what's up ?!

But on the pitch for Barcelona Femení, none of that existed. You had dropped the heavy, grand titles the moment you signed your senior contract. The back of your blue-and-purple kit simply read Y/N. The girls called you by various uncreative locker room nicknames—La Flaca, Tatuada, or just Petita (catalan slang for baby). To them, you were just a remarkably talented, silent, and incredibly humble utility midfielder who had spent three years fighting through the youth academy before finally securing a spot in Pere Romeu’s first-team squad.

The squad had welcomed you with open arms. Mapi León had instantly taken you to her favorite tattoo parlor in Gràcia; Alexia Putellas had given you a quiet, nod of structural approval after your first training session; and Engen had already invited you to three different coffee shops in the city center.

Everyone was perfect. Except for Patricia Guijarro.

For some utterly inexplicable reason, the vice-captain had treated you like a personal infection from the moment you walked through the door. If you made a sharp, clean pass during a rondo, Patri would cross her arms and complain about the trajectory. If you sat next to her at the breakfast bar, she would suddenly discover she was finished with her oatmeal and walk away. She was cold, intensely hostile, and treated you with a sharp, biting antipathy that made your first three months with the senior team feel like a psychological military drill.

"Don't take it personally, Petita " Mariona had told you back in September, leaning against the ice bath. "Patri is just... protective of the midfield rhythm. She thinks the new generation lacks the tactical patience. She’ll warm up to you."

But she didn't warm up. If anything, her silence grew heavier as the autumn rains rolled into Catalonia.

The shift happened on a miserable, dark Tuesday evening in November.

Two days prior, you had suffered a remarkably embarrassing incident in the underground car park of your private house. Distracted by a phone call from your sister Victoria (just for gossiping about the next it girl drama. Boring I know) you had reversed your heavy Audi RS Q8 directly into a solid concrete structural pillar. The impact hadn't shattered the car, but it had completely obliterated the right wing-mirror and left a massive, screeching scrape down the passenger door that required it to be towed to a specialized workshop in Sant Cugat for the week.

Which meant, for the first time in your adult life, you were entirely dependent on the Barcelona metropolitan transport network.

"You look like a burglar," Ingrid Engen chuckled as you pulled a black woollen beanie low over your eyes and wrapped a heavy scarf around your throat in the changing room after evening training.

"I have a cold face, Ingrid," you mumbled, slipping your heavy backpack over your shoulders.

You walked out of the training ground gates, your hands shoved deep into the pockets of your oversized streetwear coat. The rain was spitting against the pavement as you began the long, wet fifteen-minute walk toward the Sant Feliu de Llobregat tram station, planning to transfer to the underground Metro line at Zona Universitària.

Suddenly, the sharp, aggressive beep of a car horn cut through the sound of the rain.

A sleek, grey Cupra Formentor pulled up smoothly against the kerb beside you. The passenger window rolled down, revealing the sharp, dark profile of Patri Guijarro. She had her training jacket zipped to her chin, her dark eyes looking at you through the rain with her typical, unyielding squint.

"Where is your car?" Patri asked, her tone flat, business-like, and thoroughly devoid of warmth.

"In the shop," you replied, stopping on the pavement. "Mirror took a hit."

Patri stared at you for three long seconds. She looked at the rain bouncing off your beanie, then at the empty, dark stretch of the road ahead. With a soft, irritated sigh, she leaned over and pushed the passenger door open. "Get in. I’m not having the medical team complain that la petita caught pneumonia because she doesn't know how to call an Uber."

You hesitated for a second before sliding into the warm, leather interior. The car smelled beautifully of expensive vanilla air freshener and high-quality espresso leather. "Thanks."

"Whatever," Patri muttered, clicking the car into drive and pulling back onto the main road. "Where am I dropping you? Sant Feliu? Most of the academy kids have apartments near the park."

Everyone in the team assumed you lived a perfectly standard, comfortable life. Your salary as a newly promoted first-year senior player wasn't the highest on the squad, but it certainly wasn't poor—it was more than enough to afford a nice, modern two-bedroom flat in the suburban football bubble of Sant Feliu or Les Corts.

"No," you said softly, adjusting your seatbelt. "Pedralbes, please. Near the old monastery."

Patri’s foot practically stuttered on the accelerator pedal. She glanced at you, her eyebrows shooting up beneath her dark fringe. Pedralbes was the most expensive, exclusive, and historically aristocratic neighborhood in the entire city—a place where old Spanish fortunes and international diplomats lived behind massive, high-security stone walls.

"Pedralbes?" Patri repeated, her tone dripping with suspicion. "You're renting a room there?"

"Something like that," you murmured, keeping your eyes fixed on the rain-streaked windshield.

Ten minutes later, Patri’s Cupra cleared the winding, tree-lined avenue of the upper district. Following your quiet directions, she pulled up in front of a massive, modern two-story chalet hidden behind automated iron gates. The property was spectacular—a minimalist architectural marvel of white stone, expansive glass panels, a massive visible outdoor swimming pool illuminated in soft blue light, and a manicured garden that required a professional crew to maintain.

Patri stopped the car completely, her jaw dropping open slightly as she looked through the iron bars at the luxury estate. "This is your... room?"

"It’s my house," you said, offering a small, polite smile as you grabbed your backpack. "Thanks for the lift, Patri. See you at tomorrow’s session."

You slipped out into the rain before she could utter a single word, the heavy iron gates clicking shut behind you. Patri sat in her idling car for five full minutes, staring at the luxury chalet, her mind violently attempting to calculate how a twenty-four-year-old backup midfielder on a basic senior contract could afford a multi-million-euro estate in the richest postcode of Catalonia.

The calculation didn't take long.

The next evening, sitting on her sofa with a cup of chamomile tea, Patri’s intense curiosity finally broke her discipline. She opened her laptop and typed your full, registered legal name into the advanced search engine—the name she had seen on the official club insurance documents during pre-season screening.

Y/N de Marichalar y Borbón.

The screen instantly exploded with thousands of high-definition society photographs.

There you were at age fifteen, standing on the balcony of the Royal Palace in Madrid next to the King of Spain. There you were at age eighteen, wearing a pristine, custom-tailored equestrian outfit alongside your mother, the Infanta Elena. There you were in dozens of paparazzi shots in Marbella, standing on luxury yachts with your sister Victoria Federica, looking effortlessly wealthy, tanned, and elite.

Patri completely froze, her tea cooling in her hands as her brain short-circuited. You weren't just a rich girl from uptown. You were literal Spanish royalty. You were a member of La Casa de Borbón.

From that day onward, Patri’s hostility vanished, replaced by an entirely new, incredibly irritating brand of psychological warfare. She realized why you never used your surnames and why you cringed whenever the media tried to dig into your personal life—you just wanted to be normal. So, naturally, she decided to tease you mercilessly.

"Hey, Alteza" Patri whispered with a wicked, teasing grin the following Friday, leaning against your locker as you adjusted your shin guards. "Do I need to bow before we start the rondo, or can we just stick to a royal handshake?"

You stiffened, your jaw clenching as you pulled your socks up. "Shut up, Patri."

"Come on, Petita" she laughed, her tone light and comically mischievous as she nudged your shoulder with her elbow. "Should we ask the kitchen staff to prepare some caviar for your post-training recovery? I wouldn't want your aristocratic palate to suffer from the standard protein shakes."

"I said drop it, Guijarro," you muttered, your voice tight as you stood up and walked out to the pitch, your blood boiling. You absolutely loathed when people treated you like a porcelain doll or a political statement. You had worked yourself to the bone to earn your place on this grass, and her endless royal jokes felt like a mockery of your effort.

The explosion occurred three weeks later, in the dead of December.

You had woken up on the wrong side of the bed entirely. Your sister Victoria had leaked a private family argument to the press, your bruised rib from a tackle against Madrid CFF was screaming in pain, and the weather was a bleak, freezing grey. You walked onto the training pitch looking like a thundercloud, your usual quiet, polite demeanor completely replaced by a tense, volatile silence.

During the tactical half-pitch match, you intercepted a loose ball, your footwork clean as you turned out of pressure. Patri came flying in, a bit too fast, her shoulder checking yours with an uncharacteristic roughness that sent you sprawling onto the wet grass.

The whistle blew.

"Careful there, Princesa" Patri chuckled, extending a hand to pull you up, her dark eyes sparkling with what she thought was harmless banter. "Don't want to stain the royal linen."

Something inside your brain snapped.

You ignored her hand, pushing yourself up from the grass with a terrifying, athletic fluidness. You stepped directly into her personal space, your tall, broad frame completely towering over her as you glared down into her face. Your hazel eyes were dark with a raw, unadulterated fury that instantly silenced the entire training pitch.

"Listen to me, Patricia," you siseed, your voice low, steady, and vibrating with a lethal intensity that made Patri’s smile instantly vanish. "I have spent five years bleeding for this badge. I take the same hits, I run the same kilometers, and I earn a fraction of what you make. My family is not my fault, and I am sick to death of you using my life as a punchline because you don't have the decency to respect me as a teammate. If you have a problem with my football, tell me to my face. Otherwise, keep your mouth shut and keep your stupid jokes away from my name. Am I making myself clear?"

The silence on the pitch was deafening. Alexia froze with a ball under her foot; Mapi stared with her mouth wide open; and Patri looked as if she had just been struck by a physical bolt of lightning. Her cheeks flushed a deep, ashamed crimson, her dark eyes widening in absolute shock as she stared up at your furious expression.

You didn't wait for a response. You turned around, walked directly off the pitch, and disappeared into the tunnel.

At the end of the day, after everyone had left the facility, you were sitting alone on the wooden bench of the empty locker room, slowly wrapping a bandage around your swollen ankle. The silence of the room was broken by the soft click of the door.

Patri walked in. She had changed into her civilian clothes—a simple black jumper and jeans—and she looked remarkably small, her usual confident, vice-captain swagger completely gone. She stopped a few feet away from your bench, her hands tucked into her pockets, her head tilted down.

"Y/N," she said softly, her voice thick with a genuine, profound sincerity. "I'm sorry."

You didn't look up from your ankle. "Go home, Patri."

"No, please, look at me Petita" she pleaded, taking a small step closer.

You sighed, raising your eyes to meet hers.

"I was an idiot," Patri said, her dark eyes holding yours with a raw, vulnerable honesty. "I didn't... I didn't realize how much it was hurting you. I thought we were just banting. The truth is... I was hostile to you at the start because you were so perfect, so disciplined, and so naturally good that it intimidated me. And then, when I found out who you were, I used the jokes as a shield because... because when you’re near me, I lose my focus. I’m genuinely sorry, Y/N. I respect you more than anyone on this pitch. Please don't hate me."

The honesty of her confession caught you completely off guard. The hard, icy defense around your chest softened slightly, your breath leaving you in a long, quiet sigh. "I don't hate you, Patri. I just want to be your teammate. Not a Borbón or some kind of joke of the Royalty."

"You're my teammate," Patri smiled faintly, a soft, incredibly tender expression washing over her features. "And... you're a very beautiful and hot teammate, if I'm allowed to say that Petita"

You blinked, a sudden, unfamiliar heat rising to your cheeks. "What?"

"Nothing," Patri squeaked quickly, her face turning pink as she adjusted her collar. "Just... see you tomorrow Petita"

From that day on, Patri’s behavior shifted entirely. She stopped the jokes completely, but her attempts to be a better person invariably degenerated into the most intense, obvious flirting you had ever witnessed—except you were entirely, comically clueless to it.

When she would bring you a premium cup of specialty coffee in the mornings, lingering by your locker to compliment the new line of tattoos on your forearm, you would simply assume she was being an exceptionally polite vice-captain. When she would touch your waist to guide you through the corridor, her fingers lingering against your skin, you would think it was just her standard, touchy Mallorca upbringing.

It didn't help that the entire world—and the team—assumed you were fiercely straight. Because your sister Victoria was constantly dragging you to high-society events where paparazzi photographed you standing next to wealthy young Dukes or aristocratic horse-riders, the locker room gossip always revolved around which handsome Spanish billionaire you were going to marry.

You never corrected them. You just let them talk, completely content to keep your private preferences behind your high stone walls.

The underlying tension finally cracked during a team dinner at La Cúpula Garraf, a stunning restaurant perched high on the cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean sea, about thirty minutes outside the city.

The dinner had been beautiful, filled with seafood and laughter, but as the squad began to leave the venue at midnight, Patri discovered a catastrophic problem. The front right tyre of her Cupra had struck a sharp piece of slate on the coastal road, leaving it completely flat and hissed out against the gravel.

"Bloody hell," Patri groaned, kicking the rubber tyre in frustration under the dim yellow streetlights. "I don't even know where the jack is in this model."

"Call the insurance, Guijarro," Mapi laughed from her own car window, pulling away. "We have training at ten tomorrow!"

The other cars filed out one by one, assuming Patri would handle it. You stood by the passenger side of your newly repaired Audi, watching Patri look thoroughly lost as she stared at the wheel. With a soft chuckle, you pulled off your expensive leather jacket, tossed it into your front seat, and walked over to her car.

"Move over, Patri," you teased gently, rolling up the sleeves of your white linen shirt, revealing the dark, intricate tattoos wrapping around your powerful biceps. "Get the spare out of the boot."

For the next fifteen minutes, Patri stood completely frozen against the bonnet, her breath catching in her throat as she watched you work. There was something intensely, violently attractive about the way you handled the heavy iron tools. Your muscles rippled under the thin linen shirt as you easily loosened the lug nuts, lifted the heavy chassis of the car with the jack, and swung the spare tyre into place with a fluid, athletic strength that looked entirely effortless. The soft coastal breeze lifted the strands of your hair, your sharp profile illuminated by the car headlights.

"Done," you said, tightening the last nut with a sharp twist of the wrench before standing up, wiping a streak of black grease from your forearm. "You're good to go."

Patri didn't move. She was staring at you, her dark eyes wide, her chest heaving slightly as a powerful, dangerous wave of attraction crashed through her core. She is hetero, Patri’s brain screamed at her in warning. She is a royal princess who marries Dukes. Do not do this to yourself.

"Y/N," Patri whispered, her voice uncharacteristically thick as she stepped closer into your space, her fingers reaching out to gently wipe a speck of dirt from your jawline. Her touch was warm, lingering against your skin for a fraction of a second too long. "Thank you. Really."

"No worries," you smiled clumsily, entirely missing the thick, romantic gravity of the moment as you turned to grab your jacket. "Drive safe."

The delusion that you were heterosexual met a very sudden, comical death two weeks later in the Joan Gamper changing rooms.

The girls were sitting around the central island after a strenuous tactical analysis session. Cata Coll was scrolling through her phone, looking at a celebrity gossip page.

"Hey, Petita" Cata called out, holding up a picture of you at a charity gala in Madrid, standing next to a very handsome, blonde-haired polo player in a pristine tuxedo. "Is this the new boyfriend? The media says he’s the heir to a banking fortune in Seville. He looks remarkably posh."

You glanced at the screen while pulling a fresh training shirt over your head. You let out a loud, snorting laugh. "What? Álvaro? Bloody hell, no. That’s my first cousin. We literally shared a sandbox in San Sebastián when we were five. He’s like a brother to me."

"Ah, the royal incest rumors begin," Alexia teased from the corner.

"He’s not my type anyway," you murmured casually, walking over to your locker to grab your hair tie.

"What is your type then, Princesa?" Mariona asked with a smirk. "A Duke? A Count? A tennis player?"

You paused, leaning your shoulder against the metal locker. You looked across the room, your eyes scanning the space until they accidentally landed on a poster of a famous international women's fashion campaign on the wall, featuring a stunning, dark-haired model in an open suit jacket.

"Honestly?" you said, your voice perfectly casual, calm, and thoroughly unbothered. "If a girl doesn't have enough edge to look good in a tailored leather harness or a sharp tuxedo, I’m probably not going to look twice. And she needs to be able to handle a proper coastal drive without panicking over a flat tyre."

The entire locker room went completely, utterly silent.

Cata Coll froze mid-bite into her protein bar; Alexia’s eyebrows shot into her hairline; and Patri Guijarro literally stopped breathing, her brain experiencing a violent, catastrophic short-circuit as the words processed through her system.

She isn't hetero.

Patri stared at you, her face going through four different shades of crimson as her heart began to hammer against her ribs like a manic percussionist. You were queer. You liked women. You liked girls with edge. And you had just explicitly referenced the flat tyre incident from Garraf.

Before anyone could utter a syllable, you tied your hair into a neat bun, grabbed your water bottle, and walked out to the medical room, entirely oblivious to the absolute emotional nuclear bomb you had just dropped in the changing quarters.

The catalyst for the actual domestic shift arrived via a premium household appliance.

You had a profound, borderline clinical dependency on high-quality morning espresso. To satisfy this, you had spent an absurd amount of money on a limited-edition, cast-iron KitchenAid artisan espresso machine in a stunning imperial red, which had been delivered to your Pedralbes chalet that Thursday.

Patri, who was a notorious coffee fanatic, had seen a brief, five-second video you posted on your private Instagram story showing the machine pulling a perfect, velvety shot of crema.

"Oye," Patri whispered that afternoon, cornering you by the hydration station after training. Her voice was slightly nervous, her fingers playing with the edge of her training shirt. "That... that kitchen setup you posted. The red iron machine. Is that the dual-boiler artisan model?"

"Yeah," you smiled proudly, your eyes lighting up. "Imported it last week. The pressure stability is unbelievable."

"Can you... I mean, would you show it to me?" Patri asked, her dark eyes looking up at you through her lashes with a sudden, intense vulnerability. "I've been thinking about upgrading my kitchen and I want to see how the steam wand handles texturing."

You blinked, completely clueless. "Oh, sure! I can take some high-definition photos of the internal group head and text them to you tonight if you want?"

Patri let out a soft, defeated groan, burying her face in her hands for a brief second before looking back up at you with an expression of pure, unadulterated exasperation. "Y/N. I don't want photos of the group head. I am asking you to invite me to your house to drink coffee with you. Idiota."

You froze, the gears in your brain finally turning as the realization hit you. A slow, warm, and remarkably shy smile spread across your face, your cheeks turning a beautiful shade of pink. "Oh. Right. Well... my afternoon is completely free. If you want to follow my car now?"

"Yes," Patri said instantly, her voice firm. "Let’s go."

The afternoon at the Pedralbes chalet was the quietest, most comfortable hours you had experienced all year.

You had pulled two flawless double-shots of a specialized Ethiopian roast, and the two of you had moved from the modern kitchen to the massive, plush L-shaped sofa in the living room. The thick glass windows looked out over the blue water of the pool, the winter sun creating a soft, silver light across the hardwood floors.

You had been talking about tactical transitions for an hour, but the sheer, overwhelming exhaustion of three consecutive match-weeks finally caught up to both of you. The conversation slowed down to quiet, sleepy murmurs.

"I’m just... five minutes," Patri yawned, her head dropping heavily against the soft cushions of the sofa, her eyes fluttering shut.

"Mmm," you agreed, your own eyelids feeling like lead as you pulled a heavy, grey cashmere blanket over both of your legs.

When Patri woke up two hours later, the room had gone completely dark, the only illumination coming from the blue lights of the garden pool outside.

She didn't move. She couldn't.

You had shifted during your sleep, your tall, athletic frame completely curled around her side. Your long arms were wrapped securely around Patri’s waist, pulling her back firmly against your chest in a heavy, protective lock. Patri was tucked against you like a little bear—completely enveloped in your warmth, her head nestled perfectly right beneath your chin, the faint scent of your expensive woodsmoke perfume filling her lungs.

Patri’s heart did a slow, beautiful flip in her chest. She carefully turned her head within your embrace, looking at your sleeping face in the dim light. You looked so soft, so entirely detached from the heavy titles and the royal expectations. Slowly, deliberately, Patri reached out and let her fingers rest against your tattooed wrist, holding onto you in the quiet dark.

After that evening, the atmosphere between the two of you turned thoroughly suspicious.

Patri became intensely attentive. She would arrive at training early just to walk into the facility with you; she would instinctively touch your lower back whenever you were standing in the tactical circle; and her eyes followed you across the pitch with a fierce, protective focus that didn't escape the rest of the squad. You, in turn, had grown remarkably close to her, always ensuring her favorite snacks were saved in the dining hall and leaving space for her next to you on the team bus.

The girls definitely noticed. Intensely suggestive looks were exchanged between Alexia and Irene Paredes whenever you two walked past, but out of respect for your privacy, nobody said a single word aloud.

The confrontation happened a week later, after a tense training session where Patri had been strangely cold and snapping at you during the defensive drills.

You had stayed late, waiting until the locker room was completely empty before cornering her by the medical ice machines. You blocked her exit with your tall frame, your arms crossed over your chest, your face stern.

"What is your problem today, Nena?" you demanded, your hazel eyes narrowing. "You've been throwing daggers at me since eight this morning. What did I do?"

"Nothing!" Patri snapped, trying to brush past you, but you didn't move an inch. She let out an frustrated breath, her dark eyes flashing with a sudden, volatile heat. "Fine! You want to know? I was annoyed because I had to spend the entire morning listening to Ona talk about how her brother wants an introduction to you at the Christmas gala. She was talking about how perfect you two would look together because he’s a 'proper gentleman' from Vilassar de Mar. It irritated me, okay?"

You stared at her, completely dumbfounded, before a sudden, beautiful realization washed over your brain. "Patri... are you jealous?"

"Yes, I am bloody jealous!" Patri shouted, her voice echoing slightly against the tiled walls. She stepped closer, her chest heaving as she looked up into your face, all her defenses completely collapsing. "I am jealous because I am completely, utterly in love with you, Y/N. I spend every single day trying to pretend that I don't want to hold your hand in front of the cameras, or that I don't want to spend every weekend sleeping on your sofa. I am crazy about you, and it drives me insane when people think you belong to some posh Madrid world that doesn't see how incredible you actually are."

The raw, passionate honesty of her words sent a violent shockwave straight through your core. You didn't hesitate. You reached out, your long, tattooed fingers gently catching her jawline, halting her breath.

"Patri," you whispered, your voice incredibly soft, full of a deep, emotional warmth. "Ona's brother means absolutely nothing to me. I told you... I only look at girls who can handle the coastal road."

Patri’s breath hitched. Before she could process the words, you leaned down, your mouth catching hers in a deep, extraordinarily sweet, and tender kiss.

Her lips were soft, parting instantly under yours with a quiet, desperate gasp as her arms flew around your neck, pulling you down until her body was completely flush against yours. The kiss tasted of old hostility turned into pure, consuming devotion, a quiet promise made in the empty corners of the training ground. When you finally pulled back, Patri’s eyes were dark, a beautiful, completely dazed smile touching her lips.

"I want something serious with you, Petita" she murmured, her fingers tangling in the hairs at the nape of your neck. "No games."

"Good," you whispered, kissing her nose. "Because I don't do games."

From that day forward, the two of you became entirely inseparable, though you maintained a highly disciplined level of discretion for the media.

You developed a private lifestyle that belonged only to the two of you. You would go for late-night seafood dinners in small, hidden restaurants along the Costa Brava; you took long, quiet afternoon siestas (nap) wrapped in cashmere blankets at the Pedralbes chalet; and you spent your weekends escaping to small, isolated rural hotels in the mountains of Girona where no paparazzi could follow.

The domestic integration happened quickly. You had already taken Patri to a quiet, highly secured private lunch in Madrid to meet your mother, the Infanta Elena, and your sister Victoria. To Patri’s absolute shock, the royal family had been remarkably casual—Victoria had spent two hours asking Patri for hair product recommendations, and your mother had simply been thrilled that you had found someone who kept you grounded and happy.

In November, Patri returned the gesture, flying you to Mallorca for a long weekend to meet her family. Sitting on the sun-drenched terrace of her parents' home, drinking local wine and eating homemade ensaimadas, you felt a sense of belonging that no royal palace could ever replicate.

"They like you," Patri whispered, her hand slipping into yours under the wooden table as her father laughed at a joke you made about your Audi’s suspension.

"I like them too," you smiled, kissing her cheek. "They’re real."

As December rolled around, the reality of the Christmas holidays brought a significant, highly complicated conversation.

"Come to Madrid for Christmas Eve," you said one evening, lying across the bed in your chalet, your head resting on Patri’s stomach as she stroked your hair. "My family is hosting the private dinner at the house. I want you there."

Patri paused, her fingers freezing in your hair. "Baby... that’s... that’s the Royal Palace circle. The King will be there. Your grandfather will be there. That’s too much protocol. My parents would lose their minds if they knew I was eating turkey next to the crown princesses."

"Then invite them too," you said simply, turning around to look up at her face. "The dinner is entirely private, Patri. No press, no foreign dignitaries. Just family. If your parents and your brother want to fly in from Mallorca, I’ve already cleared five rooms in the guest wing. I want our people together."

The sheer, staggering generosity of the offer—the fact that a member of the Bourbon dynasty was casually inviting a standard working-class family from Mallorca to the private royal Christmas Eve dinner—made Patri’s eyes fill with tears. She leaned down, burying her face in your neck, whispering her agreement against your skin.

The dinner in Madrid was a spectacular, historical success. The atmosphere within the grand dining hall was surprisingly warm, the heavy silver candelabras illuminating a room filled with laughter. Patri’s father spent an hour discussing sailing routes with the King Emeritus, while Patri sat next to you, her hand firmly locked with yours beneath the heavy linen tablecloth, her heart full to the absolute brim.

That night, Patri posted a small, sutil dump of photos to her public Instagram account. She didn't geotag the location, and she didn't tag any royal names—maintaining the fierce wall of privacy you both cherished.

The first few photos were simple shots of the heavy, historic Christmas tree and a plate of traditional Spanish sweets. But the final slide was a beautiful, incredibly romantic mirror photo taken in the dim, dark light of the grand drawing-room. The only illumination came from the soft, golden fairy lights of the massive pine tree. In the glass, you can see two tall silhouettes wrapped tightly in each other’s arms. You were wearing a sharp, custom-tailored black tuxedo jacket, your long arms holding Patri securely against your hip, while she leaned into you, her lips pressed against your cheek in a soft, sweet kiss. Because of the dark contrast and the golden glare, neither of your faces were explicitly visible—it was a private, beautiful secret disguised as a holiday post.

On Christmas morning, back in the privacy of your Madrid suite, the gifts were exchanged.

Patri handed you a small, beautifully bound leather scrapbook filled with polaroid photos of your road trips, your coffee afternoons, and your quietest moments over the last six months. It was simple, priceless, and made you choke up instantly.

In return, you handed her a small, elegant white envelope embossed with a simple silver compass logo.

Patri opened it, pulling out four first-class flight tickets and a luxury resort confirmation voucher. Her eyes widened to the size of saucers as she read the destination: Amanyara Resort, Turks and Caicos Islands.

"Y/N..." Patri gasped, looking up at you in absolute shock. "This... this resort costs more than my car. We can't do this."

"We are doing it," you laughed, pulling her into your lap. "And we’re not going alone. My cousins, Pablo and Irene and my troublemaker Victoria are flying out with us. They’re hosting a private villa on the north beach. It’s going to be a proper family holiday."

The trip to the Caribbean was an absolute whirlwind of sun, turquoise water, and high-society chaos. Your family were the absolute definition of international it-girls—remarkably wealthy, undeniably stunning, and carrying a natural, hereditary streak of aristocratic pride that made them look slightly conceited at first glance. They traveled with thirty pieces of custom Louis Vuitton luggage and spent two hours ensuring the beach lighting was mathematically correct for their social media feeds.

But despite their wealthy exterior, they were fiercely loyal, warm, and thoroughly obsessed with Patri from the moment the plane touched down.

"Patri, darling," Irene had laughed on the second afternoon, throwing a designer silk sarong into Patri’s lap as they prepared to board a private yacht. "You are absolutely not wearing that standard training cap on our boat. Put this on. We are doing a proper linen look today, and you’re joining the family aesthetic."

They included Patri in every single joke, every private beach dinner, and every late-night cocktail session by the infinity pool, treating her not like a football guest, but like your permanent, protected partner.

The return to Barcelona in January brought an immediate wave of intense, hilarious locker room suspicion.

On the first morning back at the Joan Gamper facility, you and Patri walked into the changing room at the exact same time, carrying your respective training bags. As you both reached into your lockers to pull out your kits, you simultaneously produced two identical, hand-woven palm-leaf souvenir beach bags containing the exact same luxury tortoiseshell sunglasses from a niche boutique in Grace Bay.

Cata Coll stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes darting from your bag to Patri’s bag, then back to your face. "Oye... that’s an interesting coincidence. Did the Barcelona fan shop start selling Caribbean beach merchandise over the holidays?"

"It’s a standard design, Cata," Patri said smoothly, her face perfectly calm as she slid the glasses into her locker, though her eyes flashed with a secret, amused spark.

"Right," Alexia muttered from the corner, a massive, knowing grin spreading across her face as she looked at the identical gold bracelets wrapping around both of your wrists—gifts from the Turks and Caicos market. "A standard design. Of course."

That evening, you officially put the rumors to rest with a massive photo dump on your private Instagram account, which the entire team followed.

The carousel was a beautiful, unfiltered archive of your winter. The first slide was a sunny photo of your mother and Eli laughing together at the Christmas Eve table. The second was a gorgeous shot of Victoria Federica and Irene posing on the yacht in Turks and Caicos. The third was a candid, high-definition photo of Patri sitting on the edge of your Pedralbes swimming pool, her skin beautifully tanned, her dark hair wet, holding a fresh cup of espresso from your red KitchenAid machine while looking directly into the camera with a look of pure, unconditional love.

The final slide was a simple, close-up photo of your hands locked together against the white sand of the Caribbean beach, the silver and gold rings catching the tropical sun.

Beneath the post, the comment section exploded with fire emojis from Mapi, heart emojis from Engen, and a single, authoritative comment from the captain, Alexia Putellas: Finally. The midfield rhythm is perfectly secured. Protect the guard, Guijarro.

You leaned back against the headboard of your bed in the Pedralbes chalet, your long arm wrapped securely around Patri’s shoulders as she snuggled closely into your side, her phone resting against her thigh. The rain was drumming softly against the glass windows of your sanctuary, but inside, the house was warm, smelling beautifully of fresh coffee and expensive vanilla.

"They know," Patri whispered, a soft, incredibly content smile touching her lips as she leaned up to kiss your jawline.

"And Williamson comes out of the pits. It was a very late pitstop from Williams and she's come out right between Albon and Hamilton. All the way down in P6. I hate to say it but I think that late pitstop has cost her a podium this time."

Alexia watches from the garage, wearing a pair of headphones and staring at the screens. The last time she was at a Grand Prix, it hadn't felt as high stakes as this.

You'd scraped by with the championship last year but now McLaren's 'rocketship' or however else you'd described it was getting hard to beat.

Alexia had heard the complaints multiple times, when you'd crawled back into her bed in the middle of the night after weeks away racing.

"Off the road! Hamilton's into the gravel and Williamson goes straight through to gain on George Russell!"

Alexia stares at the screen. She knows there's a camera on her right now. She's not a stranger to them but it's a little different now that the banner on her name isn't just 'Footballer'. It's 'Footballer and Y/n Williamson's girlfriend'.

She doesn't look at the camera. She focuses on the screen. It's split in two. One with the official broadcast and one with the onboard of your vehicle. There's a second screen that displays all the telemetry that she'd tried to understand but gave up on the moment you went out to line up on the grid.

"Williamson gets DRS down this straight and is it-? It is enough? Yes, it is! Williamson's Williams goes sweeping past the Mercedes. Charles Leclerc and P3 is less than one second away. Five laps left of this Grand Prix. Is she going to get there?"

Alexia isn't worried, not really anyway. She's rarely worried when it comes to you racing, like how she's rarely worried to come up against a newly promoted side in the league. It's just business as usual.

You might not always win the race, not with how fast these McLarens are going but a podium is almost always guaranteed to be in your grip by the end.

Alexia knows the camera directors must be so annoyed with her complete lack of expression, the calmness in her face as she stares at the screen. Her hands are in the pockets of the retro racing jacket you'd worn to the grid this morning. Her head is tilted just so to make it look like she's intrigued but there's nothing else that can be gleamed from her face.

Five laps.

Four laps.

Three laps.

Leclerc locks up and Alexia hides her laughter behind her hand as she catches you mockingly waving at him as you pass.

"I really questioned what Williams was doing pitting her so late but look at Williamson go! With this kind of pace, she's going to catch the McLarens before the end of the race."

"She might catch them but passing them is another thing."

The commentators both seem to think so and, as Alexia glances around the garage, it seems like the team think so as well. P3 is where you expected to stay at the start of this race. P3 is where everyone is expecting you to finish.

Alexia expected that too but only because you told her to expect that.

Now though, the car seems to come alive under your steady hands and you're gaining, gaining, gaining...

The two battling McLarens are in front of you, each trying to swerve the other off the road in the dying minute of the race. Two McLarens in front of you on the last lap.

"Let's keep it clean, y/n," Comes the warning tone of your race engineer on the radio," No risks. Protect the position."

Alexia rolls her eyes with a scoff and she knows the camera crew have caught that. She can't find it in herself to care though.

It would be like two defenders coming towards her in front of the goal and being told to protect the ball, protect possession. To not shoot.

Alexia would ignore those orders and your hands tighten on your steering wheel. If you weren't wearing gloves, she's sure your knuckles would be white.

Good.

She wouldn't listen to those instructions. You're certainly not listening to them now.

The McLaren boys are fighting on the last corner of the race track. One of them, Norris or Piastri, Alexia can't really tell which one, tries to force the other wide.

There's a gap, fleeting but still there.

A chance.

They brake early.

You brake late.

You turn the corner.

Clean air. For the first time since you started the race.

It's barely enough. It wouldn't have mattered if this wasn't the last lap. If this wasn't the last lap, you would have been overtaken on the straight again but it is the last lap. And it is enough.

"And the McLarens have no answer to the sheer brilliance of Williamson today! Y/n Williamson wins at Monza!"

It's hours later when Alexia sees you again. You were up on the podium and then you were at the press conference and then there were team photos and your debrief and all those other things that you have to do that Alexia can't stand.

But then the door to the motorhome swings open and you're there.

With your smirk and helmet hair and the soft, easy way you swagger in with your trophy under one arm and helmet under the other.

Alexia's laying on your bed, scrolling aimlessly on the tv with her ankles crossed over each other. "Shame," She intones softly, accent thick and going straight to your stomach," I was hoping you'd still be in your race suit."

You place your trophy and helmet on the table and lean a hip against it. "Apologies, love," You say dryly," But I couldn't exactly show up to see the press all sweaty and hot, now could I?"

Alexia hums. She tears her gaze away from the screen like it's painful but you know she's only playing with you. "I do love that I'm the only one that sees you like that."

"I can go and put my racesuit back on," You offer with that smirk you know drives her crazy," Walk back in again? Give you the full picture?"

"Well, now you just seem big-headed."

"Yet you love me like that."

Alexia sits up, slowly so she's sure that you're drinking in all of her. Her legs. Her chest. Her face as she finally meets your eyes. Talking to you instead of at you.

"Do I get a kiss from my winner or are you saving that for the next fan that throws herself at you?"

"Are you saying the fan that's in my motorhome right now isn't going to throw herself at me?"

"Only if you get on your knees and beg for it."

It takes you one easy step to cross over to the bed, not even that. More of a pigeon step than anything else. You lean down a little until you're nose to nose with her.

"Love, if you wanted me on my knees for you, I am more than happy to oblige."

Alexia's smirk matches yours now, all teeth, all danger, and the promise of another adrenaline rush. One much more intimate and sweaty than racing.

Just the way you like it.

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

Except somehow worse.

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

A warm hand settles against your thigh, squeezing gently.

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

You glance at her, pulled from the spiral.

“Nothing,” you answer immediately.

Far too quickly. Entirely unconvincing.

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

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

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

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

“I feel sick,” you mumble.

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

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

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

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

That earns you a fond shake of her head.

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

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

“I can’t stop worrying.”

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

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

“What if she hates me?”

Alexia’s expression softens instantly.

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

Something in your chest loosens slightly at that.

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

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

“Babyyy,” you whine.

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

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

“And what happened?”

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

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

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

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

“What?” you ask quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Almost.

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

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

Alexia glances at you. “Hm?”

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

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

You hum uncertainly before another thought suddenly hits you.

“Do you think Alba will say anything?”

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

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

And honestly? You were a little nervous.

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

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

Alexia goes quiet for a beat. Then—

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

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

“Alexia!”

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

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

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

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

“We’re here,” she says softly.

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

Almost.

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

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

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

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

You let out a nervous laugh.

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

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

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

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

Almost.

———————————

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

“Wait,” you say suddenly.

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

“Amor?”

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

“Do I look okay?”

Alexia’s expression softens instantly.

“You look perfect.”

“And my hair?”

A quiet laugh escapes her.

“Sí, your hair is perfect too.”

“What about—”

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

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

“Sorry,” you mumble.

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

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

“It’s going to be fine,” she murmurs.

You nod.

Then Alexia unlocks the door.

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

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

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

“Ready?” she asks with a steady smile.

You inhale slowly.

“Sí.”

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

Two women look up.

“Hola, mamí,” Alexia says warmly.

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

“Mi amor,” she breathes.

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

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

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

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

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

Your throat suddenly feels dry.

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

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

Her mamí gasps quietly.

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

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

Silence.

You freeze.

Because apparently your response to nerves is becoming National Geographic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then Alba pushes herself off the counter and walks over.

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

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

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

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

“Hey. Shut your mouth,” she warns.

Alba only laughs harder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Desperate, more like,” Alexia shoots back.

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

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

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

You can’t help smiling at that.

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

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

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

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

You laugh softly. “I can see that.”

She smirks, gently guiding you further into the apartment.

———————————

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

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

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

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

Eli waves the comment away immediately.

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

“Gracias, mamí,” Alexia says beside you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile. “Sí. Um…”

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

Alexia notices instantly.

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

You relax slightly, nodding before turning back to Eli.

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

You shrug modestly.

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

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

Eli’s expression immediately softens.

“Ahh.”

Alexia glances back at you.

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

Heat instantly creeps into your cheeks.

“Oh… gracias.”

Eli only looks pleased with herself.

Alexia’s thumb brushes across your knuckles.

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

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

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

You duck your head slightly, smiling.

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

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

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

Eli laughs warmly at that.

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

You pause for a moment, thinking.

Then you shrug lightly.

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

Alexia smiles faintly.

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

Your voice softens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hold her gaze for another moment, making sure.

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

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

You nod.

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

Alexia huffs a quiet laugh beside you.

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

You pause briefly, considering your words carefully.

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

The table grows quieter.

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

You glance at Alexia again.

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

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

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

Alexia’s expression visibly softens.

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

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

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

“Me too,” she says softly.

Your heart stutters a little.

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

Eli’s expression is openly emotional.

Alba, meanwhile, is grinning shamelessly.

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

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

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

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

———————————

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

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

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

Each touch grounding. Every touch saying you belong here.

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

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

Alexia chuckles beside you, taking another sip of cava.

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

You laugh as Alba gasps in mock offence.

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

Eli beams at that, clearly delighted.

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

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

Alexia turns to you curiously.

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

“Está muy… cachonda.”

Silence.

Complete silence.

Your smile slowly fades.

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

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

Your stomach drops instantly.

“…oh no.”

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

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

Heat floods your entire body.

“…what?”

Alba is practically bent over the table laughing now.

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

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

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

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

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

You turn toward her slowly, utterly unconvinced.

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

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

You just feel included.

———————————

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pause for half a second.

“Erm… sí. Of course.”

“Alba—” Alexia warns immediately from the table.

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

Alexia still looks suspicious.

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

You bite back a laugh.

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

“Wash or dry?”

“Erm… wash?”

“Perfect. I hate washing.”

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

It’s strange.

Because you do like Alba. A lot, actually.

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

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

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

Alba steps aside to let you closer to the sink.

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

Eventually, she speaks.

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

You glance over immediately.

“Oh. No, it’s okay.”

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

You hand her another plate.

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

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

You stay quiet, listening.

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

There’s something faintly bitter beneath her tone now.

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

You watch her carefully.

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

She picks up another plate, drying it.

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

Your cheeks warm instantly.

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

You can’t help smiling a little at that.

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

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

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

Your head lifts immediately.

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

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

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

You blink.

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

You feel unexpectedly emotional hearing that.

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

Your throat tightens slightly.

“And she needed that more than you realise.”

You pass her another plate carefully.

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

Heat immediately floods your face again.

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

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

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

Emotion catches unexpectedly in your chest.

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

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

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

You nod immediately.

“I know.”

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

You dry your hands slowly against the towel before answering.

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

The words come easily. Certain.

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

Alba watches your face carefully for a moment.

Checking.

Then she smiles.

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

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

“Okay. Now we need to talk about us.”

You blink nervously.

“Us?”

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

You burst out laughing before you can stop yourself.

“Me too.”

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

You hesitate.

“…Maybe a little.”

Alba gasps dramatically.

“Why?”

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

Her expression softens immediately.

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

The sincerity in her voice catches you off guard.

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

You groan while she laughs.

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

Your chest warms instantly.

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

You laugh.

“I’d be honoured.”

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

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

Emotion rises suddenly in your chest again.

You smile softly.

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

Her expression softens completely.

Then she bumps your shoulder gently with her own.

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

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

To belong here.

———————————

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

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

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

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

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

You laugh quietly at the genuine concern in her voice.

“I’m fine.”

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

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

You burst out laughing.

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

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

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

You glance toward Eli, who looks entirely unapologetic.

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

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

Alexia makes a small noise somewhere between relief and concern.

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

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

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

Alexia freezes instantly. Then groans.

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

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

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

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

Tiny little pink cheeks. Big dark eyes.

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

You smile instantly.

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

You laugh softly.

“She already looks stubborn.”

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

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

Alexia glares accusingly at both of you.

“I hate this already.”

You barely hear her.

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

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

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

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

You laugh so hard your stomach drops.

“Oh my God.”

“She was always dramatic,” Alexia says dryly.

“Still is,” Alba mutters.

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

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

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

Eli pauses on another photograph.

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

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

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

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

Without thinking, your hand finds hers.

Her fingers tighten around yours immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia glares while you laugh helplessly beside her.

These two.

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

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

That overwhelming certainty.

She was always going to become extraordinary.

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

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

———————————

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

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

She looks up at you curiously.

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

For a second, Eli just stares at you.

Almost surprised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You laugh softly.

“Kind of.”

Alexia smiles knowingly beside you.

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

Eli laughs warmly at the thought.

“They were very cute,” Alexia says fondly.

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

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

Your expression softens instantly.

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

Alexia looks entirely too pleased with herself.

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

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

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

“That bad?” Alba teases.

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

Alexia squeezes your hand reassuringly.

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

You shake your head slightly.

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

Alba laughs softly.

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

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

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

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

You nod solemnly.

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

Everyone laughs.

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

“What are they like?” Eli asks warmly.

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

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

Immediately, Alba appears.

“Ooh, move. I want to see too.”

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

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

Eli immediately melts.

“Ay dios mio.”

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

Alexia chuckles beside Alba.

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

Alba immediately bursts out laughing.

“Oh she looks dangerous.”

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

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

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

The oldest. Calm eyes. Soft smile.

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

Eli smiles warmly.

“Sounds familiar.”

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

Eli notices immediately.

“You miss them,” she says softly.

You nod.

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

Your smile turns slightly smaller.

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

Alexia smiles immediately.

“I can’t wait to meet them properly.”

You smile softly at that.

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

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

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

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

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

Warm. Certain.

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

———————————

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

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

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

Now?

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

A soft knock at the door pulls you from it.

You pause.

“… Amor?”

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

You smirk.

“Worried I escaped out the window?”

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

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

“I missed you.”

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

“I was gone for two minutes.”

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

You laugh softly.

“Good to see clingy Alexia is back.”

“She never left.”

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

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

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

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

You blink slightly in surprise.

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

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

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

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

“They love you already.”

Warmth floods your chest instantly. “Really?”

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

You laugh quietly, leaning further into her.

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

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

You notice immediately.

“Baby?” you ask softly. “What is it?”

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

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

You smile gently. “Me too.”

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

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

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

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

Your heart aches instantly.

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

Her thumb brushes absent circles against your waist.

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

“Alexia—”

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

Emotion shines openly in her eyes now.

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

Her gaze never leaves yours.

“But you never did.”

Your throat tightens.

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

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

“You still looked at me the same way.”

You feel your eyes beginning to sting.

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

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

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

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

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

Her forehead rests gently against yours.

“It makes me realise how lucky I am.”

A tear slips down her own cheek now.

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

Your chest physically aches with how much you love her.

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

Alexia’s eyes close briefly at the word.

Forever.

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

Her grip on you tightens.

“You made me feel like I belong here.”

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

“You do,” she murmurs.

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

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

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

“I love you,” she whispers.

You smile through your tears.

“I love you too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia drops her forehead against yours with a groan.

“I’m definitely slashing her tyres now.”

You laugh immediately, kissing her quickly once more.

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

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

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

Alba stands there waiting, arms crossed smugly.

“Finally.”

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

Alba chuckles as she slips into the bathroom.

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

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

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

“Looks like you owe me euros.”

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

———————————

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

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

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

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

The affection between them feels effortless.

Familiar. Safe.

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

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

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

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

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

“Gracias,” you say softly.

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

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

Your chest tightens all over again.

You clink your glasses together gently before taking a sip.

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

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

“No, no, too strong?”

You shake your head quickly.

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

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

“What happened?”

“She tried rafatia,” Eli says proudly.

Alexia smiles. “Are you okay, amor?”

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

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

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

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

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

You look over at them again.

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

You smile softly.

“I can tell.”

Eli hums warmly.

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

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

You laugh softly.

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

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

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

Eli looks at you curiously.

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

You glance toward the sisters again.

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

Eli grows quiet for a moment after that.

Then she smiles shyly, almost emotional.

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

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

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

You smile immediately. “Sí. Very.”

A quiet laugh escapes you.

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

Eli watches you carefully, listening intently.

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

Your smile softens into something more nostalgic.

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

Eli laughs softly with you.

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

You glance down at your hands for a moment.

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

Emotion catches unexpectedly in your throat.

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

Eli’s expression softens instantly.

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

You smile faintly to yourself.

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

Eli reaches over immediately, taking your hand gently.

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

Your chest tightens a little.

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

Eli laughs immediately.

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

Your eyes drift somewhere distant now, lost in memory.

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

You shake your head lightly.

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

You laugh quietly.

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

Eli smiles warmly at that.

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

Eli laughs again.

You smile at the sound of it.

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

You shake your head in quiet disbelief.

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

You stop suddenly.

Blink.

Realise how much you’ve been talking.

Heat creeps into your cheeks almost instantly.

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

Eli squeezes your hand immediately.

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

You glance up at her.

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

Your chest tightens instantly.

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

Emotion flickers through you again.

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

Eli listens carefully.

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

You glance toward Alexia again instinctively.

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

Your smile softens.

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

Eli watches you quietly for a moment.

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

You turn toward her more fully.

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

You smile softly.

“She makes me happy too.”

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

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

Your heart squeezes instantly.

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

And you hate that she feels limited by it.

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

Eli watches curiously.

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

Her brows lift slightly.

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

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

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

“Alexia también me hace feliz.”

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

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

“You make her lighter.”

Your chest tightens instantly.

Eli watches your reaction carefully before speaking again.

“Before you, sometimes she carried too much.”

You swallow hard.

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

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

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

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

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

Eli pauses briefly before continuing.

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

Your chest aches.

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

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

“You helped her shine brightly again.”

Silence settles gently between you after that.

Not awkward.

Just full.

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

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

Eli doesn’t use the app for this one.

“I know,” she says confidently in English.

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

“She deserves someone who loves her properly.”

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

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

Your breath catches.

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

No app needed for that part.

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

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

Your voice softens further.

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

Eli listens carefully.

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

You laugh faintly to yourself.

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

Your fingers tighten slightly around the phone.

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

You glance down.

“But I did it anyway.”

Your throat tightens.

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

Emotion flickers visibly across Eli’s face.

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

Your eyes well instantly.

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

The translation finishes. Silence follows.

Then Eli reaches up instinctively, cupping your cheek gently.

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

More tears spill down your cheeks.

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

Your chest aches painfully now.

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

Her hand squeezes yours gently.

“And you make Alexia happy.”

Your lip trembles immediately.

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

That one settles somewhere impossibly deep inside you.

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

Then softer.

“And I trust you with my daughter.”

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

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

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

“Sorry.”

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

Instinctively, your eyes drift across the room toward Alexia.

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

“You okay?” she mouths softly.

You nod immediately with a watery smile.

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

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

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

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

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

Then the music drifting softly through the room changes suddenly.

Alba’s head snaps up immediately.

“Oh, I love this song.”

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

“Vamos.”

Alexia groans instantly. “No.”

“Sí.”

“No.”

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

“Alba, I swear to God—”

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

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

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

“Liar,” Alba says. “You love this.”

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

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

“Silly girls,” she murmurs.

Then Alba points suddenly toward the two of you.

“Your turn!”

You immediately laugh nervously.

“Oh no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There she is,” she murmurs quietly.

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

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

“You’re showing off now,” you tease.

“Maybe a little.”

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

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

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

And suddenly, with startling clarity, you realise something.

You don’t feel like a guest here anymore.

You feel like you belong.

———————————

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

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

Alexia hugs Eli first. Long and familiar.

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

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

“Siempre, amor.”

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

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

You snort softly.

“I think I was the only one traumatised.”

“Fair.”

You both laugh quietly.

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

You watch them with a soft smile.

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

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

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

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

Eli pulls back just enough to look at you properly.

“And loved,” she corrects gently.

Emotion catches unexpectedly in your throat.

“And loved,” you echo softly.

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

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

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

“Good night?” she asks softly.

You turn toward her instantly, smiling.

“The best.”

Her entire face softens at that.

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

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

You tilt your head slightly.

“For what?”

She shrugs softly, though her eyes never leave yours.

“For being you.”

Your chest tightens immediately.

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

You smile softly.

“They made that very easy.”

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

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

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

You laugh softly.

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

Alexia grins. “And now look at you.”

She brushes her thumb softly across your knuckles.

“Smiling. Relaxed. Happy.”

You narrow your eyes teasingly.

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

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

“No,” she murmurs softly

Her forehead almost touches yours now.

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

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

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

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

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

“OI! GET A ROOM!”

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

Alexia scowls instantly.

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

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

“Alexia.”

“She’s being a menace.”

“She’s your sister.”

“Unfortunately.”

You laugh again and tug her gently back toward you.

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

Alexia narrows her eyes suspiciously.

You grin.

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

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

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

A slow smirk spreads across her face immediately.

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

Heat flickers low in your stomach instantly.

“Get in the car,” she says softly.

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

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

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

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

———————————

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

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

You didn’t come back that night, or the next morning. Everything after the argument blurred into one long shift of fluorescent hospital lighting, stale vending machine coffee, and stubbornly refusing to check your phone more than necessary.

Alexia sent exactly two messages.

Olivia poo'd in her bath

Then three hours later

Olivia's asleep.

You didn’t answer either, partly because you were still angry. Mostly because every time you stopped moving long enough to think, grief hit you so hard it felt like drowning.

By the time you finally made it back to the apartment the following afternoon, your entire body ached with exhaustion.

The key turned quietly in the lock, there was no television, no crying, no cartoon music, just soft silence.

You stepped inside cautiously, shrugging your bag off your shoulder. The apartment lights were dimmed low now, afternoon sunlight stretching gold across the floorboards.

Alexia was sitting cross legged on the living room floor beside the sofa in grey sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, one arm resting against the couch cushion while Olivia slept beside her. Not in her crib, on the sofa, surled sideways against a pillow with her tiny stuffed rabbit tucked beneath one arm and her pacifier half hanging from her mouth.

Alexia looked up the second the door clicked shut, neither of you spoke immediately. You noticed things automatically, Olivia was clean. Fed, still wearing the little yellow sleepsuit from yesterday, but freshly washed.

A half empty bottle sat on the coffee table beside a folded muslin cloth and what looked suspiciously like handwritten notes.

Alexia followed your gaze, “She refused her nap unless she could still see me.”

Your chest tightened unexpectedly, because Olivia was one year old and grieving already, you swallowed hard, “How long’s she been asleep?”

“Twenty minutes.” Her voice was quieter than usual, careful, like she’d spent the last twenty hours thinking about every word before saying it.

You crouched automatically beside the sofa to brush a curl away from Olivia’s forehead. She stirred slightly but stayed asleep, tiny fingers flexing once against the cushion.

Relief moved through you so sharply it was almost embarrassing, Alexia watched you for a second before speaking, “You and I should talk.”

You leaned back onto your heels slowly, “About?”

Alexia let out a short breath through her nose, “Yesterday.”

Immediately, your shoulders tightened again, “I was tired,” you said flatly.

“So was I.”

“And?”

“And we said things.”

You stood before the conversation could settle properly, suddenly restless again, “You were late.”

“I know.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I know,” Alexia repeated, sharper this time, the irritation flared back to life so quickly it startled you both.

You folded your arms, “You say you know, but you don’t actually understand why it mattered.”

Alexia’s jaw tightened, “Because you think I don’t take this seriously.”

“You forgot Olivia.”

Alexia looked away first, eyes flicking briefly toward the sleeping toddler beside her, “I forgot the time,” she corrected quietly.

“She’s not training, Alexia. She’s not a meeting you can reschedule.”

Something flickered sharply across Alexia’s face then. Hurt. Anger. Exhaustion, “You think I don’t know that?” she asked softly.

The quietness of it hit harder than shouting would have, you rubbed tiredly at your forehead. “I just needed you there.”

Alexia looked up immediately at that and the fight underneath the fight sat exposed between you both, not lateness, not schedules, fear, you were terrified of doing this alone.

Alexia looked exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with football, there were dark shadows beneath her eyes, damp hair pushed messily back from her forehead like she’d been dragging frustrated hands through them all day.

“She cried for you after you left,” Alexia admitted eventually.

Your stomach dropped instantly, “What?”

“She sat by the front door for almost ten minutes.” Alexia swallowed once, “Every time someone walked past outside, she looked up.”

You sat down heavily into the armchair opposite her before your knees gave out entirely, neither of you spoke for a moment after that.

Olivia made a tiny sleepy noise on the sofa between you both, one little hand twitching toward the empty space where Alexia had clearly been sitting before you arrived.

Alexia noticed too, “She wouldn’t nap in her room,” she murmured quietly, “I tried twice.” A faint, tired smile crossed her face, “Turns out she just me close i think.”

You looked at Olivia for a long moment, then at Alexia sitting on the floor beside her automatically like it was the most natural thing in the world and something inside your anger shifted uncomfortably. Not gone, just harder to hold onto completely.

Alexia picked absentmindedly at a loose thread on her sleeve before speaking again, “Do you think she gets scared we won't come back like they did?”

The question hollowed the air out of the room, Alexia still wasn’t looking at you when she said it. Her eyes stayed fixed on Olivia sleeping beside her, thumb rubbing slowly back and forth over the seam of her sleeve like she hadn’t even realised she was doing it.

Your throat tightened instantly, Olivia shifted softly in her sleep, pacifier bobbing once before settling again. Completely unaware she’d become the centre of two grieving adults trying desperately not to break around her.

You swallowed carefully, “Maybe.” Alexia’s jaw flexed, “She’s one,” you said quietly, “She doesn’t understand death, not really.” Your eyes stayed on Olivia. “But she understands people disappearing.”

“She watches the door constantly,” Alexia admitted softly. “Every time I stand up she watches me to see where i'm going.”

“She did that with me too.”

Alexia rested her forearms against the sofa cushion beside Olivia carefully, keeping herself close enough that the baby could still feel her there even asleep. “She cried when I showered,” Alexia said after a moment, sounding almost bewildered by it. “Like heart breaking cried. I was gone five minutes.”

You looked over at her then at the confusion underneath her exhaustion, Alexia was used to pressure, to interviews, Champions League finals, pain, expectation, but this? A tiny grieving toddler needing her constantly that terrified her.

“I think she’s scared everyone leaves now,” you admitted quietly.

Alexia closed her eyes briefly. You looked around instinctively at the traces of Sofia and Marta everywhere again, ghosts in every corner.

“We can’t fight in front of her like that again,” Alexia said eventually.

You opened your eyes immediately, “I know.”

“She cried.”

“I know,” you repeated, sharper this time, like the memory was already cutting into you enough without help, you rubbed both hands over your face tiredly. “I hated leaving.”

That slipped out accidentally, Alexia looked surprised.

“I was angry,” you admitted quietly. “But when I got to work all I could think about was her crying.”

Alexia stared at you for a long second before looking back down at Olivia, “She kept sitting by the door,” she said softly again. “I didn’t know how to fix it.”

The honesty in that hurt, because neither of you knew how to fix any of this.

You slowly slid down from the armchair onto the floor opposite her, exhaustion finally outweighing pride, for a while neither of you spoke, then slowly, sleepily, Olivia stirred.

It started with a tiny frown, a twitch of her fingers around the stuffed rabbit. Then her eyelashes fluttered softly as she blinked awake, disoriented and warm from sleep.

Immediately, her eyes searched, you watched it happen in real time, that tiny moment of panic before recognition. Then she spotted you sitting on the floor beside the sofa, her whole face changed. Relief, pure, uncomplicated relief.

Your chest hurt so suddenly you almost couldn’t breathe through it, “Hey, baby,” you whispered softly, shifting closer automatically.

Olivia blinked slowly at you, still sleepy, pacifier bobbing gently between her lips while she stared like she was making sure you were actually there.

You smiled despite yourself, “You have a nice sleep”

Beside you, Alexia stayed very still watching, Olivia pulled the pacifier from her mouth clumsily with one tiny hand, then she smiled, huge, sleepy and gummy and absolutely devastating.

It hit you straight through the chest, your eyes burned instantly, “Hi,” you whispered again, voice rougher now.

Olivia made a tiny happy sound deep in her throat, one little hand opening toward you instinctively, and before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out quietly.

“I’ll always come back,” you promised softly, “I promise.”

The room went completely still after that, Alexia looked at you sharply, but Olivia just reached harder. A tiny whining noise escaped her as she stretched both arms toward you now, desperate to be picked up.

You moved immediately, carefully scooping her up from the sofa into your arms. The second she settled against your chest, her whole body relaxed, like something inside her had unclenched, “Oh, sweetheart,” you murmured, pressing a kiss gently into her messy curls.

Olivia tucked herself impossibly close, tiny fingers gripping the front of your hoodie while she buried sleepy warmth against your neck.

Suddenly you understood exactly what Alexia meant, being needed like this was terrifying, because Olivia trusted completely, without hesitation, without conditions. She had lost the centre of her world and somehow still believed the people left behind would catch her.

Across from you, Alexia watched quietly from the floor, something unreadable moved across her face watching Olivia melt into your arms so completely, not jealousy, something sadder and softer.

“She does that with your hoodies,” Alexia said quietly after a moment, you looked over, “When she’s upset,” Alexia explained, eyes still on Olivia, “She curls into them like that.”

Olivia made another sleepy little noise against your shoulder as if proving the point, you rubbed slow circles against her back instinctively

Alexia’s gaze followed the movement, “She didn’t want me putting her down earlier either,” she admitted softly. “I made coffee holding her because every time I tried she cried.”

Despite the heaviness in your chest, a tiny smile pulled at your mouth, “That sounds dangerous.”

“I nearly dropped a spoon.”

“That’s because you probably make coffee like a psychopath.”

Alexia looked mildly offended, “I make excellent coffee.”

“You put sugar in it.”

“It adds depth.”

“It adds betrayal.”

To your surprise, Alexia laughed quietly. a real one this time, small and tired but warm enough that Olivia lifted her head slightly at the sound.

The baby blinked sleepily between both of you before reaching one tiny hand outward toward Alexia now too. Alexia froze immediately, like she still couldn’t quite believe Olivia wanted her too.

“Go on,” you murmured softly.

Carefully, uncertainly, Alexia moved closer on the floor until Olivia’s fingertips brushed her sleeve.

The baby made a pleased little sound instantly and just like that, Alexia’s entire expression cracked open. You saw it happen in real time. All the fear, grief, all the panic she kept trying to bury under sarcasm and irritation, gone for one tiny second beneath pure love.

Alexia touched Olivia’s little hand carefully like something precious, “She trusts us,” she whispered quietly, almost like she was afraid to say it too loudly.

You looked down at Olivia curled safely against your chest, then at Alexia sitting beside you on the floor, for the first time since the hospital waiting room, the future didn’t feel impossible.

Terrifying, yes, messy, painful and still completely overwhelming, but maybe not impossible.

🍼

For a little while after that evening, things got easier, not good, not easy, just easier.

The shouting matches became arguments, the arguments became irritated conversations and Olivia slowly started settling into the strange new rhythm of her life.

She learned that if one of you left, the other would still be there, that breakfast happened every morning, that bath time came every night.

That even when the adults looked exhausted, somebody always came when she cried, but the peace between you and Alexia didn't last.

Because grief wasn't the only thing living in the apartment anymore. Reality had moved in too and reality was making you want to strangle her.

The first major fight happened three weeks later, you got back from a twelve hour hospital shift with aching feet and a headache building behind your eyes.

The apartment door opened and you immediately stopped, the kitchen looked like a crime scene, bottles in the sink, breakfast dishes still on the counter. Olivia's highchair covered in dried fruit, laundry overflowing from the basket still unwashed, toys absolutely everywhere.

You stood there staring, slowly blinking trying to convince yourself this wasn't real. Then Alexia appeared from the living room looking fresh and completely relaxed.

"Oh good," she said, "You're home."

You looked from her to the kitchen then back to her, "...What happened?"

Alexia frowned, "To what?"

You gestured at literally everything, "The apartment."

"Oh."

That was it? Oh. You felt your eye twitch, "Alexia."

"What?"

"Have you done anything today?"

Her face immediately tightened, "I had fun with Olivia today."

🍼

The second fight happened over punctuality, again, because apparently Alexia viewed schedules the same way pirates viewed international law, as vague suggestions.

You were supposed to leave for work at seven, Alexia was supposed to arrive at six thirty, simple, easy, straightforward or so you thought because at six twenty nine, you were ready. At six thirty five, she wasn't there. At six forty two, you were pacing. At six fifty, Olivia was getting fussy. At six fifty three, Alexia finally walked through the door carrying a coffee and looking annoyed that you were annoyed.

"You are twenty three minutes late."

"It was traffic."

"You live fifteen minutes away."

"There was construction."

"There was a phone in your pocket."

Alexia dropped her bag onto the floor, "I said sorry."

"No, you offered a poor excuse."

"Same thing."

"It is literally not."

🍼

The third fight happened over overnight shifts, you were halfway through making dinner when Alexia casually wandered into the kitchen.

"Hey."

Immediately suspicious, you looked up, "What?"

"Quick question."

"No."

"I haven't asked it yet."

"No."

Alexia rolled her eyes, "Can you switch Thursday?"

You stared at her, "Alexia."

"What?"

"It's Thursday every time."

"It is not."

"It absolutely is."

"Okay, sometimes it's Thursday."

"Every week."

She leaned against the counter, "We have sponsor obligations."

"We have a toddler."

"I have both."

You pointed the wooden spoon at her, "You agreed to the rota."

"I know."

"Then stop trying to change it."

"Can you or not?" "Going to have to aren't I"

🍼

The worst argument happened a few days later, because by then, the resentment had started building, quietly and dangerously one small thing at a time.

You noticed every missed pickup, every late arrival, every half finished chore. Every time you came home from the hospital to find Olivia happy and cared for but everything else left for you.

You did the laundry. You cleaned the kitchen. You organised Olivia's medical appointments. Bought nappies. Restocked wipes. You became the default parent without ever agreeing to it.

And one night after another twelve hour shift, you walked into the apartment and found Alexia sitting on the floor playing with Olivia while three overflowing bags of rubbish sat untouched by the door.

Something finally snapped, "You didn't take the bins out."

Alexia looked up, "What?"

"The bins."

"I was going to."

"When?"

She frowned, "Later."

"You said that yesterday."

Immediately, her shoulders stiffened, Olivia looked between you both from where she sat chewing enthusiastically on a toy giraffe, "Can we not do this?"

"No."

Alexia sighed heavily, "You always do this when you get back tired."

A laugh escaped you, a dangerous one, "Oh, that's interesting."

"Don't."

"No, explain."

Alexia stood, "You're acting like I don't do anything."

"You don't."

Alexia's expression darkened immediately, "I look after Olivia."

"So do I."

"That's not what I meant."

"No," you snapped, "What you mean is you play with Olivia and then leave everything else for me."

Alexia stared, actually stared like she couldn't believe you'd said it and maybe she couldn't, because the truth was ugly.

Olivia adored Alexia, she was wonderful with her you couldn't deny that, patient and so loving, but somewhere along the way, all the invisible work had quietly become yours and Alexia had never really noticed.

"You think I'm not trying?" she asked quietly.

"I think you're used to people picking up after you."

The silence that followed was brutal, Alexia looked genuinely hurt. Which somehow made you even angrier, because you were tired, so unbelievably tired.

Every time you thought about Sofia and Marta choosing the two of you for this, you wondered if they would recognise what you'd become. Two exhausted people constantly arguing over dishes and schedules while trying desperately not to fail the little girl asleep down the hall.

🍼

The handovers had evolved over the last few weeks, not because you and Alexia had become particularly good at communicating.

Quite the opposite, but after the seventh time she arrived late and after the third occasion you'd nearly missed the start of a hospital shift because of it, you'd found a solution.

You brought Olivia to training, Alexia was never late for football, never. So now, on swap days, you'd park outside Barcelona's training ground and wait.

It was annoying, inconvenient, but it worked, Olivia seemed perfectly happy with the arrangement. She sat on your hip wearing a little pink cardigan, one sock already missing because apparently that was her life's mission, happily chewing on the ear of her stuffed rabbit while watching players and staff move around the training complex.

A familiar laugh sounded nearby, you looked up to see Patri Guijarro crossing the car park toward you.

"Well, hello."

Patri immediately reached for Olivia and Olivia immediately went to her.

Patri grinned, "I knew she liked me."

Olivia rewarded her with a delighted giggle.

"See?"

"You fed her chocolate you'll be a favourite for life now."

"It made an impression."

Patri bounced Olivia lightly on her hip while the little girl immediately started investigating her ponytail.

You'd known Patri through Sofia and Marta for years, not particularly close, but enough that she'd checked in regularly since the accident.

She knew far more about your life than you probably were comfortable with considering the lack of time spent together, which explained the smirk that appeared next.

"Dora tells me you keep putting off that date Sofia got her with you."

You groaned immediately, "Oh my God."

Patri laughed, "What?"

"I'm busy, Patri."

"You've been busy for three months."

"I'm raising someone else's child," You pointed toward Olivia, "And saving lives. No time for dates."

Patri rolled her eyes dramatically, "Oh please."

You narrowed yours, "I'm serious."

"No you're not."

"Patri"

She tilted her head knowingly, "Or are you just nervous to actually put yourself out there for a change?"

You scoffed, "No. I'm just busy."

"Mhm."

"I am."

"Mhm."

You hated that noise, the knowing one, the one that suggested she could see straight through every excuse.

Patri adjusted Olivia higher against her hip, "Oh come on."

You sighed, "No."

"Just get Alexia to switch nights." The comment barely registered at first, then she continued, "You do it all the time for her so she can go on dates."

Everything inside you stalled, your chest tightened unpleasantly. All those switched nights, all those last minute changes, you'd rearranged hospital shifts, cancelled plans. Worked around Alexia's schedule because she'd always made it sound important, necessary.

You thought she needed help, you thought she was overwhelmed, every conversation replayed itself differently.

Every excuse, every request, every time you'd bent over backwards because Alexia needed you to.

While your own life had quietly stopped, no dating, no social life, no time. Just work and Olivia, meanwhile Alexia apparently still had enough freedom to go on dates.

The unfairness hit like a punch to the ribs, not because she was dating, because she'd lied.

Patri shifted awkwardly after the long silence, "You okay?"

You forced a smile, the kind that fooled absolutely nobody, "Yeah."

Patri looked unconvinced, thankfully, movement across the car park saved you, Alexia walking toward you from the training facility laughing at something someone had said behind her. Completely unaware she'd just become the centre of your rapidly worsening mood.

The second she spotted Olivia, her face softened automatically the sight usually annoyed you, today it hurt, because apparently while your entire world had changed, hers had found room to keep moving.

"There's Ale," Patri told Olivia playfully, Olivia immediately perked up.

Alexia reached you a moment later, "Hey."

Normally you'd answer, today you just nodded, Alexia frowned instantly, noticing.

Of course she noticed, "What?"

"Nothing."

Her eyes narrowed, you looked away first, Patri suddenly found the clouds fascinating.

Alexia took Olivia from Patri's arms carefully.

The toddler immediately buried her face into Alexia's shoulder before looking back toward you, expectant, waiting, the goodbye ritual.

You forced yourself to smile, "Bye bye."

Olivia immediately reached toward you, whining softly, you took her for one final cuddle, pressing a kiss into her curls.

"Be good." Another kiss, "I'll see you in two days."

Olivia patted your cheek, before you handed her back carefully, Alexia was watching you now, trying to work out what was wrong.

You ignored it, turning instead toward Patri, "Good to see you." You pulled her into a quick hug, Patri squeezed back, then you grabbed your keys from your pocket, "I have to go."

Alexia frowned, "You're leaving already?"

"I'm going to be late for work." That wasn't entirely true, but close enough.

You headed toward your car before she could ask anything else, behind you, you heard Olivia making little unhappy noises, then Alexia calling your name.

You kept walking, the car door slammed shut, a second later you were pulling out of the car park and in your rear view mirror, you caught one last glimpse of Alexia standing there holding Olivia, confusion written all over her face. She had absolutely no idea why you were angry and that just made you angrier.

🍼

The confrontation happened three days later, not because you planned it or because you wanted it, because eventually there was nowhere left for the resentment to go.

It had been building for days, layer upon layer. Every late pickup. Every switched night. Every dirty dish. Every excuse. Every time you'd swallowed your frustration because Olivia came first. Eventually something had to give and it happened after Olivia had finally gone to sleep.

The apartment was quiet, you were in the kitchen loading the dishwasher when Alexia walked in, looking fresh and well rested, again when again you'd come home to find laundry untouched on the sofa.

Again you'd found yourself doing dinner, bath time, bottles, all the cleaning, the endless invisible work that never seemed to stop.

Alexia opened the fridge, “What are we eating?"

Something snapped, not loudly or dramatically, you laughed a short, exhausted sound.

Alexia looked over immediately, “What?"

You closed the dishwasher harder than necessary, “Nothing."

"That's not a nothing laugh."

You turned around, “Did you not eat at your 'friends' tonight no?"

The question hit so suddenly even Alexia froze, “What?"

Her expression changed instantly, not guilt, but recognition, she knew exactly where this was coming from, “Patri said you've been going on dates, do those not include eating something other than your date no?" Alexia sighed heavily, “Are we seriously doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"This."

You stared at her, “This?"

"Yes."

“Yes, Alexia. Let's do this."

The frustration in your voice made her shoulders straighten immediately, defensive, always defensive, “I haven't done anything wrong."

That almost made you choke, “Haven't you?"

"No."

You looked at her in disbelief genuine disbelief, because somehow she still didn't get it, “You've spent weeks asking me to switch shifts."

"You agreed."

"Because you lied."

"I didn't lie."

"You told me it was sponsor events, work things.”

"Some of them were."

"Jesus Christ."

Alexia slammed the fridge door, “You act like I'm committing crimes."

"No." Your voice cracked unexpectedly, “No, I act like I'm tired."

The room went quiet, Alexia stopped talking, you hadn't raised your voice or shouted, but something about the exhaustion in those words landed harder than anger.

Because you were tired, god, you were so tired, you gripped the edge of the counter, “I don't even recognise my life anymore."

Alexia's expression shifted slightly, you kept going, because once it started coming out, it wouldn't stop.

"I go to work."

You laughed weakly.

"I come here."

A gesture around the apartment.

"I clean."

Another laugh.

"I do laundry."

Your eyes were burning now.

"I make sure Olivia has everything she needs."

Alexia opened her mouth, you didn't let her speak.

"I do hospital shifts where people die."

Your voice cracked harder.

"I come home and everything still needs doing."

The apartment had gone completely silent, Alexia was staring now, not arguing or interrupting. Just staring, you suddenly hated that, being looked at, hated feeling exposed. Months of pressure started spilling out before you could stop it.

"My entire life has just stopped."

The words echoed, they were raw, ugly and true.

"I don't get time to date."

You swallowed.

"I don't have any friends.”

Another swallow.

"I don't sleep more than 4 hours.”

Your chest was heaving now.

"I spend every second trying to keep this apartment running because if I stop for one second everything falls apart and I can’t let that happen for Olivia.”

Alexia's face had gone pale still she didn't interrupt. So you kept going, because apparently you'd been carrying this for far too long.

"You know what's funny?"

You laughed again, tears suddenly blurring your vision.

"I don't even live here."

The words cracked, you gestured around the apartment, Sofia and Marta's apartment.

"I spend more time here than my own flat."

Your voice broke completely.

"I wake up here."

You pointed toward the hallway.

"I sleep here."

Then toward the living room.

"I eat here."

The tears were falling now.

"I can’t grieve here."

Alexia looked devastated, you barely noticed, because for the first time in months the truth was finally coming out.

"This place is suffocating me."

You wiped furiously at your face, immediately angry at yourself for crying.

"I can't breathe in here anymore."

The confession hung between you, heavy and terrible, Alexia still hadn't moved from where she stood, hadn't said a word, hadn't defended herself which somehow that made everything worse.

Because now there was nothing stopping the last thing, the thing you’d never talked about, you looked down at the floor, voice suddenly small.

"I identified them."

Alexia froze, you hadn't said it out loud before, not to anyone.

"I had to identify them."

The memory arrived instantly, cold, the morgue with the fluorescent lights, the smell, the metal. You squeezed your eyes shut and they were there again. Sofia and Marta.

Your voice shook violently, “Every time I close my eyes…"

The sentence broke apart, you tried again but failed then finally forced the words out.

"I still see them."

The tears came harder, uncontrollable now.

"I see them every time I shut my eyes. I see them every single night and then I wake up and Olivia needs breakfast and the washing needs doing and she needs nappies and work needs me and everybody just keeps expecting me to keep moving."

Your chest hurt, everything hurt.

"I don't know how."

The words barely existed, a whisper.

"I don't know how much longer I can keep doing all of it."

The apartment fell silent, just your breathing and Alexia standing motionless across from you, staring at you like she was finally seeing the full weight you'd been carrying. You didn't look angry, you looked broken.

You scrubbed angrily at your face, the tears wouldn't stop, you hated that, hated crying in front of her, hated being seen, hated that she'd now witnessed the complete collapse you'd spent months desperately holding together.

"Don't," you muttered.

Alexia hadn't even moved yet, "What?"

"Whatever you're thinking."

Her expression softened you immediately hated that too, before you could retreat further into yourself, Alexia crossed the kitchen.

You frowned immediately, "What are you doing?"

She didn't answer, instead she reached out and touched your arm just lightly, you recoiled like she'd burned you.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to help."

"Don't." Alexia ignored you, which was apparently becoming a theme, "Alexia." She grabbed your forearm firmly, you stared at her in horror, "No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Y/N."

"What are you" And then she pulled, not violently just decisively straight toward her, you looked genuinely appalled, "Absolutely not."

Alexia rolled her eyes, "You are literally crying."

"I know."

"So stop fighting me."

"I'm not hugging you."

"You are."

"I'm really not."

"You really are."

You attempted to back away, unfortunately for you, Alexia Putellas spent most of her life training at an elite athletic level.

This became apparent immediately, because she barely even noticed your resistance. One second you were trying to escape, the next her arms had wrapped around you securely , like some sort of incredibly stubborn human trap.

Your entire body locked up, "Oh my God."

"There we go."

"No."

"There we go."

You stood rigid every muscle tense arms trapped awkwardly between you, Alexia sighed dramatically.

"Just hug me, fucking hell, Y/N."

"I'm being kidnapped."

"You are being comforted."

"This feels illegal."

"It isn't."

"It should be."

Alexia tightened her grip slightly, you stared blankly at the kitchen wall.

"This is awful."

A laugh escaped her an actual laugh the first one you'd heard from her ever, "See?" she said. "Is this so bad?"

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

You considered your options, unfortunately, there weren't any, because she was annoyingly strong, "I feel like I'm being suffocated by a boa constrictor."

Alexia snorted, "All I got from that is you think I have muscly arms."

You groaned, "You're an idiot."

"And you've stopped fighting."

Damn it, you had, mostly because you were exhausted emotionally and physically. You'd simply began enjoying it slightly, Alexia seemed deeply pleased by this discovery.

You narrowed your eyes at the cupboard in front of you, "I haven't stopped fighting."

"You have."

"I haven't."

"You absolutely have."

You muttered into her shoulder, "This isn't me stopping fighting."

"No?"

"No."

"What is it then?"

You considered it seriously, "You know when goats get scared?"

Alexia blinked, "What?"

"They freeze.. they just sort of lock up and fall over."

Alexia stared, "What kind of information is that?"

"It's true."

"Why do you know that?"

"I don't know."

Alexia laughed again, "You've goat fainted?"

"I'm emotionally goat fainted."

"That isn't a thing."

"It is now."

You could feel her shoulders shaking with laughter, which was incredibly annoying, because despite everything despite being forcibly trapped in an unwanted hug some of the crushing pressure in your chest had eased.

At some point during the ridiculous argument about goats and boa constrictors, you'd stopped crying stopped feeling like the world was collapsing around you.

Alexia's arms loosened slightly, not letting go, just giving you room if you wanted it.

You didn't move, mostly because moving would involve admitting the hug had helped and absolutely nobody was getting that victory, especially not her.

After a moment, Alexia spoke quietly, "You should've told me."

Your eyes closed, "You would've argued."

"Probably."

"You would've gotten defensive."

"Definitely."

Despite yourself, a small laugh escaped you, "See?"

Alexia said, "You know me."

You rolled your eyes, "Unfortunately."

Her chin rested briefly against the top of your head, a tiny gesture almost unconscious, when she spoke again, the humour was gone, "I'm sorry."

Alexia didn't apologise often.

"I'm sorry I kept asking you to switch nights."

Her voice was quiet now.

"I'm sorry I didn't realise how much you were carrying."

You swallowed hard, Alexia tightened her arms briefly, just once.

"And I'm really sorry you had to identify them alone."

The kitchen fell silent again, the silence that followed felt different, the kind of silence that settled after a storm had finally spent itself.

You were still trapped in Alexia's arms, or choosing not to leave them, you hadn't decided which explanation annoyed you less.

You stepped away finally, leaning back against the counter, Alexia stayed where she was, watching you.

"You really don't sleep?" she asked quietly.

The question caught you off guard, you shrugged, "Sometimes."

"That's not an answer."

"It kind of is."

"Y/N."

You looked away, immediately giving yourself away.

Alexia sighed, "How bad?"

You rubbed the back of your neck, bad, very bad, but saying it aloud somehow felt worse, "Three or four hours."

Alexia's expression darkened instantly, "Every night?"

"Most."

"Jesus Christ."

You laughed weakly, "Yeah."

"And the nightmares?"

Your stomach tightened, you hadn't meant to tell her that part that had slipped out. Alexia waited patiently, which felt unnatural enough that you almost checked for a fever, "Most nights," you admitted eventually.

The words sat heavily between you Alexia looked genuinely devastated like she'd just realised how much she'd missed, how much she'd failed to notice, "You should've said something."

"There wasn't time."

"There was."

"No."

You gestured vaguely around the apartment, "Olivia." Then yourself, "Work." Then the mountain of laundry visible through the doorway, "Everything else."

Alexia looked down and she looked ashamed, "I thought you had it handled."

The confession came quietly, you laughed once, the sound was broken around the edges, "Everyone thought that."

Alexia swallowed, because she knew exactly what you meant, at the funeral, in the hospital, with social workers, family and friends. Everyone had looked at you and seen competence and reliability, the person who always knew what to do. Nobody had stopped to ask whether you were surviving it.

A soft sound drifted down the hallway, both your heads turned immediately silence, then another sleepy little whine from Olivia.

You and Alexia exchanged a look and without thinking, both started moving at the same time.

The absurdity of it almost made you laugh, months ago you could barely stand each other, now you apparently responded to Olivia's noises like emergency services.

You reached her room together, the moon nightlight cast soft shadows across the walls.

Olivia was sitting up in her crib, messy curls, sleepy eyes, pacifier hanging loosely from one hand.

She looked between both of you, processing, then immediately held her arms up, demanding.

Alexia huffed a laugh beside you, "You go."

"What?"

"You go." Alexia nodded toward the crib, "She wants you."

You stepped forward carefully and lifted Olivia into your arms, the little girl immediately tucked herself against your shoulder with a sleepy sigh, like she'd been waiting for that exact thing.

For a moment, none of you spoke, Alexia stood beside the crib, you held Olivia who yawned hugely against your shoulder.

Alexia smiled automatically, the expression softened her entire face and for a second, you saw exactly what Marta must have seen all those years ago.

Not the football star, or the woman who flirted with every woman she came in contact you, or the person you'd spent years arguing with.

Just someone who loved fiercely once she let herself, someone who had been thrown into the same impossible situation as you, who was grieving too.

Alexia looked over and caught you staring, immediately suspicious, "What?"

You shook your head, "Nothing."

"That was definitely a something."

"It wasn't."

"It was." You adjusted Olivia higher against your shoulder, Alexia narrowed her eyes. Then suddenly sighed, "Fine."

The word sounded reluctant like it physically hurt her, but then she glanced around the room, at the crib.

The photos of Sofia and Marta still sitting on the dresser and when she spoke again, her voice was quieter, "I'll do better."

You looked at her, she didn't look away this time.

"No more lying about why I need switches. No more assuming you'll just pick everything up. And tomorrow I'll do the laundry."

a/n: my first fic after months of not writing, yay! even though i'm not completely happy with how this turned out, i decided to post it anyway. i didn't proof-read so i hope there are no mistakes. feel free to tell me your thoughts!

after all that happened today, the craziness and chaos, after all the noise - at the game, on the bus, at the party - the quiet of your hotel room in bilbao felt almost strange.

you’d been sitting on the bed for a while, clad in a shirt too big for you - it had been alexia’s once - and some pyjama shorts. you still had your make-up on; you hadn’t yet found the energy to take it off.

you had no energy to do anything, really. everything hurt. your head, your throat from all the screaming, your arms from carrying luca around, your legs, your feet.

you’d ignored it all day, but then you’d left the party and all of it had caught up with you. now you just couldn’t get yourself to do much other than sit there and stare at your phone.

alexia had texted you a while ago, asking when you’d come back. eli had of course told the blonde that she’d taken luca off your hands. you hadn’t expected anything different from her.

you’d been rather surprised when the older woman had knocked on your hotel room door. you’d thought she was still with alexia - you would have been too, a third champions league title needed to be celebrated thoroughly, if luca hadn’t needed to go to bed.

but then eli had showed up at yours and informed you in no uncertain terms that she was taking luca for a sleepover in her room and that you were going back to the party.

the night was still young - “it is 10 p.m., hija. the party hasn’t even begun yet.” - and you were too. luca was taken care of, so what were you still doing here - “vamos!”. she’d been in and out with your son before you even realized, leaving a perplexed you behind.

that had been 15 minutes ago. alexia’s text had come in just 2 minutes after. you had replied with a quick ‘soon’, but had done nothing to get ready. you’d just needed a few more minutes to breathe, recharge.

someone knocked on your door. you sighed; your time was over, then. it must be alba, you guessed, sent by eli or alexia. the putellas family wasn’t exactly known for their patience. mentally, you already prepared for the lecture that was sure to come, and thought of a few excuses just in case.

who you did not expect when you opened the door, the possibility hadn’t even crossed your mind, was alexia.

sweet and happy, champions league winner, alexia. though she didn’t look too happy at the moment. across from you stood captain alexia - the front she usually reserved for the pitch, but put on when something didn’t go as she wanted.

as it so often did these last few weeks, months, years, your heart instantly beat a little faster at the sight of her. it felt familiar by now; it didn’t bother you anymore. enough time had passed, you’d made peace with it. that this, loving her in silence, would just be part of your life now.

you couldn’t even remember a time where you hadn’t loved alexia. from the moment you’d met her at 6 years old, she’d held a special place in your heart.

at first, it had been that uncomplicated kind of love only children were capable of. alexia was your best friend. she had simply decided that on a random tuesday at school when she’d noticed you sitting alone while everyone else played together.

her, the loud, stubborn girl who always seemed to know exactly what she wanted, who wasn’t afraid to speak her mind. and you, the shy, awkward girl who loved her books more than people, who had trouble making friends.

you still weren’t entirely sure what she’d seen in you that day. what made her come over and plop herself down next to you. according to alexia you’d looked lonely, and no one ever should be in her opinion.

you’d found her incredibly annoying in the beginning. admittedly, alexia didn’t leave the best first impression. stealing your sketch book and proceeding to run away with it hadn’t been exactly her best idea. not when you’d had to chase after her for 10 minutes before you finally got it back.

still, somehow, you were sort-of friends at the end of the day and alexia had kept finding you the following days until you eventually agreed that yes, you were best friends.

from then on, alexia was everywhere. she came to your class room during breaks - she was one class above you. she dragged you into games you had no interest in playing. she invited you to her home every other day - after that first time you realized just how close you lived to each other. she showed up at yours so often your parents eventually didn’t even ask anymore, just added a fourth plate to the dinner table.

alexia became a part of your life in such an effortless way. and despite your habit of complaining about her, despite rolling your eyes whenever she did something reckless or stupid, you adored her.

you adored how alexia made everything look so easy. how she seemed so cool and brave and kind. how she somehow made everything more fun. how she always made everyone feel included. and, though you’d never really told her, how she lived and breathed football.

alexia was obsessed. even at seven years old, there had never been any doubt about what she wanted to do with her life. football was all she talked about. football was all she thought about. football was all she wanted to do. and barça was her dream.

you’d spent countless afternoons sitting on the sidelines of parks and later training grounds with a book in your lap while alexia chased a ball around for hours. she never seemed to get tired of it. if anything, she only got worse as she got older.

apart from her family, you were her biggest supporter. from when you were young - six, seven years old - without a single clue about football. to when you were teenagers and young adults, when everything around you started to change.

your lives began to pull you in different directions, yet you still showed up every time. it shouldn’t have worked as well as it did, honestly. you followed two completely different paths. alexia was set on her way to become the best football player in the world. you, meanwhile, started pursuing acting.

many had been surprised by that decision. acting didn’t exactly fit well together with the shy girl that hated attention. you were surprised, too, the first time you stood on stage and the fear didn’t come.

it was different, you supposed, because it wasn’t really you. standing in front of a camera or on a stage as someone was different from standing in front of people as yourself. for a little while, you got to be someone else entirely. someone braver, louder, funnier, crueler. whoever the story needed them to be.

alexia had never doubted you. not once. when others questioned it, she simply shrugged and acted as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. of course you would become an actress. it was your dream, as football was hers, and it would come true.

maybe that unwavering support from both sides was why you never grew apart. it would have been easy to. on paper, there was no reason for your friendship to survive.

your schedules became ridiculous. alexia spent more and more time training, travelling, playing. you spent your days at auditions, acting classes, small productions.

there were periods where you barely saw each other. yet somehow, you always managed to make time for the other, in whatever form possible. sometimes it was rushed phone calls on her way home from training. sometimes it was a quick ‘good luck’ text before a game or an audition. sometimes it was sitting in silence on the couch because both of you were too exhausted to hold a proper conversation.

you made the effort despite the fact it would have been easier to quit. alexia was too important. even when you, at 19 years old, moved to la for better career opportunities, even when her name became bigger and bigger in women’s football; you stayed close.

alexia was still the first person you would call after an audition, after a rejection, or when you simply missed home. you were the first one she’d text after a big win, the one she’d face-time after a bad match.

there had never been a question of whether alexia would stay in your life. she just would. in the same way the sun would rise tomorrow, in the same way summer would eventually become autumn.

some things simply were, and alexia was one of them.

maybe that was why you’d never noticed how your feelings changed over the years. alexia was the constant in your life. she always gave you that warm feeling of home. she was the person you sought out first in a room, the one whose opinion mattered most, the one you wanted beside you for every important moment.

you’d loved her as a kid, as a teenager, as a young woman growing into adulthood. the love had always been there. so how could you have known that ‘i love you’ as ‘you’re my best friend’ had one day turned into ‘i love you’ as ‘i want to kiss you, i want to spend the rest of my life with you’.

there wasn’t one particular moment in which you knew. there was never a time you could point to and say here, that’s when it all changed.

you just looked at alexia one day and the thought popped into your head, almost unbidden. ‘wow, i’m ridiculously in love with this woman.’

that day had been years ago, when you were pregnant. maybe the pregnancy had been the catalyst and the fear of the unknown, the hormones had opened your eyes for the first time. made you look for the one thing that felt familiar.

-

you were nearing 5 months of pregnancy. you had moved back to barcelona, into a house not far from alexia’s, just a few weeks ago. it still didn’t feel quite yours yet, even though your things were already everywhere. it felt like a life in progress, like something you were still catching up to.

alexia had been a constant visitor. whenever she could - before training, after training, in between interviews - she came over to help you unpack, to keep you company, to try and make it feel more like home.

today she’d come straight from training, still in her tracksuit, freshly showered, and quickly made herself comfortable on your couch. apparently, there was a barça meneni match she just had to watch.

unfortunately for everyone involved, they were having a terrible game. you were on the other end of the couch, legs stretched out, with a book you hadn’t turned a page of in a while. you’d given up pretending to read about 10 minutes ago. it was far more entertaining to watch alexia slowly lose her mind instead.

she was fully invested in the match, it almost felt personal. every misplaced pass was met with a sharp inhale, every missed chance with a muttered complaint, every foul against barcelona had her loudly cursing at the tv. she kept shifting on the couch, her legs bouncing. it was very amusing, far better than your book.

your gaze was fixed on her face, on her frown deepening and deepening the longer time went on, when you suddenly felt something.

just a small shift low in your stomach. you were kind of familiar with it by now, how you could feel the baby move at certain times, but this felt different somehow. your eyes narrowed. you let go of the book and rested your hands on your bump, exactly where you’d felt it.

you were entirely tuned into every little movement now, so when it came again, you felt it clearly. it was unmistakable; a kick against your hands. immediately, your breath caught and your heart beat a little louder in your ears. the baby had really just kicked for the first time.

“ale.”, you said, whispered, automatically. you were almost too afraid to speak, afraid to spook him in any way. there came no response. one, because your voice had been incredibly low it was probably impossible to hear over the tv. and two, alexia was too absorbed in the game.

“ale.”, you tried again, this time louder. you quickly glanced up at her, a smile that spanned from ear to ear on your face.

“hm?”, she asked distractedly, not even once glancing in your direction. she’d heard you, but not the obvious urgency in your voice. your smile slowly turned into a frown the longer she ignored you. if she only knew what had just happened…football would be the last thing on her mind. it couldn’t possibly be this hard to get alexia’s attention, could it?

“alexia.”

it could, apparently. annoyingly. “just a second.”, she muttered immediately. again, not even a glance. you exhaled through your nose, half amused, half annoyed. of course. of course alexia chose this very moment to be unreachable. the worst moment possible, in your opinion. you sighed and sat up slightly.

“alexia putellas segura.”

that finally did it. alexia straightened, her head immediately snapped towards you. you never used her full name, so the fact that you did told her that it was probably better to pay attention.

“what?”, she asked. her gaze then flicked to your hands resting on your belly, to your face and that strange new look in your eyes, down, up. you had alexia’s undivided attention now, though not in the way you’d expected. her whole demeanour changed, her eyes suddenly filled with worry.

“is something wrong? are you okay? is the baby okay?” she was alert, sitting on the edge of the couch, ready to run, to do whatever you needed from her.

“no, no.”, you hurried to assure her, voice softening considerably. you smiled at her, hoping it would help soothe her worries. it did, a little. alexia seemed to relax a bit, but only minimally.

“come here.”, you said. you’d always found it easier to show someone than explain what you were feeling.

you reached for her hand before you could overthink it, guiding it to your stomach. confusion flickered across her face, but she let you move her without resistance, let you place her palm exactly where yours had been.

“what are you-”

alexia stopped suddenly. the words just…fell away. you knew why, had felt the kick at the same time she did. her entire body went still. her eyes dropped to your stomach, like the world had narrowed down to where she was touching you.

“oh.”, she whispered. her voice was so soft you barely heard it. she looked at you in complete awe, her eyes filled with wonder. you’d never seen her like that, that look on her face was completely new. her fingers pressed slightly harder against your skin, as if hoping, wanting, she could feel it again.

it worked. the little one seemed to feel all the attention on him, to know what you were waiting for. maybe he wanted to make himself known, or maybe he’d just decided he liked alexia’s attention specifically. whatever it was, you were glad he did. you wanted to see that look on alexia’s face forever, the love, the wonder. her eyes widened just a fraction, something soft and unguarded flashing across her face.

“oh.” alexia leaned closer, seemingly unconsciously. “that’s…” her voice was wavering. “that’s him.”

-

from then on, you’d carried it with you. it hadn’t been world-changing. it didn’t make you nervous. it made sense; it brought with it a certainty you hadn’t had before. it had been inevitable, in the end.

you’d simply laid in bed after alexia had left that evening, one hand resting on your stomach, and acknowledged the truth for the first time.

you were in love with your best friend.

the next day, life had continued. there had been doctor’s appointments, sleepless nights, football matches, interviews. the world didn’t stop turning just because of your sudden revelation.

as clear as it was that you were in love, it had also been instantly clear you’d never say anything. risking losing the most important person in your life for something as uncertain as hope seemed reckless.

so you’d made the choice to love alexia. to keep loving alexia. but to never ask for more from her. you already had her, after all. maybe not in the way your heart wanted, but you had her nonetheless.

she loved you, in her way. she loved your son as though he was her own. it was all you wanted, all you could ask for.

it would be okay. you could live with that. you learned how to live with it. some days were harder than others, sure. some days she smiled at you and the urge to just…lean forward and kiss her was so strong you had to look away.

today also turned out to be more difficult. you’d not really seen alexia for long so far and when you had, there had been so much else going on. this was the first time today you’d been alone with her and your heart, of course, made itself known. very inconvenient for you.

alexia looked good. black pants, barça shirt, sunglasses on top of her head, the gold medal around her neck…and the trophy in her arms?

“um, what are you doing here?”, you blurted out, confused beyond measure. you didn’t even greet her, the only question on your mind why she stood here in front of you when only hours ago her team became champions of europe. there were surely better places to be - the party, first and foremost. then your eyes flicked down to the trophy. “...and why do you have that?”

alexia followed your gaze and her eyes widened comically. a stunned ‘oh’ escaped from her lips. in a matter of seconds, alexia turned from the fierce capitana into the ale only few people got to see. shy, introverted, unsure, simply adorable with that sheepish look on her face.

“err…well.” alexia rubbed the back of her neck and let out a nervous giggle. your eyes immediately clocked the redness creeping up her neck, her cheeks were slowly turning pink. it was endearing to watch, but also very intriguing.

alexia cleared her throat. “i forgot…i…had it?”

a stunned laugh burst through your lips, much too loud for the quiet of the hotel. it startled the both of you, but you couldn’t help it. how could someone simply forget they were holding a trophy. and not a small one at that; this one was really hard to miss. though, alexia could, apparently. she had carried it through the streets of bilbao without realizing, after all.

alexia glared daggers at you. she was trying to intimidate you into silence, but that had never worked with you. you knew her too well, knew how much of a softie she was, to ever take that glare seriously.

“you’re mean.”, she huffed, a pout forming on her lips. “and to think i came here to check on you.”

your laughter died out instantly at her words. she’d tried to make it sound exasperated, like a joke, but the honesty, the earnestness, still shone through in her voice. “what?”, you spluttered. “why?”

alexia looked at you, then. really looked at you. from the oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder to your pyjama shorts full of little rainbows - they were a gift from luca; he had a matching pair - until her gaze landed on your face.

“i was worried. you didn’t come back and the venue isn’t really that far away. i wanted to make sure you were alright.”

your heart fluttered. stupid, stupid, traitorous heart. you had to actively force yourself not to (over-)react. otherwise you probably would have melted to the floor with the gooiest smile on your face. though, you failed to hide the smile. damn alexia always being so sweet and considerate.

“why didn’t you call? you didn’t have to leave and come all this way for me. you should be with the girls celebrating the win!”

alexia just shrugged her shoulders. as though the win suddenly wasn’t all that important anymore. it didn’t fit in your head. this was alexia. alexia, who had spent the entire season chasing after this trophy. it had been her biggest motivation after the injury setback.

“maybe i just needed an excuse to leave.”, alexia muttered, looking anywhere but you.

you just stared, in disbelief, eyes wide. you were lost for words. for over 20 years you’d been friends, you’d thought, surely, you knew her by now. turns out there was still much to learn about her. because this made no sense whatsoever.

“but why?”, you asked. really tried to understand, but it was impossible. alexia didn’t just leave a party like this one. usually so held back, those were the only times she really let loose and didn’t think about tomorrow or the next training session, the next match. she stayed until the end, often the last one to leave.

again, alexia shrugged. this woman. sometimes you’d just like to hit her over the head with a pan or something. she couldn’t make it easy just for once. no, it always had to be dragged out of her.

alexia looked down at the trophy in her hands. almost absent-mindedly, she brushed her thumb over the engraving. FC Barcelona. the club of her life.

she took a deep breath in, and smiled, small but there. her eyes met yours once again, shining with undeniable affection.

“run away with me.”

for a moment, you forgot how to breathe. the words hit you like a freight train. you hadn’t heard them in so long, too long almost. you hadn’t expected alexia to use them now, of all times.

it made sense, though. this phrase had been yours for as long as you could remember.

the first time when you were 9 and she was 10, at her birthday party when everything had become too loud, too much for you. when you were 15 and crying at school because your boyfriend had broken up with you. when alexia was 18 and her whole life had just fallen apart. when you were 23 and staring at the positive pregnancy test on the counter.

it was your secret language; it meant everything you couldn’t say, everything you needed to hear, in the moment. don’t worry, i’m here. you’re not alone. everything sucks, but i’m with you.

or now, as alexia stood in front of you, looking at you with the same exact expression she always had when she said it; i can’t explain, but will you stay anyway.

of course you would. you always did. there had never been a time when your answer hadn't been yes. you huffed a laugh and shook your head. alexia really could get you to do anything.

“where?”

the relief on her face was instant. a smile spread across her lips, bright enough to rival the gold medal hanging around her neck. she looked so very happy for something so small, so normal. it was unfair. completely unfair. how were you meant to function when she looked at you like that.

“i don’t know.”, alexia laughed and shrugged her shoulders - it seemed to be the only thing she was capable of doing. “somewhere.”

you stared at her, eyebrows raised, but with a smile that mirrored hers. “somewhere?” alexia nodded. “somewhere.”

a laugh escaped you, quiet and disbelieving. today were really a lot of firsts in your relationship. alexia without a plan was unheard of. you knew her as a control freak. normally, she had to know everything to the smallest detail.

“okay.”, you said.

-

somehow, you had ended up on the rooftop. how alexia managed to get access, you’d never know. she refused to tell you. the perks of being a celebrity, probably. in hindsight, you should really have seen it coming. alexia had always liked being above everything else, observing from a distance.

you sat on the edge, legs dangling over the side, the city of bilbao spread out beneath you. noise faintly travelled up from the streets. honking cars, music streaming out of nearby bars, people talking, shouting, bellowing. the champions league trophy sat between you on the ground, forgotten for now.

neither of you talked. it was an unofficial rule you’d established early on for these moments - talk if you needed it, don’t if you didn’t want to. you couldn’t think of anything to say, and alexia seemed to be lost in her head for now.

it was okay, though. every now and then alexia’s shoulder would brush yours, and that was enough. her choosing to be here with you, you choosing to be here with her, said more than words ever could.

you looked out over the city, the darkening sky, and breathed it all in. for the first time in a long time, there was nowhere else you needed to be. there was no luca, no emergency, no work that needed your attention. it felt simply wonderful.

movement out of the corner of your eye made you turn your head to alexia. she was fidgeting with her medal again, for what was probably the tenth time. a nervous habit of hers, maybe. though you didn’t see any reason for alexia to be nervous tonight. she should be on top of the world.

your gaze travelled from the gold to the silver trophy behind you. just seeing it made you smile. what an incredible achievement it was. what an incredible journey. for the team, for alexia even more so after the season she’d had full of ups and downs.

“i’m really proud of you.”, you said into the silence. it was out of your mouth before you even realized.

you didn’t look at her, didn’t know if she heard you, but you continued anyway. “i know everyone’s saying that today. everyone is congratulating you and talking about the final and the trophy and all of that.”

a noise escaped from her lips. a laugh, perhaps. a hum, a huff. you weren’t sure, but at least she was listening. “but that’s not really what i mean.”

the silence stretched between you. not uncomfortable. never uncomfortable. you just needed time to find the right words. it was harder than anything, but alexia waited, always patient.

“i think…” you paused. “i don’t know. i just- i’m proud of the person you became.”

when you looked at her, she was already watching you, intrigued. alexia didn’t know where you were going with this; you didn’t either. you just spoke from the heart.

“obviously i’m proud of what you achieved today, too.” you glanced toward the trophy and laughed. “it’s ridiculous, really. three champions league titles is insane.”

a small laugh escaped her. your smile automatically widened at the sound before it faded into something softer.

“but that’s not all. sometimes i feel like people forget what happened before all of this. what you did, what you lost, what you had to give of yourself to get here.”

the words were starting to come easier now, your voice becoming stronger, more certain. “they see you now and it all looks inevitable. like of course alexia putellas was always going to become alexia putellas.”

beside you, alexia smiled and lowered her gaze. a strand of hair fell into her face and you had to suppress the urge to reach up and tuck it behind her ear. you swallowed. “but i remember when things were different.”

you remembered the moments where getting out of bed had seemed difficult enough, let alone carrying the expectations of an entire club, an entire sport. the moments where she had to keep fighting, for herself, for everyone, even when there was no fight left in her. i have to, alexia always said, how else will something change.

“there were a lot of reasons for you to quit. to give less of yourself.”

your voice got quiet and you waited until alexia’s head lifted. you wanted her to understand. “you never did. you still care about everyone around you.” you laughed softly. “maybe too much. you tend to forget about yourself sometimes.”

alexia rolled her eyes at the little jab, but there was no real annoyance behind it. you’d told her this often enough and she knew it was true, but that’s just who she was. she didn’t know how to do it differently.

“you still show up. you still try. you still give everything. you’re unbelievably strong. you’re incredibly brave. you’re inspiring everyone around you.”

your chest tightened when you saw her shake her head in denial and look away. her eyes had turned glassy, shimmering with tears she tried to hold back. uh oh. she couldn’t cry. if she cried, you would too. you breathed in, gathering your thoughts.

your voice was shaking when you finally continued. “the football is impressive. but you are even more so.”

it wasn’t planned, it wasn’t your intention to be so emotional tonight, but you were glad you did it. your hand reached forward, uncertain, hovering awkwardly just a few inches above hers where it rested on the concrete. you waited. alexia noticed, and looked down. she wordlessly turned her hand around and lazed her fingers through yours.

you’d held hands countless times, but this weirdly felt different. it was simply the way she held on that was so unlike all the other times. like she needed it. like she needed you. your hand tingled where she touched you.

alexia stared down at your joined hands. her thumb absent-mindedly brushed over your knuckles. you were focused on her face. the way her brows furrowed, the way she bit her lip.

“i’m not brave.”, alexia whispered eventually.

instantly, you frowned. “ale-” “no.”, she quickly interrupted you. “i’m not. not really. i wish i was.” she sounded so incredibly certain, which was the most confusing part.

alexia, not brave. the thought alone was absurd. someone who had spent her whole life throwing herself at impossible things and somehow making them happen. who carried expectations other people would crumble under. alexia, who had fought her way back from injury while everyone thought she was finished.

if alexia wasn’t brave then the word had lost all meaning. it was laughable to ever think differently. you would have laughed, if the situation had allowed it. instead, all you did was squeeze her hand three times while you vehemently shook your head.

alexia looked up and let out a small laugh when she saw your reaction, the complete disbelief at what she’d said. “i am not!”, she repeated, grinning. “in football, maybe. sometimes. but…”

her grin faded slowly, the amusement slipping away as quickly as it had appeared. for a few moments, alexia said nothing at all. her gaze swept over the city while her thumb kept tracing circles on your skin.

she sighed, and before you could make sense of what she was doing, alexia lifted your hands and pressed a soft kiss against the back of yours. the gesture came so unexpected, was so unexpectedly tender, that it stole every coherent thought from your head. it was only a second, but the spot where her lips had touched your skin burned for far longer.

she laughed suddenly, though there was no humour in it. when she spoke, her voice sounded strange. you couldn’t explain it, but it was different.

“i told myself when we won today, i’d finally be brave.”

alexia swallowed, then her eyes met yours. she just looked…sad. you wanted to hug her until she felt better, but you had a feeling she needed this to finally get everything off her chest.

“and i wasn’t. i didn’t do what i wanted to do.”

the confession hung heavy in the space between you. you frowned, because you genuinely didn’t understand. what could alexia be so afraid of doing. she’d never mentioned anything to you before. nothing that you remembered. though by the sound of it, she’d carried it for a long time.

“then do it now.”, you said, shrugging, as though it was the most obvious thing. it was the easiest solution in your mind, though possibly also the hardest to do.

alexia just blinked at you. “what?”

“be brave now! whatever it was, just do it.” you smiled softly.

alexia looked away immediately. towards the city, towards the stars above, towards anything that wasn’t you. you watched her jaw tense. the way her shoulders rose with a deep breath and fell again. she looked like someone on the edge of a cliff, unable to decide whether to jump or not.

the wind picked up around you, messing with your hair, but you didn’t really notice. you were focused on alexia, on every little movement of her body. this was infinitely more important than anything else.

alexia closed her eyes and breathed in once. twice. three times. “okay, i can do this. i can be brave.”, she whispered under her breath, seeming to hype herself up for what she was going to do next. then, she nodded and opened her eyes.

alexia let go of your hand and turned her whole body toward you. only then did she look at you. properly. like she was allowing herself to for the first time. her gaze moved slowly across your face, taking in every detail. your eyes, your nose, the strands of hair the wind kept blowing into your face, the curve of your mouth. she traced every feature as though it was the first time. or maybe the last.

you couldn’t tell. all you knew was that your heart was beating so hard it hurt. all you knew was that alexia had never looked at you quite like this. all you knew was that this was how you often looked at her, when she wasn’t looking. unguarded, your feelings visible to anyone bothering to look.

you suddenly got the feeling that you knew, that you understood. you knew what she wanted to do. you understood what she was afraid of. it was the same thing you feared. the reason why you’d been hiding your feelings for yours.

in a split second, you made a decision. you decided to turn off your head and let your heart lead. no matter how scary it was. you owed it to alexia, to yourself. if alexia could be brave, if this was really going where you thought it was going, you could be brave too. you couldn’t do it anymore. all that hiding, that pretending had tired you out.

you decided to look back into her eyes. and for the first time in years, you let her see all of it. every stupid feeling, the yearning, the hope, the love you’d never let her see.

whatever alexia saw in your expression made something shift in hers. you saw it happen. saw the exact moment she realized what she was searching for was actually there. her breath caught and her eyes dropped down to your lips. just for a second.

alexia lifted her hand and brushed her fingers against your cheek, warm despite the cooling night air. her touch was so gentle that it almost felt unreal. you found yourself leaning into it before you could stop yourself.

hope flickered across her face and with one last deep breath, she hesitantly leaned forward. slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. you didn’t. you couldn’t. you did the opposite, simply leaned closer.

for one suspended moment, alexia paused. close enough that you could feel her breath on your lips. close enough that you could see every tiny detail in her eyes.

you nodded once, giving her permission. it was barely there, but she saw. must have seen it. because finally, she closed the distance.

there were no fireworks, no moment where the world exploded around you like it did in films. there was only alexia. soft and careful and tentative.

it didn’t feel real. it was real, but you couldn’t believe it. you had imagined this moment. more times than you cared to admit. you had imagined it, but every version fell short. none of them ever felt like this. none of them had ever felt so much like coming home.

the kiss lasted only a few seconds. it both felt like an eternity and like not enough, never enough. when alexia started to pull away, hesitation returning as though she suddenly feared she’d misread everything, panic flared in your chest.

you let out a sound of protest, a whine. your hand moved before you could think about it. finding the back of her neck, fingers slipping into soft blonde hair. you closed the distance again yourself. the breath alexia let out sounded suspiciously like a laugh then, no matter how shaky, but she followed your lead nonetheless.

The knock on your apartment door comes at 2:47 p.m. on a Thursday in June, which is already suspicious because nobody just shows up at your place.

You’ve spent your first season with the Seattle Torrent carefully building a reputation. Quiet, reliable on the ice, politely unavailable off it. You answer team texts just enough that no one worries, show up exactly when you’re supposed to, and disappear before anyone can convince you to come to brunch, karaoke, trivia night, or whatever chaotic bonding activity Hannah is currently trying to make happen.

Your teammates have mostly learned to read your absence as preference rather than rudeness, and you’ve been grateful for that.

So when you open the door and find Alex and Cayla standing in your hallway, Alex holding an actual physical invitation card and Cayla carrying a paper bag from your favorite Thai place, your first instinct is to wonder whose birthday you forgot.

“Before you say no,” Alex starts, which is never a good opening, “just listen.”

You lean against the doorframe, barefoot in joggers and an old Torrent practice shirt. “That depends on what I’m saying no to.”

Cayla lifts the bag. “We come in friendship, peace, and excellent noodles.”

“That’s manipulative.”

“It’s thoughtful,” Cayla says, smiling. “There’s a difference.”

Alex holds up the card. “Also, this isn’t an ambush.”

“You’re both at my apartment uninvited with food and stationery.”

“Okay,” Alex says. “It’s a gentle ambush.”

“You’re not dying, right?” you ask, because that’s the only reason you can imagine for this level of effort. “Nobody’s dying?”

“Nobody’s dying,” Alex confirms, laughing. “Can we come in? This is weird to do in the hallway.”

You step aside because you’re not actually rude, just private, and there’s a difference you’ve spent years trying to make people understand.

They file into your small living room. It’s neat and minimal, decorated in a way that suggests someone lives here but doesn’t particularly want to be perceived while doing it. Alex drops onto the couch like she’s done it a hundred times. Cayla takes the armchair, leaving you to perch on the coffee table like this is an intervention.

“So,” Cayla says, voice soft but bright. “It’s Pride Month.”

Your stomach does something complicated.

You came out four months ago, in February, during a team meeting you’d requested with shaking hands and a prepared statement you’d rewritten seventeen times. Non-binary. They/them pronouns. You’d expected awkward questions, maybe a few stumbles, maybe the usual learning curve.

What you got was immediate acceptance.

Alex squeezed your shoulder hard enough to bruise. Hilary nodded like you’d just told her something completely obvious and said, “Thank you for trusting us.” Jessie asked quietly if there was anything specific you wanted changed right away. Hannah made a note in her phone on the spot, like proper pronouns were as important as a forecheck adjustment.

The team adjusted faster than you did. Rosters were updated, media guides corrected, and everyone moved forward like it was the easiest thing in the world.

You kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It never did.

Except now it’s Pride Month, and Alex and Cayla are in your living room with Thai food and an agenda.

“We want to do something,” Alex says, using the voice she uses when she’s trying to sound casual and absolutely is not. “For you. To celebrate you.”

“I don’t need—”

“We know you don’t need it,” Cayla says gently. “But we want to. If you’ll let us.”

Alex holds out the invitation card.

It’s beautiful. Cream cardstock, subtle rainbow foil around the edge, your name written in careful calligraphy.

You take it because refusing would somehow be more awkward than accepting.

You’re invited to a Pride celebration dinner In honor of your courage and authenticity Saturday, June 13th, 7 p.m.

Your throat tightens before you can stop it.

Alex must see the panic on your face because she immediately sits forward. “It’s just dinner. Small. Private room. Good food. People who love you. Nobody you don’t know.”

“No speeches,” Cayla adds.

Alex pauses.

You narrow your eyes. “Alex.”

“One tiny toast.”

“No.”

“One very short, heartfelt toast.”

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s already written.”

You stare at her.

Cayla pats your knee. “I tried to stop her.”

“No, you didn’t,” Alex says.

“I thought about it emotionally.”

Despite yourself, you almost smile.

Alex softens when she sees it. “It’s not about making you the center of attention in a way that feels awful. It’s about letting us show you that we’re proud of you. That’s all.”

You look down at the invitation again. Your name looks strange there, written so carefully. Like something worth celebrating.

That’s the part that gets you.

“Who’s coming?” you ask quietly.

“Me, Cayla, Hilary, Jessie, Hannah, Emily, Megan, CJ, and you,” Alex says.

“That’s nine.”

Alex pauses. “Okay, nine.”

Cayla turns to her. “This is why we don’t let forwards do math.”

“I score goals,” Alex says. “I don’t count chairs.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself.

Cayla’s expression turns softer. “Everyone there wants to be there. Not because they have to. Because they care about you.”

You swallow hard.

You could say no. If you really said no, they’d cancel it. They’d understand. They’d bring noodles and sit on your floor instead.

Somehow, that makes you want to try.

“Okay,” you hear yourself say.

Alex lights up. Cayla’s smile goes soft and proud.

“But if there’s a cake with my face on it, I’m leaving.”

“No face cake,” Alex promises.

“No spotlight,” Cayla adds. “Just dinner.”

“And maybe one toast,” Alex says.

You point at her. “I’m still deciding whether to shut that down.”

“Fair.”

They stay for another hour, eating Thai food on your couch and talking about normal things. Alex’s apartment search. Cayla’s terrible luck with plants. Hannah’s newest attempt to convince everyone that themed team karaoke would be “good for morale.” By the time they leave, you’ve almost forgotten to be anxious.

Almost.

Saturday arrives with the inevitability of a penalty shot.

You wake up at six even though dinner isn’t until seven at night, your body fully committed to betraying you with nervous energy. You go for a run, shower, and then stand in front of your closet like you’re preparing for a playoff game instead of dinner with friends.

Friends who planned a whole thing.

In your honor.

Because you came out.

You try on three shirts, reject all of them, then circle back to the first one because apparently personal growth has limits. You settle on dark jeans and a deep green button-up. After a minute, you add the small enamel Pride pin Cayla gave you last month. Subtle rainbow stripes. Small enough that you have to look for it.

In the mirror, you look like yourself.

That should be comforting.

Instead, it makes your chest feel full and strange.

They’re celebrating you being yourself, which implies that being yourself is worth celebrating. That’s still a concept you’re learning how to believe.

Your phone buzzes.

Alex: “Picking you up at 6:30. Wear something nice but comfortable. And breathe.” Cayla: “It’s going to be good. We’ve got you. Also, Alex has been told not to over-toast.”

You stare at the messages for a long moment.

Then you text back.

You: “See you at 6:30.”

You spend the next hour pacing, drinking half a glass of water, changing your socks for no reason, and telling yourself that this is fine.

By the time Alex’s car pulls up, you’re only about sixty percent convinced.

Alex is exactly on time, because of course she is. Cayla’s in the passenger seat, and when you slide into the back, they both turn to look at you.

“You look great,” Alex says.

“You look terrified,” Cayla adds.

“Both can be true,” you manage, buckling your seatbelt.

The drive takes twenty minutes in Saturday evening traffic. You watch Seattle pass by outside the window. Pride flags hang from storefronts and apartment balconies. Rainbow decals brighten coffee shop windows. The city feels dressed up for celebration, loud, colorful, and unashamed.

It’s beautiful.

It’s also a lot.

“How many people again?” you ask, even though they already told you.

“Nine including you,” Alex says immediately.

Cayla looks impressed. “Look at that. Growth.”

“I can learn.”

“Debatable,” Cayla says.

You smile despite yourself.

The restaurant appears too quickly. Alex parks and turns off the engine, but nobody moves right away.

“You can still back out,” Alex says softly. “If you really can’t do this, we’ll turn around. We’ll get burgers, go back to your place, and pretend we never attempted personal growth.”

Cayla nods. “Zero judgment.”

You could. You really could.

But you think about the card on your coffee table. About your name in careful calligraphy. About the way your teammates learned your pronouns like it mattered, because to them, it did.

You take a breath.

“I’m good,” you say.

This time, you almost mean it.

“Let’s go.”

The private dining room is on the second floor, tucked away from the main restaurant.

Alex leads the way up the stairs. Cayla walks behind you like a very calm bodyguard. When Alex opens the door, you stop breathing for a second.

The room is warm and bright, with soft lights, a long table set for everyone, and Pride decorations that feel celebratory without being overwhelming. Small rainbow flags sit in the centerpieces. The napkins are Pride colors. A banner along one wall reads Celebrate Authenticity in elegant script.

It’s sweet.

It’s thoughtful.

It’s terrifying.

Then Hilary starts clapping.

“There they are!” she calls, grinning as everyone turns toward you. “Our guest of honor has arrived.”

“Don’t call me that,” you say immediately.

“Too late,” Hannah says. “It’s already your title for the night.”

Everyone is smiling, and your face is burning, but it’s not awful. Maybe because nobody looks like they’re waiting for you to perform. They just look happy you came.

Hilary reaches you first and pulls you into a warm hug. “Proud of you,” she says quietly, just for you. Then louder, “Also, we were waiting on you to order appetizers, so really, this is a team nutrition issue.”

That makes you laugh.

Jessie hugs you next. “You look good.”

“I spent way too long choosing this shirt.”

“It was worth it.”

Emily grins as she squeezes your shoulder. “The pin is perfect.”

Megan gives you a quick side hug and says, “We put you between Alex and Cayla so you can’t escape.”

“That feels illegal.”

“Team strategy.”

CJ lifts their water glass from the table. “For the record, I voted for escape routes. Goalies understand exits.”

“Thank you, CJ.”

“You’re welcome.”

By the time you sit down between Alex and Cayla, the sharpest edge of your anxiety has softened. The menu is already set, which is a relief because making decisions feels impossible. Alex notices and nudges your shoulder gently.

“See? No stress.”

“You’re the stress.”

“I’m also the ride home, so be nice.”

Hannah raises her glass. “Are we doing toasts? I feel like we’re doing toasts.”

“We’re not doing toasts,” you say quickly.

Alex lifts her glass.

You turn to her in betrayal. “You promised tiny.”

“It’s tiny,” she says. “Emotionally large, but verbally tiny.”

Cayla leans in. “That’s the best you were going to get.”

Everyone raises their glasses, and you pick yours up, trying not to look like you want to hide behind the centerpiece.

Alex clears her throat. “To our teammate and our friend. Thank you for trusting us with more of who you are. You make this team better by being exactly yourself, on the ice and off it. We’re proud of you, we love you, and we’re really glad you’re here.”

Your throat goes tight.

“To authenticity,” Cayla says softly.

“To authenticity,” everyone echoes.

You clink glasses. Your hand shakes a little, but nobody points it out.

The food starts arriving, and slowly, the night becomes less about being watched and more about being included. Jessie tells a story about getting lost in Seattle during her first week and accidentally ending up at a dog adoption event. Hannah announces that this is fate and the team should adopt a mascot immediately. Emily says the team already has Hannah. CJ nearly chokes on their water laughing.

Megan talks about how strange and exciting it felt to be part of a new team in a new market. Hilary tells a story from her first year in professional hockey that makes the whole table go quiet, then laugh, then quiet again in the good way. Alex keeps stealing fries off Cayla’s plate even though she has her own.

You find yourself talking more than usual.

Not a lot. Not suddenly becoming a different person. But enough.

You answer questions. You make jokes. You tell them about the first time someone used your correct pronouns in public and how you thought about it for three days afterward. You admit that the team adjusting so quickly scared you at first because you kept waiting for it to get difficult.

“It was never difficult,” Jessie says simply. “It was just you.”

That almost undoes you.

Cayla squeezes your knee under the table.

Hannah points her fork at you. “Also, for the record, anyone who made it difficult would’ve had to answer to me.”

“And me,” Alex says.

“And me,” Emily adds.

CJ smiles sweetly. “And I have goalie gear. Very intimidating.”

You laugh, and it comes out easier than you expected.

Somewhere between the second and third course, Megan looks over at you. “Can I ask something? You can tell me to shut up if it’s too personal.”

You tense a little, but nod.

“What made you decide to come out to the team?”

The table quiets, but not in a scary way. Everyone just listens.

You set down your fork, thinking.

“I was tired,” you say finally. “Of editing myself. Of using the wrong pronouns in my own head. Of feeling like I was lying every time someone assumed something about me.”

You pause.

“And I figured if I couldn’t be myself with the people I trust on the ice, then what was the point? Hockey matters. But it’s not worth disappearing for.”

For a moment, nobody says anything.

Then Hilary nods. “That’s brave.”

“It didn’t feel brave.”

“Most brave things don’t,” she says.

The conversation moves on after that, but something in your chest settles.

Not completely.

But enough.

Halfway through dessert, which is thankfully a shared selection of tiny plates and not a cake with your face on it, you excuse yourself.

The bathroom is down a short hallway. You take your time washing your hands, staring at yourself in the mirror.

Your eyes are a little red. Your face is flushed. You look overwhelmed, happy, and scared all at once.

When you step back into the hallway, CJ is leaning against the wall.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “Just needed a minute.”

“It’s a lot,” they say. “Being celebrated.”

You lean against the wall beside them, shoulders almost touching. “How do people do this? The visibility thing.”

CJ smiles. “Carefully. And sometimes badly.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“I’m very inspirational.”

You huff a laugh.

They turn towards you a little. “You don’t have to become loud just because people see you now. You don’t have to turn into a spokesperson. You don’t have to make every part of yourself available for public consumption.”

You look down at your shoes.

“Tonight isn’t about pushing you into the spotlight,” they continue. “It’s about reminding you that you’re allowed to take up space. Quietly, loudly, privately, publicly, however you want. You get to decide.”

Your throat feels tight again. “What if being me is quiet and private and kind of boring?”

“Then that’s perfect,” CJ says immediately. “You don’t owe anyone a performance. Quiet and private is still real. It’s still brave.”

You blink fast.

“Thank you,” you say.

“Always.” They bump your shoulder. “Now come on. Hannah is trying to convince everyone to go dancing after this, and I need you to help me pretend we’re too responsible.”

“You are too responsible.”

“I know. It’s tragic.”

You laugh, surprised by how light it feels, and follow them back inside.

The dinner winds down slowly.

The check is handled before you can even think about reaching for your wallet.

“Already taken care of,” Alex says when you protest.

“You can’t just pay for my celebration dinner.”

“I can, actually. I just did.”

“That’s obnoxious.”

“That’s leadership.”

Hilary hugs you before she leaves. “I’m proud of you,” she says. “Not just for coming out. For letting people show up for you.”

Jessie squeezes your hand and says, “Really glad you’re here.”

Hannah gives you a dramatic hug and tells you that next time you’re coming to karaoke for at least one song.

“No.”

“One chorus.”

“No.”

“Backup vocals?”

“Maybe.”

She gasps like you’ve handed her a championship trophy.

Emily tells you the banner was Alex’s idea but the calligraphy was Jessie’s. Megan says the group chat is already full of pictures. CJ promises they’ll send you only the flattering ones, then immediately admits they can’t promise that because Hannah has no filter.

By the time everyone leaves, your face hurts from smiling.

Then it’s just you, Alex, and Cayla in the parking lot under the June evening sky. The sunset paints everything gold and pink, and for once, the quiet doesn’t feel like hiding.

It just feels peaceful.

“That wasn’t so bad, right?” Alex asks, unlocking the car.

“It was terrible,” you say. “I hated every minute.”

Cayla snorts. “Liar.”

You smile. “Maybe.”

The drive back to your apartment is quiet in the comfortable way. Alex keeps the music low. Cayla hums along softly from the passenger seat. Outside, Pride flags blur past in the city lights.

When Alex pulls up to your building, you don’t get out right away.

“Thank you,” you say, voice rougher than you meant it to be. “Really. I know I’m not good at this stuff. Being celebrated. Letting people care. But it meant a lot.”

Alex turns around in her seat, her expression warm. “You don’t have to be good at it. You just have to let us keep trying.”

“You’re stuck with us,” Cayla adds. “No take-backs.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It’s a promise,” Alex says.

You flip them off affectionately, which makes them both laugh.

Inside your apartment, everything is exactly how you left it. Quiet. Neat. Safe.

But tonight, it doesn’t feel empty.

Your phone buzzes before you even get your shoes off.

Pictures from dinner. A group chat thread full of hearts, rainbow emojis, and Hannah already campaigning for karaoke. Jessie sends a photo of the invitation sitting beside your dessert plate. CJ sends one where you’re laughing at something Alex said, head tilted back, eyes bright.

You stare at that one for a long time.

You look happy.

Not overwhelmed. Not cornered. Not like someone trying to disappear.

Happy.

The invitation card is still on your coffee table where you left it that morning.

In honor of your courage and authenticity.

Maybe they’re right.

Maybe being yourself, quiet, private, careful, and still figuring it out, is enough. Maybe you don’t have to be loud to be seen. Maybe being seen by the right people is what counts.

You tuck the invitation into the drawer of your nightstand where you keep important things.

Someday, you think, you’ll look back at this night and remember what it felt like to be celebrated exactly as you are.

For now, you change into comfortable clothes, make tea, and settle onto the couch. Your phone keeps buzzing with messages from your team, your friends, your chosen family.

This time, you don’t ignore them.

You answer.

Being seen is still terrifying.

“Let’s go to bed” she whispered in your ear. It wasn’t often that you needed to stray further than the couch for things to go further, but you knew exactly what Leah was after when she suggested that.

You picked the blonde up, feeling her legs wrap around your waist as you dragged the two of you up the stairs and into bed, kicking your bedroom door behind you. Leah had gotten onto the bed, trying to bite back a giggle at how easy it was her for to get her own way with you. Meanwhile, you went to your drawer to get what you needed out of it as Leah smirked at what it was exactly that you were taking out.

You got everything ready while your friend that you regularly had sex with put music on, blaring it loudly from your TV. The routine was just so natural to you both by now. You’d start slowly, just teasing and toying, before it would get a bit more intense.

“What’s up?” Katie huffed loudly, unlocking your front door and stepping inside, out of the pouring rain.

Katie knew Leah was here, she’d seen her car outside, but you and Leah had been seeing each other for so long now, nobody barely batted an eyelid anymore.

“Where are ye?” Katie shouted a little louder. When your sister got no answer again, but heard the TV blaring from the living room, she presumed the two of you were in there.

“I’m just goin’ up to grab a spare hoodie, mine’s soaked” Katie called into the empty living room.

She thundered up stairs, the noise of your bed frame banging off the wall being completely drowned out by the noise of the TV as well as the noise of music coming from your room.

“Fuck, don’t stop” Leah moaned.

“God, I wouldn’t dream of it” you groaned back.

Leah’s hands were squeezing your shoulders and she was just about to fall off cliff’s edge, when your bedroom door swung open.

“Oh my god” Katie stuttered loudly, falling backwards and slamming off the wall outside your bedroom as you scrambled to get off and out of Leah.

“Ow” Katie whined.

“What the fuck?” You shouted from inside the bedroom, thankfully your duvet covering the both of you.

“Don’t act like this is more traumatic for ye than it is for me” Katie shouted back.

She was still not in your eye line due to happily taking comfort in the hallway and not having to look at you fucking her teammate. You got up and dressed quickly, waltzing outside to your sister and closing the door to give Leah some privacy.

“Are ye actually serious right now?” You groaned, knowing she’d interrupted at the worst possible moment for Leah.

“I thought when I heard the TV on that ye were downstairs” Katie tried to explain.

“I just needed a hoodie” she shrugged.

Katie had walked in on you more times than you could count by this stage, which was one of the main reasons you moved out of her house. This was the first time however, that you and her knew the name of the girl that was naked in your bed.

“Ye can’t just walk into my bedroom when-”

“Please” Katie gagged, clutching her mouth. “I actually feel sick after seein’ that” she dramatically hunkered over, placing her hands on her knees.

“Ye didn’t even see anythin’” you frowned, pushing her away so hard that she almost toppled over.

“Hey!” She grumbled, attempting to push you back, but you stood backwards, away from her hands reach. It always annoyed Katie how fast your reflexes were, and had been since you were old enough to fight with each other.

“What do ye need? A hoodie?” You asked, opening the door again and stepping back into the room.

Leah was lying under the covers and scrolling on her phone. You gave the girl an apologetic look and stuck up your pointer finger to let her know you’d be back to finish her in a minute.

“Uh, yeah” Katie nodded, not making any type of effort to look into the room.

“Here” you mumbled, throwing her one of your hoodies. “Just give me five minutes” you added.

“No, ye cannot be serious right now” Katie sternly looked at your smirking expression.

“Five minutes, max” you repeated, closing the door and twisting the lock as Katie nearly gagged, sprinting downstairs and turning the TV up louder.

“Five minutes? Romantic” Leah sighed playfully.

“Don’t think ye will need more than that, do ye?” you shrugged, still smirking at the older girl.

“Prove it” she bit back, tugging you back in to bed and taking the top you’d put back on straight back off you.

Katie 💕

Remind me to never come to Y/n’s house

Ever again

Cait 😍

What happened???

Ellaaaaaa

Bahahahahaha Y/n just text me

The light of a Barcelona morning filtered through the sheer curtains of your shared home. You were already awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling that familiar match day adrenaline settling into your veins.

Alexia wasn’t asleep either. She rarely was on mornings like this.

You turned your head to find her sitting up at the edge of the bed, her back to you. She was perfectly still, her hands resting on her knees as she ran through her mental visualization a quiet, ritual she performed before every single fixture.

"You're overthinking," you said softly, your voice slightly raspy from sleep.

Alexia glanced over her shoulder. An unguarded smile touched her lips. "I’m not overthinking. I’m preparing. Chelsea’s pivot is going to be aggressive today."

"And we’re going to dismantle them, just like we practiced," you replied, pushing yourself up to lean against the headboard. "Come here. Stop stressing before you haven't even had your coffee."

She sighed, a quiet sound of surrender, and crawled back across the bed. She settled against your side, resting her head on your shoulder. You automatically reached up, your fingers threading through her hair, massaging her scalp. For these brief twenty minutes, before the alarms went off and the club’s itinerary dictated your every move, she wasn’t the legendary captain of FC Barcelona, and you weren't the starting winger. You were just you.

"Sleep well?" she asked, her voice vibrating against your collarbone.

"Like a rock," you lied seamlessly. In truth, you’d been restless. The Champions League quarter-finals always brought a different kind of pressure, a heavier weight to carry.

Alexia tipped her head up, catching your eye. She knew you too well to buy the act, but she didn’t press. Instead, she pressed a brief kiss to your jaw. "We leave in forty minutes. Let’s get up."

The drive to the Estadi Johan Cruyff was a masterclass in shifting dynamics. In the confines of Alexia's car,her hand rested comfortably on your thigh, her thumb sketching idle patterns against the fabric of your club tracksuit. The radio hummed with a low tempo indie playlist. But the closer you got to the stadium, the more the atmosphere inside the car transformed.

The soft, affectionate girlfriend beside you slowly faded, replaced by the fierce leader. By the time she pulled into the players' parking garage, her hand had retreated to the steering wheel, her posture rigid and alert.

"Ready?" Alexia asked, cutting the engine.

"Always," you nodded.

You walked into the stadium together, but the professional distance was already established. The locker room was a sensory overload of organized disorder.

Ewa was quietly lacing up her boots across the room, while Kika and Salma were sharing a joke, their laughter cutting through the underlying tension.

You found your locker, right between Patri and Caro, and immediately got to work. You pulled on your match kit, adjusting the Blaugrana fabric before sitting down to tape your ankles.

Alexia was across the room. You watched her out of the corner of your eye as she strapped on her shin guards. There was a gravity to her presence that anchored the entire squad. Whenever she spoke, the room naturally quieted down to listen.

Pere Romeu, walked in holding his tactical clipboard, his expression all business. The music was instantly killed.

"Alright, listen up," Pere’s voice projected clearly across the room. He walked up to the tactical board, tapping a marker against the midfield zone. "Chelsea is going to come out physical. They want to disrupt our rhythm early, press high, and force errors in the transition. We do not let them dictate the pace. One-two touches. Keep the ball moving. YN—"

You looked up, meeting his eye.

" I want you finding that pocket of space behind their left-back. Make them chase you. Exploit the width."

"Understood," you confirmed, nodding firmly.

Pere ran through the final set piece assignments and defensive duties. When he finished, he stepped back, yielding the floor to the captain.

Alexia stood up. She grabbed the Senyera armband from her locker, sliding it up her left bicep with a practiced, fluid motion. She looked around the room, her gaze sharp, assessing every single player. When her eyes locked onto yours, there was no softness only a shared understanding of what was required today.

"This is our pitch," Alexia said, her voice steady. "They flew a long way to try and take our momentum. We don’t give them an inch. We play our game, we protect each other, and we leave everything on the grass. Let’s go."

A collective shout echoed through the room as the team surged to their feet.

The air in the concrete tunnel was cooler, thick with anticipation. You bounced on the balls of your feet, shaking out your hamstrings, keeping your muscles warm. Beside you, the Chelsea players lined up, their expressions equally stoic. You didn't look at them. Your focus was locked on the rectangle of bright stadium lights at the end of the tunnel.

Just before the referee blew the whistle to lead the teams out, Alexia walked down the line, giving high fives and final words of encouragement to the starting eleven. When she reached you, she didn't offer a high-five. Instead, she grabbed the back of your neck with a firm grip that sent a jolt of reassurance straight through your system.

"Cabeza fría," (Cool head) she instructed.

"Always," you repeated your morning mantra, offering a sharp nod.

She let go, jogging up to the front of the line to lead the team out.

You took a deep breath, air filling your lungs, and stepped out onto the pitch.

From the opening minute, the tempo was suffocating. Chelsea had clearly flown to Catalonia with a mission to disrupt, bringing a gritty, physical edge that aimed to fracture Barcelona’s famous possession game. They pressed high and tackled hard, leaving bruises on ankles and allowing precious little time on the ball.

Patri operated neutralizing the English counter attacks and swiftly distributing the ball to Aitana. Whenever the midfield felt congested, Alexia was there, dropping deep to receive the ball, shielding it with her body, and orchestrating the transitions with a calm precision.

You were stationed out wide on the left flank, executing exactly what Pere had demanded. In the twenty-second minute, you received a cross-field pass from Mapi. You trapped it cleanly on your chest, dropping it to your feet in one fluid motion. The Chelsea right-back was on you instantly, breathing down your neck, but you dropped your shoulder, feinted inward, and accelerated down the touchline. You cut a dangerous ball back into the box for Salma, whose shot deflected off the crossbar.

The crowd groaned, then immediately erupted into supportive applause. You jogged back to your position, catching Alexia’s eye. She offered a quick, approving nod.

It happened in the forty-first minute. The score was still nil-nil. Chelsea’s goalkeeper launched a desperate clearance kick down the pitch to relieve pressure. The ball arced high into the sky, hovering in that dangerous, ambiguous territory between the midfield line and your defensive third.

It was a classic fifty-fifty ball. You tracked its flight path, sprinting diagonally to intercept it before the opposing center-back could establish dominance.

You kept your eyes glued to the ball, timing your jump. You launched yourself, fully committed, angling your body to flick the header toward Aitana.

You never even saw the Chelsea defender coming.

She was running at full momentum from your blind spot, equally committed to the aerial duel. Instead of meeting the ball, her forehead collided with the side of your skull, right above your temple.

The sound was sickening a crack that seemed to echo even over the chanting fans.

Your brain rattled against your skull, short circuiting your motor functions mid-air. You couldn't brace yourself for the landing. You plummeted awkwardly, and the back of your head whipped back, slamming against the ground with a secondary hit.

Then, everything went blindingly white.

When your consciousness flickered back, the world was fundamentally wrong. The vibrant, roaring stadium had been replaced by a muffled underwater sensation. A high pitched ringing shrieked in your ears, drowning out everything else.

You tried to sit up, a pure instinct to keep playing, but your body refused to obey. Your limbs felt heavy, pinned to the grass by an invisible weight. A wave of nausea rolled through your stomach, making you gag weakly.

Shadows blocked out the stadium floodlights. Hands were on you pressing against your shoulders, holding your neck completely still.

"YN. YN, do not move. Stay exactly where you are."

The voice belonged to the head team physician, though her words sounded warped. She was shining a penlight into your eyes. You groaned, trying to squeeze your eyes shut and weakly swat her hand away, but someone else caught your wrist.

You forced your eyes open, fighting through the blurry double vision.

Alexia was kneeling right beside the doctor.

Her face was pale, a stark contrast to the sweat glistening on her forehead. Her eyes were wide with panic as she looked down at you.

"Ale..." you tried to speak, but your tongue felt thick and uncoordinated. The word came out as a slurred mumble.

"Estoy aquí," (I'm here) she said immediately, her voice trembling slightly. "No te muevas, por favor. Stay still."

"The stretcher is coming," the doctor announced, her tone urgent. "Pupils are unequal. We need her off the pitch now."

"I can walk," you mumbled stubbornly, your competitive drive trying to override the trauma. You attempted to move, but the moment you moved your head, the stadium spun in a nauseating carousel. You choked back a sob, the pain finally registering a splitting, blinding agony radiating from your temple down to your jaw.

"Hey. Hey, look at me," Alexia urged, leaning her face into your narrow field of vision to block out the dizzying lights and the medical staff. "You are not walking anywhere. Just breathe. Look at me."

You focused on her eyes, anchoring yourself to her while the medics swiftly maneuvered the rigid backboard next to you. The crowd was eerily silent now, a collective, held breath sweeping through the thousands of fans in the stands.

As the medical team braced your neck and began to lift you onto the stretcher, the shift in gravity sent another wave of vertigo crashing over you. You squeezed Alexia’s hand weakly.

She walked alongside the stretcher as they began to wheel you toward the tunnel, refusing to let go until the fourth official physically stepped in her path, reminding her that the match had to continue.

Alexia stopped at the edge of the touchline. You caught one last, blurry glimpse of her standing rigid, watching you disappear into the medical tunnel before she was forced to turn around and step back onto the pitch without you.

———

Consciousness returned to you in fractured, disorienting segments.

First came the smell a sterile blend of antiseptic and something you couldnt place that instantly informed you that you were no longer within the familiar concrete walls of the Estadi Johan Cruyff. Then came the physical sensations an IV needle taped securely into the back of your hand, and a persistent throbbing that hammered relentlessly against the inside of your skull with every beat of your heart.

When you finally managed to pry your eyes open, you immediately regretted it. Even the dim lighting of the room felt like staring directly into the sun. You let out a groan, squeezing your eyelids shut as a fresh wave of nausea rolled through your stomach.

"Shh, slow down. Don't force it."

The voice was incredibly soft, hovering just near your right ear.

You tried again, opening your eyes just a fraction. The blurry silhouette sitting in the plastic chair beside your bed slowly sharpened into focus.

Alexia.

She looked exhausted. Her dark hair was wet and unbrushed, indicating she had taken the fastest post match shower in recorded history. She was dressed in her standard club-issued travel tracksuit and her posture was slumped in a way she never allowed anyone outside of your home to witness.

"Hey," you managed to croak, your throat feeling like it was coated in sandpaper.

Alexia let out a breath that sounded close to a sob. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the edge of the bed, and carefully took your free hand in both of hers. She pressed her lips against your knuckles, lingering there for a longtime as if she needed the physical proof of your pulse against her mouth.

"Hi," Alexia whispered, her voice filed with emotion. She kept her tone hushed, entirely mindful of your pounding head . "How is the pain?"

"Like Patri kicked a football directly into my brain," you mumbled, attempting a weak smile.

Alexia didn’t laugh. "It wasn't a joke, YN. I thought... when you didn't move..." She trailed off, swallowing hard, unable to finish the sentence. The image of you plummeting to the ground on loop in her head.

"I'm okay," you tried to reassure her, squeezing her fingers weakly. "Who won?"

A ghost of a smile finally touched her lips, though her eyes remained shadowed with worry. "We did. 2-0. Salma found the back of the net in the second half, and a converted penalty. We secured the semi-final spot."

"Good," you breathed out, the relief making you sink deeper into the hospital pillows. "Good."

Before Alexia could respond, the door of the room opened. The doctor stepped inside, holding a digital tablet. She offered a sympathetic smile upon seeing you awake.

"Welcome back," the physician said quietly, approaching the foot of the bed. "How are the nausea and the light sensitivity holding up?"

"Both terrible," you admitted honestly, shifting uncomfortably.

"I expected as much," She nodded, tapping a few notes into her screen. "The MRI came back clear of any cranial fractures or internal hemorrhaging, which is the best news we could hope for. However, you sustained a severe Grade 3 concussion. The secondary impact with the ground did the most damage."

You felt Alexia’s grip tighten around your hand.

"What's the timeline?" you asked, the competitive anxiety already starting to bubble up beneath the brain fog. "A week? Ten days? The semi-finals are in three weeks."

The doctor exchanged a brief look with Alexia before turning her attention back to you. The pity in her eyes made your stomach sink.

"Absolutely not," the doctor stated firmly, dismantling your hopes in two words. "YN, you suffered significant trauma. The standard protocol for a Grade 3 requires absolute cognitive and physical rest. That means no screens, no reading, no bright lights, and certainly no elevated heart rate. For the first two weeks, you are effectively on strict bed rest in a dark room."

"Two weeks?" you repeated, your voice pitching up in disbelief. "I can't just lay in the dark for two weeks. I'll lose my match fitness completely."

"If you attempt to rush this, you risk Post-Concussion Syndrome, which could sideline you for the entire season, if not longer," She warned, her tone leaving zero room for negotiation. "After two weeks, we will re-evaluate. Only if you are entirely asymptomatic will we begin light activity. Realistically? You are looking at a minimum of six to eight weeks before you even touch a football again."

The words hit you harder than the Chelsea defender had. Six to eight weeks. That meant missing the semi-finals. That meant potentially missing the final if the team made it. The latter half of the season was slipping through your fingers in the blink of an eye.

"But—" you started to argue, the frustration clawing at you.

"Basta," (Enough) Alexia interrupted gently but firmly. She reached up, cupping your cheek to stop you from shaking your head. "Escúchala. (Listen to her.) You are going to follow the plan to the letter. Football can wait. Your brain cannot."

You looked at Alexia, desperately wanting to argue, but her expression stopped you. She wasn't acting as your captain right now,she was acting as your partner, and she was terrified.

"We will discharge you in the morning once we manage the nausea," Te doctor concluded softly, sensing the emotional shift in the room. "Get some sleep, YN. The real work starts tomorrow."

As the doctor slipped out of the room, leaving the two of you alone the crushing reality of your diagnosis settled over you.The physical pain in your head was excruciating, but the mental agony of being benched, of being rendered entirely useless to the squad during the most critical phase of the season, was infinitely worse.

You closed your eyes, a tear of pure frustration slipping down your temple.

Alexia shifted her chair closer, the plastic legs scraping softly against the linoleum. She stood up, leaning over the bed to press a long tender kiss to your forehead, right beside the swelling of your injury.

"I know," Alexia murmured into your skin."I know how much it hurts. But I am bringing you home tomorrow, and I am going to take care of you. We will get through this. Te lo prometo." (I promise you.)

———

The transition from the hospital to the familiar sanctuary of your shared home in should have felt like a victory. Initially, you treated it exactly like one.

When Alexia guided you through the front door the following afternoon, her hand hovering protectively near your waist, you were fueled by the stubborn, blinding hubris of an athlete. Your entire life had been defined by overcoming physical adversity. Torn ligaments, muscle strains, hairline fractures you had conquered them all through grit and aggressive physiotherapy. You genuinely believed this would be no different.

"Two weeks in the dark, Ale. It’s practically a vacation," you had joked, lowering yourself onto the bed. Alexia had already drawn the blackout curtains.

She had paused, a glass of water in her hand, her expression a mix of fond exasperation and lingering anxiety. "It's not a vacation, YN. It’s sensory deprivation. And you have the attention span of a golden retriever. You're going to hate it."

"I heal fast," you had insisted, swallowing your prescribed anti nausea medication. "I'll be jogging by day ten. Watch me."

For the first forty-eight hours, your optimism held firm. The exhaustion from the trauma kept you sedated, drifting in and out of a heavy, dreamless sleep. But by day four, the initial shock to your system began to fade.

The reality of cognitive rest was agonizing. You couldn't read. You couldn't watch television. You couldn't listen to podcasts, because the mental processing required to follow a conversation triggered a pressure behind your eyes. Your existence was reduced to staring at the ceiling and waiting for Alexia to return.

By day six, the isolation began to curdle into severe cabin fever.

It was a Tuesday afternoon. Alexia was at training, preparing for the upcoming weekend fixture a league match that served as the final tune-up before the Champions League semi-finals.

You felt fine. Your headache had receded to a dull, manageable ache. The nausea was gone.

I'm fine, you convinced yourself, throwing off the blanket. I'm literally fine. The doctor is just being overly cautious.

Your phone was sitting on the dresser, banished there by Alexia to remove temptation. You stood up. The room tilted slightly, a momentary wave of vertigo washing over you, but you braced your hand against the nightstand and pushed through it. You walked over, grabbed the device, and climbed back into bed.

You just wanted to check the team group chat. You just wanted to feel connected to the outside world, to the squad you were supposed to be bleeding alongside.

You unlocked the screen. The brightness was turned down, but the blue light still hit your eyes painfully.You squinted, fighting the immediate sting, and opened your messages. There were dozens of texts videos from Kika, tactical updates from Pere, well-wishes from Mapi.

You started scrolling. Ten minutes passed. You watched a short clip of training, tracking the rapid movement of the ball across the screen.

Then, the backlash hit. And it was catastrophic.

It didn't ease in, it crashed over you like a tidal wave. A sharp spike of agony drove itself directly through your right temple, so intense it made you gasp out loud. Your phone slipped from your suddenly numb fingers, tumbling onto the bed.

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing the heels of your palms against your eyelids, but the darkness didn't help. The room felt like it was spinning. A rush of cold sweat broke out across the nape of your neck, followed immediately by a surge of bile rising in your throat.

You scrambled out of bed.You stumbled blindly toward the en-suite bathroom, your shoulder colliding hard with the doorframe. You collapsed onto the floor right beside the toilet, dry-heaving as the migraine turned into all consuming torment.

Every single throb of your pulse felt like a hammer striking an anvil inside your skull. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't think. The optimism that had armored you all week evaporated, leaving you defenseless against the realization that your brain was broken.

That was exactly how Alexia found you an hour later.

The front door opened downstairs."YN? Ya estoy en casa!" (I'm home!) she called out.

When you didn't answer, her footsteps hurried up the stairs. The bedroom door creaked open.

"YN?" she asked, her voice dropping as her eyes adjusted. She spotted your discarded phone on the bed, and then she heard the whimpers coming from the bathroom.

"Fuck," Alexia hissed.

She was beside you in seconds. She didn't turn on the bathroom light. She dropped to her knees on the tile, her hands immediately finding your trembling shoulders.

"Hey. Hey, I'm here," Alexia coaxed, her voice a low, steady rumble intended to pierce through your panic. She gently gathered you into her arms, pulling your back against her chest. "Breathe with me. In through your nose."

"It hurts," you sobbed, the tears leaking from your tightly squeezed eyes, entirely unable to regulate your emotions. The concussion had stripped away your emotional filters. "Ale, it hurts so bad. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"What did you do?" she asked, not with anger, but with a weary comprehension. She reached up with one hand, pressing her cool palm against your forehead.

"I just looked at my phone," you wept, your fingers digging into the fabric of her training shirt. "I just wanted to see the team. I felt fine. I swear I felt fine."

Alexia exhaled a long breath, burying her face into the curve of your neck. "You're not fine, mi amor. That's the whole point. Your brain doesn't know how to process the stimulus right now. You overloaded it."

"I can't do this," you cried, the frustration finally boiling over, eclipsing the physical pain. "I can't even look at a fucking screen for ten minutes, Ale! How am I supposed to play against Lyon? How am I supposed to play football ever again if reading a text message makes me want to throw up?"

"Stop," Alexia commanded softly, her arms tightening around you, effectively trapping you in a secure embrace. "Do not spiral. We are not talking about Lyon. We are not talking about football."

"I'm useless like this!" you practically shouted, immediately wincing as the volume of your own voice amplified the throbbing in your skull.

"No eres inútil," (You are not useless) Alexia corrected fiercely, shifting so she could press her cheek against yours. "Listen to me. You are injured. If you had torn your ACL, you wouldn't be trying to run sprints on day six, would you?"

You sniffled, shaking your head carefully against her shoulder.

"Exactly," she murmured. "This is an injury. It's just invisible. And because you can't see it, you're trying to cheat the healing process. But you can't out-stubborn a bruised brain, YN. You have to surrender to it."

The truth of her words settled over you, extinguishing the last defiant sparks of your denial. You slumped completely against her, the fight draining out of your limbs, leaving you exhausted and defeated.

"I hate this," you whispered brokenly. "I just want to be on the pitch with you."

"I know," Alexia said, her voice softening. She began to gently rub circles into your shoulders. "I hate it too. The pitch feels empty without you out there on the left wing. But I need you healthy for the rest of our lives, not just for the end of this season. Understand?"

You nodded weakly.

"Come on," she coaxed, carefully helping you stand. "Let's get you back into bed. I'm going to get you an ice pack for your neck, and I'm turning that damn phone off completely."

You didn't argue. The hubris was gone, completely shattered by the reality of the setback. As Alexia tucked you back beneath the heavy blanket, enveloping you in the dark, quiet safety of the room, you finally accepted the brutal truth the road back was going to be the hardest, slowest battle of your career.

———

The physical agony of the setback eventually receded, but in its wake, it left something far more worse.

By the end of the third week, the sharp, blinding spikes of pain had dulled into a manageable, persistent pressure at the base of your skull. The vertigo only flared when you stood up too fast. From a purely clinical standpoint, the doctor noted improvement.

But as the physical trauma subsided, the psychological erosion began.

Concussions are notorious for altering brain chemistry, severely disrupting the delicate balance of serotonin and dopamine. Coupled with the isolation and the abrupt theft of your identity as a professional athlete, the descent into depression wasn't just a possibility,it was an inevitability.

It didn't announce itself with tears or dramatics. It crept in like a heavy, suffocating fog, draining the color and purpose from your world until everything was reduced to a stagnant, exhausting grey.

The blackout curtains in the bedroom, once a necessary shield against the agonizing light, had morphed into the walls of a prison. Yet, you had no desire to open them. You stopped tracking the days. You stopped asking about the team. You stopped caring.

It was a Thursday afternoon. The squad was in the thick of the Champions League semi-finals. You knew this only because the calendar on the nightstand said so, not because you felt any connection to the event.

You were lying on your side, staring blankly at the subtle weave of the banket. You had been in that exact position for nearly four hours. You hadn't showered. You hadn't eaten the carefully prepped lunch Alexia had left in the fridge. The mechanics of swinging your legs over the edge of the bed felt like a monumental, impossible labor.

Who am I if I can't run? The thought looped endlessly in the sluggish quiet of your mind.

The front door unlocked downstairs.

She walked into the bedroom, hesitating for a second at the threshold.

"Hey," Alexia said softly. She didn't turn on the overhead lights, opting instead to leave the door cracked to let a sliver of hallway light spill across the floor.

You blinked slowly, shifting your gaze from the blanket to her. She was wearing her training gear, her hair pulled back into a messy bun. She looked vibrant. Alive. Anchored to the world in a way you no longer were.

"Hi," you murmured.

Alexia’s eyes scanned the room, inevitably landing on the untouched glass of water and the empty space where your lunch tray should have been. A expression of sadness tightened her features before she smoothed it away, replacing it with forced, gentle neutrality.

She walked over, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. She didn't crowd you. She reached out, her fingertips lightly tracing the curve of your shoulder.

"You didn't get up today," she observed quietly. It wasn't an accusation. It was a statement of fact, layered with quiet grief.

"I was tired," you replied, looking away from her. You weren't physically tired, you were drained of the will to exist.

Alexia sighed."YN, you have to eat something. Your brain needs fuel to repair the tissue. Let me heat up the soup."

"I'm not hungry, Ale. Just leave it."

"I can't just leave it," she pushed, her tone taking on a desperate edge. "You've barely spoken two words in the last three days. You stare at the wall. You don't even get angry anymore. I miss you being angry about the injury. This—" she gestured vaguely to your motionless form, "—this scares me."

Her honesty cut through the fog, but instead of sparking warmth or comfort, it only ignited a deep guilt. You were dragging her down. The legendary captain of Barcelona, in the most critical phase of her season, was coming home to babysit an empty shell of a partner.

"Then go back to the Ciutat Esportiva," you whispered, pulling the blanket slightly higher, curling tighter into yourself. "You shouldn't be here worrying about me. You have Lyon to focus on."

"Don't do that," Alexia countered immediately. "Do not push me away. Football is my job. You are my life. There is a massive difference."

She slid closer, entirely ignoring your defensive posture, and wrapped her arms around you. She pulled your back against her chest, burying her face into your unwashed hair. Her embrace was warm and solid, a stark contrast to the cold void expanding inside your chest.

"I feel like I'm drowning," you confessed into the dim room, the admission slipping out flat and emotionless. "I look at the ceiling, and I can't remember what it feels like to run. I can't remember what my own laugh sounds like. I'm just taking up space."

Alexia’s breath hitched against your neck. Her arms tightened around you , as if she could physically squeeze the despair out of you.

"You are healing," she whispered fiercely, though the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her own helplessness. "It is a long, ugly road, but you are not taking up space. You are surviving."

"I don't feel like I'm surviving," you replied, closing your eyes. "I feel like I'm already gone."

Alexia didn't have an answer for that. She couldn't offer a tactical adjustment to fix a bruised frontal lobe. She couldn't captain you out of depression.

So, she simply held you.

It was shortly after 3:00 AM when the numbness finally fractured.

The transition from apathetic void to suffocating panic didn't happen gradually. It was immediate jolting you out of a restless, fragmented sleep. Your chest seized, your lungs desperately grasping for oxygen that felt entirely out of reach. The walls of the bedroom suddenly felt claustrophobic, pressing inward, threatening to crush you beneath the weight of your own uselessness.

You scrambled out of bed, your movements erratic and uncoordinated. You didn’t want to wake Alexia she had a double training session in the morning as the squad prepared for the final stretch of the season.

You stumbled blindly into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you. You didn't dare turn on the overhead lights, relying only on the moonlight coming through the skylight.

You gripped the edges of the marble vanity. You forced yourself to look up into the mirror.

The reflection staring back was a stranger. You looked gaunt, the shadows under your eyes heavy. But your gaze was drawn, as it always was, to the jagged, pale scar cutting through your hairline just above your right temple. The physical proof of the impact. It was fully healed on the surface, but beneath the bone, the wreckage was still dictating your entire existence.

A hysterical sob tearing its way up your throat. I am haunting my own life.

You clamped a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound, your shoulders shaking. You had spent the last three weeks building a cage around your grief, trying to lock it away so you wouldn't become an unbearable burden to the woman sleeping in the next room. You were trying to be the silent patient. But the cage was failing. The hinges were snapping under the pressure of the depression.

You slid down the front of the vanity, your legs giving out until you hit the floor. You pulled your knees to your chest, burying your face in your arms, shaking uncontrollably as a full-blown panic attack consumed you.

The bathroom door opened.

"YN?"

Alexia stood in the doorway, her silhouette backlit by the faint glow of the hallway nightlight. She was wearing one of your big t-shirts, her hair sleep-tousled, but her posture was alert. She possessed an almost supernatural radar when it came to you,the moment you had slipped out of bed, she had woken up.

"Go back to sleep, Ale," you gasped, the words muffled against your knees. "Please. I just need a minute. Just give me a minute to get it together."

Alexia didn't leave. She stepped into the bathroom, quietly closing the door behind her to seal the two of you in the private sanctuary. She dropped to her knees on the cold tile, entirely ignoring the discomfort, and crawled the short distance to where you were huddled against the cabinetry.

"Look at me," she requested, her voice a low, soothing murmur.

"I can't," you wept, shaking your head frantically. "I can't, Ale. I'm trying so hard to hold it in. I'm trying to be strong so I don't ruin this season for you. If I let it out... if I let myself actually feel how much I've lost... I don't think I'll ever stop crying. I'll just fall apart completely."

Alexia came closer, eliminating the remaining distance between you. She reached out, her hands gently but firmly unwrapping your arms from your legs, dismantling your physical barricade.

"Then fall down," Alexia murmured, one hand coming up to hold the back of your head, mindful of the scars beneath. "Fall down, YN. Let the cage go. I will catch you. I will not let you hit the ground, I swear to God. Just please, let me have you. The real you. Even if she is broken right now."

The love in her voice was the final blow.

The cage shattered.

A wail tore from your lungs, a sound composed of pure heartbreak. You collapsed forward, burying your face into the crook of Alexia’s neck, your hands desperately fistfuling the fabric of her t-shirt. The apathy of the past three weeks was entirely washed away by a flood of grief. You cried for the lost matches, for the terrifying unreliability of your own brain, and for the isolating fear that you would never be the same player or person again.

She wrapped her arms securely around your trembling frame, pulling you against her chest. She rocked you gently on the bathroom floor, her lips pressed firmly against your temple, right beside the scar. She didn't tell you that everything was going to be fine or that you would be back on the pitch soon. She knew you were too smart to believe those lies right now.

Instead, she offered presence,unwavering presence.

"Llora, mi vida. Sácalo todo," (Cry, my life. Let it all out) she whispered into your hair, her own tears silently spilling down her cheeks and dropping onto your skin. "I've got you. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

You wept until your throat was raw, until your lungs ached, and until your tear ducts were entirely dry. For nearly an hour,Alexia sat on the hard bathroom tile in the middle of the night, holding you together while you fell apart.

When the sobs finally subsided you didn't pull away. You remained slumped against her, your cheek resting heavily over her heart, listening to the steady, rhythmic beat of it.

The depression hadn't miraculously vanished. The road to recovery was still going to be a uphill battle against an invisible enemy. But as Alexia gently stroked your back in the quiet darkness, the crushing isolation finally began to recede.

You had let go of the cage, and just as she had promised, she hadn't let you hit the ground.

———

The breakdown on the bathroom floor didn’t miraculously make you better. It didn't cure the lingering pressure behind your eyes or suddenly make you immune to the harsh glare of a television screen.

But it did lance the infection.

By surrendering to the grief, you stopped wasting your precious, limited mental energy on maintaining a facade. You stopped fighting the current and finally allowed Alexia to help you navigate the wreckage. And slowly the fog began to lift.

You started eating the meals she made without prompting. You began sitting on the back patio at dusk instead of staring at a blank ceiling. The doctor eventually cleared you for ten-minute walks, then twenty. By the time late May rolled around, the constant vertigo had faded into a distant memory, and your emotions had leveled out.

You were healing.

It was the evening of the Champions League Final.

You weren't in the starting eleven. You weren't even on the bench. But for the first time in nearly two months, you were inside a stadium.

The doctor had granted you clearance to travel with the squad under strict, non-negotiable conditions. You were currently seated in the glass- enclosed box high above the pitch, shielded from the worst of the acoustic assault. You wore customized, noise-canceling earplugs and a pair of dark sunglasses to filter the glare of the lights.

It was sensory management, but it meant you were there.

Down on the pitch, Barcelona was engaged in an absolute war against Lyon. The score was deadlocked at 1-1.

You gripped the padded armrests of your chair, your heart pounding frantically in your chest. Your body instinctively twitched with every tactical shift, your muscle memory desperate to join the fray. It was agonizing to watch them suffer through the physical toll of the match without you, but the despair that used to accompany that feeling was gone. It had been replaced by pride.

Especially when you watched her.

Alexia was a force of nature tonight. She was everywhere. She was playing like a woman possessed, carrying the weight of the crest and, you knew deep down, the weight of the last two months on her shoulders.

In the eighty-ninth minute, the breakthrough arrived.

Patri intercepted a sloppy clearance, immediately threading a needle-sharp pass through the midfield. Aitana dummied it, letting the ball roll perfectly into the path of Alexia's run.

Alexia didn't even take a touch to settle it. From the edge of the eighteen-yard box, she struck the ball with her left foot,a curling strike that bypassed the outstretched fingertips of the Lyon goalkeeper and buried itself cleanly into the top right corner of the net.

The stadium erupted.

Five minutes later, the referee blew the final whistle.

They had done it.

The post-match chaos was a blur of falling confetti, tears, and hardware. You waited patiently in the suite until the initial trophy lift was completed and the medical staff gave you the all-clear to descend to the pitch for the family celebrations.

The moment your feet touched the pitch, the sensory input was intense You kept your sunglasses on, navigating the sea of journalists, cameras, and celebrating families.

You didn't have to look for her for long.

Alexia was standing near the center circle, a flag draped over her shoulders, her hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. She was speaking to a reporter, but the moment her peripheral vision caught you weaving through the crowd, she abruptly stopped mid-sentence.

She offered the journalist a hasty apology and practically sprinted toward you.

She didn't care about the cameras tracking her every move. She didn't care about maintaining her public composure. Alexia crashed into you, her arms wrapping around your waist, lifting you an inch off the ground as she buried her face into your neck.

"You're here," she breathed out, her chest heaving against yours. "You're actually here."

"I wouldn't have missed this for the world," you laughed, wrapping your arms around her neck. "Ale, that goal... it was incredible. You were incredible."

Alexia set you back down on your feet, pulling back just enough to look at your face. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, scanning your features behind the tinted lenses of your glasses. She reached up, gently tracing the line of your jaw, her thumb brushing near the scar hidden beneath your hair.

"How is your head?" she asked, her voice dropping into that private, protective register meant only for you. "Is it too loud? Are the lights hurting you?"

"I'm okay," you promised softly, offering a genuine smile. And for the first time in eight weeks, it was the absolute truth. "I'm really okay."

Alexia let out a long exhale, the last of her anxiety finally dissipating.

She reached down, taking the Champions League winner's medal that hung around her own neck, she lifted it over her head and stepped forward, placing it gently around yours.

It rested against your chest. You reached up, touching it in surprise. "Ale, no. You earned this. You bled for this tonight."

"We earned this," Alexia corrected, her hands coming up to cup your cheeks. I played the minutes, YN. But you fought the hardest battle this season. You survived the dark. You came back to me."

Your throat tightened, a fresh wave of emotion pricking at the corners of your eyes. You looked at the woman who had sat on the bathroom floor with you, who had absorbed your grief, who had never once let you hit the ground.

"Next year," you whispered, leaning your forehead against hers, the promise hanging between you like an oath. "Next year, I'm going to be out there with you. We'll win it together."

"I know you will," Alexia murmured, her thumb brushing away a stray tear that slipped beneath your sunglasses.

She tilted her head, pressing her lips to yours in a slow tender kiss. The crowd roared in the background, the camera flashes popped, and the confetti continued to rain down around you.

“Leah,” she nodded at you, not offering a hand.

“Hi, um, I’m Y/N”. She just nodded at you again.

She hated you. You had barely said 4 words to the woman.

It had continued like that for months, the entire first half of the season was instructional grunts and huffs. It was strange really, you knew she could be lovely. You had seen it. How her guard fell with Beth and Katie, how she smiled and chatty away amicably to Jordan or Jen.

And then there was you.

“Beth, I don’t get it.” You huffed, flopping down onto your bed. It was an away match, you were cramped into some random hotel room.

“What don’t you get, pet?”

“Leah.” You would be lying if you didn’t find her incredibly attractive. But there was something about the scowl that seemed a permanent feature whenever you were around.

You had just come back from dinner. She had been chatting along perfectly fine with Viv and Daan, laughing and joking around. And then you appeared, putting your plate down and she froze up like a snowman. The conversation screeching to an uncomfortable halt. You don’t know if it would be more awkward to leave and save face or just stick it out.

“What about Leah?”

Beth knew all about Leah. Her propensity to become mute whenever you were around. Her very obvious and incredibly funny crush on you was only confirmed to the striker after she had managed to get her drunk and confess a month earlier.

“She hates me.” You whacked the bed beneath you for emphasis.

“She doesn’t.”

“She does.” You lifted your head, making eye contact with the blonde.

“She most definitely doesn’t hate you.”

“Oh so she just ices me out and glares at me ‘cos she’s just likes me so much?” You rolled your eyes, flopping back down.

“Something like that.” Beth smiled. “Why?” You knew that Beth was a shit-stirrer when she wanted to be, loving to be in the middle of all the gossip in the changing rooms.

You swallowed. “N-no reason.”

“Mm-ok.” Beth let the situation drop with too much ease.

Training the next day felt like running through wet cement. You’d barely slept, thoughts of Leah’s frozen expression at dinner looping in your brain like an annoying highlight reel. Beth had snored happily beside you, blissfully unaware of your 3 a.m. staring contest with the ceiling.

Leah was already on the pitch when you arrived - of course she was. Hair still damp from a shower, sleeves shoved haphazardly up her arms, pacing in that way she did when she was already three steps ahead of everyone else. She glanced up when you walked out.

And promptly looked straight back down.

You clenched your jaw. Brilliant.You were back to being a shadow she pretended not to see.

Warm-up runs were uneventful until a wayward pass from Jill sent the ball bouncing toward you and Leah at the same time. You went for it. She went harder.

Your shoulders collided, hard enough that you stumbled but caught yourself.

Hard enough that Leah’s eyes snapped to yours, wide, startled.

“Sorry,” you muttered, even though she’d definitely hit you harder than necessary.

“No, I-“ she cut herself off. “It’s fine.”

But she kept staring.

You could feel it, a weight between your ribs, too heavy and too light at the same time.

Throughout drills she was sharper with you than usual. Not unkind, just… keyed up. Touches too precise, challenges too firm, instructions rushed out like she was chasing something she didn’t know how to name.

At one point, when you moved past her in a possession game, her hand brushed your waist. A nothing touch. Barely there.

You felt it for minutes.

By the time training ended, your nerves were frayed.

You were tugging your jumper over your head in the changing room when Jordan called that tubs were open. Most players trickled out, chatter fading down the hallway. You lingered, fishing for your phone in your locker.

When you finally turned around, Leah was still there.

Alone.

Leaning against the far wall with her arms crossed, pretending to scroll her phone. Badly pretending. Her foot tapped the floor, too quick, too agitated.

You froze.

She looked up immediately.

Your breath caught in your throat.

You weren’t sure why.

“I, um,” she started, then stopped, lips pressing together like she’d lost the rest of the sentence on the way out.

You should’ve left. You should’ve given her an out, pretended you didn’t see the conflict on her face. But something in you tightened—some thread pulled taut from months of dodged glances and clipped words and that awful scowl she only ever reserved for you.

So you stayed.

“Did you… need something?” you asked carefully.

Leah sucked in a breath like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t. “No. Just … making sure everyone’s out.”

You raised a brow.

“I’m still here.”

“I know.” she said before she could stop herself.

Silence shook between you.

You could have sworn your own heartbeat echoed off the tiles.

She looked away first, staring at the floor. “I’m not—I don’t—” Her hand came up to pinch the bridge of her nose. “I don’t know how to talk to you.”

That startled something loose in your chest. “You talk to everyone else.”

“That’s the problem.”

You blinked. “How is that a problem?”

Her eyes met yours then, really met yours. And suddenly you understood why people called her captain before she’d ever worn the armband. There was an honesty in her gaze that stripped you down to the bone.

“Because when I talk to you,” she said quietly, “I forget how to be normal.”

Your breath hitched.

The room felt too small.

Too warm.

Too something.

“I don’t hate you,” she added, almost painfully. “I just … get weird. Around you. And then I make it worse. And then you think I hate you even more.”

You didn’t realise you’d stepped closer until her eyes flicked to your feet. She didn’t move away.

More silence.

Tighter this time.

Charged.

You swallowed. “You get weird around me?”

Her cheeks flushed a shade you’d never seen on her. “Apparently.”

A laugh bubbled up before you could stop it. “You’re telling me that I scare you?”

“…. Maybe.”

“I’m the scary one out of us two,” you giggled nervously. She was closer now, her hand almost touching yours.

Slowly, like she had all the time in the world, she lifted her hand, letting her fingers skin lightly over your cheek bone as she pushed some hair out of your face.

“Are you afraid of me?” Leah’s hands moved back, cradling the back of your head, her fingers twisting in your roots. She angled your head back, forcing you to look at her. You swallowed your eyes never leaving her lips.

“Yes.” you whispered back. Leah couldn’t help the slow smile that spread lazily across her face. “You are the most terrifying woman I have ever met.”

“Is that a good thing?” She was impossibly close, her smell flooding your senses.

You blinked. “Depends on how you define good,”

Leah tasted like honey. Like happiness. Her lips were rough yet perfectly soft as they slotted against yours.

Leah pulled back slowly, her hand still resting against the back of your head. For a moment, neither of you moved, the air thick with unspoken words. You could feel your pulse in your throat, in your fingertips, in the way your lungs seemed to hesitate to take in air. You had kissed her. And she had kissed you back.

She was the first to break the silence.

“Did that… was that…” Her voice was low, almost like she was trying to convince herself of something. “Did that feel weird?”

You chuckled softly, your breath still shaky. “Weird?”

“Yeah. Like… bad weird,” she said, her brow furrowing as if trying to piece together a puzzle that didn’t quite fit.

You shook your head, your hand coming up to touch your lips, feeling the residual warmth where she had just been. “No. No, it didn’t feel weird at all.”

Leah’s gaze softened, and she seemed to exhale for the first time since everything had shifted. She glanced down at her shoes, her fingers still gripping your hair just a little too tight, as if she wasn’t sure if she should let go.

You could feel the heat between you still, lingering, but now there was something else. It was as if the walls that had kept you apart for so long were finally crumbling, and neither of you knew exactly what came next.

Leah took a step back, but you didn’t let her go too far. Your hand reached out instinctively, brushing her arm, a silent plea for her to stay.

Her eyes flicked to yours, vulnerability evident in the way she held herself. "I’ve been… I’ve been wanting to do that for a while, you know?” she said quietly. "Or maybe I was hoping that maybe you would … figure it out, or whatever this is." She laughed awkwardly, clearly not entirely sure how to finish the sentence.

Your heart thudded in your chest. Hoping?

“Hoping for me?” You asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah, I-” She stopped, exhaling a deep breath. “I’ve been acting like an idiot for months. Trying to keep you at arm’s length when I was really just…” Leah clenched her jaw, her hands fidgeting at her sides. “I was terrified.”

“Of me?” you whispered, incredulous. You couldn’t understand it. She was this intimidating, confident woman, a captain, a leader, someone who seemed to have everything under control. And yet, here she was, telling you she’d been scared.

She nodded, her gaze avoiding yours. “I’ve never been scared of anyone before. Not like this.”

Your heart gave a little lurch in your chest. You reached for her again, this time more gently, brushing your thumb over her knuckles.

“Leah, you don’t have to be scared,” you said softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Leah’s gaze lifted, meeting yours again, this time with a depth that made everything else feel distant. The noise of the world outside the locker room, the rush of people still in the building, the ticking of the clock on the wall, it all faded into the background.

She let out a small, relieved laugh, and this time it wasn’t nervous. It was real. “I guess we’re both pretty good at hiding what we really feel, huh?”

You smiled, your fingers curling around hers. “Seems that way.”

Leah moved closer, her hand coming up to rest cup your cheek, her touch steady, grounding. “I never wanted to hurt you,” she said, her voice thick with sincerity. “I didn’t know how to… how to do this without making everything weird. I thought if I kept pretending like I didn’t care, it would just be easier.”

“I get it,” you said quietly. “I get why you did it. But, Leah…” You paused, taking a breath. “You don’t have to pretend anymore.”

Her eyes searched yours, almost as if looking for reassurance. She finally nodded, her thumb tracing the line of your jaw. “I think… I think I’m done pretending.”

You couldn’t help but smile, your heart swelling with something you couldn’t quite name.

“You think?”

She leaned in, brushing her lips against yours once more, just a soft, lingering press, like a promise.

“I know.” When she pulled away, her eyes were still locked on yours, a mixture of awe and something deeper. Something more. “I don’t know what this is yet,” she murmured, “but I want to figure it out with you.”

You smiled again, pulling her back into a gentle embrace. “Me too.”

After a few seconds, Leah cleared her throat, suddenly sounding a little more like her old self. “So… what now? You wanna go grab a drink or…?”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Are we really going to pretend like we’re not both exhausted from training?”

She raised an eyebrow, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips. “Well, I mean, we could always go for a takeaway?”

“Now that’s the Leah that I see with everyone else.” You grinned, feeling lighter than you had in weeks.

She winked at you. “You’re not getting out of it. Some chinese and a drink. My treat.”

“No ham sandwich? Or potato smiley?” you laughed. She just groaned, falling into you slightly, her frown returning.

“Hey,” you whined, reaching up to smooth out the crinkle. “No frowning. You’re not allowed to be scary anymore.”

——

“I don’t get it,” Katie said, her eyes tracking you and Leah from across the room, clearly intrigued by something she wasn’t understanding.

Leah had her signature frown plastered on her face, a look that made it seem like she was constantly deep in thought or ready to pounce on anyone who dared to interrupt her concentration. Her blonde hair was pulled up messily, a few strands falling out of place, but it only added to her tough-girl vibe. She was standing slightly in front of you, her posture rigid, but her focus was entirely on Steph, who was chatting away enthusiastically. Leah’s attention was unwavering, and you could tell she was listening closely, her jaw set in that familiar, slightly intense way that made everyone around her a little bit on edge.

You stood beside her, equally focused, though your body language couldn’t have been more different. You leaned a bit toward Leah, your shoulders relaxed and your gaze soft. Your expression mirrored Leah’s concentration, but where Leah had an edge to her focus, you gave off more of a calm, grounded energy. You were the calm to her storm, and it was something that those who knew you both had learned to appreciate over time.

“What don’t you get?” Lotte asked, trying to figure out what Katie was thinking as her eyes shifted between Leah and you.

“Leah and Y/N,” Katie said, her voice curious, the confusion still lingering in her tone. “They’re together, right?”

The two of them watched in silence as Leah, without missing a beat, maneuvered behind you in the queue for food. She slipped her hands onto your hips, pulling you closer as she rested her chin lightly on your shoulder. You leaned back into her, your body relaxing into the familiar warmth, while your eyes drifted over the wide selection of food laid out before you.

“Yeah, have been for years,” Lotte said with a casual nod. “Since before I came back from the States, actually.”

Katie’s eyes widened slightly. “But Leah’s so… scary,” she said slowly, as if trying to reconcile the image of the fearsome Leah she knew with the softer version she was seeing now. “And Y/N… isn’t.z”

Michelle, who had been listening quietly, joined in, her voice dripping with amusement as she kept watching you both. “Right? Like, Leah looks like she could break someone in half just by looking at them. And then there’s Y/N, all calm and chill. It doesn’t add up.”

The older girls laughed collectively, a deep, knowing laugh that didn’t poke fun at Leah’s reputation but embraced it. They knew exactly what Michelle meant - Leah had built a name for herself in the locker room as someone who demanded respect, who played hard and expected the same from those around her.

“What’s so funny?” Leah’s voice cut through the conversation, sharp and direct, as her eyes narrowed, scanning the group like a hawk. She’d clearly caught wind of the laughter.

“You’re scary,” McCabe said, grinning widely as she took a swig of her drink. “And your missus is not.”

“Oi, no I’m not!” Leah said immediately, her eyes flashing in indignation as she turned to face the group. She folded her arms across her chest, clearly not pleased with the direction the conversation had taken. “Tell them I’m not scary.”

Kim chuckled, her hand reaching out to pat Leah gently on the shoulder in a way that was both affectionate and teasing. “Yes, you are, Leah,” she said with a laugh. “And Y/N? Definitely not.”

Leah turned back to you, searching your face with exaggerated intensity. “Bubs, tell them I’m not scary,” she said, her tone dropping to a near-whine, the tough exterior cracking just a little bit.

You sighed softly, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of your lips as you turned to face her. The affection in your eyes was undeniable as you met her gaze. “Baby,” you said with a soft shake of your head. “You’re terrifying.”

The group erupted into laughter again, the sound warm and familiar. Leah, though still wearing a scowl, couldn’t help but soften at your words. She knew it was true - knew that she had this intimidating presence that was hard to shake off, no matter how many times you told her she wasn’t as scary as she thought. The truth was, you loved that about her, even if it made the others wary.

Leah rolled her eyes but gave you a quick, tender squeeze around your waist. “I’m only terrifying if you’re on the wrong side of me,” she muttered, but there was a hint of a smile playing at her lips.

“Oh, we all know who wears the pants in this relationship,” Caitlin teased, leaning back in her chair, looking more than satisfied with the playful exchange. “Leah may be scary to the outside world, but Y/N’s the one who keeps her in check.”

You glanced at Leah, raising an eyebrow and shrugging.

Leah let out a dramatic sigh, clearly pretending to be exasperated. “Alright, alright,” she said, her voice carrying a of exasperation. “You all win. I’m terrifying. But don’t forget, I’m also the one who keeps Y/N from getting too wild.”