout if she’s mean to you.

You bite back a laugh.

The two of you carry plates into the kitchen together, settling them beside the sink. Alba grabs a sponge and dish towel, holding them both up.

“Wash or dry?”

“Erm… wash?”

“Perfect. I hate washing.”

You laugh softly as she fills the sink with hot water. For a moment, the two of you simply move around each other quietly. Water running. Plates clinking softly. Music still drifting faintly from the other room.

It’s strange.

Because you do like Alba. A lot, actually.

You love the way she and Alexia are together, all teasing and affection and years of knowing each other too well. It reminds you painfully of home. Of you and Maggie.

But there’s still this tiny awkwardness lingering between you both.

Because, unfortunately, most relationships don’t begin with someone accidentally seeing your boobs on a balcony.

Alba steps aside to let you closer to the sink.

You start rinsing plates while she dries beside you. Every now and then, you catch her glancing toward you like she’s trying to figure something out.

Eventually, she speaks.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable earlier.”

You glance over immediately.

“Oh. No, it’s okay.”

“I mean with the questions,” she clarifies. “About Alexia.”

You hand her another plate.

For the first time all evening, Alba looks slightly uncertain.

“It’s just…” She exhales softly. “I was interested in your answer.”

You stay quiet, listening.

“A lot of people know who Alexia is before they meet her.” Alba dries the plate slowly as she talks. “Or, at least they think they do.”

There’s something faintly bitter beneath her tone now.

“They see football. Fame. Trophies. Headlines.” She shrugs lightly. “And sometimes that’s the only thing they care about.”

You watch her carefully.

“But with you…” A small smile tugs at her lips. “She got to be normal for a while.”

She picks up another plate, drying it.

“She could just be herself. No expectations. No weirdness.” Alba laughs softly to herself. “Honestly, she couldn’t stop talking about you.”

Your cheeks warm instantly.

“And the longer it went on, the worse it got,” Alba continues fondly. “She fell hard. Like… embarrassingly hard.”

You can’t help smiling a little at that.

“But she still hadn’t told you.” Alba shakes her head slightly. “And I could see how guilty it was making her. She hated lying to you. She just…” She searches briefly for the words. “She was scared that once you knew, everything would change.”

You stare down into the sink quietly, listening to the water run.

“She called me crying the day after the quarterfinal,” Alba says after a moment.

Your head lifts immediately.

“I thought it was about football.” She laughs softly. “But no. It was about you.”

Something in your chest aches at that. The thought of her being so upset, alone, unsure of how things would turn out.

“She was terrified you hated her.” Alba glances at you. “And then she told me you wanted to talk things through instead.”

You blink.

“And honestly?” Alba smiles softly now. “That told me everything I needed to know about you.”

You feel unexpectedly emotional hearing that.

“Most people would’ve either panicked or gotten excited about dating someone famous,” she says. “But you just… treated her like a person.”

Your throat tightens slightly.

“And she needed that more than you realise.”

You pass her another plate carefully.

“I didn’t hear much after that, but when I found you both on the balcony…” Alba smirks slightly. “… I figured things had worked out.”

Heat immediately floods your face again.

“Mhm,” you mumble, refusing to look at her.

Her laugh is warm, not teasing. Then she grows softer again.

“Look,” she says quietly. “All I really want is for Alexia to be happy. And she is.” There’s no hesitation in her voice. “I haven’t seen her this happy in years.”

Emotion catches unexpectedly in your chest.

“She deserves that,” Alba says softly. “She deserves someone who loves her properly.”

The kitchen falls quiet except for the running water. Then Alba looks at you fully.

“I’m not trying to scare you,” she says gently. “I just… love my sister. A lot.”

You nod immediately.

“I know.”

“And her heart is big,” Alba murmurs. “Bigger than people realise.” A tiny smile appears. “But it’s fragile too.”

You dry your hands slowly against the towel before answering.

“I love her,” you say quietly. “More than I’ve ever loved anyone.”

The words come easily. Certain.

“And I would never intentionally hurt her. I couldn’t.”

Alba watches your face carefully for a moment.

Checking.

Then she smiles.

“I know,” she says softly. “Honestly? I could tell within five minutes of seeing you both together.”

You laugh quietly through the emotion in your chest. A comfortable silence settles between you for a moment before Alba suddenly points the dish towel at you.

“Okay. Now we need to talk about us.”

You blink nervously.

“Us?”

“Sí.” She nods seriously. “Because the awkwardness is giving me anxiety.”

You burst out laughing before you can stop yourself.

“Me too.”

“Good.” She grins. “I was starting to think you were scared of me.”

You hesitate.

“…Maybe a little.”

Alba gasps dramatically.

“Why?”

You shrug awkwardly. “Because you matter so much to Alexia. I guess I just… really didn’t want you to hate me.”

Her expression softens immediately.

“Y/n,” she says gently. “I could never hate you.”

The sincerity in her voice catches you off guard.

“And for the record,” she adds, fighting a smile, “the balcony thing was objectively hilarious.”

You groan while she laughs.

“But seriously,” she says, bumping your shoulder lightly, “I want us to be friends. Properly.”

Your chest warms instantly.

“You’re important to Alexia,” she says simply. “Which means you’re important to us too. And our family is annoyingly close, so now you’re stuck with us.”

You laugh.

“I’d be honoured.”

Alba smiles warmly at that. Then, after a small pause.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For loving my sister the way you do.”

Emotion rises suddenly in your chest again.

You smile softly.

“And thank you,” you murmur back, “for trusting me with her.”

Her expression softens completely.

Then she bumps your shoulder gently with her own.

“You’re one of us now,” she says simply.

Your chest tightens unexpectedly. And maybe it’s silly, but relief washes through you so suddenly it almost makes you emotional. Because really, beneath all the nerves and overthinking and desperately wanting tonight to go well… that’s all you’d wanted.

To belong here.

———————————

By the time you and Alba wander back into the living room, you’re both laughing quietly about something stupid.

Alexia immediately looks up from where she’s sitting with Eli on the sofa, concern flickering across her face the second she spots you. Alba notices instantly.

“Oh my God,” she groans dramatically, collapsing onto the opposite sofa. “She survived five whole minutes alone with me.”

Alexia ignores her completely, already crossing the room toward you.

“Are you okay, amor?” she asks softly, reaching for your hands.

You laugh quietly at the genuine concern in her voice.

“I’m fine.”

Her eyes narrow slightly as if she doesn’t fully believe you.

“Do I need to slash my sister’s tyres?”

You burst out laughing.

“You absolutely do not need to slash her tyres,” you murmur, squeezing her hands gently.

Alexia still looks unconvinced, scanning your face like she’s checking Alba hasn’t traumatised you somehow.

“I wanted to come rescue you,” she admits quietly. “But mamí wouldn’t let me.”

You glance toward Eli, who looks entirely unapologetic.

“She said we needed bonding time,” Alba says proudly from the sofa.

“And we bonded,” you say with a smile. “I think we’re friends now.”

Alexia makes a small noise somewhere between relief and concern.

“…That’s either really good or really dangerous.”

You grin, and before you can answer, Eli suddenly waves you over enthusiastically.

“Y/n,” she calls warmly. “Picture time.”

Alexia freezes instantly. Then groans.

“Mamí,” she complains. “Y/n does not need to see my baby photos.”

Your eyes widen dramatically. “Oh, I absolutely do.”

Alexia drops her head in defeat while you hurry over to sit beside Eli, immediately curious.

The photo album is old and slightly worn around the edges, the plastic sleeves crinkling softly as Eli opens it on her lap. The very first picture is of Eli sitting in a hospital bed holding the tiniest baby you’ve ever seen.

Tiny little pink cheeks. Big dark eyes.

And somehow, despite being approximately six minutes old, Alexia already looks vaguely unimpressed with the world.

You smile instantly.

“First day,” Eli says proudly, tapping the picture. “Big strong baby.”

You laugh softly.

“She already looks stubborn.”

Alexia gasps as she drops down beside you while Eli laughs delightedly.

“See?” Alba calls from across the room. “Even as a newborn she looked competitive.”

Alexia glares accusingly at both of you.

“I hate this already.”

You barely hear her.

Because you’re completely absorbed now. Eli turns another page.

Toddler Alexia appears covered head to toe mud, clutching a tiny football almost half her size while grinning proudly at the camera.

Then another of her asleep on her father’s chest.

Another sat on a kitchen counter helping Eli cook, tiny hands covered in flour while Alba cries angrily in the background over something clearly devastating to a four-year-old.

You laugh so hard your stomach drops.

“Oh my God.”

“She was always dramatic,” Alexia says dryly.

“Still is,” Alba mutters.

Alexia throws a cushion at her without looking. More pages turn. School photos. Beach trips. Christmas mornings.

Tiny Alexia sitting cross-legged on the floor in full Barcelona kit, staring at the television with terrifying concentration. And in every single picture, no matter how young she is, you can already see her. That same determination. That same intensity in her eyes.

Like even then, some part of her already knew exactly who she wanted to become. The thought sends a strange ache through your chest.

Eli pauses on another photograph.

Alexia’s father stands behind her with his hands resting proudly on her shoulders while she beams at the camera holding a football trophy almost as big as her torso.

Your breath catches slightly. Because she looks so much like him. Same eyes. Same smile. Beside you, Alexia grows quieter.

“My papí loved football,” she says softly, eyes fixed on the photograph. “I think he would’ve found a way to get me into it no matter what.”

There’s warmth in her voice. But grief too. Old grief. The kind that never fully leaves you.

Without thinking, your hand finds hers.

Her fingers tighten around yours immediately.

You stare at the photograph for another moment, heart aching a little for all three of them. For everything they lost. And everything they still built anyway.

Eli clears her throat softly before turning another page again. Suddenly another tiny child appears. Alba. Wild curls. Gap-toothed grin. Pure chaos radiating from one blurry photograph.

“Okay,” Alba says immediately, leaning forward. “Be honest Y/n. Which one of us was the cuter baby?”

“There’s only one correct answer to that,” Alexia says seriously.

Alba clutches her chest dramatically. “Aww. Gracias, hermana. So sweet of you to admit it was me.”

Alexia glares while you laugh helplessly beside her.

These two.

You stay like that for what feels like hours. Laughing to stories. Falling more and more in love with the family sitting around you.

And every now and then, when you glance sideways at Alexia while she smiles at an old photograph or groans at an embarrassing story, you feel it again.

That overwhelming certainty.

She was always going to become extraordinary.

Not because she’s famous. Not because she’s talented.

But because even as a little girl, there was already so much love in her.

———————————

Eli closes the photo album with a soft, content sigh, her hand lingering on the worn cover for a moment. You smile warmly.

“They were all so cute,” you say softly. “And honestly… you’ve done an incredible job, Eli.”

She looks up at you curiously.

“Both of your daughters grew into really wonderful people.” Your smile softens as you glance between Alexia and Alba. “That’s because of you.”

For a second, Eli just stares at you.

Almost surprised.

Like it’s not something she hears often enough. Then her expression softens completely.

“…Gracias,” she says quietly, reaching over to squeeze your hand.

“She’s right mamí,” Alexia says immediately. “We owe everything to you.”

Alba nods firmly. “Seriously. You put up with a lot from us.”

Eli laughs softly, shaking her head shyly like she doesn’t quite know what to do with the praise. She squeezes your hand affectionately before clearing her throat.

“So, Y/n,” she says warmly. “Alexia said she meet your family.”

You laugh softly.

“Kind of.”

Alexia smiles knowingly beside you.

“I took them to the semi-final in London,” you explain. “My sister already knew about us, but I hadn’t told the kids, so we sort of had to pretend we didn’t know each other.”

Eli laughs warmly at the thought.

“They were very cute,” Alexia says fondly.

“And did everything possible to embarrass me,” you add.

“Alexia says your niece love football,” Eli says.

Your expression softens instantly.

“Sí,” you say warmly. “So much.” You glance sideways at Alexia with a smile. “And unfortunately she loves Alexia even more.”

Alexia looks entirely too pleased with herself.

“What did she think?” Alba asks curiously, “when you told her about the two of you?”

You immediately laugh nervously. The memory of that conversation still makes you sweat a little. Beside you, Alexia’s hand finds yours instinctively.

“Well…” you exhale through a laugh. “She was very shocked.”

“That bad?” Alba teases.

“I handled it terribly,” you admit. “I left it way too long because I had absolutely no idea how to explain any of it.”

Alexia squeezes your hand reassuringly.

“But then we were at the game, and I saw how happy she was just meeting Alexia.” Your smile softens at the memory. “And I realised I couldn’t keep hiding it.”

You shake your head slightly.

“I honestly think she thought I was joking at first.”

Alba laughs softly.

“But then she understood.” You shrug. “And she was just… happy for me.”

The warmth in your voice makes Alexia glance at you softly.

“She texts me constantly now,” you continue. “Mostly asking questions about Alexia.”

“Ah,” Alba says knowingly. “So you’ve officially been replaced as the favourite.”

You nod solemnly.

“Sadly, yes. There was never really any competition.”

Everyone laughs.

“I think Nate and Olive still like me though,” you tease, “so there’s hope.”

“What are they like?” Eli asks warmly.

You entire expression softens. “Would you like to see?”

She nods eagerly. You lean forward to grab your phone from your bag before settling back onto the sofa beside her.

Immediately, Alba appears.

“Ooh, move. I want to see too.”

Before anybody can stop her, she drops herself directly between you and Alexia, half on both your laps. You laugh while Alexia groans, shifting slightly, though one arm settles automatically around Alba’s shoulders.

You pull up a picture of three kids huddled together on your phone.

Eli immediately melts.

“Ay dios mio.”

“This is Nate,” you say pointing toward the little boy tucked closest to the camera. “He’s four. Quiet, clever, absolutely obsessed with trains and space. He can already name more dinosaurs than I knew existed,” you continue proudly.

Alexia chuckles beside Alba.

“And this menace,” you say, pointing toward the little girl with the wild curls and huge gap-toothed grin, “is Olive.”

Alba immediately bursts out laughing.

“Oh she looks dangerous.”

“She is,” you confirm. “She’s so wild. She literally does whatever she wants, no one can stop her.”

“Sounds like my kind of chica,” Alba teases.

“And this,” you say softly, your thumb brushing lightly over the screen, “is Emily.”

The oldest. Calm eyes. Soft smile.

“She’s the football obsessed one,” you explain fondly. “Honestly, I think she might love football more than oxygen.”

Eli smiles warmly.

“Sounds familiar.”

Your chest warms instantly, glancing at Alexia knowingly. You stare back at the picture another second longer than intended.

Eli notices immediately.

“You miss them,” she says softly.

You nod.

“All the time,” you admit quietly. “Sometimes it hits me that they’re growing up, and I worry someday they’ll stop needing me so much.”

Your smile turns slightly smaller.

“But we talk constantly. And I visit whenever I can.” You smile as you glance back at the photo. “They’re coming here this summer for the first time.”

Alexia smiles immediately.

“I can’t wait to meet them properly.”

You smile softly at that.

“But yeah,” you murmur. “I miss them all the time.”

Emotion catches unexpectedly in your throat, and you look down before it fully shows.

Eli reaches over without hesitation, taking your hand gently between both of hers.

“They love you very much,” she says with complete certainty.

You look back at her. The warmth in her eyes. At Alba leaning into you. At Alexia, watching you with the same look she’s worn all evening. And sitting there on the sofa, half-squished between the Putellas women, surrounded by old photographs and fading laughter, something settles quietly inside your chest.

Warm. Certain.

Like somehow, without even realising it, this family has already started making space for you too.

———————————

Somewhere between more stories, and more laughter, you’d excused yourself to use the bathroom. You wash your hands slowly, glancing at yourself in the mirror. And immediately, you notice it. How relaxed you look. The softness in your face. The smile that’s barely left your lips all evening. You almost laugh to yourself.

Because if someone compared this version of you to the girl standing in front of the mirror earlier while getting ready, they’d think they were looking at two entirely different people.

Earlier, you’d looked moments away from being forced into performing open-heart surgery blindfolded.

Now?

Now you just look happy. Just a girl spending the evening with her girlfriend’s family. The thought warms your chest.

A soft knock at the door pulls you from it.

You pause.

“… Amor?”

Your entire body relaxes instantly at the sound of her voice. Smiling to yourself, you dry your hands and pull the door open. Alexia is standing there. And the second she sees you, something in her visibly softens.

You smirk.

“Worried I escaped out the window?”

She rolls her eyes immediately, stepping inside before gently closing the door behind her.

“Alexia,” you laugh quietly. “What are you doing?”

“I missed you.”

The answer comes so quickly and so sincerely that it catches you off guard. Her hands settle on your waist, pulling you closer without hesitation. You rest your hands against her collarbone, fingers absently curling into the fabric of her shirt.

“I was gone for two minutes.”

“And somehow,” she says seriously, “they were the worst two minutes of my life.”

You laugh softly.

“Good to see clingy Alexia is back.”

“She never left.”

Her voice turns quieter at the end as she leans in to kiss you. Soft, warm, unhurried. The kind of kiss that feels less like desire and more like relief. You melt into it immediately. And when you finally pull apart, Alexia exhales softly against your lips, like she’s been holding something in all evening.

You stay wrapped around each other for a moment in the tiny bathroom, smiling quietly. You should probably find it ridiculous. Instead, it feels strangely perfect.

“Are you having a nice night?” she asks eventually.

Her voice is soft, but underneath it, you catch something else. Nerves.

You blink slightly in surprise.

“I am,” you say honestly. “Your mamí and sister are lovely.”

Alexia’s shoulders visibly loosen. You smile softly at the reaction.

“I mean it,” you continue. “They’ve made me feel so welcome tonight.”

Her eyes drift slowly across your face like she’s trying to memorise every expression.

“They love you already.”

Warmth floods your chest instantly. “Really?”

“Sí,” she says without hesitation. “Mamí doesn’t bring out the cava and baby photos for just anyone.”

You laugh quietly, leaning further into her.

“I feel very honoured then.” You grin slightly. “And the baby photos were very cute.”

She rolls her eyes fondly. But something shifts in her expression. A flicker of emotion. Something deeper. Her fingers tighten slightly against your waist.

You notice immediately.

“Baby?” you ask softly. “What is it?”

She shakes her head once, like she’s annoyed with herself for feeling whatever she’s feeling. Then she looks back at you, and suddenly she’s looks almost overwhelmed by it.

“I just…” she exhales slowly. “I feel very grateful tonight.”

You smile gently. “Me too.”

“No,” she murmurs, shaking her head again. “I mean…”

Her brows pull together slightly in frustration, like the feelings inside her are too big to explain properly.

You wait quietly. And when she speaks again, her voice is softer than before.

“When Alba asked you about… me lying to you.”

Your heart aches instantly.

“We’ve talked about it so many times,” she says quietly. “We’ve moved on. We joke about it now.”

Her thumb brushes absent circles against your waist.

“But hearing you talk about it like that…” She swallows slightly. “It reminded me how lucky I am that you gave me another chance at all.”

“Alexia—”

“No.” Her voice is gentle but firm. “I need you to know this.”

Emotion shines openly in her eyes now.

“A lot of people think they know me before they actually do,” she says quietly. “And most of the time, they already have expectations. About who I am. Who they want me to be.”

Her gaze never leaves yours.

“But you never did.”

Your throat tightens.

“You made me feel normal from the very beginning.” A tiny, emotional smile pulls at her lips. “Even after you found out everything.”

Her hand slides higher against your waist, like she needs to hold you closer.

“You still looked at me the same way.”

You feel your eyes beginning to sting.

“I was still just Alexia to you. Your Alexia.”

She says it like it means everything. Maybe because it does.

“And that’s all I ever wanted to be,” she whispers. “Yours.”

The tears hit you suddenly after that. Alexia notices instantly, and her hand rises, thumb brushing softly beneath your eye.

“And tonight…” Her own voice wavers slightly now. “Seeing you here with them. Watching mamí and Alba love you already.” She lets out the smallest laugh through her emotion. “The three people who make up my whole heart all in one room…”

Her forehead rests gently against yours.

“It makes me realise how lucky I am.”

A tear slips down her own cheek now.

“To love you,” she whispers. “To be loved by you. To call you mine.”

Your chest physically aches with how much you love her.

“That’s all I want,” you whisper back immediately. “Forever.”

Alexia’s eyes close briefly at the word.

Forever.

“And tonight…” your voice shakes slightly now too, “none of you made me feel like an outsider for even a second.”

Her grip on you tightens.

“You made me feel like I belong here.”

Alexia breaks a little at that. Not dramatically. Quietly. Like the words hit somewhere deep inside her.

“You do,” she murmurs.

Then she pulls you into her instantly, wrapping both her arms tightly around you. You bury yourself against her just as quickly. And suddenly, neither of you seem capable of letting go. Her lips brush softly against your skin. Your fingers slide into the hair at the nape of her neck. And for a while, neither of you say anything at all.

You just stand there together in the middle of her mother’s bathroom, holding each other like you’ve both found something you were missing.

Eventually, Alexia leans back just enough to rest her forehead against yours again.

“I love you,” she whispers.

You smile through your tears.

“I love you too.”

She kisses you again immediately. This one deeper. Needier. Like she can’t quite help herself anymore. Your fingers tighten in her hair as her hand slides against your waist, pulling you flush against her.

And when her tongue slips softly past your lips, a quiet moan escapes you before you can stop it. Alexia exhales sharply at the sound. The kiss deepens for half a second more, tasting like tears, love and the promise of forever. You don’t quite ever want it to end.

And then reality catches up with both of you at once.

You pull apart slowly, breathing unevenly into the tiny space between you.

“We should probably go back,” you murmur softly. “Before your family starts suspecting something.”

The genuinely heartbroken look Alexia gives you makes you laugh quietly. Before either of you can move, loud knocking suddenly rattles the door.

“STOP MAKING OUT,” Alba shouts through it. “I NEED TO PEE.”

Alexia drops her forehead against yours with a groan.

“I’m definitely slashing her tyres now.”

You laugh immediately, kissing her quickly once more.

“Be nice. She probably actually needs the bathroom.”

“There’s another bathroom,” Alexia mutters darkly. “I bet you ten euros she just wants to traumatise us.”

You shake your head with a smile, quickly wiping your eyes before stepping away to unlock the door.

Alba stands there waiting, arms crossed smugly.

“Finally.”

“Shut up,” Alexia groans, lacing her fingers through yours and gently tugging you past her.

Alba chuckles as she slips into the bathroom.

“Wait,” Alexia asks. “What are you doing?”

Alba looks at her like she’s stupid. “I actually do need to pee, idiot.”

The door slams shut behind her. You grin triumphantly at Alexia.

“Looks like you owe me euros.”

Alexia stares at you for a second before laughing softly under her breath. Then she squeezes your hand again and leads you back toward the living room.

———————————

You find yourself on the sofa again, your gaze drifting slowly around the room. The framed photographs lining the shelves. Little ornaments gathered over the years. A folded blanket draped over the armchair. Reading glasses sitting beside a half-finished book on the coffee table. Small, ordinary things. The kind that turn a space into a home.

You smile softly to yourself, the warmth that’s been blooming in your chest all evening still settled there comfortably.

Across from you, Alexia and Alba are curled up together on the other sofa, completely absorbed in whatever Alba is showing her on her phone.

At first, Alexia had looked deeply unimpressed. Now, though, she’s listening properly, smiling despite herself while Alba talks animatedly beside her. You can’t stop smiling at the sight. The same two sisters who’ve spent most of the evening squabbling now pressed shoulder-to-shoulder like they’ve never argued a day in their lives.

The affection between them feels effortless.

Familiar. Safe.

You’re still watching them when Eli returns from the kitchen carrying two tiny glasses filled with amber liquid. She’s settles beside you carefully, handing one over with a warm smile.

“Rafatia,” she says proudly. “Catalan liquor.” Then, in careful English, “Very traditional.”

You smile, taking the little glass carefully between your fingers. The scent catches you immediately. Herbs. Something sweet. Something smoky underneath.

“This,” she says gently, “what we drink for special moments.”

Your chest tightens immediately. She’s said things like that a few times tonight. Little comments. Little gestures. And every single one settles somewhere deep inside you.

“Gracias,” you say softly.

Eli lifts her glass slightly, waiting for you to mirror her. Then she smiles.

“For love,” she says warmly. “And family.”

Your chest tightens all over again.

You clink your glasses together gently before taking a sip.

The burn hits you almost instantly. Warm and herbal and significantly stronger than expected.

You cough immediately. Eli’s eyes widen in alarm as she pats your back quickly.

“No, no, too strong?”

You shake your head quickly.

“No,” cough, “—I’m okay—” cough, “—just took me by surprise.”

Eli lets out a soft laugh at that. The sound catches the attention of Alexia and Alba immediately. Alexia looks over suspiciously.

“What happened?”

“She tried rafatia,” Eli says proudly.

Alexia smiles. “Are you okay, amor?”

“Sí—” you practically wheeze. “—m’fine.”

Eli takes both glasses and settles them carefully onto the coffee table. The room softens again after that. Music hums quietly somewhere in the background while Alexia and Alba drift back into their conversation. You settle deeper into the sofa beside Eli, comfortable now in a way you hadn’t expected when the evening started. For a while, neither of you say anything.

And somehow, the silence no longer feels like something to fill.

Eli glances toward her daughters, a fond smile tugging at her lips.

“They silly girls,” she says knowingly. “But they love each other very much.”

You look over at them again.

Alexia is listening now while Alba talks with her hands dramatically, both of them tucked close together beneath a blanket they’re clearly pretending not to share.

You smile softly.

“I can tell.”

Eli hums warmly.

“Have they always been close?” you ask quietly.

“Always.” Her smile softens further. “Sometimes they fight very loud.” She waves her hand dismissively. “But only because they both very passionate.”

You laugh softly.

“They protect each other fiercely,” Eli continues more quietly. “They go through many hard things together. But always…” She presses her hand gently over her heart. “Always together.”

Emotion settles heavily in your chest hearing that. You can’t even imagine everything those two must have carried together over the years.

“I think a lot of that probably comes from you,” you say softly.

Eli looks at you curiously.

“The way they love each other,” you explain. “The loyalty. The protectiveness.”

You glance toward the sisters again.

“They learned somewhere that family means showing up for each other no matter what.”

Eli grows quiet for a moment after that.

Then she smiles shyly, almost emotional.

“I try,” she says softly. “I try teach them what love should look like.”

Your chest aches a little at the sincerity in her voice. And then you glance toward Alexia again, finding her already looking at you from across the room, you realise suddenly that she learned the lesson very well indeed.

“Are you and your sister similar?” Eli asks warmly.

You smile immediately. “Sí. Very.”

A quiet laugh escapes you.

“We fight sometimes. We tease each other constantly. But…” You shake your head softly. “I don’t think I’d be who I am without her.”

Eli watches you carefully, listening intently.

“There’s a bigger age gap between us,” you explain. “Six years. But it never stopped us being close.”

Your smile softens into something more nostalgic.

“Maggie’s always had my back. Always pushed me, encouraged me, never let me doubt myself for too long.” You laugh quietly. “Even if she is occasionally a pain in my ass.”

Eli laughs softly with you.

“But she’s always there,” you continue. “She was the one who let me sleep in her bed after nightmares. She tied my shoelaces for me long after I should have known how to do it myself.”

You glance down at your hands for a moment.

“She stepped up for me in ways she probably shouldn’t have had to. She’s my sister, not my parent… but sometimes she carried things like one anyway.”

Emotion catches unexpectedly in your throat.

“She was the first person I came out to,” you admit quietly.

Eli’s expression softens instantly.

“I was terrified,” you continue with a small laugh. “But deep down… I already knew she wouldn’t care. I think that’s why I needed her to know first.”

You smile faintly to yourself.

“So I wouldn’t feel alone.” You sigh. “Maybe that was a little selfish on my part…”

Eli reaches over immediately, taking your hand gently.

“That not selfish,” she says warmly. “That love.”

Your chest tightens a little.

“Do you know what she said to me?” you ask softly. “She just looked at me and went, ‘Yeah… I know.’”

Eli laughs immediately.

“She apparently always knew. She was just waiting for me to be ready to tell her myself.”

Your eyes drift somewhere distant now, lost in memory.

“She told me she loved me. That nothing changed.” Your smile grows softer. “Even though at the time it felt like everything had.”

You shake your head lightly.

“But after that… I felt lighter. Like suddenly I wasn’t carrying this huge thing by myself anymore.”

You laugh quietly.

“It became our little secret. Our superpower against the world.”

Eli smiles warmly at that.

“She started telling me secrets too after that,” you continue, now fully lost in the memories. “Her first tattoo. The time she scratched my dad’s car and convinced him a tree branch did it.”

Eli laughs again.

You smile at the sound of it.

“She’s incredible,” you say softly. “And seeing her with her own children now…” Your expression melts completely. “The way she loves them. Protects them. She’d do absolutely anything for them.”

You shake your head in quiet disbelief.

“I genuinely don’t know how she does it all. Raising kids, working, looking after everyone else, somehow still holding everything together…”

You stop suddenly.

Blink.

Realise how much you’ve been talking.

Heat creeps into your cheeks almost instantly.

“I’m so sorry,” you mumble, suddenly embarrassed. “I completely went off on a tangent.”

Eli squeezes your hand immediately.

“No,” she says warmly. “I like hearing your story.”

You glance up at her.

“It help me understand you,” she continues carefully. “Why Alexia love you.”

Your chest tightens instantly.

“You have…” She presses her hand gently against her chest, searching for the words. “A very big heart.”

Emotion flickers through you again.

“When I told Maggie everything about Alexia,” you admit softly, “after I found out the truth… she never once spoke badly about her.”

Eli listens carefully.

“Any other situation, any other person, I think she would’ve grabbed a pitchfork and started a revolution,” you joke softly. “But with Alexia… it was like she understood before even I did.”

You glance toward Alexia again instinctively.

“She told me to trust my heart. To trust that there was probably more behind it all than I could see in that moment.”

Your smile softens.

“I think she saw how happy Alexia made me… and she didn’t want me to throw that away out of fear.”

Eli watches you quietly for a moment.

“You make Alexia…” She pauses, brows pinching slightly. “Very…”

You turn toward her more fully.

“…happy,” she finishes finally, though you can tell immediately it isn’t quite the word she wanted.

You smile softly.

“She makes me happy too.”

Eli smiles back, but frustration flickers briefly across her face.

“Sorry…” she sighs quietly. “English…”

Your heart squeezes instantly.

Because suddenly you realise how hard she’s been trying all evening. Translating every thought before speaking. Searching for the right words. Wanting to say things properly. Wanting to connect with you properly.

And you hate that she feels limited by it.

You pause before an idea suddenly comes to mind. Quickly, you reach for your phone and open a translation app.

Eli watches curiously.

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of this sooner,” you say with a small laugh. “We can just speak into this.”

Her brows lift slightly.

You press the microphone button and hold the phone between you both.

“Alexia makes me happy too,” you say as a test.

The app processes for a second before the robotic voice replies.

“Alexia también me hace feliz.”

Eli’s face lights up immediately. Then she laughs softly at the overly formal tone of the voice. You grin and hand her the phone.

Tentatively, she presses the button and speaks into it in Spanish. A second later, the translation reads aloud.

“You make her lighter.”

Your chest tightens instantly.

Eli watches your reaction carefully before speaking again.

“Before you, sometimes she carried too much.”

You swallow hard.

“Now she laughs more. Sleeps better. Smiles when she thinks nobody sees.”

Emotion rises unexpectedly in your throat. Eli keeps going, slower this time, thoughtful.

“Sometimes it felt like she only knew how to be Alexia the footballer. The captain. The leader.”

You glance instinctively toward the other sofa where Alexia is still talking quietly with Alba.

“She carries many things,” the app continues. “She fights for people. Speaks for people. She’s always strong.”

Eli pauses briefly before continuing.

“But outside of that… sometimes she forgot to just be Alexia.”

Your chest aches.

“The Alexia who likes cooking. Reading. Travelling. Arguing with her sister.”

You laugh softly through the emotion building in your chest. Eli smiles too before speaking one final time.

“You helped her shine brightly again.”

Silence settles gently between you after that.

Not awkward.

Just full.

You look down for a second, blinking hard against the tears gathering in your eyes.

“I love her very much,” you say quietly.

Eli doesn’t use the app for this one.

“I know,” she says confidently in English.

That nearly breaks you completely. You laugh softly through the emotion lodged in your throat before speaking into the phone again.

“She deserves someone who loves her properly.”

The app translates it. Eli’s eyes immediately soften.

“And you deserve love too,” she replies softly.

Your breath catches.

She reaches over then, taking your hand gently in hers.

No app needed for that part.

You sit there for a moment, simply holding onto each other. Then quietly, you press the microphone again.

“I never take it for granted,” you admit. “Loving her is the easiest thing in the world.”

Your voice softens further.

“And sometimes I think about how easily I could never have met her.”

Eli listens carefully.

“It’s almost been a year since my old boss offered me the job here in Barcelona,” you continue. “At the time it felt equally exciting and terrifying.”

You laugh faintly to yourself.

“Moving countries sounds adventurous when other people talk about it. But actually doing it?” You shake your head slightly. “It was terrifying.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the phone.

“New language. New city. New life. I kept thinking maybe I wasn’t brave enough.”

You glance down.

“But I did it anyway.”

Your throat tightens.

“And now sometimes I think… what if I hadn’t?”

Emotion flickers visibly across Eli’s face.

“What if fear had won?” you whisper. “I never would’ve met her.”

Your eyes well instantly.

“And that thought alone scares me more than anything.”

The translation finishes. Silence follows.

Then Eli reaches up instinctively, cupping your cheek gently.

“You are very brave,” she says carefully, no app needed. “You follow your dream. You choose life.”

More tears spill down your cheeks.

“And then you found Alexia,” she continues warmly. “That was meant for you both.”

Your chest aches painfully now.

“I love my daughters more than anything,” Eli says softly. “I only want them happy.”

Her hand squeezes yours gently.

“And you make Alexia happy.”

Your lip trembles immediately.

“For this…” she pauses, searching for the words. “I am grateful for you.”

That one settles somewhere impossibly deep inside you.

“You are good person,” she continues quietly. “Good heart.”

Then softer.

“And I trust you with my daughter.”

That might genuinely be one of the most meaningful things anyone has ever said to you.

Tears spill over properly now. Eli immediately pulls you into a hug, holding you tightly against her. You hug her back just as tightly.

When you finally pull apart, you wipe quickly beneath your eyes with a small embarrassed laugh.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Eli says warmly, brushing away another tear with her thumb.

Instinctively, your eyes drift across the room toward Alexia.

She’s already looking at you. With concern. Love. Warmth. All written plainly across her face.

“You okay?” she mouths softly.

You nod immediately with a watery smile.

Beside you, Eli watches the exchange with quiet fondness. You glance back at her, emotion swelling all over again.

“Meeting Alexia is the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” you admit softly.

Then, to lighten the moment. “Just don’t tell her I said that.” You lower your voice conspiratorially. “I like to keep her on her toes.”

Eli bursts into loud laughter beside you, squeezing your hand again. You can’t help smiling at her, chest aching with affection as you look at this woman who raised Alexia and Alba with so much love woven into every part of them. You think you may have just fallen in love with another Putellas.

Somewhere along the way tonight, this apartment had stopped feeling unfamiliar. And maybe, somehow, so did the people inside it.

Then the music drifting softly through the room changes suddenly.

Alba’s head snaps up immediately.

“Oh, I love this song.”

Before anyone can react, she jumps off the sofa and turns the volume up dramatically. Soft Latin music floods the apartment properly now, warm and lively and impossible to ignore. Alba immediately starts dancing in the middle of the living room in the most exaggerated way possible, hips moving dramatically as she points toward Alexia.

“Vamos.”

Alexia groans instantly. “No.”

“Sí.”

“No.”

But Alba is already marching over. She grabs both of Alexia’s hands and physically hauls her off the sofa while Alexia complains the entire time.

“Alba, I swear to God—”

“You are boring now you’re in love,” Alba accuses.

You laugh loudly at that. Alexia shoots you a betrayed look.

“She’s evil,” she informs you seriously as Alba spins her beneath her arm.

“Liar,” Alba says. “You love this.”

And annoyingly for Alexia, she’s right. You can see it almost immediately. The way Alexia’s trying to hide her smile. The way her shoulders loosen. The way she finally gives in with an exasperated laugh, starting to follow Alba’s steps properly. The two of them move around the room together, half dancing, half bullying each other.

Alba is dramatic and teasing. Alexia smoother, more controlled, though every now and then Alba deliberately throws in an extra spin just to annoy her. Eli shakes her head fondly beside you.

“Silly girls,” she murmurs.

Then Alba points suddenly toward the two of you.

“Your turn!”

You immediately laugh nervously.

“Oh no.”

“Sí!” Alba insists. “Everybody dance.”

Eli stands before you can protest further and holds her hand out toward you. Her smile is warm. Encouraging. You can’t help smiling back as you take it.

“Okay,” you laugh. “But if I fall over, this becomes everyone’s problem.”

Eli laughs softly as she gently guides you toward the middle of the room. At first, your movements are hesitant. Awkward. You glance down constantly trying to follow her steps while Eli patiently leads you through them.

You laugh breathlessly as Eli spins you slowly beneath her arm. The room blurs for half a second. Warm lights. Music. Laughter. And when you stumble slightly afterward, Eli catches both your hands immediately, laughing with you instead of at you.

“You see?” she says proudly. “Natural.”

“You’re very kind but I’m definitely not.”

Everyone laughs. Soon Alba steals you away dramatically, twirling you much faster than necessary while you squeal in surprise.

Then Alexia swaps places with Alba, her hands finding your waist instinctively as though they belong there. Your laughter softens immediately the second she touches you.

“There she is,” she murmurs quietly.

You smile helplessly. She takes one of your hands, the other settling against your waist, guiding you easily through the music. Unlike your clumsy attempts earlier, dancing with Alexia feels effortless. Natural. Like she’s always aware of you. Always adjusting for you.

You laugh as she spins you gently before pulling you back against her again.

“You’re showing off now,” you tease.

“Maybe a little.”

Across the room, Alba pretends to gag dramatically while Eli laughs into her wine glass.

The apartment feels full. Full of music. Full of warmth. Full of love.

And as Alexia pulls you closer again, smiling at you like you’re something precious, you glance around at the three of them laughing together beneath the warm glow of the living room lights.

And suddenly, with startling clarity, you realise something.

You don’t feel like a guest here anymore.

You feel like you belong.

———————————

The evening eventually gives way to night. And yet, as you and Alexia stand by the door saying your goodbyes, you realise neither of you really wants it to end. The night had been everything. Amazing food. Too many drinks. Laughter that made your stomach ache. Stories. Music. Dancing around the living room.

And somewhere between all of it, Alexia had quietly introduced you to the most important pieces of her heart. You feel honoured to have met them. To know them now. To have been welcomed so completely into their space.

Alexia hugs Eli first. Long and familiar.

“Gracias, mamí,” she murmurs softly. “Por todo.” for everything.

Eli cups her face immediately, pressing kisses to both cheeks.

“Siempre, amor.”

Then Alba steps forward and pulls you into a hug. And for the first time since you met her, you hug her back without even a flicker of awkwardness or nerves. She squeezes you tightly enough to make you laugh.

“I’m glad we could get over our traumatic past,” she says dramatically.

You snort softly.

“I think I was the only one traumatised.”

“Fair.”

You both laugh quietly.

When she pulls away, she gives you a playful wink before immediately dragging Alexia into an equally aggressive hug. Alexia groans on instinct. But only for a second. Then she melts into it too, kissing Alba’s cheek while whispering something into her ear that makes Alba roll her eyes affectionately.

You watch them with a soft smile.

Then you feel Eli’s hand slip gently into yours.

“Cariño,” she says warmly, opening her arms for you.

Your heart aches instantly. You step into her embrace without hesitation this time, wrapping your arms around her tightly while she holds you close.

“Gracias, Eli,” you murmur softly. “Tonight has been amazing. You’ve made me feel so welcome.”

Eli pulls back just enough to look at you properly.

“And loved,” she corrects gently.

Emotion catches unexpectedly in your throat.

“And loved,” you echo softly.

She smiles warmly and brushes a hand against your cheek before finally letting you go. When you glance over, Alexia is already watching the two of you. The softest expression on her face. Like she knew from the very beginning exactly how tonight would end. With the people she loves finding each other.

She reaches her hand out silently. You take it immediately, threading your fingers through hers.

Together, you step out into the hallway, waving goodbye while Alba blows exaggerated kisses behind Eli’s shoulder. The door finally closes behind you. The building is quiet as you make your way downstairs together. And it’s only once you step outside, the warm night air wrapping around you, that Alexia finally speaks.

“Good night?” she asks softly.

You turn toward her instantly, smiling.

“The best.”

Her entire face softens at that.

When you reach the car, neither of you moves to get in straight away. Instead, Alexia stops beside the passenger door, still holding your hand. Then she reaches for your other one too, stepping closer.

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

You tilt your head slightly.

“For what?”

She shrugs softly, though her eyes never leave yours.

“For being you.”

Your chest tightens immediately.

“For being so open with them. For loving them already.”

You smile softly.

“They made that very easy.”

“I know,” she says quietly. “That’s why I love them.”

The sincerity in her voice makes warmth spread through you all over again.

“They love you too,” she continues. “I could see it all night.”

You laugh softly.

“A few hours ago I thought I was going to throw up from nerves.”

Alexia grins. “And now look at you.”

She brushes her thumb softly across your knuckles.

“Smiling. Relaxed. Happy.”

You narrow your eyes teasingly.

“Is this the part where you tell me I should’ve listened to you?”

She laughs quietly and steps closer again, her hand rising to brush gently along your cheek.

“No,” she murmurs softly

Her forehead almost touches yours now.

“It’s the part where I tell you to trust your heart more.”

Your breath catches slightly at that. Then she kisses you.

Slow. Warm. Unhurried. The kind of kiss filled with gratitude more than urgency.

Your hands slide around her waist automatically, pulling her closer as her fingers tighten softly at your back. She sighs quietly against your lips, melting into you completely.

And when your mouths part just enough to deepen the kiss—

“OI! GET A ROOM!”

You both jump apart immediately. You look up to find Alba hanging halfway out the apartment window above you. Absolutely delighted with herself.

Alexia scowls instantly.

“Right,” she mutters darkly. “Where’s her car?”

You burst out laughing as she genuinely starts looking around the street.

“Alexia.”

“She’s being a menace.”

“She’s your sister.”

“Unfortunately.”

You laugh again and tug her gently back toward you.

“Leave her alone. She’s just teasing.”

Alexia narrows her eyes suspiciously.

You grin.

“Come on,” you murmur. “Let’s go home.”

Then you lean closer, lips brushing softly against hers again.

“And if I remember correctly… you owe me ten euros.”

A slow smirk spreads across her face immediately.

“Mmm…I can think of other ways to pay you back.”

Heat flickers low in your stomach instantly.

“Get in the car,” she says softly.

You laugh under your breath as she opens the passenger door for you. And just as you turn to sit down, her hand swats briefly against your ass. You whip around immediately.

Alexia just leans against the door looking unbearably smug. You shake your head, laughing as you finally climb inside. A few hours ago, you’d sat in this exact seat convinced you might completely embarrass yourself.

Now, as you lean back against the headrest, warmth still lingering in your chest, all you feel is happiness. Love. Belonging.

And the quiet certainty that tonight has changed something important forever.

———————————

A/n: This one was really special to write because it’s big and special milestone for them. I love the family dynamic and Alba is so much fun to write 😂 and Eli is the sweetest. I really hope you enjoyed this one.

No one has permission to copy, steal, repost or translate this work.

You don’t even overthink it. Your breathing is still ragged, you feel 30 seconds away from collapsing. You knock on the door, Alexia answers immediately, as if she has been waiting next to it. You don’t spare her a look and go lie down on the bed, throwing your slides on the floor. You put your head in the pillow and scream in frustration.

“Hey.” Alexia says softly. She comes to sit on the other side of the bed, close to you. She caresses your back up and down in comfort. “What’s wrong ?” You can hear the worry in her voice. To be fair, it must be confusing to her.

You groan and turn your head toward her. Her eyes are full of compassion. God, you love those eyes. “My agent called, about the contract.” You scrub a hand over your face. “I still have no freaking idea what I want to do.” You feel a lump in your throat, you absolutely won’t cry in front of her. Not because of a contract.

You take a deep breath to calm yourself. “Then there is the whole shitshow created by Vicky. I’m not literally mad at her but fuck with this whole contract thing it’s starting to be too much.” You’re rambling, she doesn’t stop you.

Her thumb traces slow circles between your shoulder blades, and it feels good, it’s grounding. You could get lost against the sensation, feeling the warmth of her palm even through your shirt.

“What can I do to help ?” Alexia is nice, too fucking nice. And her eyes are soft and–. “Hey, calm down, you’re shaking.” You haven’t even realized you were, you try to breathe in and out, it isn’t working much. She presses down her hand against your lower back, you shiver at the sensation.

She misinterprets your reaction and pulls her hand back slightly, hovering in a rare moment of awkwardness. She looks like she doesn’t know quite how to comfort you, and honestly, you can’t blame her.

You take a deep breath once your heartbeat stops pounding in your temple. “I’m sorry for coming here every time I’m overwhelmed.”

She furrows her eyebrows. “Hey no.” She says quickly. “You can come here anytime you need.”

The words land somewhere behind your ribs. Suddenly looking at her feels like a terrible idea. “What a good captain.” You deflect. How weird would it be for you to run away right now ? Because you definitely trust neither your instincts nor your mind right now.

She rolls her eyes, annoyed at you. “You know I’m not doing that just because I’m your captain.” You’re not that convinced it’s true. “And I have a single room, I'd be alone otherwise.”

You chuckle, starting to finally not feel like you’re gonna break down in an instant. “Oh yeah poor you, we can switch if it’s making you suffer too much.”

“We could.” Her tone is too serious for your liking.

“I was kidding Ale. I don’t have a problem with sharing my room.”

She searches your face, relaxing at whatever she finds there. She doesn’t push. “You’re feeling a bit better ?”

You nod, better because you don’t feel like you’re gonna implode. You can still feel how tense your body is. The conversation with your agent is playing on loop in your brain. Her presence is the only thing soothing your mind, you want to feel her palm against your back again.

Alexia still has a worried look, something in your chest goes soft at the sight. You look at her face, your mind can’t stop thinking about how beautiful she is. Her eyes, her lips, the feeling of her body against yours after the game against England, the way she has been opening her door without question for you. The adrenaline of panic is morphing into something else.

You also need a distraction, badly.

“Do you want to help me make a very bad decision right now ?” Confusion is written all over her face. Then your gaze drops to her lips, completely devoid of subtlety, before snapping back to her eyes. You watch recognition flare in them, followed by something much heavier.

She seems to hesitate. “I don’t want to take advantage of the state you’re in,” she whispers. Her jaw tenses. She looks away, then back at you. For a second you feel a cold shiver, worried you’ve gone too far. Then her eyes can’t stop themselves from looking down at your lips, and you exhale.

“Ale.” Her eyes snap back to yours. She’s on the edge of a cliff, you need to convince her to jump. “It’s not the first time I’m thinking about it,” you admit.

Her throat bobs, her eyes fluttering shut for a fraction of a second. Then, the distance between you vanishes. Her lips are soft against yours. Instinct takes over, your hand flies to her jaw, your thumb tracing her cheekbone. It feels great, more than great. Your mind goes blank while butterflies explode in your stomach, heat rushes through you so quickly it leaves you lightheaded.

She breaks the kiss first. When your eyes open, she’s already staring down at you, searching. She is entirely breathtaking. A smile breaks across her face, wider and softer than any victory you’ve ever seen her celebrate on the pitch.

The first words she says are “You see I was right to be trying to fix everything from the start.” She seems happy with herself, the words take a moment to register.

Oh yeah, you did basically tell her she was too much of a try hard when captaining the team. You can’t believe she’s thinking about that right now. She adds smugly “I’m a great captain, ain’t I ?” You shut her up with a second kiss. She smiles against your lips before melting when she feels your tongue.

Somehow you end up in her lap, her hands firm against your hips, grabbing the fabric of your shirt. When the kiss breaks because you unfortunately are both humans that need air, you press open mouth kisses on her jaw. You then lick the length of it. Alexia murmurs a curse and you kiss her again.

You put a centimeter of space between your two mouths. “We both know why I’m doing this, I need to take my mind off things. I don’t get why you’re doing this.” You murmur against her lips. You need to know why, to be sure she wants this.

Alexia’s eyes are dark with want, her breathing uneven. You can’t even imagine what she looks like when she’s close to coming undone. You want to discover that. “Maybe I just want to fuck you.” Her voice is lower than usual. Your brain short-circuits. For a few seconds, there's nothing but a buzzing sound. That might be the hottest thing you’ve heard in your life. You weren’t expecting Alexia of all people to say that.

As soon as thoughts come back, you kiss her again, this time more hungrily, teeth clash but neither of you care. Her hands slide under your shirt. Her palms are warm, almost sweaty. The heat of her skin against yours makes you feel like you're completely overheating. You pull back just enough to yank the fabric over your head, tossing it blindly across the room.

Alexia's eyes fix on the newly revealed skin. She has seen you like that plenty of times in a locker room. You will admit the context is a bit different. “You’re beautiful,” she breathes out. She puts her hands on the small of your back to push you closer to her, soft with her movements. She is too when she discovers your neck with her mouth. She takes her time to figure out what you like, the spots that make your breath hitch. You hump against her thigh and you can feel her smile in your neck.

Deciding Alexia is wearing far too many clothes, you reach for the hem of her shirt. You both end up laughing as you awkwardly struggle with the fabric, but you finally manage to yank it off and toss it blindly into the room. Looking down at her, your smile turns hungry. She is nothing but muscle, and you want to feel every bit of it under your palms and lips. You catch her earlobe between your teeth in a gentle nip. “Everything still okay ?”

She laughs softly. “More than okay cariño.” You weren’t expecting the endearment term, but you don’t dislike it. Your mouth goes to her neck, and her breathing stops for a second or two. You test things. First, you bite softly and she lets out a small moan, so you do it more. Then, you realize kisses don’t have much effect, so you bite and lick instead. You’re very careful to not leave anything close to a mark, that would be very hard to explain for her.

“Lie down,” you murmur. She doesn't hesitate, shifting lower until she’s flat on the mattress. Straddling her hips, you look down at her. She is a glorious sight. As your hand strokes down her abs, she flexes beneath your touch. “Show off,” you tease, swatting at her playfully.

Her thighs spread, welcoming you into the space between them. As you lower yourself, you drag your teeth lightly along her collarbone. Her hips grind up against you in response, you anchor a hand firmly on her hip to pin her to the mattress.

You always love your first time with a woman because that’s when you totally discover her body. You take your sweet time with Alexia, and she’s not complaining. Her bra is on the floor a few minutes later. She has her hand in your hair while you’re worshiping her abs, to be fair they deserve it. You know she’s getting impatient when she starts to push your head down gently.

You smile and go lower. You remove her sweats and underwear in the same motion, the teasing has gone on long enough. You part her thighs and you’re out of words for how wet she is. “Don’t comment.” She groans out. You look up at her and her cheeks are pink, it’s kinda cute.

You honor her request and stay quiet. Instead of stopping the tease like you promised yourself, you trail slow licks and sharp bites down the inside of her thighs. Her muscles twitch against your lips. The moment you move directly over her heat, her body tenses in stark anticipation, your breath catching against her cunt.

When you finally comply and lick, her whole body reacts. Her hips jump up and you put your forearm around her midriff to stop that from happening again. Her moan is low, throaty, and dangerously loud considering your surroundings. “Ale, I love that sound,” you murmur against her skin, smoothing a kiss into her inner thigh, “but you can’t be this loud here.” Without a word, she pulls a pillow over her face to bury the noise. Fuck, you miss the sound already.

Navigating her pleasure is harder in the silence, but you read her body instead. The way her hand knots into your hair, the sudden, sharp tension in her muscles. You lose all sense of time, you could spend a lifetime right here. Every low rumble buried in the pillow urges you onward. You press a single finger to her entrance, looking up to catch her eye. “Can I ?”

She gets the pillow away from her face for a second. “You don’t need to ask.” Her voice is a mess, low, hoarse, broken, you can’t believe you’ve done it. She’s pushing your head down to where it was before. Your finger enters her without any resistance, you can tell she’s already really close. You immediately enter a second one.

Her walls pulse around your fingers while your tongue keeps up its steady rhythm. It doesn’t take long for her to completely break. You feel the exact moment she comes undone. Her hips arch high against your mouth, chasing the friction, before she collapses back against the sheets. Not even the pillow can swallow the raw, broken cry she lets out.

You remove your fingers gently and move back up her body, leaving a wet trail while doing so. The pillow falls away from her face. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes still unfocused. You kiss her once, brief and soft, then again on her shoulder, tracing the curve of her waist while her breathing slowly settles.

As you linger over her shoulder, she hooks a finger under your chin, tilting your face up to look at her. You can’t help the smile that breaks against her lips as you lean in. “You’re too smug,” she complains, though she doesn't pull away.

You kiss the line of her jaw and go to her ear. “You were so loud you needed a pillow to muffle your moans.” You say, your voice intentionally low, before tugging at the lobe with your teeth. She has an arm around your shoulders, her fingers dig into it at your words and you hiss because her nails are pointy.

You position yourselves on your arms so you can look down at her. “Do you still carry a strap in your suitcase ?” She rolls her eyes and swats at your shoulder while murmuring idiot. “Hey that was a genuine question.”

Her cheeks are tinted a bit pink, not from her orgasm. “I don’t have one at all times no. For quite obvious reasons I wasn’t planning to get lucky during camp.” You hum and press your mouth to the hollow of her throat, feeling the frantic pulse against your lips.

“So you were planning to get lucky during your trip to Valencia ?” It’s half teasing and half genuine curiosity. Her breath catches when you scrape your teeth against her pulse point while your right hand starts to travel down her body, she shivers when you trace her ribs. You use your left arm to not put your whole weight on her.

“Yeah, I have a girl I was seeing– Fuck.” She stops when your hand reaches the inside of her thigh and your short nails dig into the soft flesh there. You smile against her shoulder and bite it. “Why are you asking these questions right now ?” She complains.

Your hand moves between her legs, your index finger tests how wet she still is, careful to still avoid her clit for now. She’s drenched, some new wetness already coating your fingers. “Maybe I just want to hear your voice.” It’s also some curiosity that came after Vicky told you the story. You’re quite satisfied that Alexia used the past tense when talking about the girl. You won’t dwell on that, not now, not anytime really.

Shifting downward, your mouth finds her breast, swirling your tongue over her skin before pulling her into your mouth. She clamps her forearm over her face, desperately hiding her moans. You let her go with a slow, teasing drag of your teeth. She drops her arm just long enough to glare at you. “I can’t believe that’s your choice of conversation.”

Your fingers toy with her entrance, brushing past her wetness but deliberately withholding what she wants. “I think that's a perfectly appropriate topic. I would love to use a strap on you.” The sheer bluntness of it makes her breath hitch. Before she can recover, you finally sink your fingers inside her, drawing out a low, throaty moan.

It takes her a moment to collect herself enough to talk back. “I had no idea you would be such a yapper.” You chuckle against her skin, raising some goosebumps as your tongue moves to her other breast. This time she anticipates the touch, quickly burying her face in her arm to muffle the sound. It’s a shame, you don’t want any teammates hearing you through the walls, but god, you want to hear her.

Your mouth travels up her chest, a sharp bite to her forearm prompting her to uncover her face. “Imagined sex with me a lot, Putellas ?” You don’t give her a chance to answer as your fingers start moving inside her again, catching her gasp with a kiss. You track her reactions through pure instinct, the intakes of breath when you do certain movements, her fingers gripping your hip every time you hit that spot.

The kisses start to get messy the moment your thumb grazes her clit. She loses her composure completely, unraveling into a mix of breathless Catalan you don’t understand and raw noises you can’t hope to muffle. To quiet her down, you press closer, offering your shoulder for her to bite. It makes the movements a little clumsy, the angle a bit awkward, but you maneuver around it, keeping your fingers moving in a steady rhythm.

You will be able to hide the bruise on your shoulder, but your back is going to be a disaster if she keeps clawing at your skin. “Easy with the nails, tiger,” you gasp against her hair, “you’ll leave marks.” She doesn’t say anything, but she takes the hint, wrapping her hands back around your hips and smoothing her palms flat against your skin.

Her teeth on your shoulder sting, but it’s the kind of sharp pain that only feeds the pleasure. Sensing how close she is, you lock into the rhythm, driving into what’s working. Then, she snaps. Her body arches in a mirror image of her first orgasm, her teeth sinking agonizingly deep into your shoulder as she clamps down impossibly tight around your fingers. A second later, just like that, the tension breaks, and she falls quiet against the bed.

You’re careful when you remove your fingers. Alexia still has her eyes shut, breathing heavily, her whole body covered in sweat. You want to take a mental picture because she looks like a work of art. You’re proud to have done it.

She comes back to her senses slowly. When her eyes finally open, you hold her gaze and make a show of sucking your soaked fingers, drawing a breathless laugh from her. But as her eyes drift to your shoulder, her smile fades into a wince. “I didn’t realize I was biting so hard. I’m sorry,” she says softly, tracing her thumb over the rapidly forming bruise.

“Don't worry. If it had been too much, I would've told you,” you murmur, leaning down to kiss her gently. Her breathing is finally evening out, her skin growing cooler and less flushed as the adrenaline begins to fade.

Her gaze drifts down your body, her eyebrows arching. “How the hell do you still have so many clothes?” she asks. You shrug, looking down at your intact bra and sweatpants. You hadn’t really noticed the layers while your focus was entirely on making her come, but now that the dust has settled, a heavy, demanding ache is building between your thighs.

“It’s supposed to be your job to remove them,” you tease. “You’re not even the one who removed my shirt.”

An arm locks around your hips as she suddenly reverses your positions, settling herself firmly on top of you. “I had no idea you would be such a brat in bed.” Letting out a soft laugh, you guide her jaw down to meet your mouth, biting gently at her bottom lip before releasing it.

You lick her lips teasingly. “You don’t seem to mind it much.”

“I’m gonna shut you up,” she promises, her breath hot against your lips. She presses a hard kiss to your mouth, then drags her lips down your jaw to the hollow of your neck. Her untied hair brushes softly over your collarbone.

She starts nipping too hard against the sensitive skin, forcing a hiss from your throat. “Hey, easier on the teeth. I don’t mind them later on, but it’s too much right now.” She breathes an apology against your throat, instantly adjusting. Driven by the ache between your legs, you push down on her shoulder. “Ale, hurry up.” Before you can move her, she grabs your wrist, holding you completely still.

“Let me enjoy you,” she retorts, her mouth lingering at the top of your chest. Your throat goes completely dry. Looking down at her, you realize you would let Alexia do absolutely whatever she wants to you.

Then, she abruptly sits up. “I need a hair tie.” You let out a miserable groan at the sudden loss of her weight on top of you as she pads toward the bathroom. In the sudden quiet, a flicker of doubt creeps in about what the hell you’re doing. It evaporates the second she steps back out, twisting her hair into a messy bun. You take the opportunity to shamelessly drink in the sight of her naked body. Fuck, she’s a goddess.

She climbs back over you, settling into her position on top while you loop your arms securely around her shoulders. Her mouth returns to the top of your chest, but she pauses, looking up at you as her fingers play with the clasp of your bra, silently waiting for your consent. A single nod is all it takes, and she doesn’t waste a second.

Her grin turns almost boyish as she unhooks the fabric, stripping your bra away and tossing it aside. “You’re gorgeous,” she whispers against your skin before drawing one of your nipples into her mouth. Your back arches instinctively at the sudden rush of pleasure, prompting her to press a heavy hand down to steady your hips. She takes her time painting your chest with her tongue, sending waves of heat rippling through your entire body.

When she finally migrates lower, she stops at your stomach, mapping your abs with a slow, passionate mix of lips and tongue. “I have better abs than you, don’t I?” you tease, panting slightly. In lieu of an answer, she presses her thigh firmly up between your legs. The sound you let out is close to a whimper, but nobody can prove it.

“Seems like I found a way to shut you up,” she teases back. She bites gently at your stomach, testing your reaction. The desperate way you grind your hips against her thigh in response seems to give her all the satisfaction she needs.

Her hand toys with the waistband of your sweats. “Don't be a tease,” you breathe out. She tugs them down the moment you lift your hips to help her, discarding the fabric somewhere in the room. A sharp gasp escapes your lips when the chill of the A/C strikes your flushed skin.

Alexia parts your thighs with her hands, her gaze darkening. “Fuck, you’re wet. Are you turned on by your own talking ?”

You let out a breathy laugh at her words. “Your lips and tongue may have played some part too,” you admit.

She looks up at you with a radiant smile, she kisses a tender spot above your knee, her palms sliding up your inner thighs. But as her fingers start to graze your center, you grip her wrist, holding her back. Alexia instantly freezes, concern replacing the heat in her dark, dilated eyes. “Is everything okay ?”

You’re deeply touched by her immediate softness. “Yes, amor,” you murmur, the pet name slipping out naturally in your eagerness to reassure her. “It’s just that those nails aren’t going inside me.” Alexia looks down at her hands and winces in realization. The press-ons are long, and they’re the kind of pointy you don’t want to take any risks with.

“I know how to use them, it won’t hurt,” she promises softly.

You look down at her hands again. A girl had told you that exact same thing once, and you’d ended up sidelined for a week. Having to explain that particular injury to the club physios was easily the most humiliating moment of your life. “Still a no,” you state firmly.

She nods, letting the matter drop without any further argument. “If I’d known this was happening, I would have taken them off,” she whines.

Sorry Alexia, next time I will tell you in advance “Hey just so you know in a few hours I’m gonna be mad enough to fuck someone I absolutely shouldn’t be fucking.

You push the intrusive thought far away before it can ruin the momentum. Instead, you cup her chin with your right hand, tilting her face up to force her to look at you while your thumb caresses her cheek. “You do realize you have other ways to pleasure me besides your fingers, right ?”

A small fire relights in her eyes as a wicked smile creeps across her face. She plants one last kiss above your knee, her lips trailing a slow path back up your inner thigh before she finally settles herself between your legs. Strands of loose hair escape her bun, brushing softly against your skin. When she finally looks up at you, her expression is completely sinful.

“What do you want ?” She’s so close that the warm air of her breath brushes against your skin as she speaks, making you shudder.

“What do think, Alexia ?” you reply, thoroughly exasperated. Of all the times for her to play dumb, she picks right now.

“I don’t know,” she whispers, refusing to break eye contact. Her nails trail a light, maddening scratch across your abs, driving you absolutely crazy. “Want to play some poker ?”

“I think it’s a bit too late for strip poker, Ale.” You know exactly what she wants, she's waiting for you to ask her to eat you out. But two can play this game.

The low huff of her laughter sends a rush of warm air over your center, making you twitch. “I won’t get you to beg for it ?” She mocks disappointment, but the playful glint in her eyes tells you she’s secretly thrilled by your resistance. Sliding her palm upward, she presses it flat against your sternum, feeling your heart hammering wildly beneath her touch. Despite your defiant words, she knows exactly what kind of effect she has on you.

“You’ll need to do better than that next time, Capi.” You don’t know if it’s the challenge, the promise of a next time, or the deliberate use of her title that makes something snap inside her. Frankly, you don't care, because her tongue finally connects with your clit. You aren't usually the loudest, but the sudden contact forces a low, trembling moan from your throat.

“Careful of the noise, cariño,” she murmurs against your skin. In response, you press your heel firmly into her spine, pushing her back down between your thighs to make her understand she needs to get to work. A muffled huff of laughter escapes her against your sensitive skin, entirely amused by your impatience.

As she goes down on you, you guide her rhythm, adjusting her pace with a mix of breathless words and guiding hands. She is incredibly good at following orders, you quickly realize. The sensation of her mouth feels so much better than any of the thoughts you're trying to outrun. Tangling your fingers into the loose strands of her bun, you cup the back of her neck, tugging sharply whenever she hits the perfect spot. Meanwhile, your free hand blindly traces the sharp line of her jaw, mapping its rhythm as she drives you out of your mind.

Once you start getting close, you whisper, “Look at me.” The raw heat in her eyes is almost enough to push you over the edge on its own. When she begins to lower her gaze to bury herself back between your thighs, you command, “No, look at me while you do it.”

You refuse to break eye contact. The hand on her jaw shifts to the side of her face. Initially meant to direct her, it’s now the only thing keeping you anchored. Your other hand fists blindly into the sheets, white-knuckled and straining. Even though there is zero risk of her pulling away, your heels remain locked against her lower back, pinning her right where you want her.

You know she feels it the exact second your orgasm hits. It starts with a ragged gasp before you completely run out of air, your thighs locking tight as an electric rush fires through every cell of your body. She guides you through the crest of it, her tongue never missing a beat.

The moment it threatens to turn into overstimulation, you tap her cheek, and she gets the memo instantly. She trails slow, soothing kisses up your torso until her mouth meets yours, tasting yourself on her lips. You loop your arms around her shoulders, holding her steady while her head sinks into the crook of your neck as you slowly float back down to reality.

As your heart rate finally settles, you start tracing the exposed tattoos on her back with your fingertips. You don’t ask about their meanings, and she seems perfectly content with the quiet intimacy for a few minutes. “I’m gonna fall asleep,” she whispers, her breath warm against your neck.

You kiss the crown of her head, and she burrows deeper into your side. “We should at least take a shower,” you murmur. She groans in protest, even though she knows you’re right. “Come on, Capi.” You give her ass a light, playful slap to tell her it's time to move, and she instantly nips at your neck in revenge. Laughing, you untangle yourself from her and stand up. Left without your warmth, it doesn’t take her long to follow your lead.

Getting clean takes a while, given how much kissing and touching happens under the water, but you eventually finish. You quickly discover that Alexia is a massive cuddler after sex, and you find yourself liking it a lot. It takes zero convincing on her part to get you to spend the night. She offers you some of her clothes to sleep in, but you almost left the room entirely when she tried to hand you a pair of Barça shorts. Plain cotton ones had to do instead.

You settle onto the bed, laying back with her resting on top of you just like before. Her hair is untied now, draping over her bare back as you slowly run your fingers through the damp strands. “I still find it so funny that you’re such a yapper in the bedroom when you’re not like that at all in real life,” she teases softly.

A sudden wave of self-consciousness hits you, even though you know it’s stupid. “Tell me if you want me to tone it down,” you say, though it sounds a bit more broken than intended. Some of your exes hated that, and you had to make conscious efforts to tone it down with them, so you know you can.

Alexia instantly shifts from her comfortable spot against your chest to look you in the eyes. “Hey, it wasn’t a criticism. I think it’s incredibly hot.” She presses a tender kiss to your cheek, then another to your lips. You could easily get used to this. Fuck, that's a dangerous thought. Suddenly, her gaze drifts to your shoulder and she winces. “Are you sure my biting didn’t hurt too much? It looks pretty bad.”

“I already told you it was okay Ale.” You put your hand around her hips and tug her back down on top of you. “I will figure something out to hide it.”

Neither of you asks what tonight means, or if it will ever happen again. There is no easy answer to that. Or, at least, none that would satisfy either of you right now. It’s still early, considering you arrived just after dinner, but exhaustion is finally catching up to you.

You’re already starting to drift off when Alexia shatters the quiet by bringing up the one topic you wanted to avoid. “You should really start talking about your contract, you know,” she says softly. “Not necessarily with me, but if you just let the clock run out without weighing your options, you're going to regret it. Even if you would have chosen Real anyway.”

You let out a long sigh. Maybe it’s because you’re in a great mood after the sex, but your mouth talks for you. “It’s just… It feels like there is what I want to do and there is the rational thing to do.”

Alexia hums in acknowledgement. “I feel like the heart should always beat the reason. But that’s particularly true in your situation.” Maybe Alexia is an idealist, you’re not. You’re so fucking afraid of making the wrong choice.

“I feel like my heart is telling me to stay just because it’s safe, not because it’s the best choice.” Staying at Madrid where friends, family, and your childhood club are is just so easy. You’re not sure it’s what’s best for your career.

“You’re looking at it too much like there is a good and a wrong answer.” Her tone is soft, her thumb is caressing your side, the words still sting. “Career choices are rarely that easy. You have to choose what is the most likely to make you the happiest in the long run. And that depends on a ton of things : winning trophies, money, closeness to family and friends, the atmosphere in the club you’re joining, the city you’re going to. And happiness isn’t a perfect equation, especially when it’s related to football where results can’t be predicted. You can make the right choice on paper and have it end up being the wrong one because life happens.”

“Very reassuring.” You say ironically. Alexia is trying and you’re maybe being a little too mean. “Thank you, for the words. I think I have trouble figuring out how happy football can make me.” That’s not an admission you make often. You love football with your whole heart, you’re not sure you want it to be your whole life.

“What do you mean ?” You can hear she’s perplexed, it must be confusing for Alexia to hear someone say that.

“It’s just… I’ve never won at club level, so I don’t know how much winning makes it worth it. I’ve also never been the closest of friends with my teammates. Like yeah, I will hang out with them outside of the mandatory things from time to time, but I don’t want my whole circle to be about it. In Madrid, most of the people I hang out with don’t give a fuck about football. I feel like having a life outside of it makes it easier to commit to it when I’m actually on the pitch or training. Like it’s easier to not burn out.”

That’s why I never messed with another footballer before, you add mentally.

You continue. “Munich was miserable for that. I didn’t really realize it at the time because I couldn’t compare. But god, I’ve been so much happier in Madrid. At the same time maybe it was only the context, maybe I was too young when I went to Bayern. It would be perfect if there was another club in Spain I could go to, so I could still be fairly close to everyone. But I’m never going to Barcelona.”

“I mean you could consider it.” You roll your eyes and gently bite her earlobe, she jumps in surprise. “Idiot.” She mumbles.

“I think… I would love to experience somewhere else, just for one year and if I’m miserable, I can go back. But I’m afraid of burning bridges with Real. And I’m afraid that they’re gonna perform while I’m gone. Imagine if Real reaches the semis of the Champions League the season I’m not here ? I would be miserable. Why can’t I fucking duplicate myself.”

She laughs softly at your words. Then takes a more serious tone. “You’re linking the comfortable choice with it being the bad choice. As you said, football isn’t what you are.” She takes a deep breath. “Everyone tells me football is too much what I am, you know. Even Jenni told me that.” Her laugh is almost bitter. “Olga told me that all the time too.”

“Wait, Olga as in our teammate, since when ?” You interrupt, trying to make some sense.

“No !” She laughs. “Olga is the name of my ex, she has nothing to do with football.” That was an awkward mistake to make on your part. “Anyway, my injury forced me to reconsider things. I was actually more available for my friends and family, hanging out with them more. I realized everything I was missing out on because of football. It’s so easy to get caught up with the constant pressure from everyone : the media, the fans, the front office…”

“Do you think you would have left Barça at one point, if not for the injury ?” You’re curious.

“Yeah.” She answers honestly. “And then I would have realized everything that’s not football that I have in Barcelona.” There’s a pause. “To be clear, I’m not saying our situations are entirely comparable. I have the luck that my childhood city also has the best club in Europe. It’s easier to stay when you’re winning everything, it would be stupid not to. I just wanted to say to not push aside too much the outside of football aspects when taking the decision.”

“Thank you, a lot.” You say sincerely. You kiss the top of her head. “I think it really helps to talk about it, it’s just hard to.”

“Anytime.” She answers without hesitation. She snuggles even closer to you. “We should go to sleep.”

You look at your phone, it’s only 10PM, why did you decide to be a professional athlete again ? “Yeah, I will put my alarm early so I can go back to my room with Vicky before she wakes up. I will just tell her I came back late in the night.”

“Okay,” Alexia says softly. She moves to turn off the bedside lamps as you set up the alarm to 6AM. Once the room is dark, she gets back to her previous position on top of you. She kisses you, a long one but without heat behind it, before her head settles on your shoulder. One of your arms circles her waist, while the other circles her shoulders. “Goodnight cariño,” she whispers.

“Goodnight Ale,” you whisper back. In the back of your mind, a million alarm bells are screaming at you, a frantic reminder of just how compromising this situation truly is. But exhaustion has taken over. Wrapped up in her warmth, you let her touch drown out the noise until there is nothing left but silence.

-----------

A/n : It was my first time writing smut, I'm quite happy with how it turned out (Don't ask me how much time I spent writing and rewriting it, I know the whole scene by heart now). I hope it doesn't feel too rushed.

1:

The restaurant is small and loud in the comfortable way places in Barcelona often are, packed with overlapping conversations and clinking glasses and the smell of garlic and fresh bread drifting through the open space.

You trail beside Alexia as she guides you through the crowded entryway with a hand resting lightly against your upper back, steering you without really thinking about it, the touch casual and familiar enough now that you lean into it automatically.

You’re halfway toward your table when someone calls her name. “Alex!”

Alexia turns immediately, her face shifting into surprised recognition as a woman near the bar stands from her seat with a wide grin already spreading across her face.

“Madre mía,” Alexia laughs softly as they pull each other into a quick hug. “How long has it been?”

Too long, apparently, because the conversation starts moving immediately, fast and overlapping in the way it does when people already know each other well enough to skip all the polite pauses.

Alexia asks about family, about work, about mutual friends whose names mean absolutely nothing to you, and you hover awkwardly at her side for a second before taking a small step back, instinctively trying to disappear from the interaction altogether.

Until Alexia’s hand lands on your shoulder, warm and firm. “And this,” she says easily, her mouth curving into quiet pride as she gently nudges you forward, “is my kid.”

You go completely still as she introduces you. Your eyes snap to her so fast it almost hurts.

But Alexia has already turned back toward her friend, already moving seamlessly into the next part of the conversation like she hasn’t just detonated something directly in the center of your chest.

Her kid. Not the kid I mentor. Not a player from the team. Not even family, which is already enough to make your throat tight every time she says it.

Her kid.

The words settle somewhere deep and immediate. They ping around your chest in a way that makes it difficult to focus on anything else for the rest of the conversation happening around you.

You barely hear the rest of it, only catching fragments while Alexia and her friend continue talking easily beside you, her hand still resting absently against your shoulder the entire time like she doesn’t even realize she’s keeping you anchored there.

She calls a lot of people affectionate things. You know that.

She calls Vicky hermanita. She calls Patri hermana. She says those words casually, affectionately, naturally, like they belong perfectly to the person she is assigning them to.

But this feels different. Your relationship with Alexia is different.

They don’t wake up in her house every morning and fall asleep there every night. They don’t rely on her for rides and meals and doctors appointments and reassurance after nightmares they pretend not to have. They don’t know where she keeps the extra blankets or which tea she makes when someone can’t sleep or how she hums quietly under her breath while cooking dinner when she thinks no one is listening.

They don’t know the version of her that pads downstairs half-awake in oversized sweatpants to make sure you took your pain medication for your broken foot at three in the morning. They don’t see the way she checks the weather before your appointments so she can hand you the right jacket without asking, or the way she bought you those jackets to begin with after quietly realizing the warmest thing you owned was a worn-out hoodie that barely counted as winter clothing.

They don’t know how instinctive it has become for her to reach for you in crowded spaces, how automatically she glances over to make sure you’ve eaten enough, how quickly her attention finds you no matter how many people are around her.

You do.

And suddenly the distinction between hermanita and my kid feels enormous. 

You always call her Ale. Never Alexia. Just Ale. Other people call her that too sometimes, teammates and old friends and family, but it still feels strangely personal to you, like something that belongs more to the two of you than it should.

You like the way it sounds. You like the way her attention always finds you when you say it, the way her head turns immediately no matter how distracted she is, like your voice reaches her differently from everyone else’s. Teammates can be calling her name directly beside her and she’ll still miss it, but you can mutter “Ale” from across the room and watch her attention snap toward you before you’ve even finished the word.

You’ve never known what to call her beyond that. Not because you don’t feel it. Because you feel too much of it.

Maybe hermana could make sense in theory. Vicky calls you hermanita often enough, usually with an expression that suggests she enjoys watching you turn bright red every single time she says it. But even then, when you try to place the word onto Alexia inside your own head, it feels slightly wrong, slightly off-center, not big enough somehow for whatever this is between you.

Because sisters are equals. And you have never once mistaken the way you lean on Alexia for equality.

You’re so deep in your own thoughts that you barely register the conversation winding down. It’s only when the woman turns fully toward you again that you realize she’s leaving.

“It was very nice meeting you,” she says warmly.

You straighten slightly at the sound of your own existence being acknowledged again, your brain scrambling to catch up with the moment as you offer her a small smile in return.

“Adéu,” you reply politely. “And… yeah, nice to meet you too.”

She smiles once more before disappearing back toward the front of the restaurant, leaving you standing there beside Alexia with your thoughts still spinning in slow circles around something you don’t quite know how to process yet.

Alexia glances down at you then, her expression relaxed and easy again, completely unaware of the crisis currently unfolding in your head, and places a light, guiding hand against your upper back again as she steers you further into the restaurant.

“Wow,” she says lightly, shaking her head with a faint laugh, “what a small world, huh? I haven’t seen her since high school.”

You swallow down the confusion before it can reach your face too obviously, forcing yourself to let it go for now, because the familiar smell of grilled chicken and fried potatoes is already wrapping around you, warm and comforting and distracting enough that your stomach immediately starts paying more attention than your thoughts.

Questions can wait. Food feels more urgent.

So instead of asking what my kid was supposed to mean, you tilt your head toward her and decide to tease her instead.

“Is it really a small world,” you ask dryly, “when you literally know every person in Barcelona… and probably most of the surrounding suburbs too?”

Alexia lets out an offended little scoff, rolling her eyes dramatically before bumping her shoulder lightly against yours.

“That is not true.”

You stare at her flatly. “Ale,” you say with mock seriousness, gesturing vaguely around the restaurant, “you are on a first-name basis with the entire wait staff and the valet.”

“Well, that’s called being polite,” she replies without missing a beat, already steering you toward your usual table. “And it is not my fault this is your favorite restaurant and we come here every week.” 

You narrow your eyes at her suspiciously. “I’m pretty sure the waiter started bringing you sparkling water before you even sat down.”

“That’s customer service,” she says easily. “Very normal.”

“The hostess literally called you mi reina.”

Alexia only shrugs, playfully unashamed now. “What can I say? I’m beloved by the people.”

Despite yourself, a real laugh escapes you. Alexia’s expression softens immediately at the sound of it, warmth and quiet relief flickering across her face before she reaches over to ruffle your hair affectionately as you slide into the booth beside her.

And just like that, some of the strange tightness that had been sitting in your chest ever since she introduced you loosens enough for you to breathe around it again.

2:

You’ve been no contact with your foster parents ever since you moved in with Alexia. 

You’re still not entirely sure what happened behind the scenes to make that possible.

You had asked Alexia about it once, only once, sometime during that first week after your surgery when the pain medication made you a little braver about asking questions you normally swallowed down. She had gone strangely quiet for a moment after you asked, her expression flattening into something unreadable before she finally told you, very simply, that she had “taken care of it,” and that you did not need to worry about ever going back there again.

There had been something distant in her eyes when she said it, something cold and controlled underneath the softness she usually reserved for you, like she was remembering the hospital room, remembering the way your foster mother had stood over your bed with alcohol and cigarettes still clinging to her breath while she hurled insults at you like they were nothing.

You hadn’t pushed for details after that. Partly because Alexia clearly didn’t want to talk about it. Partly because you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to know.

But you knew she must have gone back to that house at some point, because not long after you moved in permanently, she had shown up carrying the limited possessions you actually owned, your clothes folded neatly in laundry baskets, your old childhood plush tucked awkwardly under one arm like she hadn’t quite known what to do with it.

She never told you what the house looked like when she got there. Never repeated a single thing your foster parents might have said to her.

But you noticed the way she carefully washed every piece of clothing before putting it away, the way she ran your plush through the laundry twice until it no longer smelled faintly of smoke and mildew and instead carried the soft clean scent of her detergent.

You noticed the way her jaw tightened the first time she saw you instinctively flinch at a slammed cabinet door.

You noticed how she quietly started knocking before entering your room, even when the door was wide open, as though she wanted to make absolutely certain you never had to wonder whether your space would be respected. 

You noticed a hundred little things like that. Things she never pointed out. Things she never took credit for. Small adjustments made so naturally and consistently that it would have been easy to miss them if they weren’t all designed to make you feel safer. 

That had been months ago now and since then, life had settled into something quieter, steadier, the rhythm of school and training and recovery blending together until it almost felt normal. Almost.

Today, training has ended but no one seems particularly eager to leave yet, the late afternoon sun still warm against the pitch as players linger in small groups, stretching or passing balls around lazily before heading inside.

You’re near the edge of the field with Clara, both of you goofing around more than actually training, trying to nutmeg each other in increasingly ridiculous ways while arguing loudly over what should and should not count as a successful attempt.

“That one doesn’t count,” you insist after she barely clips the ball through your stance. “Your first touch was terrible.”

“My first touch was genius,” Serra shoots back, already grinning. “You’re just slow.”

“Please, I’m coming back from injury and still better than you.”

She gasps theatrically at that, clutching her chest like you’ve deeply offended her, before lunging forward to try again, the two of you laughing as you dance around each other near the sideline.

Then you hear it. A familiar raspy voice. Too familiar.

“So this is where you always ran away to…”

Everything inside you stops. The laughter dies instantly in your throat as your body goes rigid, your stomach dropping so hard it feels almost painful, every muscle locking before your brain even fully catches up to what’s happening.

Your foster father stands just outside the fence surrounding the training ground, one hand hooked lazily through the metal bars like he belongs there. He’s wearing a collared shirt you didn’t even know he owned, the fabric wrinkled but cleaner than anything you ever remember seeing him in, and his usually greasy hair has been combed carefully to one side in a way that feels deeply unsettling, like someone trying too hard to look respectable.

Beside him, your foster mother stands stiffly with her purse tucked under one arm, her chin tilted upward slightly as she stares directly at you, her eyes narrowed like she’s daring you to ignore them.

Your blood turns cold.

Beside you, Serra finally manages to knock the ball cleanly through your planted feet. 

“Yes!” she celebrates, throwing her hands up triumphantly before noticing you haven’t reacted at all. The smile drops from her face almost instantly.

You are completely frozen. Your expression has gone blank in that terrible, distant way she’s never seen before, your shoulders tense, your breathing suddenly too shallow.

Serra follows your line of sight toward the fence, her own posture straightening slightly as she takes in the unfamiliar couple standing there.

“Can I help you?” she asks cautiously, stepping half a pace closer to you without even realizing she’s doing it. “This is a closed practice.”

You could kiss her for speaking because your own voice feels trapped somewhere far away from your body.

Your foster father sends Serra a fake smile, the kind that never quite reaches his eyes, before dismissing her entirely with a lazy flick of his gaze.

“Oh no, sweetheart,” he says smoothly, his voice dripping with false warmth. “I don’t need any help from you. Just from my beloved foster daughter here.”

Serra’s expression changes instantly when the words click into place, her eyes darting sharply toward you, panic and understanding colliding there all at once.

You don’t actually know how much the girls know. You had told Serra and Vicky pieces of it over time, small fragmented explanations about why you had moved in with Ale, enough to satisfy their concern without fully opening the door to everything behind it. But judging by the horrified look spreading across Serra’s face now, Alexia must have filled in a bit more of the gaps at some point, enough that she understands this is not a normal family visit.

She turns on her heel without hesitation.

“Alexia!!” she shouts across the pitch, her voice loud enough to cut cleanly through the noise of training.

Alexia looks up immediately, her attention snapping toward the panic in Clara’s voice before her eyes even fully locate her. Her gaze sweeps across the field quickly, searching, and the second she spots your rigid posture near the fence she drops the ball at her feet and starts running toward you without another thought.

Halfway there, she realizes who is standing on the other side of the barrier. Her expression instantly changes from worry to anger.

“This is a closed practice,” she says sharply as she closes the distance, stepping between the girls and the couple at the fence without even seeming to think about it. “How did you get in here?”

Serra instinctively shifts farther behind Alexia the moment she reaches you, clearly unwilling to stand anywhere near the people who have managed to make their captain look this furious.

You still haven’t moved. But Alexia notices the way your hands have begun trembling at your sides, subtle enough most people would miss it, violent enough that she catches it immediately. Something in her posture hardens even further.

“So good to see you again, Ms. Putellas,” your foster mother says sweetly, her tone dripping with something artificial and ugly beneath the mock politeness.

Alexia ignores her completely. Instead, she turns slightly toward Clara, her voice dropping into quiet, urgent Catalan. “Take her away and tell Pere to call security.”

That finally jolts you out of your frozen haze. Your hand shoots out, grabbing onto Alexia’s arm before Clara can move you anywhere, your fingers tightening around her sleeve hard enough to wrinkle the fabric.

Your eyes drag desperately to hers, panic finally surfacing fully there as you try to communicate something you cannot possibly say out loud in front of them.

Please don’t leave me here. Please don’t make me deal with them alone. Please protect me.

Alexia’s entire expression softens the second she looks at you. Her hand comes up to cover yours where it grips her arm, squeezing once, firmly, grounding you. Her eyes hold yours for a long moment, steady and reassuring despite the fury still simmering underneath them. Then she nods very slightly. A promise.

She turns back toward Clara, gesturing more gently this time for her to take you away from the fence. You let yourself be guided backward then, your legs unsteady beneath you as Clara carefully pulls you toward the rest of the team clustered farther down the pitch.

As you approach, Patri and Irene brush past you, each squeezing your shoulder gently as they move by, silent reassurance before taking up positions on either side of Alexia like some terrifyingly beautiful version of the queen’s guard.

“Security is on their way,” Patri says coldly, her arms folding across her chest as she fixes your foster parents with a stare sharp enough to cut glass.

“Oh perfect,” your foster mother replies smoothly. “Perhaps they can escort us to your legal department. Or should it be the financial department?” She glances toward your foster father with faux thoughtfulness. “Which do you think, dear?”

“Better to be safe and stop by both,” he replies with a grin.

Alexia’s shoulders go rigid. “What business do you have here?” she asks, her voice low and dangerous now, every word edged with barely restrained fury.

Your foster father gives a lazy shrug. “Well, when a football club breaches the terms of a foster arrangement and effectively steals a child from a legal guardian…” he says casually, “there are usually financial consequences attached to that.”

Your stomach twists violently.

Your foster mother reaches into her purse and pulls out a folded newspaper. Even from across the pitch, you recognize it immediately. The cover story from after the Clásico.

A giant photo of you and Alexia celebrating your brace together, her arms wrapped around you while you laughed breathlessly into her shoulder beneath the stadium lights.

The Heir to the Throne? the headline had read in massive letters across the front page.

You had been mortified when you first saw it. Alexia had been delighted. She’d brought it home grinning like she’d won another Champions League and hung it proudly on the fridge despite your dramatic complaints about how embarrassing it was. You remember eventually grinning right back at her anyway because she’d looked so impossibly proud of you.

Alexia clearly recognizes it too. You can see it in the way her back stiffens even more.

“Imagine my surprise when I saw this on the way to work yesterday,” your foster mother says lightly, shaking the paper once for emphasis. “Who would’ve thought our little girl was such a big star?”

Her gaze drifts over Alexia’s shoulder until it lands directly on you. Her lips curl slightly as she raises her eyebrows mockingly.

“Well,” she says sweetly, “at least now we understand why everyone suddenly wanted to play hero.”

Alexia moves forward so quickly it surprises even Irene and Patri.

One second she is standing between them and the rest of the team, controlled and rigid with anger, and the next she is directly in your foster mother’s space, forcing the woman to tilt her head back slightly just to maintain eye contact.

“She is not yours,” Alexia says, her voice low and sharp enough to slice cleanly through the entire pitch. “She has never been yours.”

She doesn’t shout. Doesn’t shove or push, even if every instinct in her body clearly wants to. She just stands there with the full weight of her captain’s authority pressing down around her, shoulders squared, expression cold in a way you have never seen directed at anyone before.

“I saw the way you treated her,” she continues, her tone turning even harsher. “Do not stand here and pretend you have ever cared about her.”

“Watch your tone,” the husband snaps suddenly, stepping forward as he yanks his wife backward by the arm hard enough to make her stumble.

Several of the girls tense immediately. Alexia doesn’t even flinch. If anything, she steps closer.

“No,” she says coldly, her eyes locking onto his with terrifying steadiness. “You watch your tone.”

The entire field has gone silent now.

Alexia’s voice never rises, but somehow that only makes it more frightening, every word deliberate and controlled in a way that feels infinitely more dangerous than yelling ever could.

“I could ruin you,” she says plainly. “I have eyewitnesses, doctor’s reports, photographs. I have everything.”

Your foster father’s expression flickers for the first time.

“The only reason I haven’t filed a police report already,” Alexia continues, “is because that girl over there is finally happy, and dragging her through a court case after everything she has survived would hurt her more than it would help her.”

Her jaw tightens visibly then. “But if either of you ever come near her again,” she says quietly, “I will make absolutely certain you regret it.”

The husband and wife both go still. Your foster mother swallows hard enough that you can see it even from a distance.

“You’re bluffing…” she whispers finally, though the confidence from earlier has completely drained from her face.

Alexia tilts her head slightly. “Do you really want to test that theory?” she asks. “Against me, my legal team, and my mountain of money?”

That lands. You see it right away in the way both their expressions shift, the realization finally settling in that this is not the scared little girl they used to corner in cramped hallways anymore, and more importantly, that she is no longer alone.

Alexia steps forward once more, fury simmering just beneath the surface now. “You disgust me,” she says, every word filled with quiet contempt. “Not only did you abuse her for years, but the second she experiences even an ounce of the joy and success she deserves from her hard work, you show up like vultures looking for more to take from a literal child.”

Her eyes narrow slightly as her lip rises in a snarl. “You are not worthy of cleaning the dirt off her boots.”

Beside her, Irene finally reaches out and catches Alexia lightly by the arm. “Ale,” she says quietly, her tone gentler now. “Security’s here. Let them handle it.”

Alexia’s chest rises sharply once before she finally breaks eye contact, glancing toward the three security guards now approaching quickly from the far entrance to the pitch.

“These people are trespassing,” she tells them, her tone clipped and commanding again as she gestures toward your foster parents. “Please remove them from the premises and take their photographs. They are never to be allowed back here again.”

“Sí, capitana,” one of the guards replies without hesitation. They move forward, taking hold of your foster parents’ arms despite their immediate protests.

“This is ridiculous-” your foster father starts loudly.

“You can’t seriously-” your foster mother adds over him.

But their voices sound weaker now, smaller.

The moment security begins escorting them away, Alexia immediately turns toward you. Like the rest of the world stops mattering the second they are no longer a direct threat.

You hadn’t even realized tears were running down your face until she reaches you, her expression changing the closer she gets, all that cold fury melting into something softer, steadier, protective in a way that nearly undoes you completely.

“Hey,” she says gently the moment she reaches you, both hands coming up to cradle your face without hesitation. “Hey, look at me.”

You try. God, you try. But your breathing is uneven now, panic and adrenaline crashing together so violently inside your chest that it feels impossible to steady yourself.

Alexia notices immediately. “Okay,” she murmurs softly, her thumbs brushing beneath your eyes as she guides you a little farther away from the fence. “That’s okay. Just breathe for me, mi amor. They’re gone now. You’re safe.”

Safe. The word hits something deep inside you, something bruised and terrified and far younger than sixteen.

Your hands grip the sleeves of her training jacket tightly before you even realize you’re doing it. Alexia lets you. Of course she does.

Behind her, you can vaguely hear Patri telling the coaches to cancel the rest of training while Irene quietly herds the younger girls farther away to give you privacy.

But all of that feels distant compared to the way Alexia is looking at you right now. Like you matter more than any of it. Like she would burn the entire world down before letting them touch you again.

Your fingers twist tighter into the sleeves of her jacket as another shaky breath catches painfully in your chest, the adrenaline still tearing through you too fast for your body to keep up with.

“I thought…” Your voice breaks, forcing you to swallow hard before trying again. “I thought they were going to take me from you.”

The words come spilling out after that, messy and frightened in a way you usually work so hard to hide.

“I don’t care about the money or whatever they wanted,” you rush out quietly, your eyes fixed somewhere near her collarbone because looking directly at her suddenly feels too vulnerable. “I don’t care about any of that, I just…” Your throat tightens again. “I just want to stay with you.”

Alexia’s expression changes so quickly it almost hurts to look at, something fierce and heartbroken flashing across her face all at once before she pulls you even closer against her, one arm wrapping tightly around your shoulders while her other hand cradles the back of your head protectively against her neck.

“Petita,” she says, her voice firm in a way that cuts cleanly through your panic. “You are not going anywhere.”

Her grip tightens slightly, like she’s emphasizing every word through touch as much as speech. “No one could ever take you away from me,” she says again, slower this time, making absolutely certain you hear her. “No one.”

Something inside you cracks open completely at that. You bury your face against her shoulder with a small, broken sound before you can stop yourself, your body finally giving in to the panic you’d been holding rigidly at bay since the moment you heard that terrible voice at the fence.

Alexia just holds you tighter as you sob into her neck. One of her hands slides slowly through your hair while the other stays firm against your back, grounding you against her as she presses a lingering kiss against the side of your head, then another, murmuring soft reassurances between them so quietly only you can hear.

“I’ve got you.”

“You’re safe.”

“You’re mine and you’re not going anywhere.”

Your breathing stays uneven for a while, hitching painfully every few seconds despite your attempts to calm down, but Alexia never rushes you, never loosens her hold or asks you to pull yourself together. She simply stands there in the middle of the training ground, holding you like protecting you is the most obvious thing in the world.

Eventually, slowly, your breathing begins to settle against her shoulder. And even then, she doesn’t let go.

3:

You’re not someone who shows pain easily.

You learned a long time ago that discomfort was something to survive quietly, that weakness only became dangerous once other people could see it, so you got very good at swallowing it down before anyone noticed. Bruises, exhaustion, hunger, fear - it all gets tucked away behind clenched teeth and stubbornness until it eventually passes or breaks you, whichever comes first.

It is almost certainly a trauma response. You know that. And you are fairly confident your new therapist is eventually going to have a field day unpacking it once she notices the pattern, but thankfully the conversation hasn’t quite gotten there yet.

Still, now that your life has become something steadier, safer, warmer in ways you’re slowly beginning to trust, it feels like some hidden switch inside you has flipped without permission. Because suddenly there is someone you’re allowed to lean on. Someone who doesn’t recoil from it.

And apparently, once your brain realized that, it decided to overcorrect dramatically. Which is why being sick has transformed you into the most pathetic version of yourself imaginable.

Affection is not something Alexia withholds from you even under normal circumstances. She hugs you constantly, ruffles your hair whenever you walk past her, presses absent-minded kisses to your forehead while talking to you like it’s second nature.

But you almost never initiate it yourself. It’s not like you don’t want to. There’s just some deeply ingrained part of you that still feels like you need a reason first, an excuse solid enough to justify asking for comfort out loud. 

So most of the time you wait for moments that already leave you cracked open enough to make the reaching unavoidable - after big matches when the adrenaline is still humming through your veins and you throw yourself into her arms without thinking, after nightmares when you wake up shaking and find yourself drifting toward her room before your pride can stop you, after injuries or panic attacks or bad days when the need outweighs the fear of being too much.

Those are the only times it feels acceptable to you, like there has to be a visible wound before you’re allowed to ask to be held. And even now, after everything, there is still a tiny hesitant part of you that waits for permission before reaching too far.

Except today you have an excuse. And you intend to exploit it fully.

You wake up feeling awful, your body heavy and achy beneath the blankets, your skin too hot while somehow still leaving you shivering hard enough to make your teeth chatter slightly.

By the time you make it downstairs, wrapped dramatically in one of Alexia’s oversized hoodies, you apparently look rough enough that Alexia takes one glance at you from the kitchen and immediately abandons the coffee she’s making.

“Oh, no,” she murmurs, crossing the room quickly.

Her palm settles against your forehead first, cool enough that you practically melt into it on instinct, your eyes fluttering shut as your overheated body chases the relief.

“You need to go back to bed,” she says gently, her brows pulling together in concern. “You have a fever.”

You lean farther into her hand shamelessly, your body practically draped against hers now as she moves her other hand to the back of your neck, checking there too with the same careful focus she uses for injuries.

“Mhm,” she hums softly. “Definitely a fever.”

You groan weakly in response, mostly for dramatic effect.

“No training today,” she continues firmly, already slipping fully into caretaker mode. “Your body is fighting something and you need to rest, okay?”

Instead of answering properly, you let out a miserable little whine and throw your entire body weight against her dramatically, nearly folding yourself straight into her chest.

Alexia immediately smiles, because despite your theatrics, she knows exactly what this is.

The clinginess. The deliberate helplessness. The fact that you are absolutely milking this illness for every ounce of affection possible.

And unfortunately for her, she finds it deeply endearing.

“Ay, petita,” she laughs softly, pressing a kiss against your sweaty temple before rubbing a soothing hand up and down your back. “Come on. Let’s get you back upstairs.”

You make absolutely no effort to move. In fact, you go limp on purpose, forcing her to support most of your weight while you cling dramatically to her shoulders like a very sickly koala.

Alexia snorts out a laugh. “You are unbelievable,” she mutters affectionately, half carrying and half dragging you toward the stairs while you continue pretending your illness has rendered your legs entirely useless.

“If I have to go back to bed,” you mumble against her shoulder, “can I at least lay in your bed?”

Alexia glances down at you suspiciously. “Why do you want to be in my bed?” she asks, amused already. “Is something wrong with yours?”

You shake your head quickly, suddenly a little embarrassed now that you’ve actually said it out loud, but also painfully aware that in your current fragile, feverish state, Alexia would probably hand you the moon if you asked convincingly enough.

“Noooo,” you whine softly. “But yours is more comfy.” You tilt your head back just enough to hit her with your best miserable puppy eyes. “And I think it’ll make me feel better.”

Alexia stares at you for a long moment, clearly trying and failing not to smile too much.

“You’re such a princess,” she informs you finally, though her voice is fond enough to ruin the accusation entirely.

“Please?” You grin weakly.

She shakes her head affectionately, already defeated. “Okay,” she sighs dramatically. “But you go upstairs now and get cozy while I bring you medicine and a cold cloth, alright?”

You nod immediately, suddenly cured enough to become energetic again as you peel yourself off her and start hurrying toward the stairs.

Well “hurrying” might be generous. You bound up the first three steps with surprising enthusiasm before your feverish body immediately reminds you that you are, in fact, sick, your legs turning heavy and achy fast enough that you slow to a sluggish climb while Alexia watches from below with deeply entertained concern.

“There she is,” she calls up dryly. “Miraculous recovery lasted almost seven seconds.”

You glare weakly at her over the railing. “I’m fighting for my life.”

Alexia laughs softly to herself as she watches you continue your painfully dramatic ascent upstairs.

You enter her room slowly, pausing briefly in the doorway as your eyes sweep across the familiar space with a strange sort of caution, like you’re stepping into somewhere important.

You’ve been in here before, of course. Tentatively wandering in while she finished getting ready in the bathroom, sitting carefully on the edge of her bed while she did her makeup and talked to you about training or school or whatever ridiculous thing Alba had texted her that morning. Sometimes you would lay on the rug near the window while she folded laundry, listening to her hum absentmindedly under her breath while she worked.

But you’ve never really been in here without her.

Privacy is still something that feels oddly sacred to you, mostly because before Alexia you’d never actually had any. Bedrooms had always been shared or temporary or entered without knocking, your belongings touched and moved around whenever someone else felt like it.

So even now, after finally feeling settled, you try carefully not to intrude on spaces that belong entirely to her, the same way she has always been so deliberate about respecting yours.

But now you have permission and apparently being feverish has dissolved whatever remaining boundaries your pride normally clings to.

You wander farther into the room slowly, your neck craning slightly as you take everything in with fresh eyes. The large landscape paintings above her bed, all soft blues and golds and coastlines. The oversized cream chair tucked near the windows where she sometimes sits to read scouting reports. The walk-in closet slightly ajar, revealing rows and rows of neatly organized clothes, more than you think you could realistically wear in five lifetimes.

Your gaze drifts toward the chest of drawers against the far wall, lined with framed photographs.

There’s the picture of Alexia and Alba as children missing half their front teeth while grinning at the camera with grass stains all over their knees. A photo of her father with his arm around her shoulders that you’ve seen before because she pauses at it sometimes when she thinks no one notices. Another of her mom and Alba smiling on some beach vacation somewhere impossibly beautiful.

Then your eyes catch on one you don’t recognize. You stop moving entirely.

It’s a picture Alba took after the Clàssic a few weeks ago, sometime during the celebration after the final whistle when everyone had still been riding the high of the win. Alexia’s arm is wrapped securely around your shoulders while she presses a kiss against your forehead, and you’re looking directly at the camera with this huge unguarded grin that almost startles you to look at now, because you look so undeniably happy in it.

Happy and safe and loved.

You stare at the photograph for a long moment, your chest tightening strangely when you realize she didn’t just save it on her phone somewhere. She printed it, framed it, and put it here. In her room. Among the people she loves most.

Your stomach erupts into butterflies so violently it’s honestly embarrassing, and you quickly force yourself to look away before your tired brain spirals into something unbearably emotional about it.

You eventually drift toward the bed and sit down carefully near the edge.

It’s perfectly made, obviously, the duvet smooth and crisp enough that it looks like it belongs in a magazine because perfectionist Alexia is physically incapable of leaving a bed messy.

You sit there for a second debating with yourself. Going on the bed feels normal enough. Going under the covers somehow feels far more intimate. Too much, maybe.

Your brain briefly considers staying politely on top of the blankets like a civilized person. Then another violent shiver wracks through your body hard enough to make your teeth chatter.

Yeah. Forget civilized.

You pull back the duvet clumsily and shimmy beneath the soft sheets with absolutely zero dignity, immediately sinking into warmth that smells faintly like Alexia’s detergent and vanilla and something else distinctly her. You let out a small, involuntary sigh the second your head settles against her pillow.

A few minutes later, Alexia nudges the bedroom door open carefully with her hip, balancing a steaming mug of tea in one hand while the other holds a damp cloth, a bottle of medicine tucked securely beneath her arm.

She pauses when she sees you fully cocooned beneath her blankets, only the top half of your face visible above the duvet, your fever-flushed cheeks pressed into her pillow. The look that crosses her face then is so openly fond and tender it makes you blink.

“What?” you mumble suspiciously, your voice rough and scratchy from sleep and fever as you squint at her from beneath the blankets.

“Nothing,” she says quickly, though the smile tugging at her mouth makes it obvious it’s absolutely not nothing. She shakes her head lightly as she walks toward the bed. “You’re just very cute, petita, and I love you a lot.”

Something warm and embarrassingly emotional unfurls in your chest immediately.

“I love you too,” you mumble back automatically, already burrowing deeper into the pillow afterward like hiding inside her bedding might somehow protect you from the vulnerability of saying it out loud so easily now.

Alexia’s expression softens even further at that, though thankfully she decides not to make a big deal out of it. Instead she sets the tea carefully on the bedside table before moving closer, one hand sliding gently behind your shoulders.

“Okay, sit up for me a little,” she murmurs.

You immediately groan in protest. “Noooo.”

“Yes,” she counters calmly, already helping guide you upright despite your dramatic suffering. “Medicine first, then you can go back to being tragically ill.”

You grumble something deeply pathetic under your breath while she laughs quietly, steadying you carefully against her chest as she hands you the pills and then the tea.

“Take it, okay?” she says gently. “It’ll help with the fever.”

This time you obey without argument, mostly because your head feels like it’s being split open from the inside and your bones ache in a way that makes existing feel exhausting.

Once you finish, Alexia takes the mug from your hands and helps lower you carefully back against the pillows, fussing with them afterward until they’re arranged exactly how she wants, fluffing one beneath your neck before tucking the duvet securely beneath your chin.

“There,” she murmurs approvingly. “Better.”

Her fingers brush gently through your hair, sweeping the damp strands back from your forehead before she places the cold cloth there with careful hands. Relief floods through you instantly. You let out a small sigh, your eyes falling closed as the coolness settles against your overheated skin.

“Gràcies,” you mumble weakly.

“Of course, bebé.”

You stay still for a moment after that, hovering somewhere between awake and asleep while the medicine slowly begins dulling the sharp edges of your fever.

Eventually you feel the mattress shift beside you and your eyes shoot open. Alexia pauses halfway into climbing onto the bed, clearly catching the surprise on your face.

“Is it okay if I lay with you?” she asks softly, one knee still pressed into the mattress while she watches you carefully. “Or would you rather rest alone?”

“Yes,” you answer so quickly it almost overlaps her question. Then you blink, suddenly aware of how eager that sounded.  “I mean…” you mumble awkwardly, tugging the blanket slightly higher. “It’s your bed.”

Alexia smiles, warmth flickering across her face at your obvious embarrassment, but mercifully decides not to tease you for it. Instead she settles beside you carefully, laying on her side with one arm tucked beneath her head so she can look at you properly.

Her hand reaches out to adjust the cold cloth slipping crookedly across your forehead, her fingertips brushing softly along your cheek afterward. You lean into the touch without even thinking about it, fever and exhaustion stripping away whatever pride normally slows you down. The corners of her mouth twitch upward faintly at that.

“Come here, carinyo.” She opens her arms toward you slightly and that’s all the invitation you need.

You immediately curl toward her, pressing yourself against her chest while she wraps both arms securely around you, one hand sliding up into your hair while the other settles warmly between your shoulder blades. Somewhere in the process you tug the now-warm compress off your forehead and let it fall forgotten off the bed because honestly this feels infinitely more healing anyway.

You burrow closer instinctively, your cheek pressed against the soft fabric of her shirt while her fingers continue moving slowly through your hair over and over again, rhythmic and soothing in a way that makes every tight, aching part of you slowly start to loosen.

You breathe in deeply. Vanilla lotion. The soft floral scent of her perfume lingering faintly against her skin. The smell fills your lungs and something in your body finally unclenches completely, your shoulders relaxing against her for the first time all day as exhaustion begins pulling you steadily toward sleep.

Above you, Alexia presses another gentle kiss into your hair and tightens her arms around you slightly, like she can physically hold the fever away if she tries hard enough.

“Sleep, mi vida,” she murmurs against the top of your head, her voice warm and impossibly gentle. “I’ve got you.”

Words of affection are not something Alexia ever withholds from you either.

She tells you she loves you every single day with the same easy certainty other people use to comment on the weather. She calls you every nickname imaginable, each one somehow sounding entirely natural coming from her mouth - petita, bebé, amor meu, carinyo, mi vida. Sometimes she invents new ones on the spot just to make you roll your eyes dramatically at her.

And every single time, something warm blooms inside your chest so quickly it almost hurts. You’ve never really had names for her in return. Not beyond Ale. Because anything else has always felt too big somehow, too vulnerable to say out loud when you still aren’t entirely sure what you’re allowed to call someone who has become this important to you.

But apparently your feverish, exhausted, emotionally defenseless brain has decided that problem no longer matters.

Because right as sleep finally starts dragging you fully under, your body warm and heavy against her chest while her fingers continue combing slowly through your hair, the words slip out completely unprompted.

Soft and sleepy. Barely more than a whisper.

“T’estimo, mama.”

You are already too far gone to really process what you’ve said. Too exhausted to feel the way Alexia’s entire body stills beneath you. Too close to sleep to notice the sharp inhale she takes, or the way her hand pauses in your hair for just half a second before trembling slightly when it starts moving again.

You don’t see the tears immediately gathering in her eyes either, bright and sudden and entirely vulnerable in a way almost no one ever gets to witness from her.

For a long moment, she simply looks down at you curled trustingly against her chest, your breathing finally slow and even now, your feverish face relaxed in sleep while one of your hands still grips loosely at the fabric of her shirt like even unconscious you want to stay close.

Something in Alexia’s expression breaks open completely then. Like some final wall inside her quietly giving way. She lowers her head and presses another kiss into your hair, more delicate than any she’s ever given you before, lingering there for an extra second as her eyes close briefly.

“T’estimo, filla,” she whispers back, her voice thick with emotion. “Moltíssim.” [I love you too, daughter. So, so much.]

4:

You should have known right from the start of the night that it was going to end badly. In hindsight, the warning signs had been everywhere.

You had just won the league, the locker room still buzzing with the kind of happiness that only comes after months of work finally paying off. Music blasted from someone’s speaker, bottles of water had already become makeshift champagne replacements, and every few seconds another player would get dragged into a celebratory hug whether they wanted one or not.

Naturally, Alexia was attempting to maintain some semblance of order. Which, considering the circumstances, was a completely hopeless endeavor.

“We have a Champions League semifinal in one week,” she reminded everyone for what was probably the third or fourth time that evening, standing in the middle of the locker room with her arms folded across her chest. “So celebrate, enjoy yourselves, have fun, but please try not to do anything stupid.”

Her gaze landed directly on Pina and Cata.

Pina immediately looked offended. “Why are you looking at me?”

“Because speaking from experience,” Alexia replied without missing a beat, “you’re usually involved when something stupid happens… CATAchaça and PINAcolada.”

The locker room erupted into laughter while Pina clutched her chest dramatically. Cata just pointed and laughed, not even trying to defend herself.

Alexia remained completely unmoved. “One week,” she repeated firmly. “That is all I am asking for.”

The problem was that while her attention was fixed on the usual suspects, she was completely missing the real danger. Because on the opposite side of the room, Vicky and Serra had already made eye contact and were wiggling their eyebrows at each other conspiratorially.

Some sort of plan was already forming. You saw it happen and maybe you should have been concerned but instead, you laughed. Which was probably your first mistake.

By the time the official celebrations begin winding down and players start splitting into smaller groups, you have forgotten about the look they shared earlier. You’re standing near your locker packing the last of your gear into your bag when Vicky suddenly appears on one side of you and Serra appears on the other, the coordinated maneuver suspicious enough that alarm bells should probably start ringing immediately.

“We’re going out tonight.”

You blink at them. “What?”

“We’re going out tonight,” Vicky repeats, as though she has just informed you of something obvious.

Your eyes widen instantly. “But Ale just said-”

“What Ale doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” Vicky interrupts, lowering her voice mischievously as a deeply concerning grin spreads across her face.

Beside her, Serra nods with complete confidence. “Exactly.”

You stare at both of them. “That feels very much like the opposite of how that works.”

Neither of them looks remotely convinced.

You hesitate, your mind immediately jumping to all the reasons this is probably a bad idea, the most obvious being that Alexia would absolutely hate it. But when you look between them, both of them watching you expectantly, something warmer pushes against your reservations.

Over the past several months, your friendship with them had grown in ways you never really expected. What had started as occasional lunch invitations and persistent attempts to drag you into conversations had gradually become coffee runs after training, afternoons at the beach, movie nights, and group chats that somehow accumulated hundreds of messages while you were asleep.

For the first time in your life, friendship felt easy. 

You didn’t spend every interaction waiting for the other shoe to drop or wondering if people were only being kind because they felt obligated to be. When Clara texted you to come get coffee or Vicky showed up at your door demanding you go watch the sunset with them, it was because they genuinely wanted you there.

They aren’t including you because Alexia had asked them to. They didn’t keep you around out of pity or obligation. Somewhere along the way they had simply become your friends, and you had become theirs.

Maybe that’s why saying yes feels so important.

Because when you look at them now, both practically vibrating with excitement as they wait for your answer, you can’t help feeling excited too. It feels good to belong somewhere, to be wanted without having to earn it first, and for a girl who had spent most of her life expecting connections to disappear the moment she relaxed, that feeling was still a little bit miraculous.

“Okay,” you finally say, a smile spreading across your face despite yourself. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

The reaction is immediate. Both of them cheer loud enough that several nearby teammates turn to look.

“I’ll go tell Ale,” you say, already turning toward where Alexia is finishing an interview with club media.

You make it exactly three steps before Vicky grabs your arm. “No.”

You look back questioningly, “Why not?”

The look Vicky and Serra exchange makes your stomach drop. Because whenever those two share a glance like that, it usually means they’re about to do something incredibly stupid. And worse, they’re usually very proud of it.

“Because,” Vicky explains patiently, like she’s speaking to a particularly slow child, “if we tell her we’re going out, she is never gonna let you come.”

You huff at that, a little embarrassed to be reminded of your age in front of your cool older teammates.

You’re only a few weeks away from seventeen, but unfortunately that doesn’t seem to matter to anyone. Being the youngest player on the team means everyone treats you like some combination of little sister, mascot, and their mildly accident-prone child. Being known as Alexia’s kid - whatever that meant - certainly doesn’t help matters either.

“It’s all good though,” Serra says, clapping a hand onto your shoulder. “We have a plan.” That sentence immediately makes you nervous. “We’re going to tell her we’re having a sleepover at Vicky’s.”

You stare at both of them. Neither looks remotely concerned by how terrible that plan sounds. Eventually, against your better judgment, you nod and allow yourself to be dragged across the room toward your guardian.

“Hermanaaaa,” Vicky calls dramatically as soon as she’s within earshot.

Alexia looks up with immediate suspicion. You watch her eyes narrow before they slide past Vicky’s shoulder and land directly on you. The look she gives you is unmistakable: What are they doing?

You can only shrug helplessly and point toward Vicky.

Alexia somehow grows even more suspicious and Vicky throws an arm around your shoulders before she can ask questions.

“So,” she begins casually, which is already a terrible sign, “Clara and I were thinking that since we just won the league and everything, maybe we could have a little sleepover tonight. At my apartment.”

Alexia says nothing so Vicky continues talking. Which is another terrible sign.

“You know, just movies and junk food and celebrating.”

Still nothing. Alexia’s gaze slowly shifts toward you. You immediately become fascinated by a nearby wall.

“Uh-huh,” she says.

“We’ll be very responsible.”

“Mm.”

“And try to go to bed early?”

“Mhmm.”

Vicky is starting to sweat. You can tell. Unfortunately, Alexia can too.

The silence stretches long enough to become uncomfortable before Alexia finally sighs and rubs a hand across her forehead.

“Fine.”

Vicky’s entire face lights up. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

Both Vicky and Serra let out triumphant cheers and jump around you.

“But you bring her back in one piece, you hear me?” Alexia says, pointing a warning finger at them.

The girls are already celebrating too hard to listen. Alexia watches them for a moment before her expression softens slightly.

Truthfully, she isn’t entirely convinced this is a good idea. You usually crash hard after big matches, especially emotional ones, and she can already see the exhaustion lurking beneath your excitement. But at the same time, seeing you build friendships with people your own age has been one of her favorite things to watch this season.

For a long time, your entire world had revolved around her. And while Alexia secretly loves that more than she should, she also knows it isn’t healthy for a teenager to spend every waking moment following a thirty-two-year-old woman around. You deserve friends. You deserve people who understand what it’s like to be your age. You deserve a life that exists outside of her. 

So she ignores the small voice telling her this is probably a terrible idea.

Vicky and Clara sprint off to collect their things before she can change her mind.

You linger for a moment after the girls disappear, your feet rooted to the floor even as the rest of the room continues moving around you. Alexia notices immediately, as she always does, her attention finding you as naturally as breathing.

“You sure you’re okay going to Vicky’s?” she asks, her voice softening slightly now that the others are out of earshot. “You know you’re allowed to say no, right? They won’t be upset if you’d rather come home.”

The concern is genuine. If you told her right now that you wanted to leave with her instead, she would text Vicky an apology and have you in the car before either of them could protest.

You nod, a small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Yeah, I know.” You glance toward the door where your friends disappeared. “I think it’ll be fun though.”

Alexia studies your face for another moment, making sure you’re telling the truth and not just agreeing because you think it’s what you’re supposed to do. Whatever she finds seems to satisfy her because her shoulders relax and a smile slowly appears.

“Okay then,” she says warmly. “Have fun, and be good.”

Before you can respond, she pulls you into a hug, one arm wrapping securely around your shoulders while she presses a kiss to the top of your head. The affection is so familiar now that you instinctively lean into it.

“I’m very proud of you, petita,” she murmurs.

Something in her voice makes you look up. Her eyes are a little shinier than usual when she pulls back, her hands settling on your shoulders as she holds you at arm’s length for a second, like she’s trying to memorize the moment.

“Your first league trophy,” she says softly, a smile spreading across her face. “I know it’ll be the first of many for you, but the first one is always special, no?”

The pride in her expression is almost overwhelming.

“I still remember mine,” she continues with a quiet laugh. “You spend years dreaming about it and then suddenly it’s real and you’re standing there holding it thinking, that’s it? That’s what all those years felt like?”

You laugh softly.

Alexia’s smile widens.

“Maybe tomorrow we celebrate properly,” she suggests. “Just us. We could get a pizza and take it to the beach, sit by the water for a few hours.”

She says it so hopefully and there is so much pride behind it that your stomach twists painfully with guilt.

Because she’s looking at you like you’ve hung the moon. Because she’s trusting you. And you’re lying to her.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I’d like that a lot.”

Something softens immediately in her expression. “Good.”

She pulls you into another hug before you can say anything else, holding you close for a moment while she presses another kiss into your hair.

And as you hug her back, surrounded by her warmth and her pride and her absolute certainty that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, the guilt settles a little heavier in your chest than it did before.

------

The guilt doesn’t disappear entirely. It just gets drowned out.

First by laughter then by music then by the simple, unfamiliar joy of being sixteen years old and surrounded by people who genuinely want you there.

It's difficult to dwell on guilt when you’re doubled over laughing in the middle of Vicky’s apartment while Serra attempts to explain why her outfit absolutely qualifies as “subtle.”

The evening starts innocently enough.

There are bags of chips spread across the coffee table, half-empty boxes of fries balanced on the kitchen counter, and a movie playing on the television that nobody is actually watching because the three of you keep talking over it every thirty seconds.

And technically - technically - nobody has lied yet. You are at Vicky’s apartment. You are having a sleepover. There is a movie playing.

If Alexia suddenly called right now, every word Vicky told her would be true. Mostly. That technicality makes you feel significantly better.

At least until Clara disappears into the kitchen and returns carrying three drinks. Your eyes immediately narrow. Vicky immediately starts grinning.

She places one in front of you before settling back onto the couch. You stare at it for a second. The drink itself isn’t particularly intimidating, but it’s still enough to make you hesitate.

You’ve never really been interested in alcohol before. Between football and school and trying to survive the rest of your life, it simply never felt important enough to think about.

But tonight feels different. It’s not like anyone is pressuring you and you’re not trying to impress anybody. You’re just sitting on a couch with your friends after winning the league and for once there isn’t a single responsibility demanding your attention.

So when Clara lifts her glass toward you, you find yourself lifting yours too.

The first sip makes you wrinkle your nose. The second is considerably better. By the third, you’re laughing again as Vicky dramatically insists the drink tastes sophisticated while Clara informs her that nothing containing that much soda and fruit juice qualifies as sophisticated.

By the time you’re piling into a taxi half an hour later, a warm pleasant feeling has begun spreading through your chest and shoulders, softening the edges of everything around you.

The city lights seem brighter. The music seems better. Your teammates seem even funnier than usual.

Vicky spends most of the ride talking with her hands while Clara argues passionately about something neither of them can fully remember anymore. You jump into the conversation whenever a thought occurs to you, and almost every time you do, the entire backseat dissolves into laughter.

You find yourself smiling constantly.

It’s not even because of the drinks but because you’re happy. Because for the first time in your life, celebrating success doesn’t feel lonely.

For so many years every achievement had been followed by the same thing: going home, sitting quietly with it by yourself, and trying not to think too hard about how nobody was waiting there to be proud of you.

Tonight is different. Tonight there are people beside you who understand exactly how hard you’ve worked for this. People who were there for the early mornings and the extra sessions and the tears and the setbacks. People who know exactly what this trophy cost. 

And they want to celebrate it with you.

The realization settles warmly in your chest as the taxi turns a corner and the club finally comes into view.

The place is absolutely packed. Music pours into the street every time the front doors open, bass vibrating through the pavement beneath your feet while colorful lights flash across the crowd gathered outside. A line stretches halfway down the block, groups of people talking and laughing beneath the glow of the signs overhead.

You can’t stop yourself from staring. Even from here you can feel the energy rolling out of the building.

Vicky notices immediately, a grin spreads across her face. “First club?”

You shoot her an unimpressed look. “You know it’s my first club.”

“Fair.” She looks entirely too pleased by that fact.

The three of you make your way toward the entrance, weaving through clusters of people who instantly begin recognizing them. Congratulations are called out from several directions. Someone asks for a photo. Another person shouts something about the league title that makes Clara laugh. None of it seems unusual to either of them.

When you finally reach the front, the bouncer takes one look at Vicky and immediately breaks into a smile. “Well, if it isn’t our champions.”

Vicky bows dramatically. “Thank you, thank you.”

He rolls his eyes before stepping aside. “Congratulations on the league. Let’s bring home that European title too, ok?”

As he opens the rope, his gaze drifts briefly toward you. Recognition flickers across his face and his eyebrows rise slightly.

“Look at that,” he says with an amused smile. “They even brought Alexia’s kid.”

Your stomach does a strange little flip and heat rushes to your face. Because apparently even here, miles away from the training ground and Alexia’s watchful eyes, everyone still knows exactly who you are. Or maybe more accurately - whose you are.

Before you can formulate any sort of response, Vicky hooks her arm through yours and begins dragging you toward the entrance.

The club is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. Hundreds of people move together beneath flashing lights that change color every few seconds, washing the crowd in alternating shades of blue and pink and purple. The bass is so loud you can feel it vibrating through your ribs, while somewhere above the dance floor a DJ stands on an elevated platform, one arm raised triumphantly as the crowd roars back at him.

It’s overwhelming and somehow energizing at the same time.

You’ve never really been the type for house parties, partly because nobody ever invited you to them and partly because spending your weekends training had always felt more important than sneaking around looking for trouble. Left entirely to your own devices, you probably never would have found yourself somewhere like this.

Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on who was telling the story, you have Vicky and Clara.

The two of them immediately hook their arms through yours as soon as they notice your attention wandering, creating a human chain as they guide you through the crowd.

“We’re not losing you in here,” Clara informs you.

“Stay between us, rookie.” Vicky squeezes your arm affectionately. 

The three of you weave through the sea of people until you finally reach the bar, where Vicky turns toward you with an expectant look. “Do you want water?”

You glance at the drinks everyone around you seems to be holding.

“No,” you decide. “I’ll just have whatever you guys are having.”

Vicky’s grin immediately becomes concerning. “Excellent choice.”

It turns out their choice is tequila. A decision you regret almost instantly.

The shot burns all the way down, your face scrunching up dramatically as you cough and grab for the nearest glass of water.

“Oh my god.” Your eyes begin watering immediately. “That is disgusting.”

They double over laughing while you glare at them through watery eyes.

“You looked so confident,” Clara manages between laughs.

“I was confident.”

“Clearly...”

“I thought it would taste better.”

That only makes them laugh harder.

Vicky slings an arm around your shoulders. “We’re teaching you how to do that properly.”

“No.”

“Hmmm… yes!”

She and Clara exchange another one of those eyebrow wiggles that have never once led to anything good.

You immediately decide you don’t want to know what they’re planning.

Fortunately, the conversation dies when a new song starts and the crowd erupts around you. Vicky lets out an excited gasp. Clara points dramatically toward the dance floor. And before you can object, both of them are dragging you back into the crowd.

The next hour passes in a blur of music and laughter.

Your hands are in the air more often than not. Your hair sticks to your face. Your cheeks hurt from smiling.

At one point Vicky nearly falls over trying to spin Clara. At another, Clara accidentally elbows three people around them and spends the next five minutes denying it happened despite multiple eyewitnesses.

You laugh until your stomach hurts. You dance until your legs ache. And somewhere in the middle of all of it, surrounded by music and flashing lights and your friends singing lyrics they barely know, a warm feeling settles in your chest.

For so much of your life, happiness had always come with conditions attached to it. There was always something waiting on the other side - a problem to solve, a consequence to avoid, a voice reminding you not to get too comfortable because good things never seemed to last very long. 

But tonight feels different. Tonight there is only the music vibrating through your ribs, Clara nearly losing a shoe in the crowd, Vicky screaming every chorus directly into your ear, and the strange, wonderful realization that nobody here expects anything from you besides showing up and having fun.

You think maybe this is what being normal feels like. The thought makes you smile.

Vicky is in the middle of passionately explaining why she should be the team DJ and not Patri when her eyes suddenly slide past your shoulder.

Her sentence cuts off and her expression changes. A grin begins spreading across her face.

“Oh.”

“Oh what?” you ask.

Vicky doesn’t answer. Instead, she grabs your arm and physically pulls you closer, lowering her voice like she’s about to reveal classified information.

“Don’t look now,” she says. “But there is a really pretty girl staring at you by the bar.”

Which, naturally, guarantees that you immediately look. Your head whips around so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash.

Vicky lets out a horrified groan. “Oh my God.”

“What?” you ask defensively.

“You looked!”

“Well how else am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?”

Vicky presses a hand dramatically to her forehead. “Young padawan,” she says solemnly, “I have so much to teach you.”

You ignore her and glance back toward the bar. The girl is still looking at you and now she knows you’ve caught her. Heat rushes into your face.

She smiles. You smile back.

The girl lifts her hand in a small wave. Your stomach immediately does something deeply embarrassing.

Beside you, Vicky makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a proud parent. “Oh she’s cute.”

“Vicky please stop. 

“And she’s definitely looking at you.”

You roll your eyes but can’t stop smiling. Unfortunately, that only encourages them.

For the next several minutes they proceed to hype themselves into a frenzy while you repeatedly insist that you are absolutely not going to walk across a crowded club and introduce yourself to a stranger.

Eventually Clara has enough and physically places both hands on your shoulders and turns you toward the bar.

“Go.” Clara punctuates the command with a gentle shove between your shoulder blades before you can come up with another excuse.

You stumble forward a step and immediately turn back to glare at them. “Traitors.”

Neither of them looks remotely guilty. In fact, they look delighted.

“Good luck!” Vicky calls after you, cupping her hands around her mouth like she’s sending a soldier off to war.

Clara is laughing too hard to contribute anything useful, though she does give you an enthusiastic thumbs-up that somehow makes the entire situation feel even more humiliating.

You spend the walk to the bar trying desperately to remember how normal human beings are supposed to interact with attractive strangers.

Unfortunately, this is not a skill you’ve ever really had reason to develop. Football has always made sense to you. Defensive structures make sense. Pressing triggers make sense. The correct weight and angle of a through ball make sense.

This? This feels significantly more complicated.

By the time you reach the bar, you’ve completely forgotten whatever plan you had managed to come up with.

“Hi…” you manage awkwardly, rubbing the back of your neck as you stop beside her.

The girl’s entire face brightens immediately. Up close she’s somehow even prettier than she looked from across the room. Her features are softer than you’d realized beneath the flashing club lights, and she looks younger too, probably close to your own age rather than the university student you’d imagined from a distance.

“Hi,” she says warmly, like she’s genuinely happy you walked over. “I’m Lia.”

You tell her your name. 

Her smile widens. “I know.”

That should probably register as strange. It should probably make you wonder how she knows who you are. Instead, your brain becomes completely occupied with the fact that she’s smiling at you.

The conversation starts easily after that, which surprises you almost as much as it relieves you. You’d expected awkward pauses and forced small talk, but somehow neither ever arrives. Lia has an effortless way of keeping conversations moving, jumping between topics so naturally that before you realize it the two of you have been talking for nearly half an hour.

Even more surprisingly, she somehow gets you talking. Usually you’re content to let other people carry conversations while you listen from the sidelines, but Lia keeps asking questions that are easy to answer and then actually seems interested in what you have to say. Before long you’re talking about music and school and football and the absurd things your teammates do on a daily basis.

Somewhere along the way she offers to buy you a drink. You agree without thinking much about it. Then later she offers another. And later still, another.

You don’t really notice the pattern forming. You’re too busy enjoying yourself.

The warm buzz that had started earlier is becoming stronger now, making everything feel a little softer around the edges. The music seems better. Your jokes seem funnier. Lia’s smile seems brighter every time she directs it your way.

Which is probably why it takes you much longer than it should to notice when the questions start to shift, drifting away from the playful, harmless things you’d been talking about earlier.

At first it doesn’t seem strange.

“So what’s it actually like playing for Barça?”

You shrug and answer. You tell her about training and travel and how surreal it still feels sometimes when you walk into the locker room and realize you’re surrounded by the players you idolized as a child.

She laughs in all the right places. Nods attentively. Seems genuinely interested. A few minutes later she asks another question.

“What’s Alexia really like?”

That one feels normal too. Everybody asks that. Fans ask it. Reporters ask it. Even your classmates ask it whenever they find out who you live with. Any connection with one of the most famous footballers in the world means that sooner or later every conversation circles back to her.

So you smile and say, “She’s great.”

Lia laughs. “That’s the boring answer.”

You grin despite yourself. “She’s also bossy.”

“There we go.”

You tell a story about Alexia confiscating your phone during a movie because you’d been playing some ‘stupid game’ instead of paying attention. Lia laughs hard enough that you find yourself relaxing again.

For a few moments the conversation continues comfortably. Then Lia tilts her head.

“She’s basically your mom, right?”

You blink. The question catches you so off guard that you genuinely don’t know how to answer for a second.

“What?”

Lia shrugs lightly before taking another sip of her drink. “I mean, everyone says you’re her daughter.”

You let out an awkward laugh. “No.”

The answer comes automatically. It’s the same answer you’ve given a dozen times before. But this time you hesitate. Because that isn’t entirely true either... not anymore. Not after everything that’s happened.

Not after hospital rooms and physical therapy appointments and sleepless nights spent sitting beside your bed. Not after being tucked into blankets when you were sick or picked up from school when it rained or scolded for skipping breakfast before training. Not after being loved so thoroughly and consistently that somewhere along the way you stopped feeling like a guest in her life and started feeling like you belonged there.

The simple answer should still be no. And yet it doesn’t feel quite that simple anymore.

“Well…” You run your fingers through your hair awkwardly. “Not really.”

Lia leans forward slightly. “Not really?”

You shrug. “I live with her. She’s my guardian.”

The words feel strangely inadequate. Like they leave out all the important parts.

Because guardian is technically correct. Guardian is what the paperwork says. Guardian is what the lawyers and social workers and club officials call her. But guardian doesn’t really explain why she kisses your forehead when you’re tired or why she still checks that you’ve eaten after training or why hearing her call you petita feels more like home than any place you’ve ever lived.

Still, it’s easier than trying to explain all of that to a stranger.

Something flickers across Lia’s face. It’s gone so quickly you almost miss it. Interest.

But not the warm kind she’d been looking at you with earlier. It’s sharper and more focused. Like a person who has just stumbled across a detail they weren’t expecting and suddenly wants to know everything about it.

A small knot has begun forming somewhere deep in your stomach, tightening a little more every time she asks another question.

At first you try to ignore it. Maybe it’s the alcohol or you’re overthinking things or maybe you’re just not used to talking to pretty girls and your brain is finding new and creative ways to embarrass itself. But the feeling refuses to go away and the questions keep coming.

She doesn’t ask about music anymore or about school or even really about you. The questions keep circling back to Alexia, to the team, to your life in ways that feel increasingly specific.

You try to pivot and move the conversation forward, but it’s almost like each answer is leading to the next question rather than satisfying it. 

You glance down at your drink then back at Lia then down again. Trying to figure out exactly when the evening changed. Trying to figure out why you suddenly feel so exposed. Like you’ve accidentally said too much. Like you’ve wandered into a conversation without understanding what it was actually about.

The music feels louder now. The lights harsher. The alcohol no longer warm and pleasant but heavy and dull. And for the first time since you sat down at the bar, you find yourself wishing you were back on the dance floor with your friends.

Because this doesn’t feel like flirting anymore. It feels like an interview.

You glance around the room, your eyes moving over the sea of strangers and flashing lights until they finally land on Vicky across the dance floor.

The panic on your face must be far more obvious than you realize because her smile instantly vanishes at your eye contact. One second she’s laughing at something Clara is saying, and the next her attention is completely focused on you. Her eyebrows draw together slightly as she follows your gaze back toward the table, taking in Lia, your half-finished drink, and the uncomfortable way you’re sitting in your chair.

You watch understanding settle across her face.

Without hesitation, she reaches out and grabs Clara’s arm. Clara stumbles slightly, looking annoyed for all of half a second before Vicky points in your direction. Whatever expression is on her face must explain everything because Clara’s posture immediately changes too.

The two of them start quickly moving toward you. The relief that floods your chest is so immediate it almost makes you dizzy.

“There you are!” Vicky announces brightly the moment she reaches the table, sounding exactly like someone who has been searching for you for hours rather than dancing twenty feet away the entire time.

The lie is so blatant that under normal circumstances you might have laughed. Right now you’re too grateful to care.

“We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Lia’s eyebrows lift slightly. You don’t miss the way Vicky positions herself beside your chair, close enough that her shoulder brushes yours, creating a subtle barrier between you and the conversation. Before anyone can respond, she reaches down and takes your hand. The simple gesture feels strangely grounding.

“Come on,” she says. “Clara needs to go to the bathroom.”

Clara blinks. For a brief moment she looks completely confused before realization dawns.

“Oh.” A beat passes. “Right.” She nods seriously. “I do.”

Vicky gives her an approving look before turning back to you. “Can you come with us?”

The answer leaves your mouth immediately. “Yeah.” The relief is so overwhelming that you don’t even attempt to hide it.

You offer Lia a small apologetic wave before allowing yourself to be pulled away, stumbling slightly as Vicky immediately increases her pace and starts weaving through the crowd with Clara close behind.

The second you’re far enough away that the music and bodies swallow the table from view, Clara turns toward you with wide eyes.

“What the hell was that about?”

You let out a long breath, running both hands through your hair as you try to organize your thoughts through the haze of alcohol and the lingering discomfort still crawling around in your stomach.

“I don’t know,” you admit honestly. “She was cool at first. Like really cool. We were just talking about music and school and random stuff, and then…” You trail off, frowning slightly as you try to pinpoint exactly when the conversation changed. “I don’t know. Suddenly she started asking me all these weird questions.”

“Weird how?” Vicky asks immediately.

You shrug. “Just… invasive, I guess. About Alexia. About where I live. About the team. About contracts and who hangs out with who and what everyone is like behind closed doors.” The more you list them, the stranger it sounds.

Clara’s face twists in distaste. “Yeah, that’s weird.”

“Right?” You point at her emphatically. “That’s what I thought.”

“That’s not flirting.”

“No!”

“That’s legit an ESPN exclusive.”

The three of you burst out laughing. Some of the tension finally leaves your body.

Vicky wraps an arm around your shoulders and squeezes. “Well congratulations.”

“For what?”

“You survived your first fan girl. The first of many I’m sure.”

You groan dramatically. “Please never let me do that again.”

“Oh don’t worry,” Clara says. “We’re screening all future applicants.”

“You don’t get applicants.”

“I absolutely do!”

“You looked at one pretty girl and immediately got trapped for thirty minutes.”

You bury your face in your hands while both of them laugh. 

The embarrassment lasts all of thirty seconds before the music from the main room swells again and Clara grabs both of your wrists. “Okay, enough of that. We came here to celebrate!”

The reminder settles something inside you. Because she’s right. You didn’t come here for some girl.

You didn’t spend the entire season training and fighting and sacrificing and pushing through injuries just to spend your night answering questions from a stranger.

You came here with your friends, people who wanted to celebrate with you. 

When you look at Clara and Vicky now, both smiling at you expectantly, the lingering weirdness of the conversation suddenly feels insignificant compared to that.

“Come on then,” you say, grabbing both of their hands. “Let’s go dance.”

Within minutes you’re back on the dance floor, laughing hard enough that your stomach hurts while Clara nearly starts another incident by repeatedly stepping on strangers’ feet.

And little by little, Lia fades from your mind entirely.

What you don’t know is that she hasn’t forgotten about you.

Earlier in the night, while you and your friends had been dancing beneath the flashing lights, she’d quietly taken photos. Photos of the three of you celebrating, of you laughing, of you with drinks in your hands.

And later, after you’d left the table, she posted them.

Alongside those photos came a short series of tweets recounting parts of your conversation, including the casual admission that Alexia was your guardian and that you lived with her.

Within an hour, the posts have begun spreading.

The Barça Femení fanbase has been speculating about your relationship with Alexia for months. About how close you two seem. About why she looks after you the way she does. About why everyone on the team treats you like her child.

Now, for the first time, they think they have confirmation.

And to make matters worse, the photos show exactly where you are. At a club. On a night when Alexia believes you’re safely sleeping at Vicky’s apartment. 

The posts begin spreading long before the night is over.

And with every share, every repost, every comment and screenshot, they move a little closer toward the one person you least want to see them.

------

An hour later, you are definitely drunk.

Not dangerously drunk or stumbling-unconscious drunk, but drunk enough that the world feels pleasantly softened around the edges, drunk enough that dancing has gradually devolved into jumping and yelling lyrics that none of you actually know, and drunk enough that every joke Vicky makes somehow feels like the funniest thing you’ve ever heard in your entire life.

Your feet ache from spending hours on the dance floor and your cheeks hurt from smiling so hard, but neither sensation is enough to dampen your mood. If anything, they feel like proof of how much fun you’re having.

The three of you are gathered around Vicky’s phone near the edge of the dance floor, supposedly trying to order an Uber home, though the process is moving significantly slower than it should because Clara keeps offering increasingly terrible suggestions while you provide enthusiastic support for all of them.

“No, look at that one,” she insists, pointing vaguely at the screen. “We should definitely get an XL.”

You immediately nod. “That’s what I was thinking.”

Vicky stares at both of you like she’s questioning every life decision that led her to this moment.

“There are only three of us, why would we need a car that big?!”

You and Clara promptly dissolve into more laughter.

The night feels perfect. Messy and loud and ridiculous, but perfect. The sort of night that you’ll all spend years talking about afterward.

Which is probably why none of you notice the shift in the air.

It begins at the edge of the crowd. A subtle ripple of movement that works its way through the room as heads begin turning one after another, conversations faltering as people glance toward the entrance and then glance again.

You barely register it at first. Your attention is still fixed on Vicky’s phone and Clara’s increasingly passionate argument about why party buses should be an option on Uber.

Clara suddenly goes quiet. The change is so abrupt that it catches your attention. You look up just in time to see all the color drain from her face and her eyes widen.

“Oh fuck.” The words are barely audible.

Vicky frowns. “What?”

Instead of answering, Clara grabs her arm. Vicky follows her gaze and immediately freezes. The smile falls off her face so quickly that it feels unnatural.

Your stomach drops before you even turn around. Some internal warning that whatever is standing behind you, you aren’t going to like it. Slowly, you lift your head and the world seems to stop.

Alexia is standing in the middle of the club.

For a brief, disorienting second your brain refuses to process what you’re seeing because it simply doesn’t make sense. Alexia isn’t supposed to be here. Alexia is supposed to be asleep. Alexia is supposed to think you’re curled up on Vicky’s couch watching movies and eating junk food.

Instead she’s standing ten feet away, still dressed in the oversized sweatshirt and gray sweatpants she wears around the house, the sleeves pushed up unevenly and her hair pulled back in a hasty bun that looks like she threw it together while walking out the door.

The expression on her face makes every trace of alcohol evaporate from your system.

You have seen Alexia angry before. You’ve watched her argue with referees. You’ve watched her tear into rivals who commit dirty tackles. You’ve watched her stand in front of cameras after painful losses with frustration burning behind her eyes.

This is different. This is somehow worse. She isn’t making a scene, there is no yelling or dramatic explosion of emotion. Instead all of her anger has condensed into something frighteningly controlled, something sharp and deliberate and impossible to ignore.

The music continues thundering around you, lights still flashing overhead, hundreds of people still dancing and talking and laughing, but it all feels strangely distant now, muffled beneath the pounding of your own heartbeat.

Alexia’s gaze moves slowly between the three of you before finally settling on you.

The look in her eyes makes your stomach twist. Underneath the fury you see the hurt, and somehow that feels infinitely worse.

When she finally speaks, her voice is calm enough that anyone passing by might miss the danger entirely.

“We are leaving.” No one argues. No one even considers it. The authority in those three words is absolute. “Now.”

Then she turns around and starts walking toward the exit.

The three of you follow immediately. Your earlier laughter has vanished completely, replaced by a heavy silence that follows you all the way through the crowd and out into the cool night air beyond the club doors.

Nobody speaks. Not Vicky. Not Clara. Certainly not you. The only sounds are your footsteps against the pavement and the distant pulse of music spilling out behind you.

Alexia doesn’t slow down or look back as she leads you toward her car, parked carelessly at the curb in a place that is almost certainly illegal. The security guards standing nearby don’t seem particularly interested in mentioning that fact, which is probably the smartest decision anyone has made all night.

You can feel her watching you occasionally from the corner of her eye as you walk, tracking every uneven step.

You make a conscious effort to walk in a straight line, carefully placing one foot in front of the other and willing your body to cooperate, but the attempt feels almost laughable. Your head is buzzing, your limbs feel heavier than usual, and every movement requires just a little more concentration than it should.

You know she can tell and normally, if she saw you struggling even a little, she would already be beside you. She would have a hand hovering at your elbow, ready to steady you before you even stumbled, and she would probably be asking whether you’d had enough water or if your feet hurt from standing all night.

Tonight she does none of those things.

She reaches the car first, unlocks it with a sharp press of the key fob, and slides into the driver’s seat without waiting for any of you. The door slams behind her with enough force to make all three of you flinch.

The sound echoes in your chest.

Vicky is the one who helps you into the passenger seat.

The gesture is careful, almost overly so, like she’s afraid that if she moves too quickly she might somehow make the situation worse. Normally she would be teasing you mercilessly by now, making jokes about your terrible flirting skills or your complete inability to handle tequila, but tonight she doesn’t say a word.

As soon as you settle into the seat, you squeeze your eyes shut. Partly because the alcohol is making your head spin slightly. Mostly because you know that if you open them, you’ll have to look at Alexia and you aren’t sure you can handle seeing how angry she is.

The back doors open, then close. You hear Vicky and Clara climb into the backseat, suddenly so quiet that it’s almost unnerving.

The contrast is startling. The drunken giddiness that had carried all three of you through the night has evaporated entirely beneath the weight of your captain’s disappointment.

The car pulls away from the curb. Nobody speaks. Not at the first red light. Not after the second. Not even when Clara accidentally drops something and the noise makes all four of you jump.

The silence stretches longer and longer until it becomes a physical thing, heavy enough that it seems to fill every corner of the vehicle. You have never heard Vicky remain quiet for this long. You aren’t entirely convinced it’s medically possible.

Eventually curiosity gets the better of you. Very carefully, you crack one eye open.

Alexia is staring straight ahead at the road. The dashboard lights cast faint shadows across her face, highlighting the tight set of her jaw and the way her hands are gripping the steering wheel hard enough that her knuckles have gone pale.

The sight makes your stomach sink. Underneath the anger, she looks tired. Exhausted, even. Like she was ripped out of sleep and immediately thrown into the worst possible version of her night.

“Ale…” you start quietly, your voice sounding much smaller than you intended. “It’s not-”

“We are not discussing this right now.” The interruption is immediate and final. The kind of tone that leaves absolutely no room for argument.

Your mouth snaps shut. Your eye closes again.

Very rarely do you find yourself on the receiving end of Alexia’s anger, and even when you do, it is usually brief and contained. She corrects you when you’ve crossed a line, makes sure you understand why, and then moves on because holding grudges has never been part of her nature.

This feels different, heavier. Like she’s still trying to sort through her own emotions before she says something she’ll regret.The realization does absolutely nothing to ease the knot growing in your stomach.

Five minutes pass. Then ten. The silence never breaks. The only sounds in the car are the hum of the engine, the occasional click of a turn signal, and the distant noise of the city drifting past outside the windows.

Eventually Alexia pulls up in front of Clara’s parents’ house. The car sits idling at the curb while Clara gathers her purse with shaking hands.

For perhaps the first time since you’ve known her, she looks genuinely nervous.

“I’m really sorry, Ale.” The apology comes out barely above a whisper.

Alexia keeps her eyes on the windshield for several seconds before finally giving a stiff nod.

She doesn’t tell Clara it’s okay. She doesn’t reassure her. She doesn’t soften the blow. And somehow that hurts worse than a lecture ever could.

Clara swallows hard. “Goodnight.”

Alexia nods again. Nothing more.

Clara climbs out of the car and shuts the door quietly behind her. Alexia waits until the front door opens and Clara disappears safely inside before putting the car back into drive.

The drive toward Vicky’s apartment somehow feels even worse. Without Clara there to absorb some of the tension, the atmosphere inside the car becomes almost unbearable.

You can practically feel Vicky’s anxiety building behind you.

“Ale, porfa,” Vicky finally says from the backseat, her voice sounding much smaller than usual after nearly twenty minutes of silence. “Please say something.”

For a moment Alexia doesn’t respond. She keeps her eyes fixed on the road ahead, the glow of streetlights sliding across her face as she drives, her expression unreadable except for the tension still visible in her jaw.

When she finally speaks, her voice sounds tired more than anything else. “Telling you how disappointed I am isn’t going to change what happened tonight.”

The words settle heavily over the car. Vicky immediately shrinks into her seat. “Ale…”

“No.” Alexia shakes her head. “No, because I honestly don’t know what you expected to happen.”

The frustration is becoming harder for her to contain now. “I’m just so disappointed in all three of you.”

You physically flinch.

Alexia notices but keeps going. “You should have known better.”

“We were safe, I swear,” Vicky rushes to say, leaning forward in her seat. “Nothing happened. I wouldn’t have let anything happen to them.”

Alexia lets out a short laugh, but there is no amusement in her tone. It’s the kind of laugh people make when they’re too frustrated to do anything else.

“Really?” The single word makes the car feel even colder. “Because from where I’m sitting, that’s clearly not true.”

Vicky opens her mouth again, but Alexia beats her to it.

“You know… considering my daughter is currently going viral on Twitter.”

The words hit the car like a grenade.

“What?!” The response comes from both you and Vicky at the exact same time.

Alexia doesn’t even look away from the road. “You heard me.”

The knot in your stomach immediately twists tighter.

Behind you, Vicky is already digging frantically through her purse for her phone, nearly dropping it in her haste. The glow of the screen illuminates her face as she scrolls, and within seconds she lets out a string of curses so creative that under different circumstances it might have made you laugh.

“That dumb fucking-” She cuts herself off before finishing the sentence. “Alexia, she was set up! You have to understand that this isn’t her fault.”

The reaction is immediate. “You think I don’t know that??” For the first time that night, Alexia’s voice rises. The sudden spike in volume is enough to make all of you jump.

She takes a long breath through her nose, visibly forcing herself to calm down before she says something harsher than she intends.

When she speaks again, her voice is steadier, but only just.

“You two need to understand something,” she says, words are directed at both of you, but her eyes flick briefly toward you. “You are public figures. You play for the biggest club in the world and because of that there are expectations whether you like them or not. Every place you go, every person you meet, every mistake you make, somebody is always watching and somebody is always recording.”

The city lights flicker across her face as she drives.

“So tonight, I honestly don’t care that some wannabe journalist decided to leak information she had no business posting online. I will deal with that in the morning.”

The promise sounds less like a possibility and more like a threat. You suddenly almost feel sorry for Lia… almost.

“What I care about is that the two of you looked me directly in the eye and lied to me. What I care about is that you knowingly ignored my instructions and deliberately put yourselves into a situation where something could have happened.” Her grip tightens on the steering wheel. 

“She is sixteen, Vicky.” The disappointment in her voice somehow hurts more than the anger. “What the fuck is she doing in a nightclub?”

“Ale, it’s not her fault.” The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. You twist in your seat slightly, trying to look at her despite how worried you are about her reaction.

“She got me out of there when things got weird. The second I looked uncomfortable, she came and got me. Both of them did.” Your voice grows stronger as you continue.

“That girl started asking all these strange questions about you and us and the team and where I lived and stuff. I didn’t know what was happening, but Vicky did. She got me out of there right away.”

You glance back at your teammate. “She was protecting me the whole time.”

The silence that follows lasts several seconds. Long enough that you wonder whether Alexia is going to argue. 

Instead, she sighs - a long, exhausted sound. “I know.” There is no uncertainty in her tone. “I know it’s not her fault.” For the first time all night, some of the anger leaves her voice. Not all of it, but just enough to reveal the fear hiding underneath.

“But that’s exactly my point.” She shakes her head. “You three should never have been in that situation to begin with.”

Nobody has an answer for that. Because she’s right.

The silence stretches again. Eventually Vicky drops her gaze to her lap.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice cracks. “I really am.” She wipes quickly at her eyes. 

“I know I lied.” The words seem to cost her something.

“I just wanted to hang out with her.” She laughs weakly, though it sounds suspiciously close to a sob.

“I wanted us to make memories together. She’s always training or studying or doing something responsible and I thought…” She pauses to wipe her eyes again. “I don’t know. I thought we could do something fun.”

Her voice drops lower. “And I was worried you’d say no.”

The confession hangs in the air. Alexia doesn’t answer, but she must notice the quiet sniffing coming from the backseat because when she finally pulls into Vicky’s apartment complex, she doesn’t immediately put the car back into drive after parking. Instead, she sits there for a moment with both hands resting on the steering wheel, her eyes fixed on something beyond the windshield, before letting out a slow breath and opening her door.

Vicky follows right away.

You watch them through the passenger window as they move a few steps away from the car and stop beneath one of the streetlights lining the sidewalk. The yellow glow casts long shadows across the pavement and illuminates the tear tracks still visible on Vicky’s face. For a second neither of them says anything. Then Alexia opens her arms.

That is all it takes before Vicky folds into her instantly. The younger woman practically collapses against her, burying her face in Alexia’s shoulder as the sobs she has clearly been fighting for the last twenty minutes finally win.

You can’t hear what they’re saying through the closed windows. You can only watch.

You watch the way Alexia’s arms tighten around her. You watch the way she lowers her head so she can speak directly into her ear. You watch her rub a hand slowly up and down Vicky’s back with the same patient rhythm you’ve felt yourself more times than you can count.

Months ago, a sight like this might have hurt. Months ago, before you understood what Alexia’s love actually looked like, you might have felt that familiar sting of jealousy. You might have watched someone else receive her comfort and wondered whether there would be less left over for you afterward.

Now you simply feel relieved.

Because if Alexia is still standing there holding Vicky after everything that happened tonight, then maybe the world hasn’t ended after all. Because if Vicky is still allowed to cry into her shoulder and be forgiven, then maybe there is still hope for you too.

Eventually Alexia leans back just enough to cup Vicky’s face between both hands, wiping away tears with her thumbs while speaking softly enough that the words never reach you. Whatever she says causes Vicky to laugh through a fresh wave of tears, which in turn makes Alexia smile sadly before pulling her back into one final hug.

The entire interaction is so painfully familiar. The comfort, the reassurance, the certainty. The unspoken promise that she is angry but still loves you. That she is disappointed but not leaving and whatever happens next, she will still be there when the conversation is over.

When they finally separate, Alexia presses a kiss to the top of Vicky’s head before walking her all the way to the building entrance, waiting patiently while she punches in the code and steps inside. Even then she doesn’t leave right away, lingering on the sidewalk until the door closes behind her. Only then does she return to the car.

The difference in her is obvious. The anger that had been keeping her upright for the last hour seems to have drained away, leaving behind something far more difficult to look at. 

She looks exhausted. It’s not even physical exhaustion, though there is certainly some of that too, but emotionally exhaustion in a way that makes her seem older than usual.

She settles into the driver’s seat and closes the door quietly behind her. Neither of you speaks. The car remains parked.

Outside, Barcelona continues sleeping around you, occasional headlights drifting past and distant conversations floating through the night air, but inside the vehicle everything feels strangely still.

Her phone vibrates in the cup holder. The sound breaks the silence. Alexia glances down at the screen and some more of the tension leaves her shoulders. It’s Vicky letting her know she made it upstairs.

Only after reading the message does Alexia put the car into drive and pull away from the curb.

The city slides past outside the windows in a blur of streetlights and empty sidewalks while neither of you says anything for several minutes.

Eventually, without looking away from the road, Alexia finally speaks.

“I was really scared.” The confession is so quiet and so unexpected that for a moment you aren’t entirely sure you’ve heard her correctly.

You turn toward her. The stoplights ahead paint soft shadows across her face, highlighting the tiredness around her eyes and the way she keeps worrying at her lower lip with her teeth.

“I thought you were at Vicky’s apartment,” she continues after a long pause. “I thought you were safe. I thought you were asleep on the couch watching movies, and then suddenly my phone started ringing.”

Her fingers tighten slightly around the steering wheel.

“First it was messages. Then it was people calling. Then somebody sent me photos.” She swallows. “And for twenty minutes I didn’t know where you were.”

The words make your heart ache. Because this isn’t about the club anymore. It isn’t even about the lie. It’s about fear. Real fear. The kind that had apparently been eating her alive while she was driving across the city looking for you.

“I didn’t know who you were with,” she says quietly. “I didn’t know whether those people posting photos were the same people you were with. I didn’t know if someone had given you something. I didn’t know if you were okay.”

The guilt settles so heavily in your chest that it almost hurts to breathe.

“I don’t know what I’d do if anything ever happened to you…” her voice trails off as she blinks quickly trying to keep her tears from falling.

“Ale…” 

You don’t know what else to say. You don’t know how to fix any of it. So instead you repeat the words she has given you a hundred times before.

“I’m here.” Her eyes flick toward you briefly. “I’m okay.”

You reach across the center console and place your hand over hers. “I’m safe with you now.”

For the first time all night, something in her expression softens.

She turns her hand over and threads her fingers through yours. “I know, petita.”

The nickname nearly breaks your heart. Because it sounds exactly the way it always does - warm, certain, loving. As though none of that has changed.

You spend the rest of the drive in silence, your hand remaining tucked inside hers while the city passes outside the windows. Every few moments her thumb brushes slowly across your knuckles in a repetitive, absent-minded motion, and although she never says another word, you begin to suspect she isn’t doing it to comfort you.

You think she is reassuring herself. Reminding herself that you are really there beside her. That she found you. That you’re safe. And that, despite everything that happened tonight, she still gets to bring you home.

------

When you finally pull in through the gates, the house sits exactly as you left it, quiet and dark beneath the night sky, the familiar porch light casting a soft glow across the front steps. 

The engine goes silent, leaving only the ticking of cooling metal and the faint sound of crickets somewhere beyond the yard. For a moment neither of you moves. The tension that had filled the car earlier has changed shape now, no longer sharp and angry but tired and heavy, weighed down by everything that has happened since Alexia walked into that club.

Eventually she unclips her seatbelt and steps out.

By the time you reach for the handle, she is already opening the passenger door for you. You step down onto the driveway and immediately feel her hand settle around your elbow.

You don’t need the support anymore. Most of your drunkenness has worn off during the drive home and your head is far clearer than it was an hour ago. Still, you don’t say anything. You like the contact too much.

The two of you make your way inside together, Alexia locking the door behind you before guiding you upstairs with one hand resting lightly against your back. The gesture is familiar enough that you don’t even think about it anymore. Somewhere along the way you had stopped being surprised by how naturally she takes care of you. What still surprises you is how much you want her to.

When you reach your room, she sits you down on the closed toilet lid before disappearing briefly into the bathroom cabinet. A moment later she returns with a packet of makeup wipes and kneels in front of you.

The tenderness of the gesture nearly hurts.

You had lied to her. You had worried her. You had ignored her instructions and broken her trust. And yet here she is, crouched in front of you at three in the morning, carefully removing the remnants of makeup and glitter from your face with the same patience she always uses.

Neither of you says much. The room is quiet except for the soft rustle of the wipe against your skin.

When she’s finished, she tosses it away and crosses to your dresser without needing to ask where anything is. She knows this room almost as well as her own. A moment later she is holding your favorite pajamas, the soft worn set that always seems to find its way to the top of the drawer whenever you’ve had a bad day.

“Brush your teeth, bebé.”

You nod as she leaves to give you privacy.

When she comes back several minutes later, you’re already in bed.

The blankets are pulled over your legs and you’re propped against the headboard, hands wrapped around your knees as exhaustion finally begins catching up to you. Alexia is carrying a bottle of cold water which she opens before handing it over.

You take a long drink. Then another. And another. Partly because you’re dehydrated, but mostly because it delays the conversation you know is coming eventually.

When you finally lower the bottle, your eyes find hers. “Ale?”

Her expression softens as she looks up at you. “Yes, mi amor?”

The endearment almost makes your eyes sting. You stare down at the bottle in your hands.

“I’m really, really sorry.” The words come out small and rough.

For a moment she simply looks at you. Then her hand comes up to brush gently through your hair.

“I know, bebé.” She tucks a loose strand behind your ear. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay?” she says quietly. “Right now you’re exhausted and I’m exhausted, and neither of us is going to think very clearly tonight.”

You nod. The lump in your throat grows a little bigger. “Ale?”

She huffs out the faintest hint of a smile. “Yeah?”

“Do you think…” you begin before losing your nerve, your fingers tightening around the water bottle in your lap as you stare down at the blanket. 

Alexia remains completely patient, giving you all the time in the world to find the courage to ask. “Well maybe…” You stop again, frustration and exhaustion making it impossible to get the words out properly. “Could you maybe stay here tonight?”

Alexia tilts her head slightly, her expression softening as she looks at you.

You don’t elaborate. You don’t need to. You just blink back at her, feeling far too tired and emotionally wrung out to explain that after everything that happened tonight, the thought of being alone feels unbearable.

“Okay, bebé.” Her answer comes so easily that it makes your chest ache.

She rises from the edge of the bed and moves around to the other side, pulling off the oversized sweatshirt she had thrown on earlier. Beneath it are the pajamas she’d clearly been wearing when she received those phone calls, and the sight sends another wave of guilt washing through you because it is impossible not to picture her seeing those photos, grabbing the first thing she could find, and racing out the door without a second thought.

She came for you. She hadn’t stopped to change. Hadn’t stopped to think. Hadn’t stopped at all.

The mattress dips slightly as she climbs into bed beside you.

For a while neither of you says anything. The room is quiet except for the occasional rustle of blankets and the distant hum of the air conditioner, both of you staring up at the ceiling while the events of the night slowly begin settling into place.

Eventually Alexia reaches across the space between you and gently pulls you against her side. The movement is so familiar now that you go willingly without thinking.

Her arm wraps securely around your shoulders while her fingers slide into your hair, scratching lightly against your scalp in the exact way she knows helps you relax, and almost immediately you feel your entire body begin to soften beneath her touch.

The tension leaves your shoulders. Your breathing slows. The frantic energy that has been buzzing beneath your skin since she walked into that club finally starts settling.

Sleep begins creeping up on you slowly. Your eyes grow heavier. Your body sinks further into the mattress.

Then, just as you’re beginning to drift, a memory resurfaces from the car. The words hit you all over again.

My daughter.

Your eyes fly open. Your breath catches sharply enough that Alexia stirs - even half asleep, her response is automatic. Her eyes blink open lazily, heavy with exhaustion, and she lifts her head slightly from the pillow to look down at you.

“You okay?” she murmurs, her voice rough with sleep.

You don’t answer right away because how are you supposed to explain this? How are you supposed to explain what happened inside your chest when she said those words?

You had spent most of your life belonging to nobody. Passed from house to house, caretaker to caretaker, always feeling temporary, always feeling like you were occupying space that could be taken back at any moment.

People had called you a lot of things over the years : foster kid, placement, responsibility, problem. Nobody had ever looked at you with fear in their eyes and called you theirs.

And Alexia hadn’t even done it intentionally. She hadn’t sat down and chosen those words carefully. She hadn’t made some grand declaration. The words had simply fallen out of her mouth in a moment of panic because, somewhere in her mind, that was already what you were.

Her daughter.

The realization makes something warm and painful bloom inside your chest all at once.

You don’t know how to tell her that hearing those words felt like being handed something you’d secretly wanted for so long that you’d stopped allowing yourself to hope for it. You don’t know how to tell her that you’ve been replaying them over and over in your head ever since.

So instead you simply shake your head and burrow closer.

Your hands curl into the front of her pajama shirt and you press your face against her shoulder, holding onto her a little tighter than usual.

Alexia studies you for a moment until a quiet breath leaves her nose, carrying equal parts affection and amusement, before she leans down and presses a gentle kiss against your forehead.

“T’estimo, mi amor,” she murmurs softly.

One of her hands settles against the back of your head while the other resumes its slow journey through your hair.

She doesn’t ask any questions or make you explain. She just holds you.

The steady movement of her fingers gradually slows as sleep begins pulling at her again, each pass through your hair becoming a little lazier than the last until eventually her hand comes to rest against the back of your neck.

A few minutes later her breathing deepens. The familiar rhythm fills the room.

You listen to it for a long time. Long enough for your eyes to grow heavy. Long enough for the warmth in your chest to outweigh the guilt still lingering there. Long enough for sleep to finally pull you under too, tucked safely against her side while her arms remain wrapped around you exactly where they belong.

5:

The perfect season somehow ends exactly the way Alexia insists all perfect seasons should: with a trophy in one hand and an excuse to throw a party in the other.

You stand off to the side of the patio watching the chaos unfold with increasingly wide eyes as Alexia, Irene, and Patri completely take over the backyard, moving furniture from one end of the garden to the other with the seriousness of people preparing for a diplomatic summit rather than a seventeen-year-old’s birthday party.

At some point during the morning, the normal outdoor seating arrangement had disappeared entirely. In its place now sat long tables covered in decorations, enormous flower arrangements filled with carefully coordinated colors, and what looked suspiciously like an entire wall of balloons that seemed to grow larger every time you looked away for more than five minutes. 

You aren’t entirely sure where half of it came from. You do know that at one point you heard Alexia discussing delivery schedules with someone on the phone before mentioning that the caterer would be arriving at three o’clock, which had nearly caused you to choke on your coffee because, as far as you were concerned, ordering pizza would have qualified as party planning.

Apparently Alexia strongly disagreed.

The strange thing is that none of this had been your idea.

Your birthday wasn’t technically until tomorrow, but after weeks of relentless pestering from Vicky and Clara, who seemed personally offended by your complete lack of interest in celebrating yourself, you had eventually worked up the courage to ask Alexia if maybe they could come over for an afternoon.

Just them and maybe a few teammates. Something simple.

You had even presented your argument carefully. Having people over at the house still complied with the terms of your grounding, you had pointed out. After all, you had spent the last month accepting the consequences of your disastrous decision-making without complaint, fully aware that sneaking into a nightclub, lying to Alexia, and accidentally becoming the center of a social media firestorm had earned every restriction she’d given you.

Alexia had listened to your carefully constructed reasoning for approximately ten seconds before laughing outright.

Then she’d reached over and ruffled your hair. “It’s your birthday, petita,” she had said. “You can celebrate it anywhere you want.”

The truth was that you genuinely did want it here.  You liked that somewhere along the way the house had stopped feeling like Alexia’s house. It felt like yours too.

Your shoes lived by the garage door. Your textbooks ended up scattered across the kitchen table. Your favorite cereal permanently occupied a shelf in the pantry. There were photographs of you throughout the house now, mixed naturally among the family photos as though they’d always belonged there.

Most importantly, it was the first place you had ever wanted to invite people to. The first place you had ever felt proud of. The first place that felt enough like home that you wanted to share it with your friends.

Unfortunately, what began as a small gathering had spiraled wildly out of control.

The chain of events had apparently started with Vicky. Vicky told Kika. Kika told Patri. Patri told every living person in Barcelona. And because footballers were apparently incapable of minding their own business, the information had spread through the entire team with frightening efficiency.

Now people kept appearing at training asking what time the party started. Players you hadn’t technically invited were somehow discussing what swimsuits they planned to bring. At one point Mapi had asked whether she should bring an appetizer. You hadn’t even known she was coming.

Alexia, meanwhile, seemed delighted by the entire situation. If anything, every new guest only made her more excited.

Over the last two weeks, she had been almost impossibly happy. Winning the Champions League had left the entire team floating for days, her contract renewal had removed months of uncertainty, and the season itself could not have ended more perfectly if someone had written it in a script.

Your birthday had arrived immediately afterward and somehow became the thing she was most excited about.

She had talked about it constantly. She had made lists. She had revised those lists. She had asked what food you wanted, what music you wanted, whether you preferred a cake or multiple desserts and then decided to get both.

Every time you sheepishly informed her that another teammate had somehow heard about the party and wanted to come, her face had lit up even more.

“Bebé, our house is enormous,” she had told you after your latest attempt to apologize. “You could invite everyone you know and we’d still have room.”

As it turned out, you were dangerously close to testing that theory.

The whole thing should probably have been overwhelming. Honestly, it was a little overwhelming. But every time you started feeling nervous about the growing guest list or the increasingly elaborate decorations, you would look over at Alexia and see the excitement written all over her face. 

She was just so happy to be throwing you a party, so happy to have an excuse to fill the house with people who cared about you, so happy to celebrate you in a way that made it impossible for anyone to miss how loved you were. 

Birthdays had never really meant much before. For most of your life they had passed quietly, acknowledged by very few people and celebrated by even fewer. The only part you had ever cared about was football, because another birthday usually meant another promotion, another chance to play against older girls, another step forward in the sport you loved.

Everything else had always felt secondary and forgettable. Just another date on a calendar. Alexia, however, had treated this birthday like a national holiday. The date had been circled on the kitchen calendar for months.

She had started asking what you wanted weeks ago. More than once she had casually mentioned that she already had “a few ideas” but wanted to make sure there wasn’t anything specific you hoped for first.

Every time, you had shaken your head with growing embarrassment. Because the truth was that you genuinely couldn’t think of anything. Every time she asked, you found yourself looking around at the life you’d somehow built here and realizing that you already had everything you’d spent years wishing for without ever expecting to find.

And judging by the knowing look Alexia kept giving you whenever you failed to answer the question, you suspected she already knew that.

------

Alexia laughs when the third balloon in less than ten minutes explodes directly in Patri’s face.

The sound echoes across the backyard, followed immediately by Patri’s increasingly dramatic complaints about being personally victimized by party decorations, which only seems to make Alexia laugh harder. Eventually she gives up entirely, gesturing for Patri to surrender the pump and go find something else to do before she somehow manages to injure herself preparing for a birthday party.

Patri leaves with all the dignity of a disgraced soldier retreating from battle.

Once the others disappear inside to continue setting up decorations throughout the house, you make your way across the patio toward Alexia, who is crouched beside an increasingly elaborate balloon arch that has somehow become one of the most important projects of the day.

“Ale.” She glances up immediately. You are fairly certain you could whisper her name from the opposite side of Barcelona and she’d still somehow hear it.

“Maybe I can do that?” you ask, gesturing toward the pump. “I want to help.”

The expression she gives you is fondly exasperated. “Petita, it’s your birthday.” Then she pauses. “Well, birthday weekend.”

You can’t help smiling at the correction.

“You shouldn’t be setting up your own party.”

“Yeah, but I want to.” You shift your weight slightly before adding the part that usually works. “Pleaseee?”

Alexia studies you for a moment, clearly debating whether to continue arguing, before finally surrendering with a shake of her head. “You blow them up and I’ll arrange them.”

The victory feels embarrassingly satisfying. You immediately claim the pump before she can change her mind.

For a while the two of you work quietly beside one another, settling into an easy rhythm as you inflate balloons and hand them over while Alexia somehow transforms what should be a chaotic pile of plastic into something that actually looks organized and intentional.

At some point you become aware of her watching you, checking in without wanting you to notice she’s checking in. 

Eventually she breaks the silence. “You doing okay?” The question is simple and casual. But you know her well enough by now to hear everything underneath it.

The month after the club incident hadn’t been easy. The grounding had been fair, but fair didn’t necessarily mean enjoyable. There had been difficult conversations and consequences and more than a few moments where you’d felt terrible about how badly you’d scared her. 

Even now, weeks later, she still checks sometimes. Making sure you’re actually okay. Making sure you’re happy. Making sure the weight of everything that happened isn’t still sitting on your shoulders.

You glance around the yard before answering.

The patio is bathed in warm afternoon sunlight. Through the open doors you can hear Patri and Irene arguing over something neither of them actually cares about enough to be fighting over, their voices rising and falling in the familiar rhythm of people who have spent years annoying each other affectionately. Somewhere nearby the pool filter sends water gently splashing against the tiled walls, and the warm summer air carries the scent of freshly cut grass and flowers across the backyard.

For a moment you simply take it all in before your eyes return to Alexia. To the woman sitting beside you surrounded by half-finished decorations and balloon fragments, looking at you with enough affection to make your chest ache.

And for once the answer comes easily. “Yeah.” You mean it, you genuinely mean it. 

Four hours later, however, you mean it a little less.

The party is perfect. The food is incredible, the weather is somehow cooperating despite the fact that Barcelona summers usually seem determined to melt everyone alive, and every person you care about appears to be having the time of their life.

The problem is simply that there is so much of it.

So many people. So much noise. So much attention.

The backyard has transformed into something that feels closer to a festival than a birthday party, every corner occupied by a different conversation, every chair filled, every patch of shade claimed by some combination of teammates, relatives, classmates, and family friends.

The table near the back door is completely buried beneath gifts, colorful wrapping paper stacked so high that you can barely see the surface underneath anymore, and every time you glance in that direction you swear the pile has somehow gotten bigger.

There are Barça players scattered throughout the yard. There are classmates you never expected to see standing beside Champions League winners discussing school gossip. There are various members of the Putellas i Segura family tree whose exact relationship to Alexia remains something of a mystery to you despite repeated explanations.

Across the yard, Vicky and Clara have recruited one of Alexia’s younger cousins into an increasingly competitive game of keepy-uppy that seems to involve far more shouting than the sport technically requires. Every few seconds somebody erupts into celebration while somebody else accuses them of cheating, and the argument inevitably starts all over again before any actual conclusions are reached.

Nearby, Kika, Esmee, and Salma have turned the pool into their own personal volleyball court, the game growing more aggressive with every passing minute as increasingly dramatic dives send water splashing onto anyone unfortunate enough to be standing nearby.

Pina and Cata have established themselves near the drinks table, a development that several people have openly described as concerning, though not concerning enough for anyone to actually intervene.

Meanwhile, you seem to have spent the entire afternoon being gently passed from one conversation to the next.

Every time you think you’ve finally escaped a cluster of people, somebody spots you from across the yard and waves you over. Every time you finish one conversation, another begins. Every time you manage to sit down, someone appears beside you wanting to congratulate you on the season, ask about school, discuss football, or tell you a story you somehow feature prominently.

It is wonderful. It is exhausting. It is probably the most loved you have ever felt in your entire life.

And that might actually be the problem. Because every few minutes something happens that throws you off all over again. 

One of Alexia’s relatives hugs you goodbye and tells you they’ll see you at the next family gathering as though your attendance is already assumed. Someone refers to the house as yours without even thinking about it. Another person talks about next season as though your future at Barça is inevitable.

Each interaction is small. Insignificant on its own. Yet somehow they keep accumulating until your chest feels strangely tight.

You catch yourself looking toward Alexia more than once. She is everywhere. One moment she’s helping carry trays of food onto the patio. The next she’s greeting another arriving guest. Then she’s laughing at something Alba says, throwing her head back with a smile so bright that even from across the yard you can see it.

The happiness radiates off her in waves. Every time her eyes eventually find you somewhere in the crowd, her entire expression softens in a way that still catches you off guard despite how often you’ve seen it. You know that look now. You know exactly what it means. Which somehow only makes your chest twist even more.

Because there was a time when birthdays passed almost unnoticed. There was a time when nobody decorated anything. Nobody planned anything. Nobody circled dates on calendars months in advance. Nobody spent weeks discussing cakes and playlists and guest lists as though your existence was an event worth celebrating.

You never really minded back then. At least you told yourself you didn’t. You became very good at pretending things didn’t matter. Very good at convincing yourself that wanting less was the same thing as needing less. But sitting here now, surrounded by more love than you know what to do with, it becomes increasingly difficult to maintain those old lies.

Eventually, after being trapped in a conversation with Patri about music, summer plans, and at least three separate stories that somehow merged together halfway through, you manage to slip away under the excuse of needing another drink.

The moment you step inside the house, the noise dulls slightly. The music becomes distant. The conversations blur together. The air feels cooler.

You find yourself wandering toward the staircase instinctively and lowering yourself onto the bottom step, settling into that strange middle ground where you are technically still present but no longer actively participating.

You rest your chin against your hand and stare vaguely toward one of the paintings hanging on the opposite wall, your focus gradually softening until the details blur together. You take slow, deep breaths, trying to understand why your eyes suddenly feel suspiciously warm.

When you finally glance up, Alexia standing in the doorway watching you with a look that suggests she figured out exactly what was happening several minutes ago.

You immediately feel sheepish. Your birthday party is happening twenty feet away and you’ve hidden yourself on the stairs like an overwhelmed cat.

You open your mouth, already preparing to explain yourself, but Alexia’s expression shifts before you can get a single word out. A grin spreads slowly across her face, the kind that always means she’s had an idea and that everyone around her is about to be dragged into it whether they like it or not.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

You blink. The question takes several seconds to register. “What?”

“Do you want to get out of here?” She gestures vaguely toward the backyard. “My mom is here. Alba is here. Everyone is fed, nobody is fighting yet, and there is enough food to survive a small natural disaster.” 

You stare. Alexia continues like this is the most reasonable suggestion in the world. “They won’t even notice we’re gone. And we’ll be back before cake.”

The next thing you know, she was leading you through a side gate with a football tucked beneath one arm, both of you trying and failing to suppress your laughter as though you were committing some elaborate crime instead of temporarily abandoning a gathering full of people who adored you. The ridiculousness of it all only becomes funnier the farther you get from the house.

By the time you reach the small park at the end of the neighborhood, the tightness in your chest has already eased considerably.

The evening air is warm without being oppressive, carrying the lingering scent of summer grass and sun-warmed pavement. Behind you, the party continues somewhere beyond the trees and rooftops, reduced to a distant memory of music and laughter that feels pleasantly far away rather than overwhelming.

The two of you spend a while kicking the ball back and forth without much purpose, neither of you really trying to play properly. The football becomes little more than an excuse to move around while you talk, the conversation drifting effortlessly from one topic to another as you laugh about the increasingly chaotic state of the party. You speculate about which guests will somehow end up in the pool before the evening is over, debate whether Pina and Cata should ever be trusted with drink responsibilities again, and spend several minutes discussing a couple who may or may not be having an argument near the buffet table.

For the first time all afternoon, everything feels manageable. The constant attention has disappeared. The endless conversations have quieted. The pressure to be perceived has evaporated. It is just you and Alexia and a football. The simplicity of it allows something else to surface.

You trap the ball beneath your foot and stare down at it for a moment before speaking.

The admission comes slowly, partly because you’ve never really thought about it before and partly because you’re only just beginning to understand it yourself.

You tell her that birthdays were never something you paid much attention to growing up. They came and went like any other day, acknowledged occasionally but rarely celebrated, and somewhere along the way you stopped expecting them to matter. Football was usually the only thing worth noticing, because another birthday often meant another promotion, another chance to play at a higher level, another step forward in the one area of your life that felt predictable.

“I don’t know why I got so in my head about it,” you admit after a long stretch of silence, your eyes following the football as it rolls lazily through the grass before coming to rest a few feet away. “I think it was just a little overwhelming, you know? All those people there for me.”

The words sound small once they’re out in the open. A little ridiculous even. You kick absently at a patch of grass.

“I don’t know,” you continue more quietly. “I think maybe I just don’t feel like I deserve it.”

The confession leaves your mouth before you can stop it. Immediately you wish you could take it back. Hearing the thought spoken aloud makes it sound far sadder than it did inside your own head.

Beside you, Alexia doesn’t answer right away. She rarely does when the conversation starts drifting toward something important.

Instead, she takes a few slow steps forward until she’s standing beside you, both of you looking out across the open field while the evening sky stretches above the park in shades of pink and gold. The sun has nearly disappeared now, leaving only the soft glow of sunset lingering along the horizon, and for a while the two of you simply stand there shoulder to shoulder while a warm breeze stirs the grass around your feet.

When she finally speaks, her voice is soft enough that it almost blends into the evening air. “Love isn’t something you deserve.”

You glance toward her. Her gaze remains fixed on the sky. “It’s not something you earn either.”

The words are spoken so matter-of-factly that for a moment you aren’t entirely sure you’ve heard them correctly. Alexia notices your confusion, small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.

“People always talk about deserving love like it’s some kind of reward,” she says quietly. “Like if you’re good enough or successful enough or kind enough, eventually somebody hands it to you. But that’s not how it works.”

Her hands slide into the pockets of her shorts. “Love isn’t a prize. It isn’t a transaction. It isn’t something people give you because you’ve finally proven yourself worthy of receiving it.”

She turns her head slightly then, just enough for you to catch the affection in her expression. “It just is.”

The simplicity of the statement makes your chest ache. She says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like there has never been any question about it.

“You didn’t earn Alba’s love,” she continues after a moment. “You didn’t earn Vicky’s love or Clara’s or my mom’s. None of those people spent the afternoon in that backyard because you somehow convinced them to.”

A small laugh escapes her. “Trust me, if I could convince the family to do anything, life would be much easier.”

That earns the faintest smile from you. Alexia’s expression softens even further when she sees it.

“They were there because they care about you,” she says. “Because they love you. Because somewhere along the way you became important to them and now they can’t imagine their lives without you in them.”

The words settle heavily in your chest. It’s as if something you’ve been carrying for a very long time is finally being set down.

For a while neither of you speaks. The breeze moves through the trees overhead. The sounds of the neighborhood drift around you. And somewhere behind you, hidden beyond rows of houses and garden walls, your birthday party continues without either of you.

Alexia exhales softly through her nose. When she speaks again, her voice is thoughtful. Almost amused.

“You know,” she says, “I call you my daughter in my head every day.”

The world seems to tilt slightly. Your head turns so quickly it nearly gives you whiplash.

Alexia notices immediately. The smile that appears on her face is small and fond. She’s been expecting this reaction.

“I have for a while now.” She shrugs one shoulder comfortably, like she’s talking about something she accepted a long time ago.

“You never earned my love either.” The words are quiet and certain. “You just have it.”

You stare at her. Unable to look away. Unable to speak.

“You never had to earn a place in my life,” she continues. “You never had to prove that you belonged there. You never had to become successful enough or talented enough or good enough for me to care about you.”

A gentle smile appears on her face. “The day I decided you were staying with me, that was pretty much the end of the discussion as far as I was concerned.”

A laugh escapes you despite the tears suddenly threatening behind your eyes.

Alexia reaches over and squeezes the back of your neck gently. “Alba loves you because you’re you. Vicky loves you because you’re you. My family loves you because you’re you.”

Her eyes meet yours then, steady and certain in a way they always are when she’s saying something she knows to be true. “And I love you because you’re my daughter.”

The words hit harder than anything else she’s said.

It doesn’t surprise you, you’ve spent months suspecting it. You’ve spent months noticing it in all the small things she probably never even realized she was doing. In the way she worried whenever you were late getting home. In the way she always remembered the things that mattered to you, no matter how insignificant they seemed. In the way she fussed over injuries and schoolwork and meals and sleep schedules. In the way her eyes immediately searched for you whenever she entered a room.

Most of all, you’d noticed it in the way she loved you. A kind of love that had never felt temporary. A kind of love that never seemed conditional. A kind of love that simply existed, unwavering and constant, no matter how many mistakes you made.

Still, hearing her say it aloud feels different. It feels like someone finally putting a name to something that has been quietly growing between the two of you for so long that neither of you can quite remember where it started.

Your throat tightens. Your eyes sting. You stare stubbornly down at the grass beneath your feet because looking directly at her suddenly feels impossible.

“I call you mama in my head too.” The confession slips out before you can stop it.

The second the words leave your mouth you want to crawl into a hole and never emerge again. Heat floods your face. Embarrassment follows immediately after. You feel exposed in a way you haven’t felt in a very long time, like you’ve accidentally handed her a piece of yourself you never intended anyone else to see.

“I don’t even know when I started,” you admit quietly, still refusing to look at her. “It wasn’t intentional or anything. It just sort of…” You trail off, searching for words that don’t seem to exist. “It just happened.”

The silence that follows stretches long enough that you finally force yourself to look up.

When you do, Alexia is staring at you with an expression you’ve never seen before. There is so much love that it almost hurts to look at. She looks like someone who has just been handed something precious she never dared ask for.

Slowly, she reaches up and cups the side of your face. The touch is warm and steady. The same hand that has fixed your hair before interviews, checked your temperature when you were sick, wiped tears from your cheeks, and squeezed your shoulder after difficult matches. This time it lingers.

She steps closer and presses a kiss against your temple, letting it rest there for several long seconds before finally pulling back.

When she finally speaks, her voice is impossibly gentle. “You know you’re allowed to say it out loud too, right?”

Your breath catches. The question hangs between you, so simple and yet somehow so frightening. Because thinking it and saying it are two very different things. Thinking it is safe, private, yours. Saying it aloud makes it real.

Alexia must see the panic flicker across your face because her smile softens even further. “It belongs to you.”

The words settle somewhere deep inside your chest, like rain sinking into dry ground.

“You don’t have to earn that either,” she continues quietly, her thumb brushing across your cheek in the same soothing way she always does whenever you’re upset. “You don’t have to wonder whether you’re allowed or whether it’s okay or whether you’re somehow asking for too much.”

A small laugh escapes her then, warm and fond and full of affection. “Trust me, carinyo, if anyone in the world has the right to call me that, it’s probably the girl I’ve spent the last year accidentally raising.”

The laugh that escapes you comes out broken immediately by a sob. The sound surprises both of you.

One second you’re standing there trying very hard to keep yourself together, and the next every emotion you’ve apparently been carrying for months comes crashing through the carefully constructed walls you’ve built around them.

You don’t even think about it. You just move. Throwing yourself forward until you’re wrapped around her. Holding on tighter than you ever have before. Your hands fist in the back of her shirt. Your face disappears into her shoulder.

And then you’re crying. Big, ugly, helpless sobs that shake your entire body. The kind that come from somewhere deep. Somewhere old. Somewhere that has been waiting a very long time for this.

Alexia doesn’t say a word. She simply catches you. The way she always does. Her arms wrap around you tightly, one hand settling firmly between your shoulder blades while the other slides into your hair, fingers moving through it in slow, soothing strokes as she holds you against her chest.

You can hear her heartbeat - it’s strong and steady and familiar. You cling to her like she’s the only solid thing in the world. And maybe, in this moment, she is.

She lets you cry for as long as you need. Simply holding you while years of loneliness and fear and uncertainty finally loosen their grip enough to be carried away by tears.

Eventually the sobs begin to quiet. Your breathing steadies. The crushing pressure in your chest eases enough for you to lift your head.

You look up at her through blurry eyes and wet lashes, your cheeks stained with tears, your nose hopelessly stuffy, your throat aching with emotion.

Alexia immediately brushes a tear away with her thumb. Looking at you like you are the most precious thing she has ever been trusted with.

Your voice trembles when you finally speak.

“T’estimo.” Fresh tears instantly fill Alexia’s eyes. You see them before she can blink them away.

“T’estimo molt, mama.”

The word feels different out loud. Bigger and warmer. Like something that has belonged to you for a long time finally finding its way home.

For a second Alexia simply stares at you. The world seems to narrow to the space between you.

All the sounds from the party fade into the background. The laughter, the music, the voices drifting across the neighborhood become distant and insignificant compared to the look on her face.

A tear slips down her cheek. Then another. 

She lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh through the tears, shaking her head slightly as though some part of her still can’t quite believe she’s actually hearing it.

As though she’s spent so long loving you this way that she never stopped to imagine what it might feel like to have that love named and returned.

Then she’s pulling you right back into her arms. Holding you so tightly it almost hurts.

“T’estimo també, filla.” 

Her voice cracks around the last word. Daughter. 

The same certainty you’ve heard every time she’s called you petita, or bebé, or amor meu. The same unwavering certainty that has lived beneath every hug, every forehead kiss, every late-night conversation, every moment she chose you without hesitation.

Only this time neither of you has to hide behind other names. Neither of you has to dance around the truth anymore.

“Moltíssim.”

The word is barely more than a whisper against your hair, but you feel it all the same. 

The kind of love that asks for nothing and expects nothing. The kind of love that simply exists.

Unfortunately, Alexia was moving way too slowly, and it looked like she had never once been expected to do teamwork, which was a shame for a player of her aptitude.

"Alexia," you said for what had to be the tenth time, pulling off the elastic band from your side of the fitted sheets while watching her struggle with hers for the last two minutes. "Have you ever changed a fitted sheet once in your life? Why the hell is it taking you so long?"

"Of course I have!" She scoffed. 

You raised an eyebrow, and she folded.

"The elastic on this one is ridiculously tight, okay?! I have to stick my hand under the mattress," She held up her fingers in protest. "And I got my nails done yesterday. I don't want to ruin them!"

You blinked at her. "You cannot possibly be serious right now."

Suddenly, there was an impatient knock on the door, and Alexia let go of her side of the mattress. Of course she did. 

You closed your eyes tight, breathing in and out to not scream at her.

While Alexia wandered off towards the door, you walked to where she was once standing to do the (very, extremely) simple work of removing the fucking fitted sheets off yourself. 

All the while, a voice you knew very well called out from the other side of the door.

"Open up! We need to leave soon!" Clara's voice was sunny, and buoyant and utterly unwelcome, well, at least, by your part.

You froze in place with a handful of fitted (damp) sheets gripped tightly in your fist. "Oh no–"

Alexia apparently did not seem to understand that this was possibly the worst time to let a nineteen-year-old into the room. Instead, she smiled at the sound of Clara's voice and reached for the lock before you could mutter a word of protest. 

If she had taken one single look at your face, she would have seen the panic written all over; she would have noticed your eyes widening, the internal screaming for her to step away from the door immediately, but since she did not, the door swung open, and your lovely sister walked right in.

Clara was as cheerful as she was the last time you saw her on the pitch, except now she wore clean clothes instead of her dirty match kit. The kid took one step into the room, and her eyes quickly landed on you. 

You gulped, forcing a smile that did not come. Judging by the way Clara's eyebrow immediately lifted, you were probably frowning instead of smiling.

Your sister paused and narrowed her eyes. You could see that Clara instantly sensed your distress, like a shark sensing a droplet of blood in the ocean. Very slowly, very Hollywood-like, her gaze drifted to the now-bare, stripped mattress. 

You watched colour draining from her cheeks, her pale face turning to Alexia, who was just beaming, wholly oblivious to the situation happening around her.

"Hi, Serra!" Alexia greeted her happily, leaning against the wall next to the entrance,

She was treating Clara as if they hadn't seen each other in months instead of hours. Cute… completely adorable! But also deeply unhelpful! Where was her sense of urgency?! 

"Did Patri tell you what time she was meeting us or–?"

"Deu meu! No!" Clara's jaw dropped a centimetre per millisecond. "Please, por favor, don't tell me you two just–"

"Oh… perfect," You groaned as a furious blush rushed out from your neck all the way to the capillaries of your cheeks. You quickly threw the balled-up sheet and shoved it inside the wardrobe just to get it out of sight. "Clara, just close your eyes and try to pretend you didn't see the sheets, okay?"

Alexia stood perfectly still for a moment, slowly taking in the situation. But then, it all clicked in her head: Clara's reaction, the bed, and finally, what exactly you two had been doing before Clara walked in that resulted in you two having to strip the bed—

"Oh. Oh…" she said, her smile faltering. "Mmnn. S-sorry Serra, I don't think I should let you in…just yet."

You looked at Alexia deadpan, crossing your arms. "Oh, you think, Putellas?"

"Ay!" She protested, pouting. "Don't last-name me, mi amor! I was just excited to have the girls here, and I thought Patri was with‐"

"It's been less than an hour since we got to the hotel," Clara interrupted, looking like someone who had seen disgraceful things. "How can you two have already had sex?"

You and Alexia exchanged looks for a second, and then both of you looked at the girl.

"That's… that's actually plenty of time to–" Alexia began responding, right at the same moment Clara clamped both her hands over her ears.

"Ew!!" Clara said, offended, practically jumping backwards. "Don't tell me the details! That's so disgusting! What's wrong with you?!"

"You were the one who asked the question-?" Alexia pointed out, throwing her hands up in the air.

"Sí, pero–"

"Can the two of you please stop talking about this!" you interrupted loudly while wrestling a clean sheet onto the mattress. "Why does everything always seem to circle back to my sexual life!"

"My?" Alexia gasped, looking completely offended. "Excuse me? Our. I'm part of your sexual life!"

"I'm going to puke," Clara gagged. "I'm serious… I'm so nauseous."

"Please do so in the hallways and not in our room, por favor," Alexia replied, gesturing rather dramatically toward the open door, as if having to clean vomit would be the greatest inconvenience imaginable. You were a doctor, you were kind of familiar with it, so it wouldn't be that bad, right?

But Clara didn't move. Instead, her eyes widened even more, squinting intently at your collarbone  "Y/n… Is that a– a hickey!?"

You felt your stomach drop as though someone had put stones on it. Your hand flew up on pure instinct to cover your throat before you even thought about it. You hadn't had the chance to put on concealer yet. "No, it's not."

"Then why are you covering your neck?" Clara challenged, crossing her arms.

"B-because–"

Before you could come up with a more convincing lie, Clara turned entirely to Alexia, looking unimpressed. "Really, capi?" she asked. "In the neck? That's such a beginner move… Everyone can see it."

Alexia tilted her head, looking pretty offended "Excuse me? Beginner move? she pointed at herself. "I'm thirty-two!"

"Do you want to tell me something, Clara?" You interrupted, your own eyes at your youngest sister, who, seemingly, overnight, had become suspiciously knowledgeable about the art of giving hickeys.

"Ugh, no!" Clara said, blushing creeping up her cheeks, while she held her hands up defensively. "No! Of course not, mana!" her eyes darted away. "We can actually go back to talking about the fact that my captain was all over my sister!"

"Or," Alexia countered, a slow and dangerous smirk shining across her face as she sensed Clara's panic. " We can talk about you, Serra, and why you seem to know so much about the appropriate, hidden location to give people hickeys. 

Clara blushed so deeply and so rapidly that you became genuinely concerned about her blood pressure… Interesting, very interesting. You stared at her, making a mental note and snapping it into a place in your brain. You were definitely going to sit her down for a very long, very serious talk the second you got back from Oslo.

"Okay, stop!" you commanded, throwing your hands in the air. "No more talking about puking, and no more talking about sex, and no absolutely no more talking about hickeys!"

"Yes, Yes! Please, let's not talk about that ever again!" Clara agreed, clearly thrilled to have the spotlight off her own (possible) love life. 

Her enthusiasm only made her look guiltier. 

But then, in a change of mood of a true teenager, she looked towards Alexia, a smile shining bright on her face. 

"...And how's my favourite three time Bollon d'or doing?" Clara asked cheerfully, stepping forward to give Alexia a playful punch on her arm. "After today's game, you'll definitely win it, I can already see itAa Can I go with you? Please? To the red carpet?"

Alexia let out a dramatic huff, rolling her eyes as she walked into the bathroom. "There's no red carpet yet, Serra. You know I don't like it when you guys-"

"Yes! Yet!" Clara said. "You said yet. That's the spirit, capi!"

"Oh Dios mío," Alexia rolled her eyes.

"She's gonna win it, you know?" Clara whispered loudly to you and ignored the captain's attempt to modesty as she trailed behind Alexia into the bathroom. "Your novía is going to be a three-time ballon–"

"I can hear you, Serra," Alexia called out from the mirror.

You glanced over and found her frowning at her reflection while fixing her hair. Her expression should be annoying, but the faint smile tugging at her mouth ruined the whole effect completely. 

"-Loud and clear," she continued. "Stop, yeah?"

Clara grinned, and you couldn't help but grin too. 

The girls never missed a single opportunity to tease Alexia about her achievements, and despite all her complaining, she secretly seemed to enjoy it far more than she liked to admit, and you found that utterly hilarious. 

In the end, you realised a million things were happening at once: a possibly secret relationship brewing in your younger sister's life, a few too many (poorly hidden) hickeys burning on your neck, and an entire squad waiting downstairs while your girlfriend and your sister continued squabbling like siblings. 

But right now, your most pressing concern was getting your makeup done before the team bus left without you.

Both Alexia and Clara ended up crowded around the bathroom counter to finish their hair and makeup side by side. You leaned your shoulder against the doorway, simply watching with a small smile on your face. 

Alexia was so unbelievably patient and sweet with Clara. She shared her (expensive!!) products without complaining, gently helping her blend her blush the right way and correcting Clara whenever she got too impatient and tired and rushing through it. 

Watching the two of them together like that made you fall even deeper in love with Ale. A dangerous thought erupted in your chest without warning, making you wonder about future life with Alexia, one that involved living together. It made you wonder about (eventually) having a small version of her with those same hazel eyes clinging to your legs and calling you mama.

The image hit you so unexpectedly that you quickly shook your head, clearing the thoughts away. That was definitely not a conversation meant for right now. It was a conversation for a much, much older version of yourself… right?

In fact, you were so thoroughly blinded by love and distracted by your rather alarming thought that you completely missed the moment Alexia decided to pick up her phone and started an Instagram Live. 

Yes. 

Out of the two of them, Alexia was the one who chose to do it. 

This was a very unusual day.

"Hola culers!!" Clara beamed instantly as Alexia handed her the phone, only for Clara to focus the camera right back on the captain again. 

"Ay, no, no! Point it somewhere else," Alexia mumbled, waving her hand and leaning into the mirror to focus on applying her lipstick. "I don't like cameras."

Despite being literally one of the biggest names in women's football, Alexia was always shy whenever attention was directed solely at her.

It was ridiculous and incredibly endearing.

"It's your live and you don't even want to be in it?!" Clara asked, looking absolutely scandalised. "You're making your fans sad, Alexia!" 

"Fans, Serra? Please," Alexia laughed, shaking her head as she pressed her lips together to even out the lipstick. 

You chuckled from your spot in the doorway, and both of them snapped their heads to look at you at the exact same time. As if only now they remembered your presence.

Alexia paused, lipstick still held mid-air. The bathroom lighting was incredibly warm, hitting the sharp line of her jaw and making her look unfairly pretty.

You stared at her, your heart doing somersaults. 

You were definitely, absolutely going to have more sex tonight. In every possible position. Bedding be damned. Your back too.

"Guys!! Look who is here!"Clara immediately redirected the phone toward you. "This is my real hermana mayor! Say hi!! Oh, and be kind, yeah? she's a little shy." [Older sister]

You, just like Alexia, did not enjoy cameras.

On instinct, you spun around to escape being filmed… only to walk directly into a wall of a body. Patri had apparently let herself into the room at some point and was now standing right behind you. 

Great. 

Alexia's room was the official gathering point for the late-to-the-party teammates.

"Holaa chicas!" Patri smiled, her strong hands instantly grabbing your arms before you could take another step. "Can we go–Oh! Are you guys on live?" Her face lit up. "I want to be in it, too!"

She steered you back into the bathroom doorway with zero resistance to your protests, presenting you squarely in front of Clara and the phone as if you were the one who asked to participate in the live, and not her.

"Patri, no," You argued.

"Yes!" Clara and Patri said together.

"Jesus," you muttered, looking anywhere but at the screen. You looked so ugly up close! Damn, front cameras need to be destroyed.

"This is my mana," Clara continued cheerfully, shoving the phone close to your face as if you were not currently being held physically in place against your will.  "And this is my hermana mediana, Patri!!"

Patri smiled and leaned down to press a kiss on the top of Clara's head, then smoothly lifted the phone out of the nineteen-year-old's hands and turned the focus onto herself. "Serra was incredible today, right guys? Her and La Reina–"" 

You glanced at Alexia. 

She always went a little quiet when she heard that nickname, a faint blush appeared on her neck, a small dip of her head, like she still didn't quite know what to do with it, even after all this time. 

You kept your expression very neutral, digging your fingers into the doorframe to hold yourself back from crossing the room and kissing her.

"Are you the only one ready, y/n?" Patri asked, glancing at you with a grin, while Clara successfully wrestled the phone back in her own hand and went right back to chattering with it. 

You nodded.

"She's very efficient," Alexia said from the mirror, her eyes catching yours in the reflection. 

"I'm not efficient," you countered, voice low and shy, trying to ignore the spike of heat in your cheeks. "You and Clara just take double the time."

"Of course they do," Patri agreed, and without further warning, she reached out and took both Clara's and Alexia's faces in her hands at the same time, ruthlessly squeezing their cheeks together.  "Look at these two. Baby doll faces… munequitas!" [Dools]

Clara laughed loudly, the camera tilting. Alexia smiled awkwardly, blushing even deeper, completely helpless against the grip of her midfield partner.  

"Párate," Alexia mumbled, mortified, trying to swat Patri's hand away, but smiling nonetheless. [stop]

Clara was already scrolling through the comments on the live, squinting so hard at the screen that you were half tempted to confiscate the phone and send her to an eye doctor.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Someone just asked if Alexia always takes this long to get ready-?"

"I don't," Alexia said at the same time Patri said, "Yes."

Alexia shot her a grumpy look, and Patri smiled at her innocently.  Clara, meanwhile, continued to move through the comments. 

"Who is this girl? Guys!" She sounded offended."I already told you, she's my sister, like… my blood-related sister! We have the same last name!" 

Without any warning, she swung the camera towards you, catching you off guard again and making you recoil immediately. "Clara, stop it."

"She's a doctor, too!" Clara continued. "Do you want to come say hi, mana? Show the world your face?"

You shook your head immediately, hiding being Patri. "No." 

"Aw," Clara pouted, looking absolutely devastated. "Why not! Please, please, please!!"

"Just one hi, mi sol," Alexia said softly.

The words left her mouth before she could stop them, her eyes meeting yours in the mirror again. For a brief moment, neither of you reacted.

"You're gonna make the kid sad," she added, her voice dropping low, the usual cadence she reserved only for when you were both alone.

Mi sol.

Mi sol.

Mi sol.

Your mouth hung open, you looked at the phone, then at Alexia's obvious face. You lifted an eyebrow, trying to signal to her with your eye, "abort mission". 

"I- Mhm… S-she can handle a little sadness from time to time," you said back, your voice way too tight as you tried to pivot the conversation away from the term of endearment. "Y-you both spoil her far too much." 

"The people can hear everything you're both saying," Clara announced, more specifically to Alexia. She said it with the precise timing of a pest of a younger sibling who had been waiting for this. 

"W-what?" you asked.

"The whole… mi sol thing." Then she put her hand under the mic and whispered. "People are commenting about it!"

The bathroom went horrifyingly quiet. 

You and Alexia locked eyes in the mirror. Then, slowly, you both dropped to the phone, the live stream was still running perfectly, and the comments were scrolling faster than anyone could read them.

Mi sol. Mi sol. Mi s–

The eye contact with Alexia lasted longer than it should have. She had called your pet name, so… naturally. The atmosphere between you shifted into something awkward, of two people trying very hard to act normal and of course, failing spectacularly on it.

Alexia cleared her throat, suddenly becoming very interested in her makeup sponge. You, on the other hand, found a very tiny spot on the bathroom tiles that clearly required your absolute attention.

Patri looked between the two of you, then at Clara, then burst out laughing. It echoed off the walls and absolutely did not help the situation at all. If anything, it made it worse.

"I-I think I'm going to wait in the bedroom," you muttered, already turning on your heel to escape. 

Behind you, Clara was calling your name in a whine,e and Patri was still cackling, and Alexia had said nothing at all. But when you caught her eye one last time, she had her lips pressed together, staring very hard at her face in the mirror to keep from smiling.

You walked back out and collapsed onto the mattress, hoping for a single second of peace. But guess what happened once you settled into the warm and clean blankets? 

Salma walked straight into the room without knocking. It looked like Patri hadn't bothered to latch the door when she arrived. Salma, already visibly tipsy and glowing from the win, immediately threw herself at you, wrapping you in a massive bear hug.

"Mira, si no es la otra Serrajordi", she beamed into your ear. It was always a little weird hearing the player call you by your last name; usually, you just hear it around the hallways of the hospital back home. "How was the experience of the post-victory, huh?" [Look, it's the other Serrajordi]

You loosely pointed a finger toward the open bathroom door where Alexia's, Clara's and Patri's voices were echoing. The worst possible," you mumbled while rubbing your temples. "They are on li–"

"Estan en live?!" 

It seemed like your worst nightmare was Salmas'greatest joy.

She sprinted into the bathroom, and a second later, all you heard was a mix of laughter, screaming and teasing. Through the noise, you could hear Clara saying that Kika told her that everyone else was waiting for them to go to the bar. 

Usually, you were very good at finding your place in things. You were very good at minding your own business. But sitting out on the bed alone,  hearing the girls laugh while you waited… felt a little weird.

At the same time you wanted to be closer to Clara and Alexia, you were well aware that the internet would hyper-analyse every single frame of you and Ale together. So, you were taking one for the team.

Alexia, seemingly possessing super girlfriend powers, chose that exact moment to walk out of the bathroom. She shut the door behind her, locking the girls inside, and walked in your direction. 

She was wearing her dark blue champions shirt, just like every other girl on the squad. Her brunette hair was down, falling around her shoulders. She looked so breathtakingly pretty that you entirely forgot there were other people currently screaming in the next room over.

"Hey, guapa," she said softly. 

She reached down, taking your hands in her warm palms and gently pulling you closer to her. She forced you to sit upright on the edge of the bed, and since she was standing right on the floor at the edge of the mattress, she was towering over you perfectly. 

She stepped into your space, resting her chin right on top of your head and pressing a long and lingering kiss into your head.

"Why do I feel like your social battery is gone before we have even made it to the club?" she murmured.

"That's usually my baseline state after interacting with my sister for more than ten minutes," you mumbled into her shirt. You wrapped your arms around her waist, burying yourself in her before tilting your chin up onto her sternum to look up at her. "Sorry. I can't help it."

"Maybe with a few drinks in, you'll feel a little better," she suggested, a lazy, teasing smirk on her face as her thumb brushed your jawline.

"I can't drink," you said with a sigh. "My tolerance is practically zero."

"You can have one," she insisted softly, her eyes filling with affection.  "I'll take care of you. I promise I won't let you dance on top of tables or anything."

You chuckled, the tension in your shoulder starting to melt. Okay, maybe a drink or two would be nice. "How generous of you."

"I know," she said. "I'm a sweetheart."

For a moment, neither of you said anything, but then her smile faded slightly. 

"You are not mad, right?" she asked after a second, her teasing tone disappearing, turning hesitant, the change was very subtle, but of course you nodded it immediately. 

You frowned slightly, super confused at the shift. "Mad about what?"

"That I called you mi sol…?" she explained. "In the live, just now? I didn't mean to, it just… came out."

"Oh, of course not, love," you said immediately. "Of course I'm not mad. I mean, we've been together for months now. People are going to find out at some point."

"So you don't really mind," she pressed, looking way too vulnerable for a woman who had just won the champions league. "Being seen with me… like that?"

Instead of answering with words, you held onto her waist and firmly pulled her down. She let out a gasp as she fell right on top of you, her body pinning you.

Lying there under her, you were acutely aware of the muffled voices and laughter still coming from the bathroom, making the proximity feel entirely too reckless. "Never," you said, looking right into her eyes so she could see you meant it.

"Never, baby, I'm only like that because I love what we have so much, and I want to keep it just ours for as long as we can, okay? And… yeah, the public and the media scare me. I mean… not even my Instagram is public, so seeing this many people constantly watching you… watching Clara… It scares me. But it is never, ever, about you, Ale."

She smiled so beautifully, a look of relief flashing across her face, so much so that you couldn't help but reach up to kiss her. You parted your lips, testing her tongue as your hand came up to cup her jaw, pulling her further down to deepen the kiss. 

"My lipstick," she mumbled weakly against your mouth, though she wasn't actually trying to pull away. "You're going to completely ruin it."

"Mhm," you hummed. "Don't care."

"I spent a few minutes putting it on."

"I still don't care, Ale."

She smiled into the kiss and rolled her eyes, surrendering completely as she came back down to press her mouth to yours again. "Qué pesada eres, bebé," she muttered fondly. [you are so annoying, baby]

Even so, she leaned down again as your other hand slid down her back, moving lower to cup her ass over her jeans, pulling her hips flush against yours.

"Want you," you whispered, pout on your face.

"I know mi amor, but we can't–"

Like a bucket of ice being thrown directly over your head, the loud voices in the bathroom became calmer, and you heard the girl shouting goodbye to the live stream.

Alexia scrambled up from on top of you with the reflexes of a true professional athlete. She smoothed down her shirt and hurriedly walked to the vanity, correcting her lipstick with her thumb.

You sat up straight, smoothing down your shirt. 

The second the girls walked into the room, Clara immediately rolled her eyes while Patri and Salam exchanged highly amused smirks.

"What?!" you snapped defensively, your voice way too loud and fast. "What are you guys looking at? Vamos, the bus is going to leave us–"

"Chica," Patri interrupted, walking right past the bed, casually patting your shoulder, a look of mock pity written all over her face. "You have lipstick on your nose."

Your cheeks turned a deep crimson. You hissed out and raised the back of your hand to aggressively wipe at your nose, wishing the hotel floor would succumb with you.  "Oh fuck me," you said, more to yourself.

"You couldn't wait until after the club?" Salma smirked at you before shifting her gaze to wink at Alexia through the mirror. Alexia's shoulders went rigid, her cheek pink. "Damn, at this point I'm just going to start calling you two Lover girls."

"Please do not," Clara groaned, throwing her hand over her face.

By the time you arrived at the club, the panic of the Instagram Live disaster  – and the whole being caught thing – had mostly dissolved beneath the sound of reggaeton music and a few (too many) sugary drinks.

Barcelona had rented out a private venue exclusively for the squad, the staff, and their families. There were easily around a hundred people packed into the space, creating a dense sea of bodies in wildly different stages of drunkenness. Everyone was dancing, drinking and eating… simply having a good time.

Blue and red lights were shining over the room, but they were dim enough that you could barely make out anyone's face, which was honestly ideal. The team had a silent agreement about not taking photos or videos during the later hours of the party, when everyone was drunker than they should be, with mascara running down their cheeks, lipstick smudged, inhibitions lowered, and composure long abandoned. 

All the couples on the team were scattered around the club, completely unbothered as they kissed and danced freely now that the pressure of the cameras and public appearances had disappeared.

The atmosphere completely stripped away your usual reservedness, too.

You were tucked into a dimly lit booth beside Alexia, the heat of her body pressed against yours. You leaned your head back, looking around the room in search of Clara, but your sister was entirely occupied in the far corner of the club, laughing and dancing with the younger girls.

You turned back to Alexia. The alcohol humming pleasantly through your veins made you bolder than usual. Without really thinking about it, you leaned in, caught her jaw in your hand, and pressed your lips against hers. 

Alexia went completely stiff. She was clearly not expecting it. You had never, ever kissed her in a public place before. 

Even if the club was private, the reality of having her mother, your sister, her manager, and practically her entire professional circle in the same room usually kept both of you firmly on your best behaviour,  private, but, as it was obvious, tonight you seemed determined to break several rules at once.

The size of the crowd only made it feel more intimate; everyone was so wrapped up in their own celebrations that no one was paying any attention to the two of you tucked away. 

When you finally pulled back, the tables had completely turned. Now, you were the one pouting, staring at her with heavy, dissatisfied eyes.

"Kiss me, baby", you whispered, your fingers tightening slightly against her jaw. "Why don't you kiss me back? Don't want me?"

Alexia's pupils were blown wide, her breath hitching as she glanced nervously over your shoulder, but she made no attempt to move your hands away.  

"There are people here, mi sol," she murmured, her voice low. She said it as if you had forgotten where you were, it only made you roll your eyes. "We can't-"

"I don't care, Ale," you said, rather bratty, as you shuffled closer until your knees bumped against hers. "I've been thinking about you since we left the hotel."

Alexia tilted her head, an incredibly fond smirk breaking through her as she took in your flushed cheeks. "I think you might be a little bit tipsy, cariño. When you told me you had a low alcohol tolerance, I thought you were being a bit dramatic," she paused. "but… I guess not."

You pouted harder, leaning your forehead against her shoulder.

"I've only had two drinks, baby," you mumbled, voice so sweet you barely recognised yourself. "I am sober enough, yeah? So please... just one kiss?"

That was all it took to break her. Alexia also folded for you, always.

With a resigned growl, she slid her hand gently around the back of your neck to pull you back to her. The kiss lingered a little longer than it probably should have. It was enough for the kiss to turn heated and far too intense for a room full of people. 

Alexia's lips parted yours easily, her tongue tasting like the expensive drinks she had also been drinking. She slipped her tongue in, interviewing with you, completely devouring you with a sudden, desperate hunger that made your cunt pulse with need. 

The touching and the kissing got dangerous too quickly, and Alexia had to be the one to forcefully drag herself away, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she rested her forehead against yours.

"My mum is here, baby," Alexia reminded you softly, breathing against your lips, her grip on your neck still there. "Clara, too. We can't do this here, alright? Later, I promise. Just a couple of hours and we'll leave."

You whined at the loss of contact and leaned forward to tease her lower lip with your teeth, biting it gently and feeling her trembling. Alexia closed her eyes as if she were trying her hardest to be the responsible one.

You touched her jaw, and Alexia opened her hazel eyes. You looked up at her through your lashes, completely undone by the alcohol and her touch. You were horny, the horniest you've been. 

That was exactly why you didn't drink.

"Please, mi amor," you whispered, your voice small, breathless and desperate. "I need you now, Ale."

Alexia's gaze dropped to your mouth, her jaw tightening as she fought a losing battle against herself. You never did this; you were usually the cautious one, the one reminding her to behave, the one who always worried about who might be watching. 

But right now, you were looking at her like the rest of the room had disappeared, and Alexia was the only person that mattered. 

"Joder, Y/n," she muttered, shaking her head. "What happened to you, baby? Want me that bad?"

Before you could answer, she stood up and grabbed your hand. "Come on."

You let her pull you up from the booth, guiding you through the crowd. A few of her teammates stopped to talk to her, but Alexia was good at pretending she was just taking care of her drunk girlfriend. 

"Hey! Where are you going?" Kika asked near the bar.

"Taking this one out for some fresh air," Alexia said, giving your joined hand a subtle squeeze.

Kika smirked, her eyes flickering between the two of you. "Oh, alright."

Alexia kept walking before Kika could say anything else. Instead of heading to the balcony, she turned left to make for the bathrooms. The second the door closed behind you, you were entirely all over her.

You didn't know what had shifted inside you between the hotel room and the club, but something had. Maybe if it was the alcohol,  maybe the celebration, maybe watching Alexia simply relax for once.

Whatever it was, it made you suddenly consumed by an overwhelming need to just take Alexia apart, or be taken apart by her.

For the first time, you completely understood everything she had said back at the hotel about cannibalism being an act of pure adoration and bla bla bla. You wanted to take physical bites of her, bit by bit, until there was nothing left of Alexia but you.

The bathroom was private and small, one of those single-occupancy ones. It had just a toilet, a mirror, and a sink with a counter. You immediately backed her up against the counter, wrapping your arms tightly around her neck to drag her face down to yours.

"I'm wet," you whispered against her lips straightaway. "I'm all messy, Ale."

A sudden, fleeting flash of your usual shyness hit you,u but it also disappeared immediately. You knew exactly what you had to say to make Alexia lose that stiffness in her shoulders. Right now, you didn't want her tense; you wanted her to want you, too, to not hold back.

Alexia let out a low groan, her forehead falling against your shoulder as she fought for what little restraint she still had. 

"Mi amor," she muttered, a mix of exasperation and affection. "I really don't think we should be having sex in a dirty club bathroom..."

But you were far too whiny, far too needy to listen to her logic or her reasoning.

The alcohol and the unadulterated craving for her had completely taken over. Without breaking eye contact, you reached down to unbutton your jeans, shoving the fabric out of the way. 

You caught her hand in yours, your fingers locking around her wrist as you guided her hand down between your thighs, forcing her fingers to press right against your soaked underwear. 

"Look, look amor," you whispered. "Look, I'm so wet, Ale. For you, baby."

Alexia let out a sharp moan into your neck, her entire body tensing at the sensation of your warm and slick underwear. 

"Oh, cariño... joder—" she breathed, her fingers were already slicking with your wetness as you tilted your pelvis hard into her hand. 

"Please, Ale?" you whimpered, your voice small, broken abnd desperate as you looked up. "We can do whatever you want with me once we get to the hotel, but please, I just need you now."

That was her absolute breaking point. 

Alexia didn't say another word. 

With a possessive growl, she hooked her fingers into the elastic of your underwear and hauled the fabric aside. She lifted you easily, setting your hips onto the edge of the counter, and jammed two of her long fingers deep inside you.

"Oh, fuck–" you moan, your head rolled back against the bathroom mirror, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat as Alexia immediately attacked your neck. 

She was kissing, biting, and licking your skin all over, claiming you while her long fingers began to move in a deep, punishing rhythm inside your tight walls.

You were so wet for her; the intrusion felt so pleasing, it was exactly what you needed. 

"Who would have thought that my girl would want to be fucked in a club bathroom, huh?" Alexia murmured against your skin, her fingers stretching you open effortlessly. "Any other fantasy you want to tell me?"

You whined, a sudden wave of warmth hitting your face that had nothing to do with the alcohol. "No teasing, Ale. Please–"

"No?" Alexia chuckled right against your ear, her fingers picking up the pace, curling deep inside you to find the exact spot that made your toes curl. "Por qué no? Estás tan mojada...no podías esperar a que volviéramos?" [Why not? You are so wet… You couldn't wait for us to go back?]

You were well aware ( and deeply embarrassed) of how completely desperate you sounded right now. 

Having sex in a public bathroom was such a juvenile, reckless thing to do, so completely out of character for you. Under normal circumstances, you would have been the first person pointing out all the reasons it was a terrible idea, but under her touch, you couldn't help it. Common sense had abandoned you entirely.

You were undone, your orgasm was so, so close. 

Desperate to ground yourself, you tangled your fingers into the hair at the nape of Alexia's neck, pulling her face away from your throat to bring her mouth directly to yours.

"Aah," you whined into the space between your lips. "I love you, baby. I love you, Ale."

Alexia truly was the softest person alive when it came to you. Hearing those words was all it took to completely shatter her teasing, dominant facade. 

Her breath hitched, her entire posture melting as she kissed you with a sudden, overwhelming tenderness that made your chest ache.

"I love you too, mi vida," she whispered against your mouth, her voice thick and entirely gone for you. "So, so much. My sweet girl. My love."

"Not sweet," you mumbled, tightening your walls against her fingers.

"Oh, you are," she said, kissing your cheek, your lips, her fingers working so gently now. "You really are, my love. You taste so good, too. I can't wait to eat you as soon as we get into the hotel, gonna bury my face in this sweet cunt of yours."

"Ale–" you gasped, your nails running down her clothed back. "Baby–I'm close."

"Sí?" She asked. "Vas a correr para mí, mi nena?" [Are you gonna cum for me, my girl?]

"Uhum," you nodded, pouting. "I'm so close… c-can I?"

"You cum whenever you want, my love," Alexia said, "I'm here, amor, cum for me."

Alexia fused her mouth against hers and swallowed your cries as her hand kept moving, driving you toward your climax. 

With her thumb pressing against your clit and her fingers thrusting inside your pussy perfectly, the friction became too much to bear. Your hips stuttered against the cold counter, your body arching into her hand as a orgasm took over you.

Your breathing was all wrong. Your heart was beating too fast. Alexia had broken you, or maybe you had broken yourself. 

You could feel your pulse against her fingers, still buried deep inside of you; seemingly, she didn't want to leave you.

When the haziness finally passed, when your body felt like your own, the silence of the bathroom rushed back in, broken only by your ragged breathing.

The alcohol-fueled boldness completely vanished, replaced by an acute, overwhelming wave of post-climax embarrassment. 

Slowly, you realised exactly what you had just demanded of her in a public venue, and immediately scrambled off the counter, frantically pulling your pants up and buttoning them with trembling, uncoordinated fingers. 

You couldn't even look her in the eye, your face burning crimson as you stared intensely at the sink. 

"I-I'm sorry. I-" You put your hand over your face. "I-I think I was.. a bit horny."

Alexia just stood there, entirely amused, taking a step closer to the sink to wash your slick fluids off her hands. "Oh, you think?" She said, smiling.

She rinsed her hands clean under the water, shook off the excess, and then leaned against the counter. The way she looked felt too pornographic. She watched you with a fond grin playing on her lips.

"You are awfully shy today, cariño," she teased softly, reaching out to gently pry your hands away from your face. "Come here, let me see that pretty face of yours."

You pouted, stubbornly refusing to look at her, keeping your eyes on the white floor. "No, don't look at me. I'm so embarrassed. We are never speaking of this again, alright? Let's forget this even happened."

Alexia just laughed, leaning down to press a soft, sweet kiss to your burning cheek.

"Whatever you say, mi sol," she murmured, but then, she leaned even closer, her mouth closer to your ear. "But I'm never forgetting the way you came so pretty all over my fingers."

You groaned, mortified. 

Alexia stopped her movements to really look at you, taking in your flushed skin and rumpled clothes. Her expression softened into something that you could only call protective and attentive.

She knew exactly how your brain worked, as much as she loved teasing you, she didn't want to actually push your embarrassment past its limit. 

"Hey," she said tenderly, her index finger hooking into your belt loop. She gave a slight tug, bringing you closer. "Want me to help you clean up?"

Your head snapped up, your eyes wide. "I said stop teasing!"

"I'm not teasing amor," Alexia said, her voice calm and reasonable, which only made you more embarrassed. "You were very wet, and you always complain that it makes you uncomfortable afterwards, and we aren't exactly at home with our towels, so–"

Unfortunately. Alexia was right, the wetness spread on your inner thighs and dampening your underwear was already slick and cold, ready to become a sensory hell if you didn't do something about it. 

"Stop, stop talking about towels and-and me being wet, please," you mumbled, your voice dropping as you let her pull you completely forward by your belt loop.

Alexia looked down. "So… want me to help you, or do you want me to turn around?"

You swallowed hard, and with a hopeless voice, you said "Turn around, please."

You carefully checked both sides of the hallway before stepping fully out of the bathroom corridor. To your relief, nobody seemed to have noticed your absence at all; the party was still going strong.

Feeling tired by everything that had happened over the last few hours, you and Alexia decided to come back to the same booth near the back to just sit down for a bit.

The second you slid onto the seat, you buried your face straight into the crook of her neck, still confused and mortified by what had just possessed you in that bathroom.

Alexia noticed your sudden retreat, but she didn't make a big deal out of it. Instead, she chuckled softly and wrapped her arm around your waist. Her thumb slipped naturally beneath the hem of your shirt, tracing lazy circles directly against your skin while she pressed a tender kiss to your temple.

A waitress stopped by the table a moment later, putting a couple of glasses on it. Alexia thanked her and picked up one of the glasses before pressing the glass into your hand. 

"Drink," she murmured close to your ear. "Your lips are cracked, and it's hot here."

"No," you muttered into her skin, completely pouty and refusing to lift your head.

"Why not?" Alexia asked, her voice tinged with amusement.

"I am too embarrassed to look at you right now."

Alexia burst out laughing. "Baby, we have done way worse things than that before... don't be embarrassed."

"That's not helping."

"Perdon, perdon…" she chuckled, thinking for a second. "What about this: You have absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about?"

"I acted completely desperate," you groaned, hiding deeper into her neck.

"You were desperate," Alexia pointed out mercilessly. "Un poquito, sí." [A little, yes]

You rolled your eyes against her skin, your cheeks burning hot. "You are enjoying this way too much."

Alexia's grin was huge, completely wicked and proud as her thumb kept stroking your waist. She leaned in closer, her voice dropping into a smoky whisper that sent a fresh shiver straight down your spine.

"Claro que sí. Te has corrido dos veces hoy y soy la campeona de Europa... Tengo todo el derecho a disfrutarlo." [Of course I am. I made you cum twice today, and I'm a European champion… I have the right to enjoy this.]

☆ A/n: I hope you guys liked it! Once again I'm trying very hard to make this universe as realistic as possible, it's not very easy because I have to do a lot of thinking, so I'm honestly drained from all the writing i've been doing the last few days haha.

but oh I've been having a lot of thought about this universe lately, , ones that would add a bit of drama hehe.... because what if Clara was dating someone a bit too old for her? and oh! Reader just told me she got a job offer in england! hehe <3.....

the end! or is it? ;)

"There it is."

"For the menu."

"Mm."

"Arsenal nuggets."

"That is the part I cannot get past, Leah. Arsenal nuggets. Just... why?"

"Arsenal is awesome."

"Fuck Arsenal."

"Well, fuck you," Leah flicks back, completely unbothered now that she knows you enough to catch that you say that about most teams. First few times she was ready to throw hands. You figure you could take her. Maybe.

And now, because she knows your bullshit, Leah continues to build her case. She builds it the way you imagine she organises a back four: calm, patient, deeply certain she is correct.

"Here's my thinking," she says. "You took paella — which is rice, which is the most boring thing on earth, no offence to your Spanish —"

"They are not my Spanish."

"— you took rice and you made an entire squad of professional footballers lose their minds over it. You made me eat shellfish. I do not eat new things, Jude. Ask anyone. I am famously difficult. And you got me to do it."

"Thought it was my glowing personality that got you to do it."

"Your personality couldn't get me past the door, Judes, trust me."

"That was your doing." She points at you with a gloved finger. "So here is my question. If you can do that with rice — rice — imagine what you could do with something that already tastes good."

"A chicken nugget."

"A chicken nugget."

"You want me to elevate the chicken nugget."

"And possibly make it dinosaur-shaped. Yes."

You stare at her.

Leah Williamson stares back, entirely sincere, breath fogging in the cold, and you have the brief, vertiginous thought that this is your life now. That somewhere a younger version of you, the one who almost finished culinary school, the one with the knives and the plan, would be horrified. That version of you wanted copper pans and arsey head chefs and the word emulsion. This version of you is being talked at about dinosaur nuggets by a Lioness in a puffer jacket and is, on some humiliating level, considering it.

"They would have to be good nuggets," you hear yourself say.

Leah's whole face opens up.

"Jude."

"I said would. Conditional. Hypothetical."

"You're going to do it."

"I am going to think about telling you to fuck off."

"You're going to do it and you're going to put them on the menu and call them Lee's special —"

"Ok, you know what, why don't you take the fucking nuggets and shove —"

— and that is the precise moment the kitchen door opens behind you.

Not all the way. Just enough. The broken brick scrapes against the floor the way it always does, and the warm light from the kitchen widens across the wet stone of the alley, and you turn, mildly, expecting Hayley, or Carl, or Paddy come to tell you the soup is running low or that table six has a complaint or that the world is, in some new and minor way, ending.

Wouldn't be the first time.

But it is not Hayley.

Or Carl.

And it is not Paddy either.

It is Alexia Putellas.

Standing in the doorway of the kitchen you mop every night, under the bad yellow light you have personally complained about for a year, is Alexia Putellas.

And the first thing your brain registers — before the beanie, before the scarf, before any of the cardiac event that is about to follow — is that she has edges. That she has weight. That she is, in the most basic and shocking sense, taking up space in a doorway, displacing air, casting a shadow against the wet stone of the alley. For months she has been a face inside a phone, a voice inside a speaker, a flatness you have held in your hand at arm's length and turned this way and that. 

Now there is a woman in three dimensions in your alley and she has depth. She has her own air around her. She has, you notice with a small lurch, a height and a shape and a way of standing that the phone never told you about.

Then your brain catches up to the rest and simply stops. Goes dark. Throws the whole switchboard. There is a sound in your ears like a held note. You are distantly aware that you are still holding a cigarette and that it has burned down further than it should have and that the small live coal of it is now very close to your fingers.

She is wearing a beanie too.

That is the detail your ruined brain decides to fixate on. Not the fact of her, here, real, breathing actual London air. The beanie. It is blaugrana. It is, unmistakably, a Barça beanie, blue and garnet, pulled down over her ears, and she is wrapped in a scarf so enormous and so woollen that it has swallowed most of the lower half of her face, and her nose has gone slightly pink at the tip with cold, and the overall effect — Alexia Putellas, two Ballons d'Or, the best footballer of her generation — the overall effect is of a very warm, very startled teddy bear.

Teddy bear with the most intense hazel eyes you have ever seen.

You burn your fingers on the cigarette.

You do not react to it. You are not currently in your body enough to react to it.

"Oh — Alexia!"

That is Leah. Leah, who is functioning. Leah, who lives in a world where Alexia Putellas appearing in an alley is nice and not a cardiac event. She steps forward, easy, warm, already pulling a glove off to shake hands.

"Lovely to see you. Keira said you might be coming over — the lasses' match? You good?"

"I am good." Alexia shakes the offered hand. Her voice does the thing it does, the careful thing, the second-language thing where each word gets set down deliberately, like she is laying bricks and wants them level. The lingering accent gives everything a musical sound, like she is singing and not speaking. "Cold. But good."

"It's grim out, yeah. You get used to it. Sort of."

Alexia's mouth moves behind the scarf. A small thing. Could be a smile.

You are still not speaking. You are aware that the not-speaking has gone on slightly too long. You are aware of this the way you are aware of a smoke alarm in another room.

Leah, oblivious, gestures at you with her newly bare hand.

"Have you two met? This is Jude. She's the chef round here. She's the reason the food's any good — she's the reason any of us keep turning up, honestly."

And there it is. The introduction. Have you two met. As if you have not. As if Alexia Putellas is not the most insane relationship of your entire adult life. As if you do not have her saved in your phone under her full name because you wanted the whole thing to light up when she called.

You open your mouth.

Your brain, still mostly offline, hands you the only words it can find on short notice.

"Hi," you manage to say. It's a struggle. You couldn't be pressed to even tell which language you spoke.

To Alexia.

Whom you have known for months.

Alexia looks at you. Properly, now. The scarf is still up over her chin but her eyes are not hidden at all, and they find yours and hold them, and there is something in them — warm, and amused, and steady, and a little bit like she has been waiting a long time to do exactly this — and she says, very gently, in front of Leah Williamson and God and the alley at the back of your miserable pub:

"Hola."

The alley goes very quiet.

Leah looks between the two of you. She's frowning a little, the way one might look at a puzzle piece that doesn't fit.

You watch her do it. And maybe something does fit, because Leah just nods a little, like she approves of the interaction, and decides, with the instinct of a genuinely decent person, that whatever this is, it is not hers to be standing in the middle of.

"I'm going to go," Leah says, points over her shouder "and see about the soup."

Nobody answers her.

"Right," she says. "Soup. Good talk, Jude. Think about the nuggets."

She edges past Alexia in the doorway, claps you once on the shoulder on her way through, and is gone, back into the warm and the noise, and the kitchen door swings most of the way shut behind her, leaving you and Alexia Putellas in a London alley in the cold with one broken brick and the smell of onions and a cigarette you have now definitely let burn out.

You drop it. Step on it. Buy yourself the half-second.

It does not help.

She is still here when you look up. That is the thing your brain keeps snagging on, every two seconds, like a needle skipping. She is still here. She has not dissolved. She is a person and she is standing in your alley and she came through your kitchen to do it.

"Hi," you say again. Just to make sure you actually said it.

It is the smallest word in the English language and it is all you have got.

"Hola," she repeats.

And that — that does it. That cracks it open. Because you have heard her say Hola before, on a screen, lamp-lit, six weeks ago, and you said it back so badly she laughed, and here it is again, the real one, the in-person one, the one with cold London air in it, and something in your chest that has been wound tight as a fist since the door opened just — lets go.

You laugh. You don't mean to. It comes out half a breath, helpless.

She is smiling now. You can see it even with the scarf. It has reached her eyes, both the small crinkles at the corners, and you think, distantly, dangerously: I am in so much trouble.

"You're here," you say, brilliantly.

"I am here."

"At my pub."

"At your pub." Her head tilts. "It is very ugly, Jude. Worse than the photos."

"Yeah, I know."

"Lucy said. I did not believe how much."

"It grows on you. Like mould."

That gets a proper laugh out of her, surprised, the breath of it clouding in the cold, and you would, in this moment, set fire to the rest of your life to keep hearing it.

You should say something normal. You should ask how she got here, who she is staying with, how long, why nobody warned you, why your hands have not stopped doing a small stupid thing at your sides. You should, at minimum, stop staring.

But you figure, in that small space of time, that you don't care about any of it. She might as well be here to announce the start of another World War, or that Oasis are going into hiatus again, and it wouldn't make a difference. You only care that she is here. In front of you. Within touching distance.

Alexia shifts her weight, tucks her chin a little further into the enormous scarf, and asks, with the careful, deliberate placing of someone who has clearly thought about the question:

"So. Do English people hug?"

And you — you absolute disaster, you poet of the north, you woman who has wanted nothing for months except to be in a room with this exact person —

"Not really," you say.

The silence that follows is immediate and total.

Not really.

NOT REALLY.

Why. Why would you say that. She has flown to a different country. She is standing in your filthy alley dressed like a teddy bear having clearly, clearly signposted a hug, has practically filed the paperwork for a hug, and your stupid panic-wired mouth has looked at the open goal and kicked the ball directly into the river.

Alexia blinks.

Then — because she is not stupid, because she has spent a considerable time learning the exact shape of your particular brand of catastrophe — she starts to laugh. Quiet, and astonished, and delighted, one hand coming up near her mouth.

"No?" she says.

"No, I —" You drag a hand down your face. "We don't, as a — culturally we're a bit — it's a whole repressed island thing, we wave, mostly, it's grim —"

"Okay."

"— but —"

You stop. You breathe. You look at her, pink-nosed and bundled and here, and you find, somewhere under the wreckage of your composure, one single working thought, and you grab it with both hands.

"But I'm half French," you say.

Alexia goes still.

"So," you say. "If you wanted. You could. Hug the French side."

For a moment she just looks at you, and you cannot read it, and the cold gets into the gap, and you think that's it, you've done it, you've finally said the thing too stupid to recover from —

"Sí," Alexia says. "Okay. I hug French side."

And then she is crossing the alley.

And then she is there, against you, both arms coming up around your shoulders, and the enormous scarf is in your face and it smells of cold air and someone's perfume, hers, most likely, and she is solid and real and warmer than the night had any right to leave her, and her chin fits over your shoulder like it was measured for it, and your arms come up around her on pure animal instinct, no brain involved, the brain having left the building entirely, and you hold on.

You hold on.

She is taller than you somehow expected and exactly the height you somehow knew. She holds on too. Not a polite hug. Not an English wave with arms. She holds on like she means it, like she has been planning the structural details of it, one hand flat between your shoulder blades, hugging you tight, so close, and you stand in your terrible alley with Alexia Putellas in your arms and you think, with the last functioning corner of your mind:

Oh.

Oh, I'm done for.

Neither of you says anything for a while. The pub thumps warmly behind the door. Somewhere a long way off a siren goes by and fades. Your fingers, the burnt ones, do not hurt at all.

When she pulls back, she does not go far. Just enough to look at you. Her cheeks are pink and it is not all the cold now and you are choosing, generously, not to mention it.

"Your French side is good at hugs."

"Best part of me."

"Mm." She considers you. "I will decide this myself."

You just stare at each other for another small, stupid moment. You think you have a goofy smile on your face that you can't control and Alexia, bless her, only tilts her lips back at you.

"It's nice to meet you," you breathe out, softer than you mean.

"Cariño..." Alexia exhales and you can feel the fondness underneath. The warmth. "You already know me."

You take her inside because it is freezing and because if you stay in that alley one more minute you are going to do something with your face that you cannot take back.

The kitchen swallows you both in heat and light. Alexia stops just inside the door and looks — at the steel, the hob, the stack of receipts with the pencil on top, the chaos of it, the small kingdom of it — and you watch her look, and you feel weirdly nervous, because what she thinks or says matters so much to you and you fear, truly, that she will look around and find it wanting.

She picks up the pencil.

Turns it over once in her fingers.

Puts it back exactly where it was.

"What?" you say.

"Nothing." But she is smiling again. "You write on the bad paper. On the receipts."

"I don't lose them."

"Jude. Get a notebook."

"Everybody keeps saying that."

"Correcto."

You don't know what correcto means but you want to keep hearing it. Anything she says, you want to hear it.

You take her out into the pub and the night gets, somehow, even more surreal. Because the whole gang is there — the actual gang, the people from the photos, the names from the voice notes — and they have colonised the long table by the window, and there is Jana lifting both arms like you have personally arrived to be knighted, and there is Lucy Bronze waving a soup spoon, and Aggie, and Keira, and a small dark-haired girl tucked under Lucy's arm who must be Ona, and Hayley behind the bar pretending to wipe something while watching the pair of you cross the room with the focus of a hawk.

You feed them.

That is the part that steadies you, in the end. The thing you know how to do. French onion gone deep and dark and sweet, the cheese pulled into ropes; the leek-and-potato pale and silky; bread you and Carl baked that morning. You bring it out in a clatter of bowls and the table makes the noise good tables make, and Alexia sits down among them in her ridiculous beanie and picks up a spoon and tastes the onion soup, and goes very quiet, and then looks up at you across the table with an expression you are going to keep for the rest of your natural life.

"Jude."

"Yeah?"

"This is —" Her English fails her. She says something in Catalan instead, low and quick, to Jana, who answers back with a gentle smile on her face. "It is very good. It is — muy bueno. Delicioso."

"Muy bueno." You do your best to repeat it, and although half the table laughs, Alexia doesn't. She only looks.

"You should be proud."

"I don't really do proud."

"You should learn." She says it lightly. It does not feel light.

You should leave her there, with her friends, with the soup, with the warm. That would be the polite thing. The not-getting-ahead-of-yourself thing.

She is... you don't think she is here for you. You are not that vain. You are not vain in the slightest actually but you can't help yourself because she is right here.

Your friend. Your crush. Mostly, the person who has heard you the most these past few months. The person you wanted to tell everything.

So, instead of doing the sensible thing, halfway through clearing bowls, you lean down near her ridiculous beanie and you say, quiet, just for her: "You can come sit in the kitchen, you know. If you want. While I work. It's warmer. And the company's worse, which you'll enjoy."

Alexia looks up at you.

"Yes," she says, immediately. No deliberation, no brick-laying. Just yes.

So she does.

She perches on the spare bench by the pass, beanie finally off, hair doing something soft and flattened and human, and she watches you cook. And you cannot quite get over it — that this is the same Alexia who watched you through a phone screen six weeks ago in this exact kitchen, off-shift, badly lit, and that now she is here, in the room, on the bench, the realest possible version.

You cook and you show off, a bit. You will deny this later. You do the thing with the pan. You explain your processes without being asked. You let her taste things off the spoon, blowing on them first like she is small, and she rolls her eyes at you but she lets you.

You talk.

It is so easy it is almost frightening. It is the thread, the same thread, the months of it — except now it has a face across the bench and a voice in the actual air and a laugh you do not need a phone speaker for. She tells you about the flight, about Ona, about Jana's homemade sign and her match. She talks slowly, insecure about her English but not about what she is saying.

And you tell her about the nuggets. She makes you describe the Arsenal nuggets twice because your accent makes it hard but then she laughs so hard the second time she has to put her face in her hands.

The pub empties around you. You half-notice it. Last orders, the scrape of chairs, Hayley flicking lights off in sections, Carl leaving with a grunt and a look at you that you decide not to interpret. The gang peels away in twos. And still you are talking, and still she is on the bench, knees pulled up now, entirely at home in your wreck of a kitchen, and it occurs to you, with a small quiet shock, that this is the longest and best date you have been on in years and you have not so much as sat down.

It ends because Jana falls asleep.

You find her when you finally go through to lock up — Jana Fernández, professional footballer, dead to the world on a window bench with her coat over her like a blanket and her mouth slightly open. You and Alexia look at her for a moment, like exasperated but fond parents.

"That's my cue," she says, head nodding towards Jana.

"Yeah."

You walk her to the door. The pub is dark behind you now, just the till light and the fairy lights Paddy refuses to turn off. You can feel the cold seeping from the outside.

"Alexia."

"Mm."

You are not going to chicken out. You decided that somewhere around the soup. You are going to be, for once, exactly as brave as the moment requires.

"What are you doing tomorrow?"

She looks at you. The corner of her mouth goes.

"I do not know," she says. "What am I doing tomorrow?"

"I could — there's stuff. London stuff. I could show you. The good bits. If you wanted."

"With you."

"With me. Obviously with me. I mean, if you want to."

Alexia laughs, and pulls her beanie back on, the stupid blaugrana one, down over her ears, and looks at you from inside her enormous scarf that swallows her whole like a teddy bear who has just been offered the entire world.

"Yes," she says. "Okay. Tomorrow. With you."

She goes to wake Jana up.

You stand in the doorway of your dark, ugly, beloved pub and watch Alexia Putellas haul a sleeping centre-back upright by the elbow, and you think that you are, without question, completely done for.

You find that you do not mind even slightly.

*

Alexia arrives from what — she believed it was — her very first date with Jude feeling very confused.

It is drizzling outside. It has been drizzling for hours. Drizzling, she has learned, is the default state of London in the same way cold is the default state of everything north of the Pyrenees and damp is the word Jude says approximately a thousand times a day.

Not that Alexia cares. She likes the sound of Jude's voice. Likes her accent. Likes the rhythm of her words and would gladly listen to Jude recite back the dictionary to her just to hear her speak.

She takes her coat off. Hangs it on the hook. Notices, dimly, that her hair has gone slightly curly in the way it does when the air is wet, the way Alba used to tease her about when they were children, Alexia parece un caniche. She doesn't care about it now.

She walks down the corridor toward the kitchen on autopilot, not sure how her face is looking in this exact moment.

Jana is sitting at the dining table with her laptop open, typing nonsense, probably answering her emails, when she registers Alexia's footsteps in the corridor and snaps upright like she has been electrified.

"Ale!"

She is on her feet before Alexia is fully through the doorway, bouncing once on the balls of her feet the way she used to do at training when she was particularly excited.

"Ale, tía, how was it? How was — what are you doing here? You said tonight, you said you would be back tonight, it is not even — it is barely — did you come to get a bag? Are you taking a bag back to her place? Should I leave the flat, should I —"

Alexia does not answer.

Alexia stands in the doorway in the slippers Jana left for her at the door, looking at Jana, and turns the entire afternoon over in her mind for the fifth time since she got in the cab, like a Rubik's cube she has been carrying since the café. Click. Click. Click. The colours will not line up. They have not lined up the whole way home. They are not lining up now.

"Ale?"

Jana's voice has gone quieter. Has noticed. Has clocked, in the way Jana clocks, that whatever this is, it is not what either of them had pencilled in for this afternoon.

Alexia opens her mouth.

What comes out is the question she has been trying to put words to since approximately three o'clock this afternoon. It comes out in the careful, deliberate register of a woman conducting a real cultural inquiry into something she does not, for the life of her, understand.

"Jana," she says.

"Sí."

"Are English people..."

She stops. Tries again.

"Are English people slow?"

Jana stares at her.

"What?"

"In the — feelings. The. Cómo se dice. Reading rooms. When you are — flirting —"

"Ale."

"— I want to be clear, I am asking seriously. Are they slow?"

Jana sits back down. Now she is the one very much confused.

"Tía," she says. "What happened?"

Alexia does not, at this point, know.

Alexia, in fact, would like to know.

She crosses to the chair opposite Jana and sits in it with a contained, slightly-too-upright posture. Spreads her hands over the table like she is ready to hold a meeting. 

The most important meeting of her life: Understanding her English crush.

Jana shuts the laptop.

"Start from the beginning."

*

She wakes at seven. Of course she wakes at seven. Her body does not understand that the league is suspended for the international window, that she is in another country, that the only thing she is meant to do today is meet Jude. Her body, which has been on the same schedule since she was sixteen, has decided that seven is seven and that is, regrettably, that.

She lies in bed for a while. She gets up. She does her stretches on Jana's spare-room carpet because she cannot help herself. She goes to the kitchen.

Jana is, predictably, still asleep.

Alexia makes toast. She makes coffee. She eats standing up at the counter, looking out of the small kitchen window at the grey, wet, English sky, and she does not think she is excited and she is, quite obviously, excited. The toast is unnecessarily long-chewed. The coffee is unnecessarily savoured. She is killing time and she knows it.

At a quarter past nine, her phone buzzes on the counter.

Jude: morning. it is drizzling. default state of the country.

Alexia smiles before she has fully read it.

She types back slowly, because she would like the message to look like a message a normal woman has spent zero seconds composing.

Alexia: morning. what time should i meet you?

Three dots. They appear and disappear twice. Then:

Jude: twelve? i can come pick you up from jana's

Alexia: ok. what should i wear?

Jude: layers. and shoes you don't love.

Alexia: ok.

She sets the phone down on the counter and finishes her coffee, and her chest is doing something small and warm that she has come to associate with Jude and Jude only. The London girl who gets her all warm.

Alexia smiles into her mug.

*

By half past ten, she has, against all reason, three outfits laid out on Jana's spare-room bed.

This is humiliating. She is aware that this is humiliating. She is Alexia Putellas. She has been photographed in evening wear by people whose names she does not need to know. She has signed contracts with fashion houses. She has, on more than one occasion, walked a red carpet in heels, and she had not, in any of these moments, felt anything resembling what she is feeling now, which is the precise, low-grade panic of a woman who does not know what shoes you don't love technically means.

She is examining the third outfit, too smart, obviously too smart, what is wrong with her, when Jana wanders past the door in pyjamas with her bowl of yoghurt and stops dead.

"Tía."

"Do not."

"Tía, what are you doing?"

"I am picking clothes."

"You sure? Because from here it looks like your luggage exploded over your bed."

"This is a normal amount of clothes to pick from."

Jana, very slowly, comes into the room. Sets the bowl down on the dresser. Crosses her arms. Alexia throws her a glare.

"I have been waiting like six months for this. I am allowed three minutes." She looks, with theatrical care, at the bed. "Show me the contestants."

Alexia, against every instinct, points.

"That is too much," Jana says immediately. "That is a - what, a date for a Michelin restaurant. She is taking you on a walk, Ale, she said layers and shoes you don't love. She did not say shoes you don't love and also a silk shirt. No."

"Okay."

"That one." Jana tilts her head. "Too - too capitana. You look like you are about to read a statement to the press."

"It is just a sweater."

"It is your captain sweater, Ale. I know that sweater. That sweater has given speeches."

"You are inventing problems."

"I am identifying problems." Jana points at the third outfit. "That."

"That?"

"That. The white shirt. With the jeans. The good jeans. And the trainers, yes, those, the ones you said were too casual to bring, thank God you brought them anyway. Layers. Real layers. A jumper over it. The jacket you brought for the cold, the one with the inside pocket, sí, that one."

"It is too plain."

"It is not too plain, Ale, would you look at your face for once? You have a - bueno, you have everything, tranquila. You don't need the silk shirt. You need to look like a normal woman who has come to England to see a girl."

Alexia is not an insecure woman. A little bit shy, yes, maybe timid, but not insecure. But she wonders if this is how a teenager feels on their first date. Or a date that mattered.

She just wants to make sure Jude knows that she is deeply interested.

"I also came to England to visit my friend."

"Yeah, okay, you can lie to yourself, but if Jude was living in Berlin, you would be speaking German right about now."

Alexia laughs once, despite herself. Jana, sensing weakness, picks the outfit up off the bed and presses it into Alexia's arms.

"Wear it."

"Fine."

"And, Ale."

"¿Qué?"

"Wear the big earrings. Not the small ones. The gold ones. Trust me."

"Jana."

"Trust me."

Alexia puts on the white shirt and the jeans and the trainers, ties her hair back, leaves it loose, ties it again, leaves it loose again, decides to leave it loose, and puts in the gold earrings, and stands in front of Jana's hallway mirror and looks at herself.

She looks like a woman who has come to England to see a girl.

She looks, in fact, quite good.

Jana, watching from the doorway, gives her a single small nod that contains, somehow, the satisfaction of an entire scouting career.

"Perfecta."

"Gràcies."

"Go and ruin her."

"I am not going to ruin her, Jana —"

*

Jude arrives at five to twelve.

Alexia knows because her phone buzzes with a here. no rush, and she goes to the window and looks down.

There is Jude on the pavement outside Jana's building. The drizzle has stopped for a rare minute, but Jude still has the hood up and her hands in the pockets of a black jacket, the small frame of her tilted back to look at the row of windows. She finds Alexia's almost instantly. Alexia is, in fairness, not exactly hiding. Jude's face lights up in that crooked grin of hers and she gives her not quite a wave and not quite anything, and lifts a hand.

Alexia lifts one back.

Behind her, Jana, who is on the sofa now, still in pyjamas and browsing through Netflix, lifts her head.

"Is she here?"

"Sí."

"Bo." Jana waves at the window without getting up, a small dismissive Catalan flick. "Tell her hola from me. Suerte, capi."

Alexia goes down the stairs at a pace that is, she tells herself, perfectly normal. She is not running. She is walking, briskly, with the small, efficient steps of a woman who has somewhere to be and is not, particularly, excited about it.

She is, she finds at the bottom of the stairs, a liar.

She pushes the door open and steps out into the brisk cold, and there is Jude, who has taken her hood down now, hair slightly damp at the front, looking at her with the asymmetrical half-smile that does, briefly, terrible things to Alexia's heartbeat.

"Hi," Jude says.

"Hola," Alexia says.

There is a beat where they just look at each other. The kind of beat that has been happening between them in real time, in person, for about thirty hours now, and which Alexia is not yet used to and is not yet sure she will ever be. Jude shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other, extends an arm, and pulls Alexia into a half-hug that is so very weird but warm at the same time.

Jude smells like rain and also wood. Her jacket has droplets of rain clinging to it, but the grey hoodie underneath is soft. Alexia is a little dizzy from the proximity alone. Rewards Jude with a kiss to her cheek that turns the tips of her ears a bright pink.

Alexia doesn't try too hard to hide her grin.

"Right, so, right —" Jude babbles, recovering first, stepping back. She tips her head down the road. "Walk?"

"Yes."

"We'll get the bus in a bit. And the tube. I'm taking you on a proper London tour, the actual one. Two-storey buses, walk a bit, tube one stop, walk a lot, that's how you do it."

"Sí, alright."

"Postcards are for tourists. We do it properly."

"Vale."

They set off. The day is grey and cloudy, doing its London thing, half-hearted and absolutely committed at the same time, and Jude pulls her hood back up almost immediately.

Alexia thinks, faintly, that it's the perfect day for a date.

*

If this was a movie, this would be the part where a collection of cutesy scenes of them both would overlap under slightly poppy music. Well, if this was a movie, Alexia could do with better weather and minus the huge rat that appeared in the walkway.

But, be that as it may, she would still choose this movie with her and Jude at the centre of it. And the supposed movie goes like this:

They walk first. Just walk. Through streets Alexia does not know, in a direction Jude clearly does, past pubs and laundrettes and a Turkish grocer and a man arguing on a phone in what might be Polish. Jude does not point things out. She just walks and lets Alexia look, with her hands in her jacket pockets and her hood up, occasionally glancing sideways like she is checking Alexia is still there.

They cross a road. The light is red. A van comes too fast around the corner because the van does not care about the light, and Jude, without looking, without even appearing to register that her own hand is doing it, puts her palm flat against the small of Alexia's back and stops her at the kerb.

The van goes past.

Jude takes her hand away.

She does not, as far as Alexia can tell, notice she did it at all.

Alexia notices.

The hand was steady. The hand was warm even through the coat. The hand was, in the brief two seconds it was there, the most attentive hand Alexia has been near in possibly two years. And Jude has already kept walking and is saying something about a bakery up ahead that is rude to customers but does good sourdough.

Vale, Alexia thinks. Vale.

They get to a market eventually. Broadway, Jude says, with the small proprietary pride of someone showing off a thing they did not personally build but feel responsible for anyway. It is a Sunday market. There are stalls of cheese and oysters and Vietnamese sandwiches and people in identical raincoats moving in slow, packed waves down the central aisle. Jude takes her elbow, briefly, to steer her past a man with a pram, and lets it go.

Alexia looks in wonder. She's been to London. She's a footballer, of course she has been to London. But not Jude's London.

It's more special this way.

"What do you want?" Jude asks.

"Anything."

"That is not an answer."

"Whatever you choose."

"Come on, give me something to work with here, Putellas."

"Tortilla. If they have it."

Jude raises an eyebrow.

"This is England."

"You said anything."

"I said anything we have."

"You said anything."

She gets a small, surprised laugh out of Jude. That one is becoming a project, she has decided, getting Jude to laugh, really laugh, the half-broken, winded sound she makes when she is caught off guard. Then Jude marches her down to the back of the market to a Spanish stall Alexia did not see coming, and points at the tortilla under the glass, and says:

"I can't believe you knew."

"I did not know. I hoped."

They eat it standing up under an awning while it drizzles again, sharing a fork. Jude does not seem aware of the fork-sharing as a piece of information. Alexia is extremely aware of it. The tortilla is good, properly runny in the middle, salty, the potatoes still holding their shape, and Alexia tells Jude this in slow, deliberate English, and Jude looks at her with something between pride and indigestion and says yeah? in the voice of a person very happy about providing good food.

"Sí, Jude."

"Cool. Right. Cool."

She pays before Alexia can. Alexia, in her interior, files this as well. She has spent her entire adult life paying for things, being expected to pay for things, being assumed to pay for things, and the fact that Jude in her stupid jacket has just bought her a tortilla for six pounds fifty off a stand in a Hackney market does, in a way she is not prepared for, undo something small in her.

She files everything today. She is a one-woman archive.

*

Alexia has lost count of the places they saw. But somewhere after Jude showed her her favourite statue in the city — the Peter Pan one, in Kensington, which does not surprise her at all — they reach Liv's place.

Jude is offhand about it, the way she is offhand about everything. She says, We can pop in, if you want. My friend's doing a thing. Pastries. She'll be insufferable but she'll feed us. And Alexia, who would at this point follow Jude into the river, says, Yes. Okay.

Liv's thing turns out to be a small Sunday pop-up in a railway arch in some part of East London Alexia could not point to on a map. Warm and full of the smell of butter and burnt sugar and the precise atmosphere of cool young women who have decided to do food. There is a hand-lettered chalkboard menu. There are tiny tarts arranged like jewellery. There is a queue. Jude bypasses the queue, because Jude is family here, the way she is family in three other corners of this city Alexia is starting to understand, and goes around the back, and Alexia follows.

Liv is mid-pipe, bag of crème pât in one hand, curls escaping a clip, frown of concentration, until she looks up.

"Oh," Liv says.

She says it the way Hayley said it. Alexia is starting to recognise this Oh. It has, she has learned, two stages: the first stage is that face is famous, and the second stage is the small, much more important one, which is that face is here, with Jude.

Liv does the second one in about a second and a half.

She does not say anything immediately. She sets the piping bag down, wipes her hands on her apron and comes around the counter, and she shakes Alexia's hand, and she says, with the careful, dry, slightly evil warmth of a woman who has clearly heard things:

"Lovely to meet you."

"You too."

"Did you know I was present for Jude's first desperate message to you?"

"Liv," Jude groans, rolling her eyes a bit.

"What? I was. It was so funny."

"You're embarrassing me."

"I think you embarrassed yourself, actually."

Jude is going pink again. Alexia is delighted. Liv stuffs a small pastry box into Jude's hands and a single, glossy almond croissant into Alexia's, and waves them out.

On the way out, Alexia eats half the croissant and offers Jude the other half, and Jude takes it without thinking, eats it, and there is buttery flake left at the corner of her mouth that Alexia will not point out, because pointing it out would mean either reaching to brush it or telling her, and Alexia does not currently trust her hands.

Jude wipes her own mouth, eventually.

Alexia grieves slightly.

*

They walk further. Jude shows her things. Not the postcard things. A canal Alexia did not know London had, a bench Jude particularly approves of, a graffiti piece on a wall she always stops to look at. She talks about Charli. She talks about Graham. She talks about her mother, only once, and only in passing, but Alexia talks about her father, and they smile because they know how rare it is. Someone to understand.

She does not talk about herself in any other way. She lets Alexia talk too, slowly, in her stilted English, asks her questions in the careful, patient way of a person who actually wants the answer, does not finish her sentences for her when she searches for a word.

Alexia thinks, somewhere around three o'clock: I am in love with this woman.

The thought arrives quietly. Without ceremony. Without the panicked qualifier she would normally bolt onto it. It's a simple fact. A fact that has been building through screens and late-night talks and misunderstandings across channels.

She is in love with Jude. She just needed to look at her to confirm it.

Vale, she thinks. Okay.

It is at this point that she decides, with the calm tactical clarity of the captain she is, that she is going to do something about it. Today. This afternoon. Before the cab home, before Jana's flat, before another night of Cariño over a screen and Jude smiling at her with three hundred miles between them.

She is going to kiss her.

She is Alexia Putellas. She has done harder things.

*

The café is the last stop.

It is small. Tucked into a side street. The kind of place with one barista and four tables and a window that has steamed up against the cold. Jude orders for both of them, not overbearing, but like someone who knows food: Flat white, and a long black, and one of those almond things if there's any left. She pays again, despite Alexia's small Catalan protest, and they take their drinks to the corner table by the window because the corner table is the only free table, and also because Alexia has been steering them subtly toward the corner table since they walked in.

It's the smallest table, private, away from the door, and it forces them to sit so close together, side by side, that her leg is touching the whole length of Jude's thigh, and that makes her giddy in a way she hasn't been since she was, maybe, seventeen.

Jude takes a sip, then wraps her hands around her flat white and leans back into the booth to look at Alexia properly.

"This is alright, isn't it?"

"It is very alright."

"Did you like it? Our..." Jude trails off, eyes darting out, finger tapping the side of her cup once. "Day?"

Alexia feels her cheeks heat up. God, she is a grown woman.

She smiles shyly. "Sí. Very good day."

The light from the window is grey and soft. The drizzle has slowed to almost nothing outside. There is some quiet music from a speaker behind the counter. The café smells of coffee and warm milk and the wet wool of everyone's coats.

Alexia takes a breath.

She does it in stages. Like a penalty.

She tucks the loose strand of hair behind her ear. It has been damp-curled there all afternoon and she has been ignoring it on purpose and now she tucks it, slow, deliberate, the way she has done in approximately four similar situations and seen reliably understood.

She wets her lower lip.

She leans forward.

It is an inch, maybe. Maybe two. Enough to close the distance between her side of the small table and the middle of it. Enough to bring her face into the warm light coming off the window. Enough to put her mouth, and she has, despite herself, been looking at Jude's mouth, off and on, for most of the afternoon, the small chapped corner of it where she bites in the cold, enough to put her mouth into the conversation.

She looks at Jude's mouth.

She lets it be obvious.

She has, in her life, done this exact sequence of three small movements and watched it land successfully approximately one hundred percent of the time. She is not bragging. It is simply true. Tuck. Wet. Lean. The other person reads the page. The page is read.

Jude reads the page.

Alexia sees her read the page.

There is, for about a quarter of a second, a flicker in Jude's face. Something that arrives and goes again so fast that Alexia, even in the act of clocking it, half-wonders if she imagined it.

Then Jude sits back.

She sits back, picks up her flat white with both hands, takes another sip, and says, with a breezy, slightly too-breezy lightness to her voice:

"Anyway, did I tell you about the thing Taco did the other day?"

Alexia's lean, half-completed, suspended in mid-air, has nowhere to go.

She holds it for one more half-second.

Then she recovers, because she has been giving press conferences since she was twenty, and she straightens up smoothly and picks up her own coffee and wraps her hands around it and says, with the carefully constructed neutrality of a woman not breaking eye contact with the abyss:

"No. What did Taco do?"

"Right. So. We have this, it's a, okay, so first you need to know that he is fat. He is a fat, fat, diabetic, criminally entitled dachshund."

"I am aware of Taco's situation."

"Right. Yeah. Anyway. The other day..."

And Jude is off. She is gone. Properly gone. Both hands moving now, the coffee abandoned, her face doing the thing it does when she is telling a story she is fond of, her accent getting worse with every sentence, mimicking Taco's expressions, mimicking the noises he makes, in a way Alexia would, on any other day, find so charming she would have to sit on her hands.

It is charming.

That is the worst part of it. It is so charming. Jude is animated and bright and entirely focused on telling Alexia about her stupid sausage dog, and Alexia, who would, an hour ago, have considered being told a fifteen-minute Taco story to be the highest possible privilege of her current life, finds herself sitting opposite this story with a cup of hot coffee turning into a cup of merely warm coffee in her hands and a small cold thing setting up shop somewhere under her sternum.

She listens. She nods. She makes the small encouraging noises. She laughs, once, real, despite herself, at the part where Taco apparently glared at Jude for an entire afternoon.

But under all of it.

Under all of it she is sitting in the corner of a small London café with her hair tucked behind her ear and her lip still slightly wet and her body still slightly leaned forward, and she is recalculating. In real time. With the precise, slightly nauseous focus of a player who has just realised her read of the match was wrong.

She had this wrong.

She has had this wrong, possibly, for some time.

She thinks back, frantically, while nodding at honestly whatever Jude is babbling on about. She thinks back through the day. The hand on the small of her back. The hand on her elbow. The fork-sharing. The way Jude's smile went asymmetrical when she said I will not get bored of you. The way Liv teased Jude. The way Jude turned pink. The way Jude offered her a coat she had not asked for when the drizzle picked up. The way Jude has spent the whole afternoon being, in every possible measurable sense, attentive.

That was all real. She is sure that was all real.

But maybe that was...

Friends, she thinks. The word lands in Catalan first. Amigues.

Maybe that was just how Jude is with friends. With people she likes. With Charli, with Hayley, with Liv. Maybe Jude is just like that. Maybe Alexia, who has been turning these small things over in her hand all afternoon and assigning each one a value, has been overweighting the currency.

Maybe the lean-in was, to Jude, an actual, literal lean-in. English people are notoriously weird; Lucy had said so. Keira took months to properly hug her.

Maybe Jude, sweet and slightly chaotic Jude, took it as a closeness she was not equipped to receive without panic, and stepped back.

Maybe Jude does not want this.

Maybe Jude is being kind. Maybe Jude has been being kind for close to six months, and Alexia, who is famously not stupid, has been doing what people do when they are lonely, which is reading kindness as something else.

The cold thing under her sternum makes itself larger.

She makes herself smile at the Taco story anyway.

They walk back to Jana's neighbourhood after the café. The drizzle starts up properly again. Jude is quieter on the walk than she was earlier, and Alexia cannot tell if she is reading that correctly either now, can no longer trust her own instruments. She tells herself a lot of things, all of which she has time to formulate at length, because there is a comfortable silence between her and Jude that she now suspects is, in fact, simply silence.

They stop at the steps to Jana's apartment building.

"Today was..." Jude scratches her jaw. "Yeah. That was a good one."

"It was very nice. Thank you."

"You don't have to —"

"I want to thank you."

"Yeah. Alright. You're welcome."

There is a small, awkward pause where, twenty-four hours ago, Alexia would have stepped forward and hugged her without thinking. She does not step forward now. She is not sure what the rules of hugging are anymore. She has, evidently, been getting all the rules wrong.

Jude solves it for her, in the end. Steps in. Wraps both arms around her. Briefly. Tight, then released. Pats her once on the back, in the way one pats a teammate. Steps back.

"Get inside before you freeze."

"Okay."

"Text me, yeah?"

"Okay."

She watches Jude walk back down the road in the drizzle, hands in her pockets, hood up, and she stands there for too long after Jude is gone, because she does not yet have what it takes to walk into Jana's flat and explain any of this.

She walks in anyway. Eventually.

*

"That is," Jana says, after a long pause, when Alexia has finished laying it out in pieces on the kitchen table, "the worst recap I have ever heard."

"Jana."

"I am serious. That is genuinely the worst recap. You have just described an extremely successful date and concluded it went badly."

"She leaned back, Jana."

"She panicked."

"She did not."

"Ale."

"She did not panic, she... she sat back, and she drank her coffee, and she talked about her dog."

"Tía."

"¿Qué?"

Jana looks at her for a long moment, with that deep thinking face Alexia has seen across fields for three seasons. "You leaned in to kiss her."

"...yes."

"And she leaned back."

"Yes."

"And then she talked about Taco."

"Yes."

Jana puts her face in her hands. Snorts a little.

"That is a woman who is in love with you."

"Jana, it is not..."

"You are both grown women acting nervous and stupid."

"Well, I can't disagree with that."

"I don't know what happened. Maybe you will just have to do the grown-up thing and talk. Use words."

Alexia grumbles. She knows she is pouting and that is not a good look on her. Or it is, but it is not very mature. She doesn't want to talk.

She wants to bat her eyelashes at Jude and kiss her senseless.

"She will have to talk. I already did the lean-in thing. I took a fucking plane for her. I..."

"So you admit that you didn't come to see me, puta."

"Not the point, Jana."

Jana bangs her head on the table. Alexia pouts even more.

*

You didn't need to show up to the shift today. Nobody was expecting you to. You showed up anyway because if you didn't do something with your hands for the next hour or so you were probably going to punch your own face.

Stupid, stupid, thick as a mule.

The soundtrack of your mind right about now.

Carl took one look at your face and shoved you toward the kitchen, sat you down on a stool, and dropped a huge sack of potatoes into your lap. The guy knows what's up and doesn't ask questions about it. He is, in his own crap way, one of the best people in your life.

You peel so many potatoes in the span of two hours that they will probably be on the menu for the next three months. You sigh.

You don't know why you panicked.

Actually you do know why. You just don't want to admit it.

You didn't know how you felt or how deep it was until Alexia was right there, right in front of you, looking so beautiful and so eager and real.

Even under London's horrible weather she was somehow brighter. You wanted to tell her that.

You wanted to tell her everything.

You were pretty sure you were in love, so utterly in love, the moment she bit into her stupid tortilla — really? Tortilla in London? — and groaned slightly at the taste and talked for a while with a drop of the sauce near her chin and you just kept looking at it. At her. At impossible hazel eyes and pink lips and —

Your mind went Oh.

It could not go Oh at a worse moment.

The peeler slips and scrapes the tip of your finger and you hiss. Fucking hell.

You should have kissed her. She leaned in. She looked at your lips. She clearly wanted to.

Then your mind decided, in the precise instant the lean was happening, to remind you that you fuck up most things in your life even if you love them dearly. So you recoiled. You panicked. You drank your fucking coffee like a coward.

Here is Alexia, who is kind and patient and so nice, so unbearably lovely to you, and you will, you absolutely will, fuck that up.

Look at you. Fucking it up even now. Self-fulfilling prophecy.

You let your head fall into your hands.

They smell weird. Starch and onion and the iron of a small cut you have only just registered.

That's when Hayley finds the perfect moment to poke her head in. She takes in your pathetic frame propped against the kitchen counter, gives you the precise up-and-down of a woman about to start something, and says:

"Weren't you supposed to be out celebrating your sucessful date today?"

You groan.

"How come everyone knew it was a date before me?"

"Because not all of us are as thick in the head as you, Jude."

"Cheers."

"What did you think it was?"

You consider. There is no good answer. You go with the worst one.

"Like, a casual hang-out between pen pals?"

Hayley stares at you. Stares at you with such concentrated, unmasked pity that you wipe your face just to check, because for all you know you have been crying for an hour and nobody told you.

"Jude."

"Don't."

"She took a plane."

"I am aware she took a plane, Hayley."

"To London."

"I am aware she came to London."

"And she could go anywhere. Anywhere, Jude. It is fucking London. Sloane Square. The Shard. A nice restaurant in Mayfair. Any one of which she could afford on the change in her coat pocket." Hayley is, you realise distantly, working herself up to something. "And she chose to come here. To this pub. To this sticky, shit-lit, mould-infested pub. To see your sorry ass."

"Ugh."

"Don't ugh me, you deserve to feel stupid right now, you twat. I should hit you over the head with the frying —"

She stops mid-sentence. Looks over her shoulder. Someone is at the door. Whoever it is has just done something that makes Hayley's face change.

She turns back. Her expression has gone grim.

"Well," she says. "I guess her mates are going to do that for me."

"What?"

You do not get to finish that what, because Hayley steps aside and Jana is already pushing through the door to the kitchen like she owns it, deeply pissed off and absolutely committed, and behind her, looking like a woman who has been dragged into a war she did not sign up for, is Aggie.

Carl's voice, from out front: "Oi. You can't —"

"I do not care," Jana says without turning around, "what your rules are."

"Right then."

You hear Carl give up. You imagine the small, defeated shrug. 

This is, you note in passing, possibly the most unsanitary moment in this kitchen's history. Which is, given the state of this kitchen, quite an accolade.

Jana is making a beeline for you.

You raise the potato peeler in front of your chest like a small inadequate sword.

"What?"

The angry Catalan pokes your sternum with a very pointed, very expensively manicured nail.

"What."

Aggie, behind her: "Jana, mate, maybe just —"

"Not now, Aggie."

Aggie throws her hands up. Mouths sorry at you over Jana's shoulder. You appreciate it. You will be remembering Aggie's failed peacekeeping efforts in your will.

Jana pokes you again. Harder.

"What is wrong with you?"

You avoid her eyes. Many things are wrong with you. You wouldn't even know where to start the list.

"Look —"

"No. You look, you self-entitled prick —"

"That's a big word for you, Jana —"

"— I have been learning English for months, do not test me right now. Look. What is wrong with you? Do you not know when someone is into you? Do you not have eyes? Do you not — Aggie!"

"I haven't said —"

"I am ripping her a new one, come on, I am in a flow."

"I was going to say maybe the kitchen isn't —"

"Where else, Aggie. Where else am I supposed to do this. The pub? With Norman here?" She gestures sharply over her shoulder. "I do not want Norman in this conversation."

"Fair."

You did not think you were capable of being amused right now. Turns out you are. You hide it badly.

Jana sees it. Pokes you a third time. The third poke is, frankly, going to bruise.

"Do not smile at me, Jones."

"I'm not."

"You absolutely are."

"Where is she?"

That stops Jana mid-poke.

You don't entirely know why the question came out so fast. Some part of you, the part that has not been doing well for the last twenty hours, needs to know that Alexia is somewhere. Somewhere warm. Somewhere not crying. Somewhere not getting on a plane back to Barcelona without telling you.

Jana studies your face for a second. Her own softens, just barely, and then she remembers she's furious and the soft thing snaps back away.

"She is at Harrods."

"Harrods?"

"Lucy and Ona dragged her. Said they needed perfume. Nobody needs perfume. They are distracting her, Jude. While I am here. Dealing with this." She gestures at the entirety of you. "Three grown women are sacrificing their Monday morning to fix your fuck-up. Three. Plus me. Four. Aggie —"

"I'm support staff, I have made it very clear —"

"— Aggie is here for emotional support of the whole project."

Aggie nods at you, seriously. "It's true. I'm support staff."

"Right."

"They are walking her around Harrods looking at perfume she does not want," Jana continues, "while I am here in this — this — this mould fortress trying to find out whether you have any idea what you did yesterday."

"I know what I did yesterday."

"Do you."

"Jana —"

"Do you, Jude. Because she came home and asked me, with her actual mouth, if English people were slow."

You wince.

"I —"

"And I did not know whether to laugh or cry. Because I knew what had happened. Because I have known what was going to happen for six months. Because she has been talking about you for six months. Like — like a teenager. Like a teenager with — with a science crush, an obsession, on a girl in a band, do you understand what I am saying to you —"

"Jana, gently —"

"I am being gentle, Aggie!"

"You are not being gentle —"

"I am being Catalan gentle, which is different —"

"You're calling her a mould fortress —"

"Did you hear me call her a mould fortress? I called the pub a mould fortress, the pub is a mould fortress, the pub is the thing she keeps coming back to even though it is a mould fortress, which is the entire point, Aggie, focus."

You set the peeler down. Slowly. Very carefully. The way you would set down a weapon, surrendering.

"Jana. I —"

"And you know what I think." Jana is pacing now. Small kitchen. Three steps, turn, three steps, turn. "I think you are afraid of her."

"That's not —"

"I think you take one look at her and you see La Reina and you flip out, Jude. I think you see two Ballons d'Or and a capitana armband and a face on a billboard in Madrid and you decide you are not enough for it. I think you have decided that for her. You have decided what she is allowed to want. You have decided she is too much."

"Jana —"

"Because if that is what is happening here, Jude. If that is what you see when you look at her. Then you should — you should say so. And we should — we should call it. Right now. Because she does not deserve to be in love with a person who only sees La Reina and not her. She has had enough of those. They are exhausting. She has had a lifetime of them. She does not need another one. Not from you. Not from someone she has — she has —" Jana's hands are doing something in the air now, something furious and helpless, "— put up on the wall in her own head, Jude. Do you understand what I am — Aggie, help me, English, help me —"

"She means Alexia thinks the world of you," Aggie translates, gently.

"That. I mean that, exactly. Gràcies, Aggie."

"You're welcome."

"So if you cannot —"

You stand up.

You don't mean to. Your body stands up before your brain has signed off on it. The stool scrapes back loudly on the kitchen tile. The potato peeler hits the counter. The half-peeled potato in your other hand goes back into the sack.

The kitchen goes very quiet.

Jana stops mid-pace.

You are not, in your normal life, a person who gives speeches. Speeches are Charli's department. Speeches are for managers and politicians and people who have, at some point, willingly stood in front of a room. You are a kitchen woman. You communicate in pans being banged, doors being closed, fags taken in the alley. Speeches are not, traditionally, your medium.

You give one anyway.

"I don't give two fucks," you say, "if Alexia is Alexia Putellas."

Jana opens her mouth.

"Don't. Let me. I don't give two fucks. She could be a — hot dog seller. On the street. With a little cart. Lionel Messi'scousin's plumber, I don't care. La Reina or whatever the fuck you entitled fucks call her — I do not give a single shit."

"Jude —"

"Let. Me."

Jana closes her mouth. Aggie has frozen with her hand still half-raised in peacekeeping position.

Somewhere behind them, the kitchen door has cracked open another inch. You don't look. You can feel Hayley's energy in it. You suspect Carl is behind her. You will be dealing with all of it later.

"I am not afraid of La Reina," you say, and your voice is, you note with a small distant interest, doing something. Going thicker. Going steadier. Going somewhere you didn't sign up for. "Don't insult me. Don't insult her. Don't pretend that's what this is. That'd be easy. That'd be a problem I could fix by reading her Wikipedia and doing a couple of breathing exercises."

"Then what —"

"Listen. I am afraid of Alexia Putellas. My friend. The person I — I —" you stop, find the word, grab it, "like. The one who saved me as Jude. Who calls me cabrona. Who sent me — she sent me a voice note last Tuesday at eleven at night telling me about how her grandmother used to make leek soup. Leek soup, Jana. Eleven at night. Not because there's a reason to tell me about her grandmother's leek soup. Just because. Just because she wanted me to know."

Nobody says anything.

"She listens to my crap, Jana. All of it. The stupid stuff. The Carl stuff. The Eggy stuff. The Mum stuff, sometimes, when it slips. She listens like — like she's taking notes. Like there's going to be a test. Like the worst thing she could do is forget any of it."

You drag a hand down your face.

"I'm not afraid of La Reina. I'm afraid of Alexia. The person. The one I'm —" you exhale once, hard, "— in love with."

The kitchen goes silent.

Properly silent.

Even the extractor fan, which has had a slow grinding fault for two years, picks this exact moment to develop a sudden interest in nothing.

Jana stares at you.

Aggie stares at you.

Behind them, the door has opened the rest of the way. Hayley is standing in it, mouth slightly open. Carl is behind her, tea towel slung over his shoulder, holding a half-peeled onion, looking as though he has just walked into a confession booth. 

Jana's whole face changes.

Slowly. Like a door swinging.

The fury goes out of her in stages. Her shoulders drop. Her hands lower from where they were doing the helpless Catalan thing in mid-air. Her mouth, which had been open to argue, closes.

And then she smiles.

Wide. Slow. Wild. The smile of a woman who has just heard, after months of careful and not-so-careful intelligence work, exactly the sentence she has been waiting to hear out of your mouth.

"Bo."

"Don't."

"Allà està. There you go."

"Don't do this."

"I knew you had it in you."

"Jana, I will throw this peeler at you."

"You won't, you are in love. You are too soft to throw things now."

Aggie, very quietly: "She has a point."

Jana steps forward. Pokes you. Differently, this time. Once. In the centre of your chest. Your heart, right there. 

Almost — almost gentle. Almost.

"So. Jude. My friend. My idiot."

"Mm."

"What are you going to do about it."

And the thing is.

The thing is, you know.

You have been knowing, in the back of your head, since the moment the peeler slipped and you understood why you panicked. You have been knowing it the whole time Jana was shouting at you. You have been knowing it through Hayley's she could afford it on the change in her coat pocket and Carl's silent shrug at the door and the small, painful image of Alexia at Harrods being walked past perfumes she does not want.

You know what you are going to do.

You wipe your hands on your apron.

You look at Jana.

"Right," you say. "I need you to keep her at Harrods for another two hours."

Jana's smile widens further.

"Sí, capitana. What for?"

You pick the peeler back up. Set it down on the counter properly this time. Take your apron off over your head. Reach for your jacket.

"I've got a plan."

*

Alexia arrives at Jana's apartment exhausted. She has been exhausted since yesterday, really. Emotionally drained, in the precise way only a person who has spent twenty-four hours running through every possible interpretation of one quarter-second flicker on someone's face can be. Now she also has two bottles of perfume she did not want, three jumpers she did not need, and a coat Lucy talked her into.

It is not, she suspects, going to fit in her luggage.

Luggage she has to organise soon enough. She has one more day here in this damp city before she goes back to her sunny routine of training and matches and press, to Barcelona where the sun is hard and white and her flat is quiet. 

Jude has not said a word.

Nothing. Not a text. Not a voice note. Not a hi or a sorry about earlier or even a taco says hello, which Alexia, in the cab back from Harrods, had been bargaining for in some humiliating corner of her mind as a bare minimum acceptable response.

Alexia thinks herself patient. Thinks herself resilient. Has been told, in approximately thirty interviews over the last decade, that her composure under pressure is one of her defining qualities.

She has found out, in regards to her English crush, that she is none of those things.

She sighs. Drops the Harrods bags inside the door with a small dispirited thud. Toes her trainers off. Considers, briefly, whether it would be insane to lie face-down on Jana's hallway rug for fifteen minutes.

Decides it would be only mildly insane.

Decides to compromise: face-down on the couch. Shoes off. Maybe a blanket. Maybe a small dignified weep into Jana's cushions, which Jana will pretend not to notice when she gets in.

Lucy and Ona went to get drinks somewhere. They tried to bring her. She declined. She has, she has decided, earned an evening alone on a sofa, in a country where she does not have to be Alexia Putellas for anyone.

She pads down the hall to the living room.

Her phone buzzes in her coat pocket.

She ignores it.

Three steps later it buzzes again. Then again. Then a fourth time, faster than is reasonable.

She pulls it out.

It is Instagram. The DMs. The thread that has begun all of this. The impossibility that turned into her catching a plane to London to see about a girl.

@jisthejones: tomatoes

She stares at the screen.

The notification has come in mid-sentence. The dots are still moving. There is, evidently, more.

@jisthejones: pasta @jisthejones: or make from scratch? would she like that? do you make it from scratch? you do, don't you. christ. @jisthejones: get the good cheese. the gratey kind. parm if they have proper parm.

Alexia, who has just been walking down a hallway, has, without realising, stopped.

She is standing in Jana's corridor in her socks with her coat half-on, looking at her phone like it has slapped her.

The dots keep moving.

@jisthejones: clean the flat. @jisthejones: actually properly clean the flat, jude, hoover the corners, don't be a coward  @jisthejones: scrub taco. he stinks.

Jude is doing lists again. Like the first time.

She lets out a small noise that is not, technically, a laugh. She walks the rest of the way to the sofa in a daze, sits down, watches the dots move.

@jisthejones: candles? do you own candles? you don't own candles. buy candles. @jisthejones: not weird ones. just nice candles.

Alexia's mouth does something at the corner.

There is a small, hot, completely unreasonable jealous spike that arrives somewhere around would she like that, because the she in would she like that is unattributed, and Alexia, who is a fully-grown woman with a Champions League medal, is briefly outraged by a hypothetical she who exists only because Jude has not specified.

She types, before she can stop herself.

@alexiaputellas: jude, you are doing it again —

Her thumb hovers over send.

She does not press send.

Because the dots are still moving again and Jude is going to beat her to it. She wants to know what comes next.

The dots move.

The dots stop.

The dots move again.

Then, two messages, one after the other:

@jisthejones: apologise for being such a dumbass. @jisthejones: ask the pretty footballer out. maybe. if she forgives you.

Alexia goes very still.

She reads it twice.

The dots come back.

One more message.

@jisthejones: do you forgive me for being such a nervous wreck, ale?

Alexia's eyes do, betrayingly, the thing.

The thing she has been refusing to do all day. The thing she did not do in the cab. The thing she absolutely was not going to do in Jana's hallway with two hundred pounds of unnecessary clothing piled at her feet.

The thing she is, now, doing on Jana's sofa in her socks, looking at a phone screen, alone.

Just a little.

She wipes her face with the back of her wrist. Idiota. She is being an idiota. This is, in objective terms, four messages on Instagram from a woman in a sticky pub in South London who has, by her own description, just told herself off in writing for being a coward.

It is also, simultaneously, the single most romantic thing that has happened to Alexia Putellas in possibly five years. Possibly, her whole life.

She types, very carefully, because her hands are not entirely steady.

@alexiaputellas: there is nothing to forgive, cariño.

She looks at it.

Adds, because she wants Jude to hear it the way she means it:

@alexiaputellas: you don't have to.

The dots come on immediately. Like Jude has been waiting on the other end with her thumb hovering. And Alexia can imagine it clearly and the smile she wears is fond. So fond.

@jisthejones: i want to.

And then:

@jisthejones: come over tonight? my place. i'll cook. proper date.

Alexia reads that one approximately four times.

She types:

@alexiaputellas: proper date? @jisthejones: proper date. like, capital P, capital D. @jisthejones: with a tablecloth. probably. if i can find one. @jisthejones: i'll text you the address. say yes, ale.

Alexia sits there on Jana's sofa in her socks looking at her phone, and her face is doing a thing she will not be able to describe later when Mapí asks her about it, and she has gone, in the space of approximately ninety seconds, from face-down-on-the-couch-energy to a kind of horizontal vertigo, like the floor has tilted up under her and she is on the verge of sliding off.

She types:

@alexiaputellas: yes.

Adds, before she can be embarrassed by it:

@alexiaputellas: sí. okay. yes.

The little seen indicator pops up immediately.

Then a single response, a beat later:

@jisthejones: ❤️

Alexia, on Jana's couch, makes a sound that is not, technically, a sound a Ballon d'Or winner is supposed to make.

She presses the phone face-down against her chest.

She breathes once.

Twice.

Then she sits bolt upright, with the abrupt clarity of a woman whose tactical brain has just rebooted at full operating capacity, and yells, into the empty flat:

"Jana!"

No answer. Jana is, of course, still out. The Catalan rescue squad has been on duty all day and is currently, somewhere across town, on the third drink of a well-deserved debrief.

Alexia calls her.

It rings three times. Jana picks up against a background of cheerful pub noise.

"Sí, capi."

"Jana."

"Mm."

"Jana, I need you to come back."

"Are you okay?"

"I — yes. Sí. It is — Jana, Jude texted."

There is a long pause on the line. The background noise dims. Alexia can hear, very faintly, what is possibly Lucy in the distance going what is happening, what is she saying.

"Oh," Jana says, in a voice that is doing a terrible job of sounding surprised. "Bueno. And what did Jude say."

"She invited me to her flat. Tonight. For dinner."

"Que bonito."

"Jana, you do not sound surprised."

"I am very surprised, capi, I am shocked, I am gobsmacked —"

"Jana."

"Mm?"

"I need to go back to Harrods."

There is another pause.

"Ay, Ale."

"Don't."

"Ay, capi."

"Jana, do not —"

"You want to buy —"

"Don't say it."

"— lencería —"

"JANA."

"I am only confirming!"

"Confirm in your head."

"I am bringing Lucy. She has excellent taste."

"You are not bringing Lucy."

"Lucy will be delighted —"

Alexia closes her eyes.

"You are coming back. Alone. Now. We are going. Quietly. Like normal adults."

"Quietly. Like normal adults."

"Promise me, Jana."

"Promise. I will not even tell Ona."

A pause. Alexia wants to bite her phone.

"You can bring Ona, she has good taste."

"YAY! Girl's shopping trip!"

Alexia has the good sense to pull her phone far away from her ears. She sighs. She needs all the help she can get.

"Come on, hurry up."

"Anything for love, capi."

Jana hangs up.

Alexia sits on the sofa with her phone in her hand and her two hundred pounds of unnecessary clothing piled at her feet, and the small leak in her eyes has, somewhere in the middle of the lingerie negotiation, dried up entirely.

She is going to Jude's flat tonight.

For dinner.

Proper date. Capital P. Capital D.

She gets up off the sofa.

Goes to her room. Pulls every item out of her case. Lays them on the bed. Picks up the phone again.

Types one more message.

@alexiaputellas: cariño? @jisthejones: yeah? @alexiaputellas: should i bring wine? red or white? @jisthejones: bring whatever you want, ale. you could bring tap water for all i care. @jisthejones: just come.

Alexia smiles at her phone like an idiot.

Outside, the drizzle starts up again against Jana's living-room window. London weather at its finest.

She does not even mind.

DISCLAIMER: This fic contains an age gap of 8 years (present time reader is 24, Alexia is 32) and explores a dynamic of a shared history that not all readers may be comfortable with. There is also some foul language in the fic that references their relationship dynamic. I didn’t want to just leave a “DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT” type of warning. Hence, why I am including this disclaimer just to be safe.  I believe I handled the topic with as much caution and tact as there can be when it comes to smut but if you feel that the age gap and history is something you would dislike or feel iffy reading about, do not read. 

⋆˙⟡♡ Alexia has not left your mind ever since you met her.

She managed to consistently occupy a disproportionate amount of your brain for years. Even when you tried to get away from her.

You spent six years in Manchester, tried to get as far as you could at that age from Barcelona; you dated all kinds of women in the hopes that one of them would stick and yet, she was still the one who constantly occupied your mind.

Trying to forget about Alexia Putellas was impossible but seeing her again seemed even harder than you anticipated.

You bit your lip as you lingered in your childhood living room, just having arrived back from a small welcome drink with old friends, now returning to your welcome home party at your dad's house. 

You watched her standing out there — beer in hand, talking to Patri about something, throwing her head back to laugh. She looked so familiar and yet so different. The once lankier build you were so familiar with was now firm and strong, her hair back to its natural brown, framing her face. She looked so good and every part of you couldn't stand it.

"You good, princesa?" Your dad appeared at your shoulder, reading your face in the infuriating way that fathers do. "Go on outside. Everyone's waiting to see you."

“Yeah, soon, Papà.” You hummed and gave him a small smile. "I was just, uh, reminiscing."

He laughed, a confused look on his face. "Well, you can reminisce outside." He nudged you. "C'mon. Alexia's been asking about you nonstop."

You said nothing, just nodded. "I'll follow you out. Just gotta change first."

"Okay, but don't make them wait too long," he said, already heading outside, already walking toward Alexia and her group. You stayed where you were for another moment, taking a deep sigh before heading to your bedroom to change.

⋆˙⟡♡ Your dad had you when he was young; he was only seventeen, barely settled into his own life, scrambling to figure out single fatherhood. Even if it was hard, he made it work but that meant giving up a lot.

Before he had you, he had been training with the Barcelona B team, trying to make something of himself, but after you were born and one tragically timed ACL injury later, he accepted that his dreams as a footballer were done. The world of football, though, that he couldn't let go of. So he took coaching courses, put in the hours, and slowly found his footing as an assistant tactical coach for the women's team.

Alexia was just a new signee to Barcelona then; she was eighteen, bright-eyed, restless with ambition. She and your dad got close after she badgered him into helping her with her defensive work, knowing he'd been a decent defender in his day.

Eventually, they got closer after all those training sessions, so much so that he started treating Alexia like his work-little-sister. 

⋆˙⟡♡ You met Alexia for the first time at your housewarming party. Your dad had just inherited the house from your late grandfather, and after months of renovation, it was finally ready. It felt like a real change from the small apartment you'd grown up in. He invited people from the club, and Alexia was one of them.

You already knew who she was. You were also training in La Masia at that time. The women’s team had just become fully professional and all the femeni players were somewhat heroes to all of you girls in La Masia.

Your dad introduced you the way he always did, calling you his princesa. Alexia found it cute and adopted it on the spot, and began referring to you as princesa as well. While it made you cringe whenever your dad introduced you that way to his friends, insisting that you were too old to be called that, you didn’t seem to mind when it came from Alexia.  You decided that you liked the way it sounded when it came from her.

Since then, Alexia became a constant presence in your life.

Along with other people from the club, she always came over to your house for weekends and right before the holidays, before she headed back to her family. In the times that she was there, she taught you to do football tricks. She’d help you with homework.

She occasionally also came to your youth games when she could, standing at the crowd with her arms folded, paying proper attention, and afterwards would tell you what you'd done well and what you needed to work on.  Somehow that always mattered more than anything your dad or coaches said.

You didn't think anything of it for a long time. She was just Alexia, just always there. 

But as you grew older, you slowly figured that there was something different in the way you felt about Alexia. And, by the time you were sixteen, you had fully figured it out: the reason you couldn't stop thinking about her, couldn't stop smiling when she talked to you, the way your heart did that stupid thing whenever she was near...

You knew, at that point, it wasn’t just platonic admiration.

⋆˙⟡♡ It was your eighteenth birthday. Your dad suggested that you celebrate it at a bar. He said something about celebrating Barcelona B winning the league and also something about wanting you to learn how to drink while surrounded by people you trusted.

Whatever it was, you just went along with it.

Because not only were you celebrating your birthday, the fact that you were finally being able to drink legally and that your team won, you were also celebrating the fact that Alexia was coming to see you again.

"She's actually coming?" your teammate said, for the third time.

"She always comes," you said, bragging a bit but trying to sound like it was nothing. 

Throughout the years, Alexia slowly became a household name in Spain. She was catching the attention of everyone, signing brand deals, and receiving awards. She wasn’t just Alexia, your dad’s friend. She was now Alexia Putellas, la reina.

Though, while you loved watching her succeed, it also meant you got to see her less. The visits became less frequent: weekly became monthly, then monthly became occasionally. Then, occasionally became nothing much at all,

But thankfully, she was finally making time to see you for your birthday. Just as you were turning eighteen.

She arrived about an hour in,and you felt the energy in the room shift the way it always did when Alexia walked into somewhere. Your group of friends from La Masia started giggling and smiling, already eager to approach Alexia for a picture.

"Moltes felicitats!" She found you first, arms open. She hugged you properly, wrapping her arms around you and lifting you up for a second. All you could think about was how happy you were to see her again and how amazing she smelled, the same familiar perfume she had always used.

She pulled back from the hug and looked at your outfit, frowning to herself. "You turn eighteen and couldn’t wait to dress like it, huh? What happened to the Hello Kitty shirts?"

You felt the blush climb your face immediately. "Hey Alexia," you chuckled. “I missed you.”

“I know, I know, it’s been so long,” she said, chuckling, patting your head as she did. “I’m sorry I haven’t come to watch your games recently. I’ve been busy.”

“Trust me, I know,” you chuckled, waving off her apology.

"Well, at least I have something to make it up to you." She handed you a small box, wrapped neatly. "I hope you like it."

You opened it and felt the same fluttering feeling in your stomach. It was a delicate gold necklace with a dainty crown charm. You looked up at her.

"Thought it was suitable," she said simply. "For the princesa."

At this point, your face was fully red, heart beating overtime. You thanked her, hugging her once more.

"I'm putting this on right now," you said, as you pulled away from the hug, already fumbling with the clasp.

She laughed. “Let me.” 

Alexia helped you with it, letting you turn from her, hands brushing your hair to the front. You bit your lip, a bit giddy she was doing it in front of your teammates. In your teenaged, delusional mind at the time, you felt it was the most romantic scene that could ever happen.

Before you could even turn around to present the necklace to Alexia, your dad materialized from the corner of the bar and clapped Alexia on the shoulder. "Ale, you made it."

"Of course." She said, greeting your dad before gesturing at you. "Xavi, your girl is a grown-up now."

Your dad looked at you with an expression that was mostly pride but also partly teasing. You knew he was going to say something that’ll embarrass you. "I know. I have to start watching out for the boys." He said, squeezing you close to him.

"Papà—" You groaned loudly, pushing him slightly, making him and Alexia laugh.

"My bad, my bad." He held his hands up immediately, grinning. "I meant to say that I have to watch out for the girls," he turned to Alexia to explain. "She came out and told me she likes women yesterday. It completely slipped my mind. again" 

"Papà!" You said in an annoyed tone, widening your eyes at your dad. He always managed to stay the stupidest and most embarrassing things about you in front of Alexia. “That's not what I — I wasn't asking you to — madre mia."

Alexia was looking at you with an amused expression, chuckling. "Congrats?"

"I'm going to actually die of embarrassment," you groaned, shaking your head.

Your dad and Alexia laughed.  He turned to Alexia  "Come on, let’s go before I embarrass my kid anymore." your dad said, still grinning. "All the guys from the club are all over there. Sandra and Patri said they’re on their way too.  Let me grab you a drink."

"One second," Alexia said, glancing toward the entrance. "I need to wait for—"

She was looking at the door. You followed her gaze.

"New girl?" your dad asked, apparently reading something in her expression. Just at the mention of it, your heart dropped.

Alexia shrugged, lazy smirk playing around your lips. "For now. I don't know. It’s nothing serious.”

“When did you become such a player, hermana,” your dad joked, squeezing Alexia’s shoulder.

The woman who walked in was obviously Alexia's age. She was confident, pretty, looking around the room until she found Alexia and crossed toward her. She greeted you warmly enough. You were seething too much to even remember her name because all you could focus on was how Alexia’s hand found the small of her back.

You just gave her a tight-lipped smile and said a curt thanks before deciding you’d rather not be around Alexia while she was with this new girl. You made your way back to your friends, who were already excitedly whispering about Alexia. You brushed them off, just wanting to celebrate and drink, pretending not to give a fuck about the Alexia even if you constantly watched her from your peripheral the entire night.

⋆˙⟡♡ By midnight, you were absolutely plastered. It started off fun – dancing with friends as you sang along to whatever song was blasting. Then very quickly, it became… not fun.

You found yourself in one of the booths, slumped over your teammate who was patting your back as you vomited into one of the empty gift bags.

Your dad appeared as soon as he heard. "Dios mío." He said, tone concerned more than mad. “I thought I told you to stop after your last shot an hour ago.”

From where you were slumped over, you gave him a weak shrug. 

Much to your dismay, Alexia came rushing to where you were. She sighed at the sight of you absolutely plastered, sweaty and vomiting into a glittery pink paper bag. 

She patted your dad’s arm. “You go settle the bill. I can drive her home and take care of her while you settle things here.

Your dad looked between you and her. "You sure?" He asked. 

Alexia nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll text you once I get her back to your place.”

Your dad said his thanks as your friends helped you up, giving you a glass of water and wiping your mouth and face. As you stood up, Alexia put your arm around her, arm holding your waist to keep you steady.

She chuckled. “Looks like the princess enjoyed her eighteenth birthday.”

You groaned in response. “Alexia, I’m sorry…”

She looked at you and gave you an easy smile. “What do you have to be sorry for? You’re supposed to be the drunkest person on your 18th.” She joked as she walked you to her car. “Mission accomplished.”

⋆˙⟡♡ The car ride was quiet for a while. You sat in the passenger seat with your head tipped back and the window slightly open. In your hands was a new plastic bag that Alexia had gotten from somewhere in her car, just in case you needed it.

"Okay," Alexia said eventually, focusing on the road. "Lesson one. You have to eat carbs before you drink. Basic stuff, princesa."

You said nothing, closing your eyes for a moment, still feeling the alcohol swirl inside you.

"We'll work on it. Like when I used to teach you those ball control drills when you were little, remember? Except this time we can practice with shots." She glanced at you. "Much more useful life skill, honestly—"

"I hate you," you blurted suddenly.

Alexia wasn’t sure of what she heard. She frowned a bit but chuckled awkwardly. “What?”

"I said I hate you." Your voice came out thicker than you intended. Perhaps it was just because you were drunk, young, absolutely stupid and too honest. "I hate you so much."

Alexia didn’t respond yet. She grew concerned, pulling over to the side of the road, just a block away from your house. “Hey, princesa, what’s going on?” She asked, tone gentle. “Is everything good?”

"How could you bring her?" It came out before you could stop it. Your tone was pained and Alexia could hear it clearly.  "To my birthday. How could you bring some girl to my birthday."

Alexia was quiet for a moment. "I'm sorry. You're right, it was friends and family, I should have asked your dad first if–-"

"That's not what I mean." You shook your head, settling your back against the reclined seat, trying to hold back the tears that were threatening to spill. "You don't understand."

Alexia sighed, unsure of what to do with this outburst. She knew you were drunk out of your mind but she knew that you wouldn’t have said all of it if you didn’t actually mean it.  "Then tell me." Her voice was gentle. "You know you can tell me anything. You're like my little sister. I—"

"Stop." The word came out sharp, unslurred for once. "Stop saying that. Stop calling me that."

"YN—"

"I'm eighteen." Your voice broke on it, which was humiliating and yet, you kept going. "I'm not a little girl anymore. I haven't been for a long time and you keep — you just keep—"

You couldn't finish it. You didn't need to. 

Alexia watched you as you turned slightly away from her, wiping your tears as you did. She mouthed a curse word to herself, finally realizing what you were trying to say. She took a deep breath before continuing. 

"YN," she said, tone careful. “You know, I don’t…” She trailed off, still unsure how to face this situation.

"I know," you said. "I know, okay, I know. You don't have to say shit."

"I'm sorry." She sounded like she meant it, which made it worse. "Princesa, I'm so sorry, I didn't know at all that…”

She hesitated before continuing. “You'll find someone, you know? Someone your age who deserves you, who will treat you like an actual princess.” She said, trying to sound comforting but every single word she said felt like a dagger. “You’re a young and beautiful girl but YN, you know that I’m not— That I cannot…”

Alexia sighed, still struggling to find the words to comfort you. “I'll always be there for you, that doesn't change,” she continued. “There’ll be someone for you, princesa. I promise—"

“I don’t want anyone else,” you said, shaking your head, mascara streaking your face. “I want you.”

Alexia sighed, looking out the car, watching the road ahead. “YN, I don’t… I don’t see you like that,” she started. “You’re too young.”

“I’m eighteen, Ale.” You countered.

Alexia chuckled but it didn’t seem cruel or mocking; it just came out in disbelief. “Princess, I’m twenty-six,” she responded, trying to rationalize with you now. “We’re at such different parts of our lives. I don’t think you would want to date someone this much older. Quite frankly, if it was anyone else, I would disapprove too.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you huffed. “Absolute bullshit and you know it. I'm old enough. I know what I want.”

Alexia sighed, trying to keep patient. “You don’t understand. It’s just… it won’t work.”

You scoffed and before you could think about it. You unclasped your necklace and held it out to her. “Then I don’t want this,” you said, tone harsh. “You cannot give a girl this and act like you weren’t leading her on.”

Alexia frowned. “Leading you on? YN, it was a gift. For your birthday,” Her tone came out offended and hurt. "How is that leading you on?"

You shook your head, dropping the necklace into one of the car’s empty cup holders. “I don't want it."

Alexia sighed, growing impatient. "YN, you're being dramatic. C’mon, I thought you liked it." She said, trying to talk some sense into you. “I really picked that one out for you cause you know how much I care about you. Don’t you like it?”

You shook your head. "I want something else." You looked at her directly as if daring her. "You know what I want."

She looked back at you and she sighed, lips turning into a tight line as she leaned back onto her seat, turning away from you.  "No," she said.

"Alexia—" You tried to reach out but Alexia swatted your hand away.

"No." Her voice was harder this time, something in her composure finally frayed at the edges. "YN. I would never — you're practically my little sister or my cousin or whatever. For fuck's sake, I’m your dad’s friend.”

Alexia paused once she noticed that she was starting to raise her voice, breathing out for a moment. “I would never look at you like that." The words landed the way she probably intended them to. She didn’t want to hurt you but if that was what it took to draw the line, then that was what she was doing. "Never."

That was it. That was the moment Alexia broke your heart.

⋆˙⟡♡ After that, you left. You didn’t tell your dad what happened and you were certain Alexia hadn’t either. Which was probably why it must have come as a shock to hum when you decided that you were refusing the renewal offer from Barça B and accepted the offer from Manchester City. 

You told your dad it was for the minutes, the development, the chance to play at the first team instead of fighting to work your way up to the first team at Barcelona. All of that was true in a sense but none of it was the real reason why you left.

You spent six years in Manchester City. There, you developed, slowly became very good at football and yet, still so shit at forgetting

You only saw Alexia twice in the time you were away: when City played Barça in the Champions League. The first time you kept your head down and got through it. The second time she tried to talk to you after the final whistle and you found a way to ignore her, walking straight past her and greeting Patri instead, who also knew you from back in the day, switching kits with her instead as if trying to make a point to Alexia.

⋆˙⟡♡ Your contract with City expired this season and you had decided not to renew. Alexia was in a similar situation: contract expired and leaving her club. It seemed like you were both at a crossroads. 

You were back in Barcelona negotiating, and your dad had been beaming with excitement for two weeks at the idea of you possibly returning to Barcelona. Hence, why he was so set on inviting a bunch of friends from the club tonight at your welcome home party, as if to convince you to bite the bullet and sign with Barcelona.

That was why she was here.

And that was also why you have been anxiously looking through your outfits, settling on one that felt just right before heading to the party.

⋆˙⟡♡ You walked out into the backyard and felt her notice you before you even looked.

It happened in your peripheral vision. She was in the middle of a conversation, pausing to glance over to you eyes scanning you for a bit before excusing herself moving toward you with one hand holding a beer bottle and the other at the pocket.

She gave you a small smile. “Long time no see,” she smiled as her eyes quickly scanned you, lingering a microsecond longer where your abdomen was exposed.  "You look…”

She trailed off and you nodded. “Yeah, I haven’t seen you since we played against each other.” You said.

She chuckled, nodding. “Yeah, when you totally snobbed me,” she said. She looked at you again, almost as if she couldn’t help it. "You look good.” 

"You said that already." You said laughing

"I didn't actually say it the first time." She smirked.

You hummed, eyeing her too, dressed in a button-up top with her forearms exposed and straight-cut jeans. She looked good, even better than she did years ago.

Before you could continue talking, your dad caught sight of you, ushering you to talk to some other people from the club, clearly set on his agenda of convincing you to sign. 

Alexia drifted away too but one thing was for sure: her eyes were on you the entire time.

⋆˙⟡♡ The crowd thinned out as the night got later. 

You found yourself feeling a bit socially drained from all the talk about negotiation and signing, settling  on the old, wooden swing at the edge of the yard, beer in hand. Alexia noticed you settle there, slowly walking over to you and sitting beside you.

“So…” She said, “I heard you weren’t dead-set on Barcelona yet. Are you actually considering Atlético?"

You shrugged. "Among others,” you responded before taking another sip of your beer.

"Don't tell me you’re considering Real Madrid," she asked.

You chuckled and shook your head. "Please, my dad would actually kill me."

"Yeah, your dad and everyone else who's ever met you." She bumped her shoulder against yours lightly. "La Masia girl ending up at Real Madrid. You’d be a villain."

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help but smile.

She hummed. “So, when’s your next meeting with Barcelona?"

"Don't act like you don't already know everything,” you quipped back, looking at her and giving her another eye roll. With your dad’s big mouth, you were sure everyone at the party tonight was updated with all of your affairs. 

Alexia chuckled. "I know some things," she said. "But I don't know what you're thinking about. You don't really talk to me anymore." 

She paused, taking an exhale, before turning back to you and smiling. “Except from the last Champions League match where you called me a filla de puta on the pitch for stealing the ball from under you.” She smirked. 

You chuckled briefly as you shook your head, not saying anything more, trying to pretend that you weren’t absolutely drawn in by the familiar smell of her perfume, trying to pretend that her presence didn’t overwhelm your senses and that you wanted to absolutely just jump her.

Alexia wanted to ask.

She had been wanting to ask for years: why you didn't reply to her texts, why you walked past her after that match like she was a stranger, why every birthday greeting she sent was left on seen. 

Deep inside, she had a clue that it was about what happened six years ago, on your eighteenth birthday. But it had been years since then, you were twenty-four now. And from what she’s heard, you’ve been in several relationships. It had been years and yet, it seemed like you haven’t moved on.

"Well," she said instead, breaking the silence. "You know I'm leaving." 

She glanced at you. "You'd be the perfect replacement. The next number eleven. It’d be like passing the crown — from la reina to la princesa." She paused, grimaced slightly at calling herself la reina.

You caught it and laughed, short and involuntary.

"Hey." Her voice shifted, something in it warm and pleased. "First smile I've gotten out of you all night."

You looked away but still felt the smile linger on your face.

"Which reminds me. I have something for you, actually." She reached into her jean pocket before presenting it to you.

You looked over. It was her gift from six years ago.

"I found it in my things," she said. "Just a few weeks ago, when I was packing up. I've had it for all those years apparently. Just thought you should have it back, like a welcome back gift."

You took it from her before turning it in your fingers. It looked exactly like you remembered it – dainty and classic. You handed it back to her without saying a word.

You turned slightly, lifting your hair. Her fingers found the clasp and you felt them brush your neck as she clasped the necklace on you. The charm settled in between your collarbones.

You turned around to present it to her. Alexia smiled and her eyes stayed on your neck, smiling, before looking away to take a swig of her beer. If you hadn’t been paying close attention, you wouldn’t have noticed the clear blush on her cheeks.

Gotcha, you thought to yourself, smiling as you did.

"Wait," you said with a smile. "I can't see if it looks right."

You stood up and gestured for her to do the same. "Come inside for a second. I want to see it in the mirror."

⋆˙⟡♡ She followed you to your room because Alexia Putellas had, apparently, never learned to distrust you.

You pushed your bedroom door open and stepped inside. The room was exactly as you'd left it: pink walls, old trophies on the shelf, the same furniture in the same places. She followed you in and stopped, looking around the room as she closed the door behind her.

You walked over to your vanity, bending over to the height of it. You looked at Alexia through the mirror as you adjusted the necklace at your collarbone. Behind you, she moved slowly along the wall, taking in the old posters and framed photos.

She stopped.

She was standing in front of the poster on the wall by your bed where you had a bunch of posters and the biggest of them all was a poster of her. You never bothered taking it down and apparently, neither had your dad. She stared at it with an expression caught between flattered and horrified.

"God," she said, sitting down on the side of your bed facing, taking a swig of her beer. She grimaced as she looked at it again. "I didn't know you had this. I look so young here."

You smirked walking towards her, in the space between the wall and the bed. “Yeah, you know I was always a fan.” You said as you stood in front of her. You bent down slightly, just enough that the necklace was dangling in her eye level from where she sat. “I feel like the necklace suits me more now.”

With the way you were bending, the top you were wearing hung low, just enough to show  the lace bra you were wearing underneath. Alexia averted her gaze, pressing the beer bottle back to her lips and taking a swig. “Yeah,” she said, staring at the poster to avoid the sight of you. 

You knew that this was your chance. Before Alexia could fully lift the beer back to her lips, you took it from her slowly, urging her to look you in the eyes as you brought it to your lips, drinking from it slowly before placing it on the bedside table.

Alexia gulped and stiffened, watching you standing over her, a look playing on her face.

“Wha–” 

Before she could say anything, you moved closer to her, placing a leg on both sides of her lap and straddling her, adjusting until you were comfortably resting on top of her. “You know, I always admired you.” you said.

"YN—" she started.

"What? I always used to sit on your lap." You said it lightly, feignng innocence. “How is it any different now?”

"You know what you're doing." Her voice was careful, controlled in a way that felt strained.

"What? Cause I don’t know," You tilted your head, placing both arms around her shoulders. "What am I doing?"

She looked at you but didn't answer. Her hands were hovering around your hips, just suspended, uncertain but cautious. You smirked, seeing her neck move as she gulped.

You shifted forward slightly, closing the distance between you as your lips moved closer to her ear. "A lot has changed since that night," you said, quietly "Don't you think?"

Her jaw was tight. 

"Six years." You leaned in, your breath brushing her ear. You felt her go very still underneath you. "I grew up. I left and I tried to get over you… but I couldn’t”

Alexia shifted a bit but you didn’t budge. "But I still want you," you said. "I still..."

You didn’t continue what you were saying. Instead, you turned your head, moved closer to her and caught the edge of her ear between your lips, nipping at it just enough to garner a small inhale from the older woman. Her hands moved closer to you but she kept them hovering as if she was still apprehensive.

You smirked to yourself before you planted a gentle kiss on the space between her ear and jaw. When she didn’t move, you moved your way further down the jaw, planting slow open-mouthed kissed, following the line of it.  She stayed absolutely still, hands still hovering, not stopping you but not pulling you closer.

You moved down further, gripping onto her to keep balance. You kissed the side of her neck, sucking a bit as you did, surely leaving some marks on her. After, you pulled back just enough to look at her face.

Her expression had finally broken open into something unguarded. The pupils in her hazel eyes had doubled in size and she looked flushed, lips partly, open. You held her gaze for another moment before you took off your shirt, leaving you exposed in just a lace bra.

"YN." Her voice was different now, slightly rough at the edges. "You shouldn't—"

Before she could say anything more, you captured her lips with yours. Her lips were soft and she tasted like a mix of a light lipgloss taste and the beer she was just drinking. Alexia didn’t move at first, feeling all sorts of conflicted.

Your hand tangled in her hair, pulling her closer. Finally, her hands held onto your waist, keeping you steady and her lips started to follow your lead, lip-locking as you did. She held you lightly, a sharp contrast by the firmness and intensity of your kisses and the way you clung onto her.

This was what you’ve dreamt about all those years and you couldn’t believe you were finally able to do it. 

It felt better than you could have ever imagined.

You broke the kiss, keeping your face close to her, looking into her eyes. Her eyes darted from your eyes to your lips, as if trying to make sense of what just happened. It was filled with a look of pleading. A plea or you to stop or for you to continue? You weren’t sure what it was.

You pecked her lips another time before leaving a trail of kisses from her cheek to her jaw then down her neck. After a final kiss on her exposed collarbone, you slid off her lap and sank to your knees on the hardwood floor in front of her, your hands finding the button of her jeans. She put a tentative hand on yours.

"You can tell me to stop," you said, waiting for her response. “Just tell me and I’ll stop.”

Alexia looked down at you, eyes lidded, breathing heavier than before. She blinked but did not say anything, removing her hand from on top of yours.

You smirked at her, pleased with her reaction, as you continued pulling down the zipper. As soon as they were open, you tugged at both her pants and underwear simultaneously. Alexia said nothing but the way she lifted herself slightly off the bed – just enough for you to pull the pants off of her –- told you everything you needed to know.

You took her bottoms off, parting her legs as you did, leaving her completely exposed. You subconsciously licked your lips upon seeing the wetness gathering between her thighs. A moan nearly escaped your lips as you looked at it for a moment more, letting her light musky smell waft to you, feeling yourself clench in arousal.

You moved closer, looking up to lock eyes with her as you did. Alexia’s mouth parted with her chest rising and falling with anticipation. With your hand, you parted her folds, watching the slick glisten beneath your fingers as you did. 

Alexia inhaled sharply, her hands gripping the sheets as she leaned back, tilting her head away as though she couldn't bear to watch.

“Ale,” you said, voice soft. “Please look at me.”

Alexia bit her lip before reluctantly looking down at you. 

You offered her an innocent smile. “Watch your princess,” you said just audible enough for her to hear.

You watched her neck move as she swallowed, unsure of what to do at this point. Her breath hitched once more as your mouth enveloped around her clit, forming a light suction around it. 

You kept your eyes on her, almost urging her to keep eye contract as you continued slowly to suck on it in a slow, steady pace. After you settled into it, you began using your tongue to trace her folds before slowly settling on her clit, pressing it flat against her before swiping upwards, catching her nectar, coating your tongue.

A moan escaped your lips as you tasted more of her wetness – light, salty, and slightly tangy. The moan vibrated against Alexia, eliciting an open-mouthed gasp from her. 

You continued to alternate between sucking and licking on her clit. You moved your hands from her legs to just behind her hips, pulling yourself closer. As your pace increased, you pressed yourself deeper against her, determined to make her fully unravel.

Alexia bit down on her lip and squeezed her eyes shut. One hand found your hair, gripping lightly the back of your head. She wasn’t pushing you away nor pulling you closer, just holding you as if just to hold onto something to ground her. You smiled when you felt her shift closer.

Not satisfied with her reactions, you quickened your pace, now flicking your tongue against the small, sensitive part of her clit. A full moan finally escaped Alexia as she took her hand from your hand and moved it behind her on the bed, to keep herself balanced.

You took that as a good sign, keeping your pace fast and steady. A string of small moans continued to spill from Alexia’s lips, arching her back slightly as she fully laid on your bed, brown hair sprawling beneath her.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to savor it all: the taste of her on your tongue, her warmth, the smell of her against you, the knowledge that you were finally tasting Alexia Putellas.

This was the same Alexia you always wanted, the same Alexia who never noticed you, at least not in the way you wanted her to. The same Alexia who swore that you she could never see you in that way. And here she was now, trembling beneath your mouth, choking down her sounds. It filled you with satisfaction. It felt like redemption.

You felt yourself growing more desperate with every passing second, and it only drove you forward. Alexia's moans grew louder. "Sí, sí," she murmured, her voice low and strained. “Sigue así.”

The pride in you filled your chest, urging you to go further. You pressed two fingers against her opening, letting her slick coat the tips of it before pushing in, garnering another sharp breath from Alexia. 

You glanced up at her. Her button-up top had ridden up slightly, exposing a strip of toned skin. Her stomach tightened as you began moving your fingers further into her. The sight of it was intoxicating.

Eventually, you lifted your mouth away but kept your fingers where they were. Moving up, you positioned yourself over her. Alexia looked back at you through heavily lidded eyes, mouth still parted.

Before she could react, you captured her bottom lip, kissing her with fervour as you continued to thrust into her, pounding faster into her. You could feel Alexia struggle to keep up with the kiss, her lip-locking growing sloppy, unable to focus on anything else but the pleasure, as you curled your fingers, pressing into her.

You moved your mouth to her jaw, kissing and sucking and biting. Alexia gripped the sheets, knuckles turning white as she did. She arched into you as you continued to pound against her. The sounds of your thrust against her wetness filled the room. Soon, it was becoming impossible for Alexia to keep her moans quiet. She got louder, incoherent words strung together with gasps and moans, as she felt your fingers fuck into her.

You moved closer to her, whispering onto her ear. "Ale, you're getting so loud,” you said, voice teasing and amused. “Do you want my dad to find you getting absolutely wrecked by his only daughter? The idea must turn you on, huh?" With that, you thrusted into Alexia harder, curling your fingers into her as you did. 

Alexia winced as she heard your words but could not hold back her moans as you relentlessly fucked her. She felt embarrassed and ashamed of how good it felt to be fucked by you and of just letting you do this to her. Deep inside her, she knew this was wrong, that she shouldn’t be enjoying this.

And yet, here she was, overwhelmed with pleasure and writhing underneath you.

Alexa cursed under her breath as she felt your fingers repeatedly curl into her, hitting her sensitive spot each time you entered her. She could feel the orgasm build up into her as she did. You felt her clench around your fingers, internal walls tightening.

“Yeah, Ale, come for me,” you whispered in her ear, almost taunting. “Come for your princess.”

With one more curl of your fingers, Alexia felt the waves of pleasure take over her body. She arched her back further, closed her eyes, face contorted in pleasure as she allowed the orgasm spread throughout her body.

After a few more thrusts, you pulled your fingers out of her, waited for her to open her eyes fully  before you wrapped your mouth around your fingers, sucking your fingers clean as she watched.

Alexia averted her gaze, bringing her hand to her face, pretending to wipe sweat off of it but really just so she wouldn’t have to look at you, feeling the pleasure dissipate slowly only to be replaced by frustration and shame.

You couldn’t make sense of it then but something in you just felt powerful at that moment, like the tables have finally turned. Six years ago, she turned you down and broke your heart, claiming that she will never see you in that way. And here you were now, making her eat her words, showing her that she was wrong.

"Can't believe you'd let me do that." You said teasingly as you rested beside her in bed, smiling. "Did the thought of my dad finding us make you hornier?"

Alexia frowned a bit as she heard the question but she didn’t answer. She stood up so suddenly. She ignored the mild dizziness from the sex and the sudden standing, immediately putting her bottoms on and cursing under her breath.

"Leaving me already?" You said, smirking, filled with pride.

She hated how you were teasing her. She didn't know why you were doing so when you knew she was already feeling shameful about what just happened, when you knew that Alexia was the kind of person who would generally never allow something like that to happen normally.

“Hey,” you said, sitting up slightly, watching her look around for the shoe she took off. “Alexia, c’mon.”

She ignored you.

You frowned, reaching out for her hand. “Don’t leave your princess just after she fucked you.”

Somehow, that was what sent Alexia over the edge. She stopped putting on her shoes and spun around to grab your face, clutching so hard that your lips were almost puckering. "Don't ever disrespect me like that again." She hissed at you.

Your eyes widened at the energy shift. It was your turn to be speechless. Alexia was gripping on to your face firmly. Even if you had something to say, you wouldn't be able to at how tight her grip was.

"Actually, don't talk to me ever again." Alexia let your face go, slightly pushing you to the side as she let your face go. You kept yourself steady with your hands on the bed, looking up to her.

She fully buttoned her pants. She didn’t look back at you. She stormed out of the room, slightly slamming the door behind her.

You sat there, silent. You felt a bit guilty and ashamed. You didn't anticipate her to get this angry at you. Actually, you didn't anticipate anything. 

You admittedly just acted on all the pent-up frustration from the past few years. Maybe it was just wanting to get back at her for her rejection years ago. Whatever it was, the feeling of pride dissipated quickly. You knew this was a mess you couldn't easily fix.

"Fuck."

a/n: wooop, anyway messy and didnt bother doing much proofreading but i hope u guys liked it! i so rarely write bottom!Alexia but i hope u guys liked it still. if you did, i'd appreciate a like and reblog! i also have other fics ongoing if any of u are interestedddd. anyway, lmk ur thoughts and please be nice.

if any of u are interested in a part 2, which will be... just more smut with dbf!Alexia, lmk in the comments and if i post it, ill tag everyone.

(another disclaimer: the plot is vaguely reused from an old fic I have published for another fandom. I did not plagiarize because… I wrote it ahahah. Changed some things up but there are a few similarities with my old fic and this one.)

The first time you met Alexia Putellas, she flirted with the waitress while her date was in the bathroom, that pretty much told you everything you needed to know about her.

Your best friend Sofia had spent months insisting Alexia was “actually really sweet once you got to know her,” but all you saw was arrogance wrapped in expensive perfume and cocky charm. She always walked into rooms like she owned them, like people should be grateful she acknowledged them and worse she knew it.

Alexia thought you were impossible, too guarded, too stubborn, too quick to judge her before she’d even opened her mouth. Every dinner with your mutual friends ended the same way, sharp comments, eye rolls, sarcastic digs disguised as jokes.

The only reason you tolerated each other at all was because of Sofia and her wife Marta, Alexia’s long suffering personal trainer. They were disgustingly in love. The kind of couple who danced in the kitchen while cooking. The kind who left voice notes just to say “drive safe.” The kind who made everyone else at the table feel painfully single.

And then one rainy Thursday night, they were gone.

A drunk driver crossed the centre line on the motorway, neither survived.

You still remembered the way the hospital waiting room spun around you when the social worker gently explained there had been a will.

A plan in the event something happened to both of them.

You and Alexia had been named legal guardians of their one year old daughter, Olivia.

You actually laughed at first not because it was funny, because it made absolutely no sense.

“You’ve got the wrong people,” you told them immediately, voice numb, “There’s no way Sofia chose us.” But she had.

Apparently, months ago over wine and dinner and one of those stupid hypothetical conversations nobody thinks will ever matter. Who would take Olivia if something happened?

Marta had chosen Alexia, Sofia had chosen you, and together, they’d decided Olivia deserved both.

Which was how, three days later, you found yourself standing in Sofia and Marta’s apartment holding a screaming toddler while Alexia argued with a car seat instruction manual like it had personally insulted her.

“This is impossible.”

“It literally clicks in.”

“It does not click in.”

“You’re a professional athlete and you’re losing a fight to plastic.”

Alexia shot you a glare sharp enough to cut glass, “Why is she crying again?”

“She’s one, Alexia.”

“Well what does she want?”

You stared at her in disbelief, “You seriously don’t know?”

“I know footballers, not babies.”

Olivia’s cries only got louder, for one awful second, silence settled between you and Alexia, not angry silence. Scared silence, because underneath the fighting, resentment and grief, the truth sat heavily in the room neither of you knew how to do this and neither of you could walk away.

Olivia needed you.

So when Alexia finally looked at the baby trembling in your arms, eyes red from crying, something in her expression cracked. Just for a second, fear, real fear, “She keeps looking for them,” Alexia whispered quietly.

The comment hit like a punch to the chest, because she was right. Every time the apartment door opened, Olivia turned her head expectantly.

Every time a phone rang, she perked up, waiting, still waiting for her mothers to come home and suddenly your anger toward Alexia didn’t feel nearly as important as the tiny little girl caught between both of your grief.

“She liked when Sofia sang to her,” you murmured.

Alexia swallowed hard, “Marta used to bounce her when she got fussy.”

The baby hiccuped another sob, then slowly, awkwardly, Alexia stepped closer, “Can I…?”

You hesitated before carefully handing Olivia over, at first she looked unnatural in Alexia’s arms, all long limbs and uncertainty but then Olivia grabbed onto the front of her hoodie with tiny fists, and Alexia completely froze. Like that tiny hand had shattered something open inside her.

“She trusts you,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

Alexia looked down at Olivia, devastated, “No,” she said softly. “This is Marta's”

🍼

The funeral was a blur of black clothing, damp tissues, and people speaking too softly, you hated how quiet grief made everyone. Like if they lowered their voices enough, maybe it wouldn’t be real.

The chapel overflowed with people, family friends, neighbours. Marta had known half of Barcelona through work, and Sofia somehow collected people everywhere she went. There were flowers lining every wall. Olivia would never understand how loved her mothers were, at least not yet.

You stood near the back during most of it because the front row felt unbearable. Alexia sat there beside Marta’s elderly parents with Olivia asleep against her chest in a tiny black dress and white tights.

The image unsettled you more than it should have, Alexia looked… right, not polished celebrity Alexia Putellas. Not the smug woman you’d spent years rolling your eyes at across dinner tables.

Just a grieving woman holding a baby like she was terrified to let go, Olivia woke halfway through the service and immediately started crying.

The loud, confused cry of a child who didn’t understand why everybody around her smelled like sadness.

You instinctively stepped forward at the same moment Alexia stood up, your shoulders collided lightly, “I’ve got her,” you whispered automatically.

Alexia’s jaw tightened. “I know how to hold a baby.”

“That’s not what I—”

“She’s fine.”

The sharpness in her voice made several nearby people glance over, you immediately backed off, embarrassed, “Fine.”