Her previous shop in Trøndelag had been beautiful, of course, and it would always be home, but the prospect of moving to a new country and building something up had always appealed to her. So, when Ingrid heard from her friend about the unit that had recently gone on sale in Barcelona, with enough space in both the main shop and the back for all her needs, Ingrid hadn’t thought twice. She’d booked the plane ticket to view the property immediately, and the offer was almost instant upon viewing it. 

The whole venture had occurred in less than a week; that was how right it felt, even if she was, in actuality, wildly unprepared. She’d learn Spanish as she went along – how hard could it be?

(Quite hard as it turned out. For the first few weeks, she had to rely on her English to get by and hope that everyone in El Born spoke the language as well. Turns out a few days’ stint on Duolingo was not nearly enough to piece together even the most basic of sentences. The barista at the café down the road had pointed that out when she first tried to order a vanilla latte with extra syrup, but at least such an embarrassing situation made her a new friend.)

By the time the deliveries started arriving after over a month of living in the area, her Spanish had improved enough to at least thank the drivers and offer them a quick refreshment. They were kind men, mostly older, to her surprise, who brought everything inside the shop to lessen the load she would have to lift. She had thanked them profusely, and they’d all stopped to share a glass of lemonade as they questioned Ingrid about her motives for moving here. They didn’t judge her broken Spanish and even gave her some tips on grammatical structures that she was very grateful for. By the time they left, two had even promised to visit on the first day she was open to purchase bouquets for their wives. 

And then it was just Ingrid. Standing in the middle of a room filled with delivery boxes and shipping containers filled to the brim with freshly cut flowers, not quite yet bloomed, it suddenly occurred to her how deep in over her head she might have been. She only had two  days until the flowers started blooming, if that, so her opening date had been predetermined by biology. She hadn’t quite accounted for the ability of one person to set it all up in such a time, though. 

The thought made a lump of panic travel up from her chest to her throat, and suddenly it felt as if the flowers were stealing all the oxygen from the room. 

Placing one foot steadily in front of the other, she made her way out front of the store. Out there, she could finally breathe, and it was easy to gain a new perspective when she saw the pots already arranged outside the store. She’d set up all the furniture already; she only had to arrange the flowers in their stands. She’d be okay. She could start on the flower arrangements and then enlist the help of Caroline, who worked at the coffee shop down the road, to put everything in its necessary location. 

In there, everything felt impossible, but out here, she could think realistically. 

Plus, she had assumed that with the odd hour of the day, there would be no one to witness the strange way she had leaned against the wall of her store, hunched over her own body like she was being punched in the stomach. 

Or so she thought. 

“Are you okay?” came a voice from the side, speaking in Spanish, and Ingrid’s head whipped up to see a woman observing her with an arched eyebrow. 

The woman in question leaned against the doorframe of the unit next door, a cigarette pinched between two fingers. It was half done, so she had clearly been out here long enough to witness Ingrid’s panic in its entirety. Her blonde hair was scraped back into a messy bun, dark roots unapologetically showing, the kind of carelessness that somehow looked deliberate. She had a leather jacket hung over her shoulders, hiding most of the ink Ingrid could glimpse, but not quite hiding the text printed across the centre of her neck. Ingrid tried to make out the words but couldn’t, distracted by the easy slouch of the woman’s posture and the smoke unfurling like she owned the entire strip of pavement.

Then she realised she should probably respond instead of staring like a maniac. 

“Yes–sorry. I didn’t know anyone was out here,” Ingrid managed to breathe out, taking a moment to translate everything in her head. 

Then, the woman continued to speak, this time in rapid Spanish, which Ingrid struggled to catch in its entirety: “You look like… seen a… thought I’d… new here?” Perhaps Ingrid’s face of confusion was enough of a giveaway, because then the stranger asked, in heavily accented English, “You don’t speak much Spanish?”

Ingrid was grateful for the save, but didn’t miss the way the woman’s lips curled into an almost amused smirk as she shook her head, immediately defending, “I’m learning; just, slowly.”

The woman looked at her and then passed a glance up to the shop sign, new and with Ingrid’s personal branding. Ingrid could see the cogs turning in her head before she even spoke her question out loud, “So you don’t speak Spanish, and yet you’re opening a store here…?”

Had it been one of her friends stating such an obvious thing, Ingrid may have rolled her eyes, but there was something in the way that the blonde spoke that only made her blush. “Yeah. Not my brightest of ideas,” she defended rather pathetically, but it seemed to placate the stranger. 

The woman chuckled at the response, a low, rumbling sound that made Ingrid’s heart flutter in ways she couldn’t name. She gave a nod towards the sign that Ingrid had placed outside, the one that detailed her opening date, and then continued in that same steadily spoken English, “Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

Ingrid scrunched her nose up at that, the reminder sitting heavily in her chest, “Yeah. Another not-so-bright idea. I’m pretty known for them.”

Somebody shouted something from inside the unit that the stranger stood in front of. Ingrid couldn’t understand it, but it seemed to kick the woman into gear as she stubbed out her cigarette. She still had enough time to laugh once more over Ingrid’s comment, and she nodded with an oddly supportive smile and offered a “Good luck” before she was forced to step back inside the building next to Ingrid’s. It was only then that Ingrid took a proper look at the name of the venue. 

Every Rose Has Its Thorn. Huh, ironic. 

Upon a better look, it appeared to be a tattoo studio, if the posters on the wall were anything to go by. The storefront itself was minimalistic enough, and inside through the window, only a front desk where the stranger currently stood talking to another woman, and the aforementioned posters could be seen. There were multiple doors, though, that Ingrid could only assume were private tattoo rooms. She couldn’t afford to look for too long, although, for she had far too much work to get done. 

Ingrid supposed it made sense, if the appearance of the stranger was anything to go by. Even with a jacket on, she had a feeling that the woman was most likely covered in ink herself; after all, no one gets their one and only tattoo on their neck of all places. 

Funnily enough, she couldn’t help but assume she’d find out more very soon.

—

The opening of the store came and went with great success. 

Ingrid had indeed enlisted the help of Caroline, and they’d gotten through the majority of the setup in a day alone. The rest of the time had mainly been spent adding final details and running to other local stores to buy the odd decoration Ingrid had thought she could add later on, but decided to get ahead of the game. 

True to their word, the first two customers bang on the dot the day she opened the shop were the delivery drivers. They came bundling in with wide smiles and congratulations, greeting Ingrid as if she were an old friend, instead of a random newcomer they had met once. When the time came to take their payments, Ingrid gave them a hefty discount on their bouquets, which they protested until she persisted, and even threw in an extra stem or two whilst she was arranging. It was worth it for the way they thanked her and promised to return whenever they could. 

After that, there was a steady stream of customers for the following few weeks. Word had seemingly gotten around about the new flower shop in the shopping district, for suddenly, Ingrid had people coming from everywhere to visit. Orders came by phone, too, and she found that even in a week, she was getting enough business to cover her costs for a whole month. Better yet, she was meeting more people than ever expected and was lucky enough to make some friends in the process. That was the best part, for Ingrid only really had one friend in the Barcelona area, and it was a pleasant surprise to be growing her social circle. 

And yet there was one person Ingrid always looked for that never seemed to be around. 

She wondered if the attractive stranger from the unit next door worked different hours than her, or if she even worked there at all. Of course, she could be a customer, and Ingrid was shocked that she had never come up with this theory before. She had spent practically a month watching the doorway of the tattoo studio whenever she passed, but the woman might not even work there at all. 

Truthfully, she didn’t know why she couldn’t get the woman’s image out of her brain. They had met once, very briefly, on a day when Ingrid’s brain had even been preoccupied by thoughts of panic and anxiety. Yet somehow, in the middle of all of that, the stranger had been engraved as a permanent memory.

She was helping out another customer when the doorbell of the store chimed one Saturday. 

The customer, a man no older than mid-thirties, was picking up a bouquet for his girlfriend on their third anniversary. He had come into the store the week before to discuss options and had let Ingrid in on the secret that he was planning to propose. After a lengthy chat about different rose options (Ingrid had managed to convince him to be less stereotypical and throw in some variation that his girlfriend would surely enjoy), they had come up together with a way to weave the ring box into the bouquet. When he had arrived at the store for collection, the sight of such a creation had actually made him cry with delight. 

Ingrid was in the middle of wrapping the final piece of polypropylene film around the entire arrangement when she chanced a glance at the door upon the sound of it opening. 

It was the stranger from before. It took a lot of effort for Ingrid to focus her attention back on the man. 

He thanked her in rapid, emotional Spanish and managed to calm himself enough to compliment her shop and ask about her plans for the rest of the week. She replied politely, handed him the final receipt, and then bid him farewell with a wish of good luck for the impending proposal. 

When the doorbell chimed once more with his exit, the newcomer finally spoke up. 

“Your Spanish has gotten better.”

She was behind one of the gigantic displays of flowers, a circular topiary with buckets containing single stems placed all the way around it that blocked her from Ingrid’s view. 

Ingrid was thankful for the distance between them, with the way a blush rose to her cheeks over the simple compliment, “I’ve had plenty of practice by now.”

Slowly, she appeared around the bend of the display, not taking her eyes off the flowers in the buckets. Ingrid watched as the woman picked a dahlia up gently between her fingers, turned it around with the utmost care, and then placed it back exactly where it was before. She spoke again, not yet meeting the shopkeeper’s eyes, “Still, I’m impressed. Most people don’t pick up languages that quickly, even if they have lived here for what? A month?”

“And a half,” Ingrid added, steadily walking around the desk. She came to a halt at the side of it, out in the open store where she liked to be, and leaned against it as she watched the woman browse, “Luckily, I like languages. It was easy to learn once I finally figured out your grammatical rules.”

The stranger let out a laugh at that, and it sounded different from the one she remembered. This one was more… contained? As if something were holding it back. 

“I’m Ingrid, by the way.” She offered, more as an incentive to receive a name in return than anything else. 

“I know,” the woman answered with a tug of a hesitant smile, finally looking up and meeting Ingrid’s eye. When she saw the confusion on her face, she added, “It’s on your storefront. Figured you were the owner.”

Ingrid’s lips moved in a smaller ‘ah’ motion as she made the connection. She had kept the same name as her previous store back in Norway, to add onto building a brand. Iris, by Ingrid was a name she had chosen thanks to a childhood nickname, and it had stuck ever since. The shop and her work had gained a decent following on social media, as well, so keeping the title the same as she moved to a new branch made the most sense. 

She had taken the name and run with it, weaving irises into every corner of her little kingdom. The front window spilled over with them, tucked into tall glass vases that caught the sunlight and cast violet shadows across the pavement. Inside, they grew in painted murals along the walls, stitched onto aprons, even etched delicately into the brass handles of the display cabinets. Every season she rotated her arrangements, but the irises were a constant; her signature.

Sometimes, when the shop was quiet, Ingrid caught herself standing in the middle of it all, surrounded by the careful repetition of those familiar petals. There was something steadying in it, like the flower itself held her history and her future both in its unfurling shape. Customers thought of it as no more than this branding, but for Ingrid, it had become much more. It had become a reminder of who she was, no matter how far she wandered from home.

In the middle of it all, Ingrid watched as the woman picked up another flower, a pompom chrysanthemum this time, and assessed it with a level of scrutiny she hadn’t expected from someone who looked the way she did. Today she was wearing a similar outfit, the same leather jacket from before, but this time it only rested over her shoulders. That meant that whenever she reached out to assess a flower, Ingrid got a much better glimpse at the tattoos that adorned both of her arms. She held the chrysanthemum carefully, and with a frown pulled her phone out from her back pocket, clearly comparing it to something on her screen.  “Can I help you?” Ingrid asked, suddenly remembering what her job actually was: floristry, not staring at attractive strangers. 

The woman hummed, more to herself than anything, and then finally turned to face Ingrid head-on. There was a beat, and then she sighed in defeat. Her phone was thrust in Ingrid’s face, revealing a blurry photo of a beautiful pink flower. “Do you have any of these? Or do you at least know what the damn thing is called?”

Ingrid couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow over the exasperation with which she spoke, prompting the woman to clarify:

“A client sent me it as a reference photo, but I cannot for the life of me figure out what it is. And it’s too blurry for reverse image search to recognise it.”

Ah, so she was a tattoo artist. That at least answered one of Ingrid’s many burning questions, and she was determined to solve another mystery in the same breath “Yeah, we have some. I’ll get you one out if you tell me your name.”

The woman squinted, but she didn’t seem offended by the bargaining. If anything, it seemed to relieve her mood just the slightest, and she tilted her head to one side. “Deal. It’s María, but you can call me Mapi.”

“Well, Mapi, what you have here is a ranunculus,” Ingrid handed the phone back over and moved with swift, careful motions to the other side of the store. When she returned, she was holding three different stems of the flower in question, all in different colours and sizes. “Here you go.”

For a moment, the woman, Mapi, looked as if she could have cried with relief. She gripped her phone so hard that her knuckles turned white, and pocketed it only when the sides of the case dug into skin. “You are a lifesaver. Could I buy all three of those?”

Ingrid nodded and moved to the counter, placing the flowers down on the side. She pointed the rest of the collection out to Mapi, who went off to have a quick look. When she returned, she was holding two more and placed them with an unexpected care onto the desk. Ingrid had begun preparing them, mainly getting rid of excess leaves and cutting the stems to an acceptable length. It was a job that usually only took a few minutes, but she found she fumbled with the scissors far too often under Mapi’s watchful gaze. 

Mapi watched her with great interest. Her hands practically tingled under the weight of the observation, but it didn’t feel judgmental. There was an air of interest around the tattoo artist, almost as if she was committing each detail of how the flowers looked during preparation to memory. Ingrid supposed it came part and parcel with being in a creative field, for she often did the same in her own disciplinary way.

“Is the tattoo a romantic one, or one of resilience?” Ingrid asked after a long while of prolonged silence. She never normally minded silence when she had customers in the store, but there was something about hearing Mapi’s soft breathing amongst the rustling of petals that was driving her insane. 

Mapi only squinted again, mimicking her earlier expression as she studied Ingrid now with the same scrutiny she had once given to a chrysanthemum, “It’s of Venus. The client wanted these flowers woven in somehow.”

Ingrid nodded as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, saying “That makes sense,” and only added when she received yet another look of confusion “Ranunculus represent charm and joy. They used to be given to women during the Victorian era to express attraction and fondness. A pretty good choice for Venus, even if their reference photo was blurry.”

The tattoo artist seemed utterly flabbergasted over such a simple thing. She looked at Ingrid and then back down at the flowers now being wrapped individually. You would have thought Ingrid had just told her the meaning of life with the way her eyes widened. “Flowers mean things?!” She asked in astonishment, and Ingrid almost felt bad for laughing. 

Almost. 

“You–You’re serious?” She asked, slipping momentarily into English as her brain was too amused to process the translation, “Why do you think roses became the universal sign of love?”

Mapi smiled at that, leaning slightly against the opposite side of the counter. “Sort of just assumed some man decided that one day and the world went with it.”

Laughing as she finished wrapping the flowers, Ingrid pressed a few buttons on the register and motioned to the total displayed on the screen. Mapi made quick work of grabbing a twenty euro note out of her wallet and handing it over so that the florist could work on the change. 

“So, do all flowers mean something?” Mapi asked curiously. 

Ingrid nodded, “To the best of my knowledge. I get people coming in here and asking for specific things all the time. Sometimes people want to express admiration, other times it needs to convey sympathy. At my old store, I even had someone request a bouquet that expressed hatred,”

“You’re kidding,” Mapi said in disbelief, although there was no real accusation in her tone. The smile on her face spelled out just how amused these new revelations made her: “So what exactly spells out ‘I hate you’ in a bouquet?”

As she handed the change back over to the blonde, Ingrid motioned to a flower arrangement that sat on the top shelf of a display. “Tansies quite literally mean ‘I declare war on you’.”

Mapi whistled as she took the flowers that Ingrid handed over, “Guess I should be careful what I’m tattooing on my customers, huh.”

That drew yet another laugh out of Ingrid, and she vaguely thought that it was the first time she had laughed like this since arriving in Spain. 

“Thanks for the flowers. You’ve saved my career,” Mapi joked as she stood up from the counter “I’ll make sure I consult you in the future before I start tattooing messages of hatred on my customers.”

Ingrid would normally brush off thanks as it was her job, but something about the sincerity meant she could only blush with a shrug. Mapi had clearly decided she needed to get back to work, so she didn’t argue as the tattoo artist took a step back. She did at least offer a passing goodbye, turning to her logbook on the desk to stop herself from watching the woman’s retreat out the front door. 

The doorbell didn’t come immediately, however, and when Ingrid looked back up, Mapi was hovering close to the counter once more. She seemed to hesitate just for a moment before reaching out, placing the ten euro note she had received in change into Ingrid’s tip jar. 

Then she simply offered a smile and left the store, leaving Ingrid staring between where she had been and what she had done. 

—

After that, Ingrid found she saw plenty more of the attractive tattoo artist next door. Both in her actual store, and in passing. 

It was as if, suddenly, Mapi was everywhere. Whenever Ingrid was grabbing lunch from the café down the road, Mapi was there (which is how she learnt that the blonde was also a longtime friend of Caroline and her girlfriend). If Ingrid was catching the bus home because she had been on her feet all day, Mapi always passed her at the bus stop. If Ingrid was tending to the flowers outside her storefront, Mapi was smoking outside. 

And that wasn’t including the times Mapi came into Iris. 

Since the day that Ingrid had told her about the existence of floriography, Mapi had seemingly become obsessed. Any time a client simply told her they wanted flowers ‘somewhere’ in the tattoo, Mapi had strode into Ingrid’s store and dramatically declared the emotion she wanted to represent. Ingrid had sorted her out each and every time, and the two had chatted at the counter until Mapi had to get back to work. 

Through their conversations, Ingrid also managed to see photos of Mapi’s work. She had wove poppies into a tattoo of the beheaded Medusa on one occasion, and Amaryllis into a tattoo of Narcissus. It was becoming her favourite thing to do, it seemed, and she had even told Ingrid that now people were booking in with her purely for her use of symbolism in the flowers. 

The more she came in, the more their conversations shifted in length and subject. Ingrid found she knew very little identifying information about Mapi beyond her name, but she did know that the tattoo artist was scared of jelly like substances, and that once when she was younger she broke her arm playing pretend at being a dog. 

Each conversation they had usually left Ingrid with an ache in her cheeks from laughter, and she found that she looked forward to the days that her newfound friend would come to visit. 

At some point, it stopped being under the guise of research, and Mapi would simply come to eat her lunch in the flower shop whilst Ingrid worked. They’d talk until Ingrid had a customer, at which point Mapi would fall silent and focus on her sketchbook. The second the doorbell went again, they’d jump straight back into conversation. Over time, Ingrid found that Mapi sat behind the desk far more often than she did. 

That’s exactly where they found themselves one day. Mapi was sat behind the counter, sketchbook open as she worked on a new design, sushi in her other hand. 

The florist was busying herself arranging a new delivery of roses in the window, a task that took slightly more concentration so as to not cut herself on the thorns. Mapi didn’t mind the silence, as it gave her the opportunity to work on a sketch she claimed she should have done weeks ago. 

They went on like that for a short while, until Ingrid stepped back with a satisfied nod. Mapi took that opportunity to ask her a question. 

“What would you recommend in a bouquet to express like, admiration?” She commented simply, barely looking up from her sketchbook. 

Ingrid hummed over the question, moving to place her ribbons and clippers back on the shelf she had meticulously organised. “Carmellias are probably your main one. Then they work well with something like eustomas for admiration and gratitude. Maybe some baby’s breath to both fluff it out and add tenderness. Depends, really.”

For a moment, Mapi looked at her with something Ingrid may have thought was akin to admiration itself, had the next words not left her mouth. 

“Would you be able to make me up one of those?”

Oh. Oh. 

Of course. Ingrid had never particularly thought to question whether the tattoo artist had… someone… in her life, and now she felt quite silly. Naturally, it made sense that Mapi would have been in a relationship. In all this time, Ingrid had yet to find a fault with her after all. 

Ingrid couldn’t understand why such a thought caused her chest to ache, as there had never particularly been a sign of anything romantic between the two of them. Of course, she found Mapi attractive; she had eyes after all. It would have been hard to not look at the Spaniard and acknowledge her appeal. From the tattoos to the piercings, the way she styled her hair to the way she dressed; even her personality. It was unfair, really, that one person could be so charming. 

So, obviously, Ingrid found her attractive. She just hadn’t realised how attractive. 

It was only when Mapi made a rumbling, quizzical sound that the florist realised she hadn’t answered. 

“Uh–yeah, of course. I can get started on it now and have it with you by the end of your lunch break–”

“Woah,” Mapi interrupted, hands already held up in a placating gesture. She was still holding her chopsticks in one hand, and her pencil in the other, “there’s no rush.”

Ingrid could only shake her head and turn away, still struggling with why such an order was bugging her so deeply. She didn’t want Mapi to see the tiny lines forming where she furrowed her brow, and so she chose to refocus her attention on the rose bouquet that definitely didn’t require any more tending to. Mapi wouldn’t know that, at least, so Ingrid fussed and fluffed the petals in a way that wasn’t too damaging to the flower. “It’s okay. I don’t have many orders at the moment, and it’s a simple one to make.”

Even without looking behind her, she could feel Mapi’s gaze heavy on her back. She could tell solely by the silence that followed, the tattoo artist only giving a small hum after a minute of silence. 

Ingrid cursed herself for her own reaction, trying her hardest to school her expression before she turned back around. Mapi was watching her, of course she was, but there was something in her expression this time that Ingrid couldn’t quite place. She didn’t speak again, didn’t need to, because Ingrid was shuffling into the backroom to prepare the equipment she needed for such an arrangement. 

She hadn’t even bothered to negotiate size or price, and if she was entirely honest with herself, this was because she didn’t want to know any more details than necessary. Just the image of Mapi presenting it to a lover was too much for her brain to process right now, so she settled on selecting a standard size wrap of film and brought it back out to her work station. 

Mapi watched with great care as Ingrid selected the flowers. The florist, despite the sudden change in demeanour, still selected every stem with such care, making sure it was as perfect as perfect could be before transferring it to her designated working space. 

Time wise, Mapi wasn’t entirely sure how long one of Ingrid’s arrangements took. But she knew damn well it was more than thirty minutes. 

Something compelled Ingrid through the creation of such an order, and it was done within the hour. A personal record, perhaps, for someone who was a perfectionist at her craft. She couldn’t help it though, for the sooner the bouquet was created, the sooner Mapi could gift it to whoever, and the sooner Ingrid could move on from whatever silly crush she had apparently developed. 

Still, when Ingrid handed the bouquet over and Mapi slipped her usually far-too-grand note change back into the register, Ingrid was struck with a silly feeling in her chest. She couldn’t treat Mapi any differently because of the revelation; it wasn’t the tattoo artist’s fault she had fallen for her after all. 

Hell, Ingrid hadn’t even realised she had fallen for her. Not until that exact moment. 

She supposed it happened quietly through the gentle company the two seemed to share. There had never been a moment of explosion, of realisation, but there had been a stream of steady laughter that at some point must have woven its way to Ingrid’s heart. 

So when she finished things off, closed the register and met Mapi’s eye once more, she forced herself to joke “I think you’re becoming my best customer.”

Whatever concern may have been developing in Mapi’s eyes vanished at once after the playful conversation started, and she swiped the bouquet off the side with a grin. 

“I’m a big fan,” she grinned, using her free arm to throw her bag over her shoulder.

“Of flowers?” Ingrid asked, just to keep her voice from cracking, though she tried to lace the words with amusement.

“Of yours,” Mapi corrected smoothly, and if she noticed the way Ingrid faltered ever so slightly, she didn’t let on. She tipped her chin toward the bouquet, “Though I’ll admit these help me look good without much effort.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Ingrid murmured, busying herself with straightening the register slips that didn’t need straightening.

Mapi chuckled, the sound low and teasing, before she made for the door. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“Please do,” Ingrid answered, hating herself a little for meaning it too much.

The bell chimed as the door swung open, sunlight spilling across the petals in the window display. Mapi raised the bouquet in a mock salute before stepping back into the street, jacket slipping off one shoulder as though even gravity bent around her.

And then it was quiet again. Just Ingrid, her flowers, and the lingering scent of smoke that seemed to cling to Mapi. She pressed her palm against the counter, steadying herself against the odd ache in her chest, and let herself finally think that she wished the bouquet had been for her. 

—

Mapi walked back into the tattoo shop with slightly more pep in her stride than usual and an extravagant bouquet in her hand. 

Alexia noticed almost immediately, but before she could get the words out, Mapi had tossed the flowers on the reception desk and was walking back towards her own studio room. 

“Means ‘I think you’re alright’ or some soppy shit, because you say I never appreciate you enough,” She at least paused to throw the words over her shoulder “Don’t let it go to your head and call your girlfriend to reschedule her 4 pm before I tattoo a dick on her leg.”

—

The next time Ingrid saw Mapi, something was different. Not in a metaphorical, emotional sense, but rather on a physical level. Ingrid was used to seeing the woman with her arms out, and at that point could have sworn she’d be able to remember every detail of ink with her eyes closed. 

So the new delicate lines on the inside of her wrist did not go unnoticed by the florist, especially considering they were so much fresher and darker than the other faded lines. 

Even in black and white, Ingrid could tell from the familiar lines exactly what the tattoo depicted.

“An iris?” She asked out of nowhere, prompting Mapi to look up from her phone. 

The tattoo artist was sitting, as always, behind the desk in Ingrid’s store, but this time she hadn’t brought anything with her. Her reasoning for the visit was simply that she had a break between clients, and Ingrid wasn’t going to say no to some company for the hour. She had arrived in the familiar leather jacket that hadn’t given much away, until she had stripped it off to reveal the simple white tank below. 

That was when it had first caught Ingrid’s attention. 

If Ingrid didn’t know better, didn’t remember the admiration bouquet, she might have thought Mapi blushed at the sudden attention. 

“Yeah,” Mapi spoke calmly, voice awfully quiet in comparison to her usual demeanour “I did it last night.” 

“You did it on yourself?” Ingrid asked in surprise. Of course, she knew this was something many artists did, but the delicate line work that curved around the junction of her wrist was truly spectacular even from a distance. 

A nod was all Ingrid received for the time being, but Mapi’s eyes were certainly on her. 

The new tattoo looked almost too soft for her. It was elegant, delicate; a sharp contrast to the other pieces that wrapped Mapi’s arms and shoulders like armour. This one was quieter. Barely there, really, but so impossibly precise that Ingrid felt her breath catch before she could help herself.

“You did this from memory, or did you use a photo?” she asked after a moment, voice betraying more awe than she would have liked.

Mapi shifted in her chair, rolling her wrist as though to examine the ink for the hundredth time. “Memory. Thought I’d try something different.” She shrugged, but it was a poor disguise. The little twitch of her mouth and the way her gaze darted down rather than holding Ingrid’s, it wasn’t Mapi’s usual unflinching confidence. For once, she looked almost shy.

That realisation hit Ingrid in the chest harder than she’d prepared for.

She wasn’t sure what unsettled her more. The fact that Mapi had spent enough time staring at her flowers to recreate one in such detail, or the fact that she looked like she actually cared what Ingrid thought about the tattoo.

“You didn’t even buy one to reference?” Ingrid pressed gently, even though she knew the answer, half because she was curious and half because she needed to fill the silence threatening to swallow her.

“No.” Mapi finally looked up, and her eyes carried that flicker of challenge that always seemed to follow her around like the scent of smoke. “Didn’t need to. I see them all the time in here.”

The words shouldn’t have meant anything. Flowers were flowers. Customers looked at them every day. But the way she said it so casually made Ingrid’s stomach flip.

Of course she sees them all the time, Ingrid told herself. She’s in here constantly. That doesn’t mean anything. She has someone to give bouquets to, remember?

Still, she couldn’t quite keep her gaze from drifting back to the fresh ink. The fine lines curled like veins in a petal, the careful placement right at the inner wrist where the skin was tender and thin. It wasn’t a tattoo to show off. It was private. For her, and maybe… for whoever she chose to share it with.

Ingrid swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat. “It’s beautiful,” she said finally, because it was the truth, and because she knew Mapi was waiting for it.

The tension in Mapi’s shoulders broke all at once, a laugh slipping out that sounded far more relieved than amused. “Yeah? You’re not just saying that to be polite?”

“As if I would ever say something just out of politeness,” Ingrid teased automatically, though her chest ached at the sheer vulnerability in front of her. And when she complimented the detail of the tattoo, she meant it wholeheartedly “It’s… honestly one of the best I’ve seen. Most people make them seem bland when drawing, but you’ve managed to make it feel alive.”

Mapi blinked at her, caught somewhere between pride and disbelief. Then, softer, she muttered “Good. Wanted it to feel right.”

The florist had to look away then, busying herself collecting a few lilies from the side to trim their stems, ones that really didn’t need trimming. It was easier than dealing with the thought that maybe Mapi hadn’t done it for herself entirely. Maybe she had done it because the flowers meant something. Because the shop meant something. Because Ingrid–

Stop. Don’t be ridiculous. She has a partner. She has someone she’s giving bouquets of admiration to. You are just the neighbour who explains flower meanings and laughs at her bad jokes.

And yet. The image of Mapi bent over her wrist, committing every remembered curve of a petal into her skin, wouldn’t leave her mind.

Ingrid forced a laugh to cut through the thick air between them. “So now you’re stealing my branding, huh? Should I be charging royalties for that?”

Mapi grinned at once, the tension breaking, though her fingers still hovered near the tattoo like she wasn’t sure if it belonged to her yet. “Guess I’m your walking advertisement now. You should thank me.”

“Oh, should I?”

“Yeah,” Mapi smirked, leaning back in her chair with feigned confidence, but Ingrid noticed the way her free hand clenched in her lap, betraying the nerves still humming through her. “Who wouldn’t want to buy flowers after seeing this masterpiece?”

Ingrid rolled her eyes, turning back to her lilies so Mapi wouldn’t catch the way her smile had softened. She told herself it was fine, normal, even, that her chest felt too full. That watching Mapi carry a piece of her world etched onto her skin felt like something more than it should have.

She reminded herself, again, that it wasn’t.

It couldn’t be.

The silence that followed settled like dust between them. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but weighted; thick with all the things Ingrid didn’t want to think about. Mapi’s hand lingered on her wrist, fingers tracing absent patterns just above the ink as though testing its reality. Every now and then her gaze flicked up, catching Ingrid’s for half a second too long before darting away again. It was unbearable. For Ingrid, anyway. Because she knew she was reading too much into it. Because she’d made the bouquet with her own two hands. She knew there was someone else who probably got to see this softness, this almost shy version of Mapi, without having to second-guess what it meant.

She firmly reminded herself that this was a crush. A passing thing. A trick of proximity, of shared hours and easy laughter. Crushes always faded,and this one would be no different. And yet her chest still tightened with every heartbeat.

She focused her efforts back on her scissors, on her lilies. Anything but the silence, or the way Mapi was still sitting there like she was waiting for something Ingrid wasn’t brave enough to give.

In an attempt to break the nauseating silence, the words escaped before she even thought them through. 

“Would you ever do one for me?”

The second the words left her mouth, Ingrid wanted to claw them back. Her cheeks burned, her fingers froze mid-motion, and she could almost laugh at herself for such foolishness. She hated needles. She was the sort of person who nearly fainted at a flu shot, who had to look away when pricking her own finger on a thorn. 

Mapi’s head snapped up, surprise etched so clearly across her features that Ingrid almost groaned aloud.

“You?”

“Yes,” Ingrid forced out, suddenly very interested in now aligning a ribbon bow on a bouquet for a collection that was already perfect. “Why not? You know… support the neighbours and all that.”

There was a pause, then the slow curve of a smile spread across Mapi’s lips. A different one than usual, smaller like she was holding something back. “I’d be honoured,” she said, voice low enough to make Ingrid’s heart thud.

“Great,” Ingrid replied quickly, maybe too quickly, shoving the scissors back into their drawer with more force than necessary. “Then that’s settled.”

She didn’t look up. Couldn’t. Not when her pulse was racing and her palms were clammy at the mere thought of ink, of needles, of sitting in Mapi’s chair while those sharp eyes watched her unravel.

Not when part of her was terrified that if she looked too long, she’d give herself away.

It was just a crush. It would pass.

It had to.

—

Shitting it was an understatement. 

Ingrid had thought she understood nerves before, whether it was through opening a shop, moving countries or trying to order a coffee in a language she barely spoke, but this was a different beast entirely. Her heart rattled against her ribs like it was trying to make an escape, her palms were clammy against the smooth surface of the reception desk, and every instinct in her body was telling her to run while she still could.

The tattoo studio wasn’t even intimidating, which made it worse. The front entrance was stripped back and minimal with white walls and a polished concrete floor, a few framed flash posters pinned neatly along the wall like artwork in a gallery. A low hum of music filtered through from one of the closed rooms beyond, just loud enough to mask the buzzing whir of a machine.

And then there was the cat.

A sleek black thing crouched at the corner where the wall met a private door on the left, its claws scritching against the wood like it had a personal vendetta. Its tail lashed with each pull, small body vibrating with determination. Ingrid stared at the animal like maybe she could absorb some of its fearlessness.

The door snapped open and a woman emerged, dressed in just jeans and a sports shirt, with a casual aura around her that told she wasn’t one of the artists, but someone else. “Bagheera, stop it, you creature.” The new addition scooped the cat up without ceremony, ignoring its protestant squirming, before flashing Ingrid an apologetic smile. “Sorry about him, he’s our owner’s cat. Absolute pain in the ass.”

Ingrid managed a small laugh, eyes following the twitching tail as the cat was deposited onto the counter like it owned the place.“I’m, uh, Ingrid,” she said after a moment, straightening her posture as though that might disguise her nerves. “I’ve got an appointment today.”

Recognition flared instantly across the receptionist’s face, followed by the sort of grin that promised nothing good. “Ohhh. So you’re the famous florist.”

Ingrid could only raise a wary eyebrow.

“Mapi talks about you all the time,” the woman dragged out the words with an almost sing-song delight, her eyebrows wiggling like a cartoon villain.

Ingrid wished the floor would open up beneath her feet.

The receptionist didn’t even bother to hide her amusement as she reached under the desk, producing a clipboard stacked with papers and sliding it across the smooth counter with a flourish. “Consent forms. Medical stuff, aftercare, proof you’re not about to sue us for ruining your life.”

“Comforting,” Ingrid muttered, though she took the pen with steady fingers that gave nothing away about the anxiety bubbling up in her chest.

“Don’t worry,” the woman chirped, resting her chin on her palm as she leaned over the desk to watch. “Our María is one of the best. We wouldn’t let her anywhere near you otherwise.”

Ingrid could only focus on the consent forms to avoid giving something away with just her eyes. 

“She’s at your store so often,” the receptionist continued, clearly delighted by her captive audience, “we used to think we’d lost her during lunch breaks. Honestly, we were about to start sending her rent bills over there.”

Heat rushed into Ingrid’s cheeks so fast she nearly choked on her own breath. She ducked her head, pretending to focus very hard on the section about allergies. “She just likes flowers,” she mumbled, which even to her own ears sounded pathetic.

“Mm-hm.” The hum was drawn out, dripping with disbelief, but the receptionist let her scribble on without further interrogation, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips.

The scratching sound from the side door started again, sharp claws raking against wood that made Ingrid glance up in relief over the break in tension. Bagheera had wriggled free again and was back at his favourite spot, tail lashing furiously. Before Ingrid could react, the door pushed open.

Mapi stepped out, reaching down immediately to stroke the bundle of black fur that rushed to her feet.

She wore her usual uniform of casual ease, a black shirt this time with sleeves rolled high to reveal the sprawl of ink that somehow looked even more intricate under the studio lighting. Her blonde hair was pulled into a loose knot at the nape of her neck, strands falling free around her temples. She looked, irritatingly, like someone who had just stepped out of a photograph rather than a cramped tattoo room.

Her eyes landed on Ingrid immediately, surprise flashing, before narrowing at the receptionist. One look at how her co-worker grinned menacingly told her all she needed to know “Alexia. Go for your lunch break and stop harassing my clients before I give you all my paperwork to do.”

“You’re the boss.” Alexia laughed, pushing back from the desk with deliberate slowness. “You’re lucky you pay me enough to put up with this treatment.”

It took a second for Ingrid to catch up, her brain slotting the pieces together like a clumsy jigsaw. Not only did Mapi work here, she owned the place. Which meant even the surly black cat apparently hers. Somehow, Ingrid had never thought beyond the leather jacket and the way Mapi sprawled in her shop at lunch, and now the scope of it all hit her at once, leaving her a little breathless.

Despite her teasing, Alexia did indeed toss Ingrid a wink and make a move to disappear. She scooped Bagheera up despite his furious protests, and disappeared through the back door without another word.

Mapi lingered by the doorway to what must have been her personal studio, the one the cat had been so furiously scratching at before, her gaze softening as it returned to Ingrid. “I’m so sorry about her,” she said, and though her tone was exasperated, there was something undeniably fond beneath it.

Ingrid forced herself to look up from the forms, to meet those steady eyes, even as her pulse thudded against her throat like it was desperate to betray her.

Mapi hesitated in the doorway, one hand rubbing at the back of her neck like she’d forgotten what to do with herself. For once, her usual sharp-edged confidence seemed dulled, softened around the edges.

“Hi,” she said, almost too casually. Then, after a beat, added, “do you want to come through?”

Ingrid nodded before her throat remembered how to work, tucking the clipboard against her chest like a shield as she followed.

The tattoo room was everything she’d expected from Mapi and then some. The walls were a deep charcoal grey, the kind of colour that made every line drawing pinned to it leap into focus. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and something warmer beneath it: cedarwood, maybe, or smoke carried in on Mapi’s clothes. A wide leather chair dominated the center of the room, while shelves lined the far wall with neatly ordered bottles of ink, machines, sketchbooks stacked like towers threatening collapse.

And then there were the flowers.

Not fresh, but pressed. Dozens of them, each one carefully flattened and framed behind glass, hung in an uneven constellation across the largest wall. Ingrid recognised every blossom instantly, her chest tightening with recognition. There was the soft, layered circles of ranunculus. The bold spread of amaryllis. The curling petals of chrysanthemums. And even more. Stems and silhouettes she remembered wrapping in polypropylene film, handing across a counter as she brushed against Mapi’s fingers in passing.

Her eyes dragged across them all, frame by frame, until the truth clicked into place. These weren’t random, they were hers. Every single flower Mapi had ever bought, painstakingly preserved and displayed like artwork.

“Mapi–” Her voice cracked halfway through the name, coming out more like a question than she intended.

But Mapi had already turned away, fussing with the height of the chair that clearly didn’t need adjusting. A flush crept across the back of her neck, rising into her cheeks.

“They were just too pretty to throw away,” she muttered, still not looking back.

Ingrid gripped the edge of the clipboard tighter. God help her.

Ingrid lingered close to the wall, each and every muscle in her body tense as Mapi moved around the room with brisk precision. It all passed in a blur, the preparation. From the antiseptic smell of alcohol swabs and the cold sting they left on her skin, to the contrasting press of warm fingers holding steady as the stencil was smoothed onto the inside of her arm. The purpley-blue outline of the guide soon bloomed against her skin.

Her pulse roared in her ears. She couldn’t seem to focus on anything but the permanence of it, the knowledge that soon the sharp hum of the machine would carve this into her forever. It was beautiful of course, for Mapi was incapable of designing anything other than perfect, but the permanence was paralysing.

She had to say something, anything random before the fear bubbled over in a horrible way. So she settled on “All those times you sit in my store for lunch and you never told me you owned this place.”

Mapi’s mouth curved into a secret smile as she tugged the cling film tight around the armrest and smoothed it down with practiced care. “You never asked,” she said simply, voice light but edged with something softer, something she didn’t turn around to show on her face.

Silence stretched again, not quite awkward but thick, filled with the quiet movements of preparation. Ingrid simply sat with her arm resting on the stand, staring at the ghost of a flower on her skin and trying to ignore the pounding of her own heart.

Mapi continued with the same care she gave everything, loading the small caps with black ink, setting the machine on the tray beside her. Finally she turned, machine in one gloved hand with her eyes steady on Ingrid’s.

“Ready?”

The machine whirred to life, a low, insistent hum that seemed to vibrate right through Ingrid’s chest. She stared at it with wide eyes, her stomach twisting into something sharp and unpleasant. Mapi on the other hand sat poised, the needle shimmering faintly in the light.

Ingrid’s arm was braced on the padded rest, skin prickling beneath the drying stencil. Most of it to do with the tattoo artist herself, the rest to do with her fear. She was hyper aware of the faint drag of latex against her wrist as Mapi adjusted her grip, the steady presence of her so close that Ingrid could see the soft shadows beneath her eyes.

Her pulse was out of control. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t imagine the first sting of the needle without her body bolting from the chair.

“Wait.”

The word tore out of her, sharp and loud, and Mapi froze instantly. She pulled the machine back without hesitation, foot lifting off the pedal to stop the buzzing in its tracks. The way she looked up, with so little judgement or anger, only served to add to the anxiety. 

“It’s okay,” she said gently, voice painfully steady and patient. “You can be nervous. First tattoos are a lot. I still get nervous sometimes, even now.”

Ingrid was upright before she even realised, her breathing more shallow than before. “No–I’m sorry–I don’t know why I did this.” The words tumbled out. “It was just–just an excuse to talk to you–”

Mapi didn’t move. She sat on her stool, the machine still cradled easily in one hand as her foot rested loosely on the pedal. Her head tilted the faintest degree, and had it not been for the panic, Ingrid may have noticed how perfectly the singular strand that had slipped from her bun now framed her face. Those sharp eyes softened, narrowed not in judgment but in something more like bewilderment.

“…We talk every single day?” she said at last, slow and careful as if she were turning the thought over in her mouth before letting it fall.

Ingrid’s hands fluttered helplessly, twisting the hem of her shirt, searching for something to hold onto. “No, it’s not–it’s not like that,” she rushed out. “I just wanted–I needed–to talk to you outside of the shop, where it’s not about flowers or customers or–where it’s just–”

She broke off. Her pulse was thunder in her ears, each beat threatening to drag the rest of her feelings into the open.

Mapi didn’t rush to rescue her. She only watched, the silence stretching until it nearly broke Ingrid in two. And then, slowly, her mouth curved into something. It wasn’t the sharp, cocky grin she flashed at strangers, or the broad laugh she used when she was teasing. This was different. It was amused, yes, but it was threaded with something warmer, something that made Ingrid’s stomach twist painfully tight.

Her gaze flicked down to Ingrid’s fidgeting hands, then back up, and then that half-smile deepened. She let the silence drag just long enough to sting, to make Ingrid feel like she was being seen through entirely. 

When she finally spoke, her voice was low, deliberate, each word landing like a drop in still water. “You could have just asked me out for coffee.”

Ingrid took a deep breath. “But what about your partner?”

Her pulse was a riot in her ears, and her palms had gone slick against the fabric of her jeans. She needed Mapi to say something that made sense, something that fit into the neat box she had built for weeks to protect herself from exactly this moment.

Instead, Mapi blinked once. Then her brows arched, her lips curving into a lopsided smile that only grew wider the longer Ingrid stood there fumbling. “What partner?”

“The one you bought the admiration bouquet for,” Ingrid finally blurted after so long of wanting to bring it up. She gripped the back of the leather chair for balance, her nails pressing crescents into the upholstery as the room seemed to tilt.

Mapi went still, her head tipping, eyes sharpening with disbelief. And then, to Ingrid's absolute disbelief, she laughed.

It broke out of her, low at first, then sharper like she couldn’t quite hold it back. She leaned forward on the stool, dropping the machine onto the tray with a careless clatter. A few more strands of her hair slipped from their knot and fell into her face, and she pushed them back with the back of her wrist, still grinning like she’d just uncovered the best joke of her life.

“That was sarcastic!” She said between little bursts of laughter, her voice bright and incredulous. “I gave it to Alexia because she was bugging me about my attitude.” Her grin widened as she fixed Ingrid with a look so piercing it made her want to melt into the floor. “You thought I was dating someone?”

Ingrid’s stomach plummeted.

The heat rushing into her face was unbearable, her skin prickling with it. “Well–um–I mean–it makes sense. You can’t really blame me–” She was tripping over her own tongue, waving her hands as if that could somehow cover the sheer embarrassment clawing its way through her chest. “You were so casual about it, and I just assumed–”

“Ingrid.”

The sound of her name, spoken so deliberately, cut clean through her spiral. It silenced her in a way no amount of logic could have managed. She looked up, breath caught in her throat.

Mapi was still perched on the stool, one elbow braced casually on her thigh with her hands still shroud in the latex gloves. She wasn’t laughing anymore, not in an explicit way, though there was a glimmer of amusement still twisting at the corner of her mouth. Her gaze was instead steady, and it pinned Ingrid to the spot as she declared:

“I have been flirting with you since the day you moved here.”

The words landed like a smack across Ingrid’s face. Her chest tightened so suddenly she thought she might actually forget how to breathe. The floor felt unsteady beneath her, as if the world had shifted half a degree and she was left scrambling to find her footing.

“Why,” Mapi continued on, softer now, but with an edge of certainty that brokered no argument, “do you think I come over all the time?”

For a long moment, Ingrid could only stare. Her body didn’t seem to know how to respond to such a question. And when her voice finally came, it was small and unsure. “I thought you just liked flowers.”

Mapi leaned back slightly, the leather stool creaking beneath her, and let out a soft huff of breath that might have been a laugh, but it wasn’t one of cruelty. If anything, it was tinged with something warm and patient, almost as if she’d been waiting far too long for Ingrid to catch up. Which she probably had.

“I already told you. I like your flowers,” she said, drawing the word out until it thrummed with meaning.

Ingrid felt the full force of the meaning crash over her. From every pressed flower in the frames on the wall, to every lunch break spent with a familiar leather jacket slung across her chair. All of it, suddenly, reassembled into something she’d been too afraid to see.

And now there was no mistaking it.

For a painstaking heartbeat, Mapi still seemingly refused to move. She simply sat there on her stool, her head tilted as though Ingrid were a puzzle she was still deciding how to piece together. The silence between them thrummed like a live wire, hot and unbearable.

Then she rose.

The stool squeaked as she pushed back from it, a slow and agonising motion that had Ingrid’s entire body seizing. Her pulse leapt painfully, thudding against the base of her throat, and she could do nothing but watch as Mapi stood. She took one step. Then another. Each movement was unhurried, her boots making soft sounds against the tiled floor that seemed to echo like thunder in the small room.

There was something almost tentative about the way she crossed the space, as though she were approaching a wild creature that might spook and flee if she came too fast. Her gaze never wavered, though, her expression caught somewhere between fondness and exasperation.

“I like you, you absolute idiot.”

Ingrid just stared. Wide-eyed, lips parted, and breath caught sharply in her lungs. Her whole body felt strung too tight, like a bow that had been drawn back for weeks, months, and was now trembling under the weight of being so close to release. Shock rooted her to the spot, her fingers still gripping the chair’s leather back as though it were the only solid thing in the room.

Mapi came to stand in front of her now. Her mouth tugged into that small, crooked smile again, the one that carried both mischief and a gentleness that was more disarming than anything else.

She tilted her head up slightly, mainly to reach Ingrid’s eyes, and Ingrid swore she could feel that gaze against her skin.

“You’ve really not noticed?” Mapi murmured, almost in disbelief as the words brushed the space between them like fingertips. Her hand twitched at her side, gloved fingers flexing once, resisting the urge to reach out.

Ingrid tried to speak, but her voice broke on the first syllable. She couldn’t form anything else because her throat was too dry.

Mapi chuckled intimately instead,the sound meant for Ingrid’s ears alone. She shifted, leaning in just slightly, and that small change in distance was enough to make Ingrid’s knees threaten to buckle. The world had shrunk to this: the warmth radiating off of her, the way her lips curved in that devastating smile, the way every breath between them seemed to tangle.

For a long, teetering moment, neither of them moved.

Then Mapi lifted her hand. Slowly,she brushed her knuckles against Ingrid’s arm, barely there at first, a question written in the softest of touches. When Ingrid didn’t pull away and her breath stuttered instead, Mapi let her gloved fingers drift lower, sliding against her wrist. She curled them lightly there, just grounding.

Ingrid exhaled, a sound that was almost a whimper, and that was all it took.

Mapi leaned forward, closing the final breath of distance, and pressed her lips against Ingrid’s.

It wasn’t hurried, not the sharp crash Ingrid had half-feared and half-expected. It was patient. A kiss that lingered like it had nowhere else to be, drawn out in the way it allowed Ingrid’s heart to catch up and her mind to stop reeling. It let her body finally lean into it. Her free hand, the one that wasn’t gripping the chair, found the collar of Mapi’s shirt, holding on as though she might slip away otherwise.

Mapi only smiled against her, lips moving in the faintest grin before deepening the kiss just slightly, coaxing rather than taking.

By the time they pulled back, Ingrid’s head was spinning, her lips tingled, and her entire body alight with something that felt far too dangerous to put a name to.

And Mapi, of course, was smiling at her like she’d known all along.

Ingrid was still reeling when Mapi finally leaned back enough for her brain to kick back into action. Only by an inch or two, but enough that the spell broke just enough for Ingrid to remember where she was, and that the leather chair was still firmly in her grip and definitely nail-scarred by now. 

For a moment, they only looked at each other. Ingrid’s wide eyes and Mapi’s knowing grin, as though she were trying very hard not to laugh.

And then, inevitably, she did. She let out a warm chuckle that made Ingrid’s stomach flip all over again.

“I can’t believe you were going to get a tattoo instead of just asking me out,” Mapi said, shaking her head slowly.

Ingrid groaned with cheeks burning, but she supposed she deserved that. “I told you,” she muttered, though her mouth betrayed her with the hint of a smile, “I don’t have the brightest of ideas.”

That earned her another laugh, this one tinged with something fond she couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed before. Mapi reached out, nudging her gently in the shoulder with the back of her hand, as if to say you’re impossible, but I like you anyway.

The tension that had been wound so tight between them for weeks, months, maybe, finally loosened. The air didn’t feel like it was pressing down on Ingrid anymore. Instead, it was lighter, filled with the warmth of Mapi’s amusement and the quiet promise of something new and certain blooming in the space between them.

Mapi tilted her head, watching her with that maddening mix of sharpness and softness, before stepping back toward her stool and scooping up her machine like she hadn’t just unraveled Ingrid’s entire world with a kiss.

“Lucky for you,” she said, her voice teasing once again, “I have enough good ideas for the both of us.”

And Ingrid, heart still racing but mouth finally curving into something freer than she’d let herself feel in a long time, thought that maybe, just for this once, she didn’t mind being the idiot in the room.

a/n: crossposted on my ao3 under the same name

It was always the little things. To name one of many examples, the way her hair caught the sunlight when she jogged out of the tunnel, or that easy laugh that carried across the pitch. Even the way she’d bite the inside of her cheek when she was focused, or chew her lip while listening to the coaches. None of it should mean anything, but of course it did. You were human, and a human who was head over heels in love with England’s star striker at that.

Not that you were ever going to say anything.

The two of you got on fine, great even, but you kept yourself firmly in the safe zone. Pure professionalism.. No lingering glances, no unnecessary conversations, and definitely no blurting out that you thought she was the prettiest thing to ever grace god’s green earth. 

The problem was Alessia didn’t exactly make it easy to ignore that bubbling in your chest. It was always simple, only a wave from across the pitch when you arrived late or a spare bib handed over with a grin – that one time during stretches when she pressed your knee down with her palm and you had to spend the rest of the day pretending your pulse wasn’t still rattling from the contact. She had no idea she was even doing it, but it caught you off guard every single time. 

Today was no different.

The sun was out, the mood was good, and Alessia was practically glowing. Sleeves rolled up over her forearms, chatting with Ella like she wasn’t singlehandedly ruining your ability to function.

You aimed for a quick escape after training.

No luck.

“Good session, you looked sharp,” Alessia said, stopping you in the corridor with that warm, unblinking eye contact you had no defence against.

You muttered something that might have been words, you couldn’t entirely swear to it, and made a beeline for the changing room. Ella’s knowing look followed you the whole way in.

The rest of the week wasn’t much better.

There was the water bottle incident(™), Alessia offering hers after yours ran out, your fingers brushing and holding just a little too long. The ice bath, thigh pressed against thigh under freezing water. That late-night in the hotel lobby, just the two of you, when you had every opportunity to say something real and instead had told the striker you liked her boots.

Every time, the moment slipped away.

Every time, you convinced yourself you’d imagined the way she was looking at you.

And every time, Ella was there, watching with that I’m about to interfere expression that you didn’t trust in the slightest.

–

Game night at England camp was supposed to be casual. Just a way to unwind after training, sitting cross-legged on beanbags and cushions in the players’ lounge with snacks your nutritionists wouldn’t approve of scattered across the table.

It was not supposed to turn into an all-out war over Uno.

Lotte is half-standing in her seat, brandishing a +4 like she’s about to duel Niamh for control of the deck. Niamh is calling her a cheat - loudly and repeatedly - and Ella is providing a running commentary from the corner as if this is live sport. Esme and Maya are her compelled audience, laughing at every anecdote and slamming their hands on the table in amusement. 

You’re sitting on the floor opposite Alessia. That should be fine, normal. But she’s leaning back on her hands with her legs stretched out, and every time she draws a card she glances up at you through her lashes like she’s checking for a reaction.

You try to focus on your hand, but when she catches your eye and grins, slow, like she knows exactly what she’s doing, your brain empties completely..

“You’ve got something,” she says suddenly, gesturing to her cheek.

You swipe at your face, confused. “What?”

“Other side.” She leans in, close enough that you catch the faint smell of her shampoo, and her fingers brush against your jaw as she wipes away what must be a crumb from the biscuits someone demolished earlier.

The room is still full of shouting, but you hear nothing except the loud, traitorous thud of your heartbeat.

“Thanks,” you manage, even if it comes out a little quieter than intended.

Alessia just smiles, casual as anything as if she hasn’t just caused you an aneurysm, and goes back to her cards.

Ella is not subtle about watching you from her perch on the arm of the sofa, if the pause in her running commentary is anything to go by.

The game drags on in chaos, but every time you play a card, Alessia’s foot finds yours under the table. It sits there like she doesn’t even know she’s touching you. There’s no wash of recognition across her face, so maybe she really hasn’t noticed. She probably thinks it's a table leg, or one of the other girls. Probably wondering Why is this object shaking so bad? as you battle your body to stay still. 

At one point, you both reach for the snack bowl at the same time. Her fingers brush over yours, and instead of pulling away, she picks up a crisp, holds it out to you, and says “For you.”

You take it, trying not to let anyone notice the way your hands are shaking.

If the others clock it, no one says anything. Except Ella, who catches your eye and mouths oh my God. Because of course she knows. You can’t get anything past Ella Toone, apparently even a secret crush on her best friend. Especially that, you suppose. 

By the time the game ends (Lotte declaring herself champion while Niamh demands a rematch), you’re not even sure you remember the rules. You’ve spent the last hour hopelessly, irretrievably, and very obviously panicking over Alessia’s existence.

And judging by the little smirk she throws over her shoulder as she heads to grab more drinks, she knows it.

–

The grand plan was put into action on that Thursday.

The morning session had been light, just tactics and recovery work, meaning everyone was in decent spirits. You were in even better spirits because you’d managed to make it through the day without any Alessia-induced cardiac emergencies. A couple of smiles, a playful nudge here and there, but nothing that made your stomach stage an Olympics level gymnastics routine.

Unfortunately, Ella had once again been watching you.

She’d been watching you all week.

So when she caught you and Alessia lingering in the corridor after lunch, Alessia holding the door for you like some sort of unfairly hot Victorian gentleman, Ella pounced.

“Hey, Y/N,” she called, voice bright and full of menace you should have noticed. “Can you just help me grab something real quick?”

You followed, because you’re a fool. And Alessia followed you, because she apparently cannot hear your name without appearing at your side like a tall, blonde summoning spell.

The “something” was, allegedly, in the far corner of the training ground’s storage room. Which was already suspicious enough. Before you could ask questions, Ella had waved you both in.

The door clicked shut.

You turned, far too slowly, and saw her through the narrow glass panel, grinning like the cat that got the cream. “SORT IT OUT!” she shouted, then made a show of locking the door. There was a beat of stunned silence, then Ella’s voice again, louder this time “OH MY GOD, YOU’RE BOTH GAY, JUST GET ON WITH IT!”

You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

Alessia, infuriatingly, was smiling. “She’s subtle,” she said, leaning back against the wall.

“She’s insane,” you muttered, jiggling the handle to confirm what you already knew, that it wasn’t budging and you were indeed stuck.

From the other side came another yell. “I’M NOT LETTING YOU OUT UNTIL SOMEONE SNOGS, SO CHOP CHOP!”

You shut your eyes, fighting the urge to scream. “She’s actually lost it.”

Alessia’s voice was quieter now, but still teasing. “Think she might be onto something, though.”

Your head snapped towards her. “Um. Sorry?”

Her gaze stayed on you, warm and just a little dangerous. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I haven’t–”

“You have,” she said simply, like it was fact. “Every time I talk to you, you look like you’re either going to bolt or… I don’t know… pass out.”

Your arms crossed, more to hide your clammy hands than out of any real defiance. “That’s not– it’s not–”

“If you don’t want me to talk to you,” she said softly, “you can just say so.”

You hated the way that made your chest ache. You never wanted her to feel that way about you, like you were purposefully choosing not to see her. Of course, that was what was going on, but you hadn’t wanted her to realise. “That’s not it.”

Her brows lifted. “No?”

The silence after that was heavy. The room was small, just endless shelves of cones and stacks of bibs. It smelled faintly of turf and detergent, not the most romantic setting, but with her standing this close you could hardly bring yourself to care. You could hear the muffled shouts from outside of those still in training, but in herehere, it was like everything had narrowed down to her.

You, Alessia, and the sound of your own pulse.

And Ella, apparently.

“I CAN HEAR THE SEXUAL TENSION FROM HERE, PLEASE JUST KISS AND PUT ME OUT OF MY MISERY.”

You groaned into your hands. Alessia laughed, bright and joyous, and when you looked up she was watching you like she was figuring something out.

You’d never been more aware of your own breathing. It was too loud, too fast, and far too obvious. 

Alessia was still leaning against the wall like she wasn’t trapped in here with a teammate who, at this point, might actually combust from sheer tension. Her arms folded loosely over her chest, the corner of her mouth twitching every so often, like she was holding back a smile she didn’t want you to see.

You tried for casual. Failed miserably. “So… uh… how’s your–”

Alessia actually snorted at that. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Small talk,” she said, grinning now. “We’re locked in a broom cupboard, Y/N. You don’t need to ask me about my day.”

Your laugh came out too high-pitched to be safe. “Well, what do you suggest we do instead?”

From outside, Ella’s voice cut in before Alessia could answer “I suggest you two stop pretending you haven’t been eyeing each other like you’re a Champions League trophy”

You made a strangled noise and buried your face in your hands. “I swear to God, when I get out of here–”

“She’s not wrong,” Alessia said.

Now that shut you up faster than you ever thought possible. “Sorry?”

Her shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “I’m just saying… you do look at me sometimes. And I–” she hesitated, eyes flicking away for a second before locking back onto yours “--I look at you.”

Your brain went blank. “Oh.”

“Oh,” she repeated, and this time it was almost a challenge.

You shook your head too quickly. “That’s– that doesn’t– I don’t–I just… look… sometimes. You know… I’m impressed–”

“Y/N,” she said, tone suddenly firmer, “you’re rambling.”

“I’m not–”

“You are,” she cut in, stepping forward just enough to make the space between you feel electric. “And you’re doing that thing where you talk so much I forget what I was going to say.”

“I am not–”

And then she kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t testing the waters. It was decisive, sure, and just the right side of desperate - like she’d been holding herself back for weeks and had finally decided she was done. Her hand came up to the side of your jaw, not rough but firm enough to keep you there, her mouth moving against yours like she had no intention of stopping any time soon.

It turned out kissing Alessia Russo was exactly as brain-melting as you’d imagined.

She tasted faintly of peppermint gum, her lips soft but insistent. Her fingers curved against your jaw like she’d decided you weren’t going anywhere until she was done. You didn’t even try to stop her, didn’t want to. Every time she tilted her head, the kiss deepened, and your knees became that little bit weaker.

She made a small noise against your mouth, frustration or relief you couldn’t tell, and you felt it all the way to your toes. Somewhere in the haze, your hands had found her waist, and now you were holding her like letting go wasn’t an option.

From outside, Ella’s voice piped up again “Oi, why’ve you gone quiet in there? Have someone passed out–”

The door clicked open mid-sentence.

You and Alessia jolted apart, but not far enough. Your lips were still dangerously close, your breathing ragged, and Ella’s eyes went wide before her face broke into a full-blown, I-knew-it grin.

“OH. MY. GOD.”

You could feel the heat flooding your face, but Alessia — to her credit — just leaned back against the wall, one arm still draped loosely around your waist like she wasn’t ashamed in the slightest.

Ella, meanwhile, was already halfway down the corridor, shouting to whoever would listen “THEY’RE SNOGGING! THEY’RE SNOGGING!”

You dropped your forehead to Alessia’s shoulder with a groan. “I thought that was what she wanted..?”

She laughed softly, squeezing your side. “Yeah but now she has to make sure we never live this down. Everyone will know in less than 30 seconds.

You couldn’t help but laugh, because honestly? With her still that close, her thumb brushing over your hip like it was the most natural thing in the world, you weren’t sure you cared.

a/n: such a fun req. thank you anon🫶

You stare at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard as you aimlessly fish for the right words. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you think this must be a test of your friendship, like, would you drop everything on a Saturday morning to stand in a muddy park and coach an under-8s football team when your tactical knowledge begins and ends with “don’t use your hands”? Apparently, the answer is yes, because twenty minutes later you’re standing on the sideline with a borrowed whistle around your neck and a clipboard that you’re ninety-nine percent sure is just for show.

The pitch stretches out in front of you like an unknown land, and suddenly you feel like you’re back at school looking at algebra for the first time. It’s probably exacerbated by the eleven children in oversized jerseys chasing each other in uncoordinated circles. The parents’ section is a blur of takeaway coffees and camp chairs, all of them glancing at you like you’re the substitute teacher who’s already lost the lesson plan. Which you suppose you sort of…are?

You clear your throat and attempt a smile. “Hi! So… Megs couldn’t make it today, she–”

“She’s what?” a dad calls out far too quickly, his sunglasses catching the sun. You’re a nice person, so you don’t yell at him, but if you were less you may have thrown a punch there and then. 

“In labour,” you blurt. “As in – right now. As in – please don’t text her about corner kicks because she’s a little busy.” You direct that towards the group of women closest to you, all of who pulled their phones out the second you said labour.

There’s a ripple of excited murmurs, but somehow at the same time that particular kind of silence where people are wondering how long they’re going to be stuck with you in charge. You’re just about to admit you have no idea what you’re doing when someone at the back of the group calls “Lucy could help!”

Heads turn. There’s a chorus of Yeah, let Lucy do it, Lucy’s here, She’ll know what to do, and a woman from the back of the crowd is pushed forward through a series of outstretched arms. 

It’s unfair, really, is your first thought. That someone could be that hot. The sun catches her just enough to make the edges of her hair in it’s bun glow, a loose strand brushing her cheek. She’s wearing a beige-brown jacket over a white shirt of some sort, simple black jeans being the pairing and you have the overwhelming urge to send her away just for making such a simple outfit look so good. 

You’re fairly certain it’s a tank top, too. You can’t exactly stare too long at that area, but god you’re sure you can see the edge of the sleeve. Why would Megs willingly put you through this? You’ve only just met this woman and you’re going to die. 

Lucy’s smile is polite and somehow a little shy despite the way every parent here seems to recognise her instantly. 

“Hi,” she says, voice low and warm, offering a hand like you’re meeting in a boardroom instead of a park full of screaming kids. “I’m Lucy.”

You take it before you can think, and it’s the kind of handshake that’s firm but not overconfident, her palm warm against yours. You’re hyper-aware of the fact that her eyes (Green? You’re not entirely sure, far too scared to look at her for too long) are fixed on you, waiting for a response.

“Oh. Hi. I’m Y/N.” What you wanted to say was Jesus fuck your voice is hot, but that didn’t feel appropriate, so instead you settle for a pathetic  “Should probably warn you now, I’m not a football person,” with a vague gesture in the direction of the field. 

Her mouth tilts like she’s fighting a smile, her voice seeminging even lower now if that was possible. “That’s alright. I am.”

You blink a few times, then nod, because what else do you do when someone looks like that and says things in that voice? Calm down, Y/N, you think to yourself. You don’t even know if she’s gay.And or single. She’s at a kids soccer match. One of these delightful tiny crazy people could be her kid, and the tall man who pushed her forward may well be her husband. The parents seem satisfied with the new arrangement for coaching, some even smirking at each other, and you’re left wondering what exactly you’ve agreed to as Lucy steps onto the field, calling for the kids to gather.

Freddie barrels over first, grinning up at her. You know him fairly well through visiting a few practices whenever Megs and you have plans afterwards. He’s a sweet boy, if a little energetic. He proves that now with the way he collides into Lucy's shins. “Auntie Luce! Are you gonna play with us?”

Auntie. Auntie. Oh. 

Oh.

Lucy laughs, crouching down to high-five him. “We’ll see. But first, warm-up. Go on, get the others.”

You stand there like an awkward scarecrow while the entire team obediently flocks to her. The transformation is immediate –  where there was once disorganisation, there’s suddenly some kind of order, the kids lining up like she’s magnetic.

She glances back at you, eyes dancing. “Coming?”

You swallow, resisting the urge to say something mortifying like anywhere you want. Instead, you follow, trying not to look like someone who’s just been completely derailed by a possible tank top and a smile.

Lucy doesn’t even need to raise her voice. Somehow, with just a clap and a “Let’s go,” the kids fall into motion like she’s the Pied Piper of mini footballers. You trail a few steps behind, still wondering how the hell you’re supposed to be coaching when your entire coaching experience consists of having once googled “how long is a football match” during a pub quiz.

“Alright, we’ll start with stretches,” she says, smiling at the team like she’s known them forever. You swear her voice gets warmer when she’s talking to kids. “Arms up, big reach–good, now touch your toes.”

You try to blend into the background but instantly fail because Lucy glances over and grins. “You too.”

“I’m just supervising!” you protest, but she raises an eyebrow in a maddening, teasing kind of way, and you find yourself awkwardly trying to touch your toes while half the parents are watching with concern in your direction at your concerning display of athleticism.

The warm-up somehow morphs into passing drills. Lucy’s explaining proper footwork while you hover at the side like an unpaid extra. One of the boys mis-kicks and the ball rolls to you. 

To your horror, every single child looks at you expectantly.

You panic and punt it as hard as you can. It sails past Lucy, past the line of cones, and directly into the back of a parent’s folding chair.

Lucy’s mouth curves into something concerningly close to laughter. “Strong kick.”

“Thank you,” you say, trying to sound dignified despite wanting the ground to swallow you whole.

By the time the match starts, you’ve resigned yourself to doing what you do best: making noise and hoping it looks like encouragement. You stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Lucy on the sideline, hyper-aware of her presence. Every time she steps closer to shout instructions, you swear you can feel the faintest brush of her arm against yours.

“Go on guys!” she calls.

“Yes! Go… football!” you yell immediately after, not even sure what’s happening on the pitch.

Lucy glances sideways, clearly biting back a smile. “Football?”

“I’m supporting,” you mutter. “It’s called morale.”

A kid from the opposing team takes a shot that sails nowhere near the goal, and before your brain catches up, you’re clapping. “Nice try!”

Lucy tilts her head at you. “You know that was the other team, right?”

You freeze, then shrug. “Sportsmanship?”

She laughs, an actual laugh this time, and it sends your heart rate into what you’re pretty sure is a medically concerning zone. Your watch actually beeps to alert you to a raised heartrate. 

You’re going to die right here. And your cause of death will be being gay. 

Every movement she makes pulls at your attention. The way she crouches to yell instructions to the kids, the way she pushes her sleeves up past her elbows like it’s the most casual thing in the world. You’re convinced she’s not even aware of it, which somehow makes it worse.

The game rolls on in a blur of shouting children, clapping parents, and your increasingly unhinged commentary. At one point, you yell “THAT’S IT, BUDDY!” so loudly at a random child that Lucy leans over, still watching the pitch, and murmurs, “I think you just scared him.”

“Good,” you whisper back. “Fear makes them run faster.”

She snorts, shaking her head, and you have to look back at the field immediately because if you watch her smile for another second, you’re going to forget where you are.

The match has been going for what feels like hours but is probably only twenty minutes. You’ve clapped so much your hands sting, shouted so many vaguely supportive phrases you’re running out of words entirely, and Lucy is somehow still calm, still composed, still… distracting. 

You’re watching one of the younger kids try to intercept the ball when inspiration strikes. Or rather, desperation dressed up as inspiration.

You lean towards Lucy. “Okay, hear me out: Operation Chaos.”

She glances at you without taking her eyes off the pitch. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“It’s very strategic,” you insist. “Everyone just runs in different directions at once so the other team has no idea who actually has the ball.”

“That’s not strategy, that’s…,” she says, but there’s a twitch at the corner of her mouth.

“Chaos. Exactly.” You cup your hands and bellow, “TEAM! CHAOS FORMATION!”

To your utter delight, and Lucy’s quiet horror, the kids immediately obey. Freddie takes off towards the corner flag, two others sprint in the opposite direction, someone starts running backwards, and somehow in the middle of it all, your smallest midfielder dribbles right past three confused defenders and into open space.

Lucy laughs again, head tipping back for a second before she jogs a few steps down the line to yell, “Go on! Take the shot!”

The ball hits the back of the net. Parents cheer as the kids swarm your tiny goalscorer. You raise your arms like a victorious general.

Lucy returns to stand beside you, shaking her head. “I cannot believe that worked.”

You grin. “Told you. Controlled chaos.”

Her eyes linger on you for a beat longer than they need to, like she’s still processing the fact you just won a point through sheer absurdity. And maybe she is, but then the ball’s back in play and she’s focused again.

She doesn’t even take her eyes off of the pitch when she rids herself of her jacket, and oh god, you are going to die.

It is a tank top. And not only that, but Lucy is apparently ripped. In fact, ‘ripped’ would be an understatement. 

She tosses her jacket behind her without once taking her eyes off of the ball, and the small action makes her biceps flex in a way that sends a shiver straight to your– spine. Yup. This is it. This is where it ends, right here on the football pitch. You’re so glad Megs is bringing a new life into the world, because you are two seconds away from noping the fuck out. 

It takes more effort than you have ever experienced to pull your eyes away from Lucy’s arms and back onto the field. 

For a few minutes, you manage to stand in companionable noise, shouting parents, thudding feet or the occasional whistle from the official, until Lucy leans just close enough for you to hear her over the din.

“So,” she says, still watching the pitch, “how exactly did you end up friends with a kids’ football coach if you’re this clueless?”

You smirk, glancing at her from the corner of your eye. “Megs was originally friends with my ex-girlfriend. When we broke up, Megs picked me.”

There’s the smallest pause. You see it, the slow flicker of realisation, the almost imperceptible shift in her expression. Her shoulders relax a fraction, her smile takes on something just a touch warmer and more deliberate that seems to relax you also. 

“Well,” she says lightly, “good taste clearly runs in her social circle.”

You’re pretty sure you imagine the way her gaze skims down you before returning to the pitch, but your pulse is doing that uncomfortable, too-fast thing again, so maybe you don’t imagine it at all.

Another near-miss from the opposing team has you clapping in the wrong direction once more. Lucy has taken a step closer, you don’t know when. You only realise when the hairs of her shoulder brush against your own, and then that deliciously low voice is speaking again at a level that’s definitely not meant for the kids.

“You’re dangerously close to being the most entertaining part of this match,” she says, and you can hear the smile in it.

You raise an eyebrow. “Dangerously?”

Her lips twitch, and there’s something in her eyes that wasn’t there before. “Very.”

And oh my god. You haven’t imagined it. She is definitely flirting. Either that or your social skills have become so poor in the last months of your dry spell that you can no longer pick up on basic cues. But no… no, you’re fairly certain she’s flirting. 

Whether you can survive it is a whole other question.

You try to think of something clever, but then Freddie’s charging down the wing again and you end up screaming “CHAOS, FREDDIE, CHAOS!” so loudly that Lucy actually doubles over laughing.

The whistle blows for full time not long after. Your team has somehow scraped a victory, mostly thanks to baffling the other side into submission. The kids pile around you and Lucy for high-fives, parents are packing up chairs, and you’re still buzzing from the rush of it – or maybe from the way Lucy keeps catching your eye with that same new, knowing smile.

The chaos of the match trickles away slowly. The cheers fade and the line of chairs is long gone, kids scatter towards parents with juice boxes in hand. You’re left holding a stray shin pad, standing in the middle of the field while Lucy gathers up stray cones like it’s second nature.

“You’ve got a real gift,” she says without looking up, voice warm with amusement. 

You glance over. She took her hair down at some point, but you can’t afford to dwell on that or you won’t make it out of here alive. “For what? Sport?”

Her head tilts, hair tipping over her shoulder “Chaos. Definitely chaos.”

“It’s my natural coaching style. Very cutting-edge.” You grin back, tossing the shin pad into a bag and making a mental note to hand it onto whoever is covering for Megs during her arranged maternity leave. 

Lucy steps closer, the bag slung over one shoulder now. She’s smiling, but it doesn’t have the same polite edge from earlier. It’s slower and much, much more deliberate, like she’s testing the edges of something. “Dangerous style, that. Could get you in trouble.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Trouble with who?”

She meets your gaze fully then, hazel eyes catching the last of the afternoon light. “Me.”

The air shifts enough to make you suddenly hyper-aware of how close she is. From here, you can see her eyes are definitely green. There’s a line of sun-caused freckles on her shoulders too, how had you missed those? Were you really that busy staring at her arms?

You clear your throat, forcing a smirk that seems to falter in confidence. “So you’re saying I need… what? Private coaching?”

Lucy’s lips curve. “Maybe.” There’s a long enough pause for your heart to trip over itself before she adds, “You up for a proper football lesson?”

Something in you snaps, and there’s a boldness that wasn’t there before. You match her tone, leaning in just enough. “Does that come with dinner?”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Only if you promise not to cheer for the other team this time.”

“Guess you’ll have to keep me in line,” you say, and it’s meant to sound like a joke, but her smile deepens in a way that tells you she heard it exactly how you meant it.

For a second, neither of you moves, the quiet around you filled only with the sound of Freddie shouting for “Auntie Luce” from the car park. She glances in that direction, then back at you. Her phone is in your hands before you know it, and you’re praying to every god in the heavens above that you entered your number correctly. 

“Lesson and dinner,” she says, like it’s already decided. “I’ll text you.”

And then she’s walking away, still wearing that smile, leaving you in the middle of the pitch feeling like you’ve just survived a natural disaster made up of screaming children and one deviously charming assistant coach. Maybe football is fun.

The first time they crossed paths, Alessia had been juggling a takeaway coffee and her kitbag, hair still damp from training. She’d smiled, said “hi” in the easy way she always did, expecting at least a murmured hello back. Instead, she got a quick nod; the sort that acknowledged she’d spoken but didn’t invite anything else. Y/N’s eyes met hers for the briefest second before she unlocked her door and disappeared inside.

It became a sort of pattern. Passing on the stairs, meeting at the postboxes in the mailroom. Sometimes Alessia would be on her way out, and Y/N would be heading in, keys already in hand, no pause to chat. It was never particularly a rude dismissal, just contained. Punctuated. 

Alessia only knew her name was Y/N from collecting her mail once when the woman hadn’t appeared for days. There was a growing pile of envelopes in her locker to the point that the mailman had started putting them on the table. Alessia hadn’t seen her in days, so she did the neighbourly thing and took them up to the apartment. She’d slipped them under Y/N’s door one by one, but made sure to glance at the label before she had finished. That was one thing at least: a name to attach to the neighbour who kept herself at arm’s length.

She thought that would be the end of it until she saw Y/N again, this time behind the bar at the Crown & Anchor. Alessia had gone in with a couple of Arsenal girls after a home match, laughter and post-game adrenaline spilling out of them as they ordered drinks, and there she was. Here at work she had her hair pulled back, sleeves rolled, and she moved with a kind of unhurried efficiency no matter how busy it got. When she passed Alessia her pint, she gave the same polite nod as always, then turned away without a flicker of recognition.

From then on, Alessia couldn’t help but notice her more. Maybe it was because she now knew where to look. Maybe it was because she was looking. She started clocking little things, like the way Y/N never stayed in one place behind the bar for long, how she didn’t laugh at customers’ jokes unless they were actually funny, and even then, only a little.

Sometimes Alessia would swing by the pub on her way home, telling herself it was because the girls were there, but finding her eyes drifting toward the bar all the same. If Y/N saw her, Alessia would give the smallest of smiles, maybe a soft “evening”. It wasn’t unfriendly, but it was never enough to draw more than a nod and mumbled greeting from her neighbour.

And then there were the late nights. Alessia had a habit of falling asleep on the sofa with the TV still on,usually exhausted from training,  only to wake to the sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor. They were always steady and unhurried, but far too late for someone coming back from a normal bar shift. She’d hear the faint click of Y/N’s door closing, and then nothing until the next afternoon.

That was the thing about Y/N. She was quiet, but she left these traces. Little fragments that didn’t add up. Alessia didn’t know what she did outside of the bar, or why she always seemed to be coming home when the rest of the world was asleep, but she found herself wondering anyway.

It had been one of those training days that left Alessia pleasantly tired rather than wrung out, the kind where the atmosphere was good, everyone in high spirits, and the winter air clung to you in a way that made a pint afterwards seem not only deserved but necessary. The decision to head to The Crown & Anchor had been made with casual ease, a few voices in the changing room before it snowballed into nearly half the squad showing up.

The pub was already alive when they got there. Warm light poured from brass sconces onto wooden walls scarred by decades of use, the low hum of conversation cut through by the occasional burst of laughter from a corner table. The place smelled like crisps and spilled ale, a comforting sort of heaviness that seemed to sink into your clothes the longer you stayed. 

But it was familiar. And for people like Alessia, familiarity was a comfort they would never turn down.

She slumped into the back of the booth that was free, scrunching up her nose as her teammates penned her in. Leah took everyone's orders as she usually did for the first round, and she managed to strike up polite conversation with the person behind the bar.

An extra surprise when Leah’s shoulder moved to one side and Alessia could see that said person was Y/N. 

Beth clocked it too, leaning forward so she could see. She had been around Alessia's place recently when the other woman had been making her way home, so she was vaguely familiar with the bartender’s features. “That’s your neighbour, isn’t it?”

Alessia tried for neutral. “Yeah.”

Katie grinned, the expression far too knowing. “She’s hot. You live next to that and you’ve not said anything?”

Alessia rolled her eyes, though it felt like it came out too quick, too defensive. “She works here. That’s all.” She busied herself straightening the drinks menu, pretending not to feel the little current of heat crawl up her neck.

The first round vanished faster than it had arrived, and a clatter of empty glasses gave her an excuse to escape.

“I’ll get the next one,” she said, sliding out of the booth before anyone else could offer.

The bar was busy, three-deep with regulars jostling for space, but Alessia barely noticed the crush of bodies when she caught sight of Y/N behind the counter. Her hair was pulled back, a few loose strands catching the amber glow from the overhead lights. The black shirt she wore was rolled at the sleeves, the line of her forearms flexing as she poured a pint with an ease that came from muscle memory. She didn’t rush, in typical style. Even with the steady press of orders, her movements stayed clean and efficient, every clink of glass against the tap deliberate.

From this close, Alessia could see something different. There was a faint, fresh-looking cut slicing through the edge of Y/N’s eyebrow. It wasn’t jagged or clumsy, but surprisingly neat in how it was scoured into her skin; the sort of mark that suggested impact rather than accident. Alessia’s eyes lingered longer than they should have before she caught herself.

Y/N turned just then, expression unreadable but not unfriendly. “Evening.”

Alessia swallowed, giving the order for the table. Y/N nodded once, already reaching for bottles and glasses without the aid of a notepad. Alessia stood there, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, trying to look casual and failing entirely.

Her eyes flicked back to the booth, where Beth and Katie were whispering animatedly, Katie’s grin wide enough to split her face. Alessia shot them a look - half plea, half glare - before turning back.

Y/N slid the last pint across the counter, foam settling at the rim. “Anything else?”

Alessia shook her head, fumbling with her card. “No. That’s… no. Thanks.”

The corner of Y/N’s mouth twitched as she took payment, not quite a smile, before she moved on to the next customer. Alessia gathered the drinks, careful not to spill, and wove her way back through the crowd.

The warmth of the pub seemed louder somehow, but in the back of her mind, the image stuck: dark hair caught in amber light, steady hands, and that thin, deliberate line through an eyebrow she couldn’t stop wondering about.

Alessia set the tray of pints down on the table with a precision that earned her a raised brow from Katie, like she’d just delivered a crown jewel instead of a round for the squad. She straightened, rolling her shoulders as if the short walk back through the crowded pub hadn’t been the most awkward thirty seconds of her week.

Katie was the first to reach for her drink, but her eyes stayed fixed on Alessia’s face. “What was that?” she asked, tone deceptively casual. “You two don’t talk?”

Alessia blinked at her. “What do you mean?”

Beth leaned in, her pint already halfway to her lips. “Think she spoke to Leah more than you, and you live next door to her.”

“Brutal, that.” Leah agreed, raising her glass in an easy toast before taking a sip that spelled of a club captain looking forward to a few days off. 

Alessia lifted her own pint, more for something to do with her hands than actual thirst. “Maybe she’s just busy. It’s a packed night. Not everyone wants to stop and chat while they’re working. You’d murder someone if they tried to perk up a casual chat about the weather mid match, McCabe.”

That drew a round of laughter from the table, loud enough to blend into the rest of the voices and low hum of music that filled the pub. Alessia forced a small laugh of her own, but her eyes drifted almost involuntarily back towards the bar.

Y/N was there, head bent slightly as she poured a pint, her expression unreadable even from this distance. The overhead lights caught on the faint line above her eyebrow, and Alessia felt that same restless curiosity prick at her again.

She turned back to the group, letting their conversation wash over her in half-heard fragments. But the image lingered.

Neighbour or not, there was more to Y/N than she was letting anyone see.

–

Alessia lay sprawled on her back, staring into the dim slice of ceiling visible between the edges of her blinds.

Sleep had been impossible lately. Training always left her tired, and it was that kind of tired that sank deep into her muscles, but her mind had been a stubborn thing these past few weeks. It didn’t matter how many hours she’d put in on the pitch or in the gym; she’d crawl into bed at night and still find herself wired despite the aching bones, running over the same loops until the clock ticked mercilessly toward morning.

She’d tried all her usual tricks tonight. Warm shower, a quick stretch with a herbal tea she didn’t even like the taste of. She even read some dull book a sports therapist had recommended to her at some time or another. At one point, she’d thrown her duvet halfway off in frustration, convinced that maybe the heat was the problem, only to pull it back up two minutes later when the air felt too sharp on her skin. She’d checked her phone, then told herself to stop checking her phone. She’d even rolled onto her stomach, cheek against the cool pillowcase, and told herself she wasn’t allowed to open her eyes again until it was light.

That lasted all of twenty minutes. 

She turned her head to glance at the clock on her bedside table - 2:47 a.m. Those little lights actually teased her, seeming to dance across the clock the longer she stared.

Her brain was full of football again, images of training floating through. Everything from how that one pass to Beth had been too slow, or how she’d been caught on her heels in that final small-sided game. Of the Champions League match in a week and a half. Close enough to feel the weight of it, far enough that the anticipation had time to fester. She thought about their likely starting eleven, about how their group stage opponents might set up, about the press schedule she still needed to confirm for Thursday. Somewhere under all that was a quieter ache: the private pressure she always put on herself to be more, better, sharper. It was exhausting.

The rest of the building was silent in a way that made her hyper-aware of every small sound. Normally, there were other hints of life in the block, anything from a neighbour’s TV murmuring through the wall, to simple footsteps on the floor above. Sometimes the building simply felt alive with anticipation, even if the sounds weren’t explicit, they were burned into the air of a shared apartment block. Even a nice building like this had an atmosphere about it.

She had just rolled onto her side, pulling the duvet tighter around herself, determined to finally switch her brain off when she heard it.

It was a muffled bang. Not loud enough to be alarming, but enough to break through the heavy quiet.

Alessia’s eyes opened again, but this time she tried to listen..

There was nothing, so for a moment she wondered if it had just been the building settling, or the pipes. She shut her eyes again.

Another sound. This one was softer, like something shifting against a wall, but it was clear that it was more than the building making this noise. 

Perhaps against her better judgement, Alessia's bare feet hit the cool floor and she padded slowly toward the door. She was almost there when she heard the next clatter of metal hitting the carpet. And then, clear as day, a low and breathless “Fuck.”

Now that had definitely come from the corridor.

Carefully, she pressed one eye to the peephole. The curved glass distorted the view, but she could still make out the outline of someone leaning against the door next to hers, head bowed, one hand pressed to the frame for balance. 

The shape was familiarly her neighbour back from another late night adventure. Alessia should have known.

This time however, Alessia could tell something wasn’t right. Even through the warped lens her shoulders seemed slumped and her movements sluggish. She was groping for something on the floor - her keys, Alessia realised. And then Y/N shifted just enough for the light to catch her face and the breath to stick in Alessia’s throat.

Before she could second-guess herself, Alessia turned the lock and opened her door. The moment it opened, everything sharpened.

Y/N was indeed leaning her weight into the wood of her own doorframe like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her head was tipped slightly forward, shadow hiding the worst of her face at first, but the light overhead was unforgiving.

It caught the mess at her eyebrow first. Not just a little split like the week before, but the skin was pulled and swollen around the cut, the blood half-dried in jagged edges. It had run down to her cheek in a thin line, cutting through the pale skin like a scar that had appeared far too fast. Below it, there was a flush that didn’t belong; an angry bloom of an impact, purpling at the edges.

Her breathing was uneven. It wasn’t exactly uneven, but it was definitely off - a fraction too shallow, as though each inhale had to be managed. And her other hand, the one not wrapped around her keys, was tucked close to her side with it’s palm flattened against her ribs.

Alessia’s first thought was that she was hurt there, badly enough to guard it without thinking. The second thought hit harder: she was bleeding, she was alone, and she was pretending like none of it mattered.

“Y/N?” Alessia’s voice came out low, careful, the way she might speak to someone balancing on a ledge.

Slowly, Y/N lifted her head.

The shadows moved enough to show the rest. Another mark along her jaw, faint but fresh, like a scrape against rough concrete. Dirt on the cuff of her sleeve. Her hair was mussed in a way that definitely wasn’t sleep, strands sticking damply to her temple. And if Alessia though hard enough she’d realise her neighbour smelled faintly of the night, cold and metallic, with the underlying copper tang of blood.

“What happened?” Alessia asked, slower than usual as she trod carefully out into the hallway.

“Nothing.” The word was clipped.

“It’s not nothing,” Alessia said before she could stop herself.

Y/N’s gaze flickered, not in anger, but in the way of someone measuring how much they could give away. Then her chin dropped a fraction, closing that thought firmly away in the back of her mind once again. “I’m fine.”

It was meant to be final, Alessia could see the steel in her posture, But her hand twitched once against her ribs in a betraying movement.

“You’re–” Alessia started, then stopped, unsure what came next. Bleeding? Hurt? In trouble? The words felt useless in the face of whatever this was.

Y/N crouched slowly, too slowly, to this time successfully pick up the keys she’d dropped. Alessia’s breath caught at the sight. Even that small movement made her shoulders tighten, made her exhale through clenched teeth. The metal chimed softly in her grasp.

She straightened in careful increments, like every vertebra had to be accounted for. Alessia noticed then that one of her knuckles was raw, the skin split open in a way that spoke of contact, not accident.

For a heartbeat, Alessia thought about reaching out – steadying her, asking her to sit, something. But there was a set to Y/N’s jaw that told her the offer would be met with the same closed-off no she’d given at the door.

Without another word, Y/N slid the key into the lock. Her fingers were steady.

Alessia took half a step forward anyway, drawn in by something between worry and stubbornness. “You should–”

The door opened.

“Goodnight, Alessia.”

It was the first time she’d ever said her name, Alessia wasn’t even entirely certain she had known it.

Then Y/N was inside, the door closing soft and certain, leaving Alessia barefoot in the corridor with the image of blood on pale skin lodged behind her eyes.

It took her a while before she could go back inside. 

–

It was easier not to see her after that. 

At least, that’s what Alessia told herself. The quiet decision to steer well clear had been made somewhere in the days after the hallway, and since then she’d honed it into a skill. If she stepped into the mailroom and caught the shape of Y/N’s shoulders in her peripheral vision, she was already pivoting out before the other woman could look up. No awkward nods, no forced conversation, no reminder that Alessia had stood in her doorway that night, close enough to count the flecks of blood on her skin.

It wasn’t exactly fear that caused the drawback. More like a dull awareness that Y/N didn’t want her, or anyone for that matter, there. And if she wanted to keep whatever fragile, neighbourly truce they had, Alessia figured it was better to leave the whole thing untouched.

Still, avoidance wasn’t the same as blindness. Every now and then, she’d cross paths by accident. The lift doors would slide open unexpectedly to reveal Y/N stepping out, hood up and head low, with one side of her lip split and still healing. Or they’d pass in the corridor and Alessia’s eyes would catch on the dark bloom of a bruise fading across the ridge of her forearm. She didn’t know how she hadn’t seen them before - all of those little markers that something wasn’t quite right.

It became impossible not to notice them whenever she did bump into the woman. The small limp that only showed itself when Y/N thought no one was watching, or the stiffness in her shoulders when she reached for her doorknob. The days she came home late, moving with that strange, slow care like every step had been measured.

Alessia learned to build excuses the same way she built training schedules; ahead of time, precise and airtight. If Beth texted to say the girls were meeting at the pub after training, she’d already be halfway through a reply about an early physio session or a sponsor dinner she couldn’t miss. No one questioned it; they were all busy, they all understood schedules. No one knew she was just trying to make the chances of bumping into Y/N drop to zero.

Once again, it  wasn’t that she was scared to see her. It was that every time she pictured Y/N behind the bar, expression unreadable and acting like that night had never happened, something in Alessia’s chest pulled tight. And so she stuck to her self-made detour routes, slipping out of the building a few minutes earlier or later than usual, lingering in the gym after training instead of heading home.

Avoidance, she was learning, took commitment. And she was very, very committed.

–

The knock woke her like a jolt.

Not the polite, testing sort of tap you’d give a neighbour. This was a sharp, uneven rattle against the door, each thud loud in the kind of silence that only existed at two in the morning. Alessia blinked into the darkness, her brain struggling to match the sound to something harmless - the wind again? that pesky loose pipe? - but it came again, this time far more deliberate. 

Her phone said 2:17am.

She sat up slowly, her heart ticking faster than it should for something as simple as answering the door. Bare feet once again found the cool edge of the rug as she padded across her flat.

The peephole was an exercise in hesitation. Her hand hovered above the frame for a beat too long before she finally leaned in.

Of course. 

Leaning against the doorframe, shoulders slouched, one hand clamped around a wad of dark cloth pressed to her forehead stood (or rather wobbled) Y/N. Her hood was up again, shadowing most of her face, but even in the yellow light of the corridor Alessia could make out the tension in her jaw.

Without thinking, she undid the lock.

The door swung open to the sight of her neighbour’s eyes flicking up briefly, acknowledgement minimal but enough. The other woman didn’t step forward, didn’t offer an explanation… she just stood there.

“Do you have any plasters?” Was all she said eventually.

The question was so ordinary it took Alessia a second to catch up. Her gaze flicked from Y/N’s face to the hand holding the cloth and back again.

“Uh–yeah, I–yeah.” She shifted, stepping aside automatically whilst her brain struggled to catch up. “Do you… want to come in?”

A beat. Then, with a kind of resigned reluctance, Y/N crossed the threshold.

Alessia shut the door behind her, now aware of how quiet the flat was. The hum of the fridge seemed almost loud in the stillness. She hovered awkwardly as Y/N stood in the middle of her kitchen like she wasn’t entirely sure if she was welcome, the dark fabric still pressed to her head.

“You can sit, you know.” Alessia gestured to the stool by the breakfast bar before moving to rummage through a drawer. The first aid kit was exactly where she’d left it, under a jumble of takeaway menus and batteries.

When she turned back, Y/N was lowering herself onto the stool, one hand gripping the edge of the counter for balance. The hood had slipped enough to show more of her face, the harsh line of a fresh cut on her cheekbone, the faintest sheen of sweat on her temple.

Up close, Alessia could see the frayed edges of the cloth in her hands that looked like a ripped shirt hastily repurposed, and the slow drip of blood that still seeped around it.

Alessia popped the latch on the kit, pulling out a handful of antiseptic wipes and a box of plasters. “What happened?” she asked, careful to keep her tone light, almost casual to match Y/N’s own reaction.

“Doesn’t matter.”

The dismissal wasn’t sharp, but final. The kind of reply that made it clear there wasn’t going to be a follow-up explanation, no matter how gently it was asked.

Alessia didn’t push. She simply slid the wipes across the counter, watching as Y/N swapped the cloth for them, hissing quietly when the antiseptic touched skin. 

The small white wrapper of the plaster crinkled as Alessia set it down. She caught herself watching the way Y/N’s hands moved with a practiced precision and had to look away before she blurted something stupid.

“Sorry for intruding,” Y/N said after a moment, her voice low. “Just figured you’d have a first aid kit. Considering you’re in sports.”

Alessia’s brow lifted before she could stop herself. “Oh, so you do know me?”

Something like a ghost of a smile passed over Y/N’s mouth, there and gone in a blink. She didn’t answer. Just focused on peeling the backing off the plaster with steady, practised fingers.

Alessia leaned on the counter, watching her in silence for a moment. She didn’t miss the way Y/N’s hands trembled ever so slightly when she tried to line the plaster over the cut without a mirror. The stubborn set of her shoulders was almost comical, like she’d rather bleed out than let someone else get close enough to help.

Alessia was fed up of that attitude.

“Here.” The footballer reached out before she thought better of it, her fingers brushing the edge of the makeshift cloth. “You’re putting it too far down. It’s not covering–”

“I’ve got it.” It wasn’t rude, just determined. 

“Yeah, I can see that,” Alessia muttered, glancing at the plaster half-hanging over the cut. “You’re doing a great job bleeding all over my counter.”

That earned her a sharp look, but Y/N didn’t rise to it. She just went back to pressing the plaster into place.

Alessia exhaled slowly, counting to three in her head before she tried again. “Let me do it. You can’t see what you’re doing properly, and–”

“I said I’ve got it.” This time there was more bite to it. A steel edge that hit harder because it was quiet.

Alessia’s jaw clenched. She could feel that frustrating mix of worry and irritation bubbling in her chest, and it only got worse watching Y/N wince as she pressed too hard on the wound.

“Y/N.” She kept her voice level, almost warning. “You’re literally holding your skin together with one hand and trying not to pass out. Just–”

“I’m fine.”

It was the third time she’d cut her off, and something in Alessia snapped.

“Will you just sit the fuck down and let me take care of you,” she burst out, voice sharper than she’d meant it to be, “or are you too proud to admit you need help?!”

The words hit the air like a crack of lightning.

Y/N froze. No retort or immediate comeback, just stillness. Her head was tilted slightly like she was deciding whether to stand up and walk out, but when her eyes found Alessia’s, there was no armour there for the first time. Just exhaustion.

Without a word, she relaxed back onto the stool.

Alessia didn’t give herself time to overthink it. She stepped in close, plucking the plaster gently from Y/N’s fingers and tossing the mangled one into the bin. She grabbed a fresh antiseptic wipe, tearing it open and working with careful precision.

Neither of them spoke as she cleaned the cut. Alessia noticed the faint pulse at Y/N’s temple, the way her eyes flickered shut for half a second when the cool wipe grazed the swelling.

“You’re lucky,” Alessia murmured eventually, voice softer now. “Could’ve been a lot worse.”

Y/N gave the smallest shrug, gaze fixed somewhere past her shoulder.

When the plaster was finally in place, Alessia stepped back, her hands lingering at the edge of the counter. She expected another wall of silence. Maybe even another dismissive “thanks.”

Instead, Y/N’s voice came low. Almost swallowed by the quiet.“…Sorry.”

Alessia hadn’t expected an apology, so she found herself asking. “For what?”

A pause. Then, “For being… like that.”

It wasn’t much. But it was enough.

Alessia didn’t reply straight away. Simply stood there for a moment, before she turned away to tidy up. The silence stretched. It wasn’t uncomfortable exactly, but heavy in the way neither of them seemed to know how to break it.

She tossed the used wrappers into the bin, rinsed her hands, and dried them slowly. When she finally turned back, she didn’t say anything. Just pulled open the cupboard under the sink, grabbed a spare pack of antiseptic wipes and a small roll of bandages, and set them down on the counter in front of Y/N.

A quiet offering. A wordless I get it.

Y/N’s eyes flickered up to hers for a fraction of a second, something unreadable there, before she nodded once and slipped the supplies into her jacket pocket.

When Y/N was gone and the telltale sound of her neighbour’s door closing reached the apartment, Alessia would tell herself that the strange feeling in her chest was just from an unexpected encounter. 

–

The shift didn’t happen overnight. Alessia didn’t expect it to.

But something was different now. Subtle things. Little changes that she might’ve missed if she hadn’t been looking - and she was definitely looking.

The first time they passed in the mailroom after that night, Y/N still gave her the usual nod. Same as always. Only this time it was punctuated with the faintest smile. Quick, almost shy, like Y/N wasn’t even sure she meant to do it. But it was there.

After that, it became something of a pattern. The nod was always there, still quiet and restrained, but it was softer now,more like an acknowledgement instead of a reflex.And She didn’t know why, but it made Alessia feel included. Even if it was only in this small, unspoken way.

She started going back to the pub with the girls again. At first out of convenience, for sometimes it was just easier to say yes than to invent another excuse, but then she realised she wasn’t avoiding it anymore. Wasn’t avoiding her.

The first time she walked in after weeks of staying away, Y/N clocked her from behind the bar. That same quick smile flickered across her face before she lifted a hand in a small wave, like it was the most natural thing in the world. She didn’t come over, didn’t say anything, didn’t treat Alessia any differently than the other customers. But still… it was something.

It kept happening. The wave when Alessia arrived. A brief moment of eye contact when she left. A subtle pause in the chaos of clinking glasses and shouts for another round, just long enough for Y/N to lean on the bar and check if she wanted anything else.

They still didn’t talk in public. Not properly. But there was a shift. A sense that maybe, just maybe, Y/N wasn’t keeping her entirely on the outside anymore. And for reasons she didn’t quite care to analyse, Alessia found herself holding onto those small changes like they meant more than they should.

It was a Thursday night, a midweek lull where the pub was busy enough to hum but quiet enough for conversations to stretch lazily across the room. Alessia had come in with just Beth this time, the others off doing their own thing.

Y/N was behind the bar with that familiarly frustrating, unhurried efficiency in every movement. Alessia swore she could spot her from a mile off now. It wasn’t just the way she moved, it was the air she carried, steady and a little dangerous if you didn’t know where you stood.

When they caught eyes, the nod and smile came as expected. Alessia gave a small wave back before leaning on the bar to order their drinks.

It was during Beth’s trip to the loo that it happened.

A guy at the far end of the bar,  red-faced, loud, already swaying on his stool, said something to Y/N. Alessia didn’t catch the words, but she saw the way Y/N’s jaw tightened, the slow exhale through her nose before she reached for the guy’s half empty glass.

She wasn’t smiling anymore.

The man said something else, leaning too far over the counter, and Alessia felt her own stomach turn. She didn’t know why it made her so tense because she knew, without a doubt, that Y/N could handle herself. But there was something about watching her do it in real time that made her pulse jump.

“Alright, mate, that’s enough,” Y/N said finally, her voice low but cutting. No room for argument.

The man took a look at her, scoffed and said something to his friend. Then, he leant over the counter between two beer pumps to reach for something (probably his glass). Y/N had seemingly known it would happen before it even did, because with one swift move she was swiping the glass away and pushing his hand back where it had come from. It wasn’t rough enough to cause a scene or get her in trouble, but it was enough to warn the drunk man to back off. 

The guy grumbled something under his breath, but he sat back. Y/N moved on without missing a beat, but when she came back down the bar to check on Alessia’s drink, she paused.

“You alright?” Alessia asked before she could stop herself.

Y/N glanced at her, and for the briefest moment, there was something there other than annoyance or dismissal. Maybe surprise. Like she wasn’t used to people asking.

“I’m fine,” she said, almost automatic. Then, after a second: “Thanks.”

The word caught Alessia off guard. She’d heard Y/N speak so little outside of clipped, functional exchanges that hearing gratitude felt significant.

Beth returned, and the moment broke. Y/N slid their next drinks over with the barest curve of her mouth and moved on to the next order.

As they left later that night, Alessia swore she saw her watching from behind the bar.

It was subtle, so subtle that Alessia might’ve imagined it - but when Y/N caught her looking, she didn’t look away. Not right away.

​​By the time they’d left the pub, the night had tipped over into something bigger. Beth had suggested heading into the city, and with two days off ahead of them, there wasn’t much stopping Alessia from agreeing. One Uber, a neon-lit club, and a blur of bad decisions later, it was 2:03 a.m. when she stumbled out of the taxi in front of her building.

The air was cold enough to make her eyes sting, her hair smelling faintly of spilt cider and whatever cheap perfume someone had sprayed too close to her in the bathroom queue. The streets were quiet, save for the low hum of a car engine somewhere far off, and she made her way up the front steps with the slow, deliberate care of someone who didn’t want their upstairs neighbours to know they’d been out.

When she rounded the corner of her floor, she stopped dead.

Y/N was sitting on the floor, right outside Alessia’s door.

She was slouched against the wall, legs stretched out, one arm resting limply across her stomach. The other was bent, a hand holding yet another a bloodied cloth against her cheek. Her hoodie, dark enough that any stains were hidden, hung open over a t-shirt that had seen better days.

“Y/N?” Alessia’s voice came out softer than she expected. Not because she wanted it to be, but because anything louder might have shattered the fragile stillness of the hallway.

Y/N’s eyes lifted to her, slow, like it took effort. No smile or nod, just a tired acknowledgement before she looked away. 

For a second, Alessia just stood there. She didn’t know why she was hesitating; maybe because she could still smell the club on her skin, still feel the bass of the music in her bones, and this was such a violent contrast.

But then she saw the shallow rise and fall of Y/N’s chest, the small tremor in her fingers as they gripped the cloth tighter, and her body moved before her brain caught up.

“Come on,” she said, unlocking her door.

Y/N didn’t argue, didn’t speak at all in fact. She just got to her feet slowly, wincing as she pushed off from the wall, and followed Alessia inside.

The warmth of the apartment hit them instantly, and Alessia flicked on the low kitchen light so it wouldn’t be too harsh. Y/N stayed standing by the counter, as though unsure of her place here despite the familiar scene. Alessia noticed the faint tang of antiseptic from whatever quick fix Y/N had already tried, but it clearly hadn’t worked considering the state she was still in. 

“Sit,” Alessia said, motioning to one of the stools. She didn’t mean for it to sound so firm, but it came out that way.

To her surprise, Y/N did without any resistance this time.

Alessia pulled her first aid kit out once again and set it on the counter. For a moment, she just stood there, looking at the way the dim light caught on the dried flecks of blood at Y/N’s temple, the shallow cuts along her knuckles, the way her breathing wasn’t quite steady.

She didn’t ask what happened. She didn’t need to.

Instead, she pulled out antiseptic wipes and fresh gauze. “I’ll be gentle,” she said quietly, stepping closer.

Y/N’s eyes flicked up to hers, and for the first time all night, Alessia saw something in her expression crack enough to show the exhaustion underneath.

Neither of them spoke after that. Alessia cleaned the cut in careful, deliberate motions, wary of aggravating the wound. The only sounds were the crinkle of packaging and the soft clink of medical supplies against the counter.

When she was done, she stepped back, her hands still tingling from the nearness of it all. “You should be fine,” she murmured. “Just…um, keep it clean.”

She stepped back, but her eyes lingered a moment longer than they should have before she forced herself to move, to give herself something to do. The antiseptic wipes went into their packet. Gauze folded neatly back into its box. The quiet rustle of packaging filled the small kitchen, each sound somehow louder than it needed to be. She dropped the bloodied tissues into the bin, the soft thud of the lid snapping shut echoing in the stillness.

Normally, Y/N would be halfway out the door by now, gone before Alessia could even remember what words to say.

But she wasn’t moving.

She was still on the stool, elbows resting on her knees, fingers loosely interlaced. Her gaze was fixed on the floor, like she was studying the grain in the wood, but Alessia caught it - the occasional flick of her eyes upward, just enough to check where Alessia was, to see if she was watching.

Alessia didn’t speak. She just tucked the last of the kit away in the cupboard, shutting the door a little softer than usual. She turned to lean against the counter, drying her hands on a tea towel, letting the silence stretch out and breathe.

When it came, the voice was so low Alessia almost thought she’d imagined it.

“…I’m a street fighter.”

Alessia froze. The words didn’t just land, they settled, heavy and deliberate between them. “You’re… what?” Her voice was careful.

Y/N still didn’t look at her. “Was supposed to be a boxer. That was the plan. I had a coach, had fights lined up. It was all I wanted to do.” A pause. “Then my mum got sick. I stopped training to look after her.”

Her voice stayed flat, but the edges were frayed just enough for Alessia to hear the strain underneath.

“She died before I could get back in the ring. By then, I was already behind. No sponsors or money. Just debt.” Y/N rolled one shoulder, the movement small, like she was trying to make it seem less than it was. “A friend said I could make quick cash doing underground fights. No questions asked.”

Alessia’s grip on the tea towel tightened, fabric twisting in her hands.

“At first it was one or two fights. Enough to cover rent. Then it was every week. Turns out I was good at it. Built a name for myself.” She let out a short, humourless huff. “Now people come looking for me. Can’t really walk away when half the city’s betting on you.”

Alessia swallowed. “That’s why–” she gestured faintly toward the split skin at Y/N’s brow, the bruising at her jaw “--this keeps happening.”

“That’s why.” Y/N said simply, and this time she did meet her eyes.

Alessia felt a tiny jolt, the way the air seemed to thicken between them. She should have looked away, but she didn’t..

She hadn’t even realised she’d stepped closer until she was within arm’s reach, the air between them not  providing much of a barrier. Y/N didn’t back away.

The seconds dragged, stretching long enough that Alessia was sure she could hear her own heartbeat. The confession was still hanging there, heavy in the air, but neither of them seemed ready to break it.

When Y/N finally shifted, it wasn’t to leave. She stayed seated, head tilted just slightly with her gaze locked on Alessia’s. Like she was trying to figure out what she’d do next.

Y/N’s gaze wasn’t fixed on anything in particular. It flicked between the counter, the floor, the faint curve of Alessia’s shoulder, like she was letting the silence do the work. Alessia didn’t remember stepping nearer, but now she could feel the heat radiating off her neighbour, could smell the faint mix of soap and rain that clung to her hoodie. The air felt heavy, dense, as if moving too quickly might break it.

Alessia’s chest rose and fell in time with Y/N’s, though she wasn’t aware she was matching her until the rhythm synced. Every second stretched thin, stretched taut, until the weight of it pressed down in her bones.

Y/N’s hand moved first. No warning, no shift in expression — just a steady lift, fingers brushing lightly at the hem of Alessia’s sweatshirt before they hooked in, testing the fabric between her knuckles. The tug was small, but enough to erase what little distance there was.

Alessia didn’t breathe.

Then Y/N’s other hand came up, slow and certain, curling around the back of Alessia’s neck. Her palm was warm, thumb resting just under the hinge of her jaw.

Alessia swallowed hard. “What are you doing?”

Y/N’s mouth curved - not a smile, more like the ghost of one. “Testing a theory.”

And then she pulled her down.

The kiss was anything other than tentative. It was a collision - a hot, bruising press of mouths that made Alessia gasp into it before she could think. Y/N took advantage immediately, tilting her head and sliding her tongue past Alessia’s lips like she’d been planning it for weeks.

It was messy, teeth clashing once and the faint sound of a low, frustrated noise caught in Y/N’s throat. Alessia’s fingers fisted in the front of her hoodie, dragging her closer until their chests pressed together, until there wasn’t an inch of air between them.

Y/N’s hand tightened at the back of her neck, holding her there, deepening the kiss until Alessia felt it all the way down her spine. The rhythm was unhurried but intense, every stroke of Y/N’s mouth against hers deliberate, claiming. She kissed like she wanted to memorise the taste, like she meant to leave Alessia thinking about it for days.

Alessia’s other hand slid to Y/N’s jaw, thumb brushing over her cheekbone as she matched her, kiss for kiss, until they were both breathing hard through their noses. Y/N shifted forward on the stool, knees encircling Alessia’s thighs in an angle that forced her even closer.

The faint copper taste  of blood from the split in Y/N’s lip mingled with the taste of her was sharp and addictive. Alessia chased it, deepened it, let herself get lost in the heat and the pressure and the way Y/N’s mouth moved like she had no intention of letting her go.

By the time they broke apart, it wasn’t because they wanted to, but because they had to. Their lips stayed close, though, both of them flushed and dazed.

Y/N’s thumb traced a slow line along her jaw, eyes locked on hers like she wasn’t ready to let the moment end. Alessia couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. She could still feel the phantom press of Y/N’s mouth against hers, could still taste her.

And in the silence, the air between them didn’t cool. It thickened. Like something had broken wide open, and neither of them had any intention of closing it again.

Alessia’s breath came quick and shallow, every inhale still tasting of Y/N. Her pulse thundered in her ears, matching the faint ache at the back of her neck where Y/N’s fingers still rested. They weren’t tight, but they were firm enough to say she wasn’t ready to let go.

Y/N’s eyes were dark in the low light, fixed on her like she was still mid-calculation. Alessia couldn’t read her expression, couldn’t decide if she looked smug, or thoughtful, or both.

The silence hummed.

Alessia swallowed, forcing a breath past her lips. Her voice came out low, a little unsteady. “So… was your theory correct?”

Y/N’s mouth curved with a slow, satisfcatory danger. “Oh, yeah.” Her thumb brushed along the side of Alessia’s throat, light enough to make her shiver. “Better than I expected, actually.”

The words hung there, heat curling between them.

Alessia didn’t have time to come up with a reply got Y/N’s fingers flexed at her neck, tugging her just that fraction closer again.

Her gaze dropped to Y/N’s mouth. The smallest pause, the barest flicker of hesitation. And then–

They fell into it all over again.

The kiss was immediate, no preamble this time, just heat and the same sharp rush of being pulled under. Alessia leaned into it without thinking, hands finding Y/N’s hips, anchoring herself there like she’d been doing it for years. Y/N hummed against her lips, low and approving, and deepened it until the rest of the world blurred out.

It didn’t matter who broke it first. It didn’t matter what came next.

All Alessia knew was that the theory wasn’t just correct - it was dangerous.

She loved it.