#btl

“Cheap,” Hugo cuts in without missing a beat, rolling his eyes. He lets out a soft whistle. “Like, dollar-store cheap.”

“Okay, Mr. Design Snob, I can’t just send them feedback that says ‘this is dollar-store trash,’” Dante huffs, propping his chin on his fist. “Besides, what exactly do we want for BB’s Luxe?”

You tap your nails against your coffee cup. “We want it pink. And classy.”

“It is pink and classy,” Dante insists, gesturing wildly at the screen.

“It’s cheap pink,” Hugo fires back. “And what is that font? Did they download it off some free app in 2012? Phonto, or whatever?”

You let out a short, helpless laugh. “God, why is this so hard?”

“And finding the face for the campaign is even fucking harder.” Dante lets his forehead smack the keyboard, keys rattling under the impact.

“Yeah, don’t even get me started,” you groan, rubbing your temples. “Hugo shot down literally every person I suggested for BB’s Luxe.”

Hugo lifts his head, eyes narrowing. “That’s because all your picks were Instagram models. And you. And Thiago. And Blake—which, in case your two brain cells forgot, isn’t exactly genius PR right after your ‘oh-we’re-just-friends’ scandal.”

“Why not?” you shoot back, incredulous. “Didn’t we literally milk that scandal for new followers?”

“My sweet delusional child,” Hugo sighs dramatically, “we need someone viral.”

You’re about to protest, but he raises a finger like he’s delivering gospel. “And unproblematic.”

“Okay, so… definitely not me,” you mutter.

Hugo scoffs. “Bingo. We need someone nobody would ever guess. Someone so random and disconnected from you that the internet collectively loses its shit trying to figure out why they’re the face of BB’s Luxe.”

“Okay, so do you actually have anyone in mind, genius?” Dante demands, shooting Hugo a murderous glare.

“I do,” Hugo snaps back, “but I’m not saying shit because I’m not about to jinx it.”

“Really?” you say, leaning forward. “Okay, spill. Right now.”

“You’ve gotta be patient, love,” Hugo drawls, reclining in his chair like he’s the star of some mafia movie. “Let me work my magic, see if I can pull him in. Or rather… his team.”

“Oooh, so it’s a guy,” you gasp. “I’m invested now. Like, this is my line, babe—you need to tell me who’s gonna be the face of it.”

“Patience, as I just said,” Hugo huffs. “I’m not jinxing it by blabbing before it’s locked in.”

“Ugh, you’re so annoying,” Dante mutters.

“And smart,” Hugo shoots back.

“I’m exhausted,” you sigh, massaging your temples as if willing your brain to reboot. “And I still have to film that SKIMS try-on haul.”

“Oh, poor you,” Dante fires back, one brow arched and a wicked grin twisting his lips. “It must be so unbearable being rich, pretty, and universally adored.”

You bark out a laugh, tipping your head back so your hair spills like silk down the back of your chair. “Literally, God gives His toughest battles to His strongest soldiers,” you say, pressing a dramatic hand to your chest. “Truly, my cross to bear.”

“Sucks to be you,” Hugo mutters dryly, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head until his spine cracks. Then he levels you with a look sharp enough to cut glass. “Oh, and by the way—if you don’t film that try-on haul today, I will kill you.” His smile is dazzling and sinister all at once.

“Okay, okay, I will,” you protest, raising both palms like you’re surrendering. “Later today. Promise.”

“Mm-hmm.” Hugo narrows his eyes, mouth twisting into a sly smirk. “Thought so.”

“Anyway,” Dante cuts in, clasping his hands together on the table. “While we’re talking about sponsors… what’s happening with Dani and that Nike deal Amaia was trying to lock down for him?”

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of your head. The metallic clink of your rings tapping against your coffee cup echoes across the table. “Bro, Kim Taehyung snatched that deal months ago. Haven’t you heard?”

“No?? How am I always the last to know shit?” Dante exclaims, shoulders slumping, his pout deep enough to drown in. He rakes a hand through his messy hair, eyes wide with genuine disbelief.

“Yeah, well… Real Madrid’s the one in bed with Nike now,” you say, leaning forward, elbows braced on the table as you swirl what’s left of your coffee. Your gaze drifts to Hugo, silently inviting him to swoop in.

“Yawning. Boring,” Hugo declares, waving a dismissive hand and flicking an invisible piece of lint from his Dior sweater like it personally offended him. The sunlight catches the sheen of his silver rings as he moves. “Barça doesn’t need a sponsor who’ll jump ship to Madrid the second they wave a fat paycheck around. Flop behavior.”

“Preach.” You grin, tracing a pattern in the condensation on your glass. “Besides… Barça’s about to drop that Adidas campaign. That’s gonna be insane.”

“Ugh, yeah, I heard,” Hugo says, eyes narrowing as he leans forward like a cat ready to pounce. “Not Barça cozying up to Nike’s mortal enemy. The sheer corporate drama. I live for it.”

“Well, you know what they say.” You wiggle your fingers theatrically, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “An eye for an eye.”

“True facts, babe.” Hugo lifts his coffee cup in a toast, pinky lifted in perfect, practiced elegance.

“How’s Dani handling losing that sponsorship, though?” Dante cuts back in, curiosity making him sit a little straighter in his chair. His dark eyes flick between the two of you like he’s watching a tennis match.

You lean back, stretching your arms over your head until your spine gives a satisfying crack. “Please. You know Dani. The only thing that man gives a shit about is scoring goals. Bro couldn’t care less if Nike, Adidas, or your grandma sponsored him—as long as he’s banging the ball into the back of the net.”

Dante laughs, shaking his head as he sinks back into his chair. “Yeah… classic Dani. Living his life in football and absolutely nowhere else.”

“Exactly,” Hugo chimes in, twirling one of his rings around his finger. “Meanwhile, we’re out here stressing over fonts and brand deals while your brother’s biggest crisis is deciding whether to wear his white or neon cleats.”

“Are you gonna film those little interviews we planned for TikTok?” Hugo demands suddenly, his voice slicing through the air like a whip. His gaze locks onto you, dark eyes wide with fervor. It’s that look — the one that silently screams this is the kind of brilliant idea that’ll boost your engagement to the moon, and if you don’t follow through, he might actually combust.

“I am,” you reply, leaning back in your chair and letting out a soft groan as you stretch your arms above your head. Your bones crack satisfyingly. “I’m swinging by Dani’s training session today to grab some footage with the guys. Thought it’d be fun. Y’all wanna come?”

“I can’t,” Dante groans, dropping his face into his hands, then dragging his palms down until his skin bunches around his chin. “I have to write a damn novella for the graphic design team because someone”—he flings an accusatory finger in Hugo’s direction—“thinks their logo looks ‘cheap.’”

“Oooh, cry me a river,” Hugo drawls, lips curling into a smirk. “It’s not like you’re not getting paid to sit there in your designer hoodie and complain.”

“Are you getting paid to be the most annoying human alive?” Dante snaps, his tone dripping with exasperation.

“Baby, I’m her PR,” Hugo shoots back, flicking a perfectly manicured nail in your direction. “Being annoying and dramatic is literally part of my contract. It’s how I maintain my mental health.”

You snort, shaking your head, fingers pinching the bridge of your nose. “Can you two chill for like… five seconds? Hugo, are you coming with me or not?”

“Fuck yes,” Hugo practically shouts, slamming both palms onto the table like you’ve just offered him front-row tickets to a Louis Vuitton runway. “You’re asking me if I wanna watch a bunch of sweaty, exhausted, possibly shirtless hot men running around in tiny shorts. How the fuck am I supposed to say no?”

“Jesus Christ,” Dante mutters, rolling his eyes so far back you’re afraid he’ll sprain something. “Remind me why I work with either of you.”

“Because we’re fab,” Hugo and you chime in unison.

It’s too hot. Like can’t-even-breathe hot. Barcelona’s sun scorches everything in its path — the grass, the stands, your skin, your last remaining shred of patience. Somehow, stepping into the stadium feels like stepping inside an oven, where the heat bounces off concrete and grass until it’s practically sizzling.

Sweat trickles down your spine, dampening the already-too-tight top that’s now clinging to your skin like a second, unwanted layer. Beside you, Hugo fans himself with a printout from your BB’s Luxe plans, muttering curses under his breath.

“Ugh, why am I here,” he hisses, wiping sweat from his upper lip, “No amount of sweaty men is worth leaving my air-conditioned apartment for.”

The green grass sticks to the soles of your sneakers, leaving ghostly footprints as you stomp closer to the field. You raise one hand to shield your eyes from the blazing sun and wave wildly with the other.

“Dani!” you yell, your voice echoing off the concrete stands.

From the distance, you spot Dani’s head whip toward your voice. He jogs over, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his shirt clinging to his shoulders.

“Hi,” he pants when he reaches you, one hand dragging sweat off his brow. “Wassup, guys?”

“Planning. Dying. Planning again,” Hugo snaps, dramatically wiping his brow like a damsel in distress.

“BB’s Luxe doing that well?” Dani jokes, a short laugh rumbling in his chest.

“Don’t even start,” you grumble, massaging your temples. “Anyway, how’s training going?”

“Santiago’s trying to kill us with these drills,” Dani whines, stomping his foot against the grass like an actual toddler.

You cringe, scrunching your nose. “Aren’t you a little old for temper tantrums?”

“Never too old,” he retorts. Then he squints at you, suspicious. “Besides… what are you doing here?”

You blink innocently. “Well, you know…” You bat your lashes, offering him your most pleading, saccharine smile. “You know how much I love you. You know I’m literally the best sister you could ever ask for.”

“Most annoying one, for sure,” Dani mutters, rolling his eyes, “Just spit it out. What do you want?”

“Why do you always think I want something? Can’t I just visit you because — I dunno — I love you?” why is this me and my sister

He levels you with a flat look. “Please. You never come to training just because.”

“Okay, fine!” You throw your arms in the air. “I want to film those Barça interviews for TikTok today…”

Dani groans, head falling back. “Ugh, I don’t know if the staff’s gonna let you.”

“You’re Daniel Torras. Make it happen,” you snap, crossing your arms defiantly over your chest.

“You’re so fucking spoiled.”

The voice comes out of nowhere, slicing through the heat like a knife and making you jolt.

Jeon Jungkook is suddenly behind you, looming like some statue — or a fucking ghost, because there’s no way you didn’t see him coming. You spin to glare at him, already simmering with annoyance from the mere sound of that teasing edge in his voice.

Asshole.

He’s wearing his training jersey, soaked with sweat and clinging to every lean muscle like it’s custom-made for sin. Wet hair drips onto his forehead, darkening his lashes. His arms are crossed, forearms flexing, tattoos winding and merging over taut skin like living art. Your eyes linger there for a second too long — which is exactly one second too many.

Ugh. No. Absolutely not.

You scoff, tearing your eyes away. “Well, someone’s cranky today. Did the ball smack you right in your dumb face, or what?”

“As if,” he shoots back, biting the inside of his cheek, jaw ticking slightly. “Your entitlement just fucking annoys me.”

“Okay, am I supposed to give a fuck?” you fire back, flipping your hair off your shoulder. You spin toward Dani instead, batting your lashes so dramatically it’s practically a workout. “Daniii,” you sing, voice syrupy sweet, “Can you pleaaaase ask the staff to make a twenty-minute break? I just need twenty minutes to film this with you guys.”

Behind you, Jungkook lets out a hiss of pure exasperation. “Jesus, you can’t just waltz in here and start making demands because your brother plays here.”

You whirl on him, planting a hand on your hip. “Well, see, I clearly can.”

Jungkook narrows his eyes, stepping closer. “You know, some of us actually had to work our asses off to get to a place where we can make demands like that.”

“Well,” you say, flicking your fingers in the air dismissively, “sucks to be you, asshole.”

A choked laugh slips out of Hugo, who quickly tries to cover it with a fake cough.

“Okay, guys, seriously — stop,” Dani groans, dragging a hand over his sweat-slicked hair. “I’ll go ask the staff. But for fuck’s sake, can you two please act normal? I can’t handle you screaming at each other every two seconds — and I’m pretty sure no one else wants to, either.”

Dani shoots you both a withering look and trudges off in the direction of the coach, shoulders slumped like he’s aged ten years in five minutes.

Jungkook looks like he wants to kill you. Or… maybe do something even worse. His jaw is clenched so tightly a vein pops at his temple, and his dark eyes follow you like he’s plotting your immediate downfall.

From where you’re standing, you can see the coach nodding as Dani talks, a grin spreading across his face. Ah, the unstoppable Daniel Torras effect.

You shoot Jungkook a triumphant look, lifting your chin high. “See? I can ask for whatever the fuck I want.”

“Fine,” he bites out, voice low and dangerous. “I’m not participating in your little interview, though.”

You scoff, flipping your hair over your shoulder like it personally offends you to share oxygen with him. “Please. I don’t need you, idiot.”

Your hand sweeps out theatrically toward the rest of the team still gasping through killer drills under the blazing sun. “I’ve already got everyone else lined up.”

Jungkook scowls, heat radiating off his body like an extra layer of the sun itself.

You give him one last glance — the kind that’s half challenge, half dismissal. “C’mon, Hu. Let’s go say hi to the players we actually like.”

Hugo gives Jungkook a look that’s half sympathetic, half exasperated, before trotting after you as you strut toward the others, your footsteps leaving dusty prints on the scorched grass.

“Why haven’t you answered my DMs, preciosa?” Mateo’s voice breaks through the heat, his tan skin slick with sweat as he grins at you. You barely acknowledge him with a tired roll of your eyes, deliberately brushing off the comment like it’s nothing.

“Stop harassing her,” Blake says, pressing a quick, light kiss to your cheek. You nod and give a small, distracted wave to the others, eyes scanning the group — searching for him.

But he’s not there.

“Where’s Thiago?” you ask, voice low, almost hesitant.

Santiago’s smile falters, replaced by a tight, uneasy expression. “Twisted his ankle in the last game.”

Your chest tightens. “He still hasn’t recovered?”

“Not yet. Could be another week or more,” Santiago shrugs, but the sympathy in his eyes says more than words ever could. “Haven’t heard from him?”

You don’t answer.

Because you haven’t. Not since the Blake incident. Not since you haven’t given him a proper explanation about it.

Thiago — he’s supposed to be close to you. Sometimes the only person you let in. Sometimes the only one you want to hear from.

But lately, silence. Endless, suffocating silence.

It’s complicated and messy — a wound that never fully healed.

That night, the one you never talk about, lingers in every quiet moment, every missed call.

Still, despite it all, he’s there. Haunting the edges of your mind, a shadow you can’t shake.

“Awww,” Jungkook’s voice drips with mock sweetness as he arches a brow, a slow smirk curling on his lips. “Worried about your bestie?”

You glance at him, feeling the heat of his gaze, and shoot back quietly, “Yeah. You should be too. He’s your teammate, after all.”

He shrugs lazily, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead, the muscles in his forearms flexing beneath his damp training jersey. “It’s just a twisted ankle. Football’s a game played with legs, you know. Injuries happen.”

You bite back a sharper retort, instead settling on, “I wish it had happened to you.”

Jungkook chuckles softly, eyes glinting with something unreadable. “I don’t make rookie mistakes. Thiago should’ve passed the ball instead of playing hero and messing up.”

Your pulse quickens — part irritation, part something else — but you keep your voice steady. “Why are you such an asshole?”

He leans back against the fence, crossing his arms, looking almost amused. “I’m not. He’s just green. Needs to learn.”

You resist the urge to defend Thiago — the person who means more than you let on — knowing Jungkook’s baiting you. The tension between you isn’t loud or explosive, but it hangs in the air, a quiet current under every word.

You take a slow breath, steadying the quickening beat of your heart. “Anyway,” you say, voice softer now, “if you guys don’t mind, I want to film a few quick interview clips for TikTok. Like a little questionnaire thing.”

Jungkook’s eyes flick to you, a flash of something like surprise — or maybe frustration — before he masks it. Mateo, however, grins broadly and calls out, “Hell yeah! I’m in.”

The interview shooting is going surprisingly well. As well as it possibly can — considering Mateo can’t seem to go five minutes without tossing out another cringy pick-up line right into the camera.

You force a bright smile through the pain, even as your soul quietly shrivels every time he winks. “Okay, take it from the top,” you say for what feels like the thirtieth time, waving your phone in the air as a signal to reset.

Mateo grins, leaning in a little too close, sweat glistening on his temples. “Why film me, preciosa, when you could just film us… together… somewhere more private?”

You blink, your mouth hanging open for half a second before you glare and shove his shoulder lightly. “Mateo. Shut up. We’re shooting brand content, not your OnlyFans trailer.”

Around you, a few of the other players snort with laughter. Even Dani’s shaking his head, muttering under his breath, “I’m so sorry you have to deal with this.”

Meanwhile, Hugo’s standing behind you, arms folded, mouthing the words kill me as Mateo launches into yet another attempt at seduction.

Jungkook, a few steps away, pretends not to watch, though his eyes keep darting your way between drills. His jaw ticks faintly every time Mateo leans in too close, but he says nothing.

You catch Jungkook’s glance once and narrow your eyes at him. He merely lifts his brows as if to say you chose this shit, and turns away, his shoulders stiff.

You sigh, bracing yourself as you point the camera back at Mateo. “All right. Let’s try this again. And this time, please, no proposals or bedroom invitations.”

Mateo clutches his chest dramatically. “But how will the people know I’m madly in love with you, preciosa?”

Hugo groans. “God, give me strength.”

You roll your eyes so hard it practically gives you a headache, then plaster on your best influencer smile. “Okay. From the top.”

Eventually, you escape Mateo’s clutches, practically shoving him out of frame. You drag Blake into the shot instead.

“Okay, ready?” you ask him, steadying your phone on your mini tripod.

Blake flashes his trademark grin, easy and charming. “Born ready.”

You giggle despite yourself. “Okay, first question… What’s the one thing you can’t live without on game day?”

Blake barely opens his mouth before Jungkook’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and dripping with faux innocence:

“His hair gel. Obviously.”

You whirl around, glaring at Jungkook, who’s now leaning casually against a railing, arms folded, smirk firmly in place. His damp hair curls slightly at the edges, catching the sun.

Blake just laughs, shaking his head. “Nah, man. I’m a natural beauty.”

“Yeah, sure,” Jungkook fires back, “Natural beauty and three layers of glow serum.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, pressing a hand to your face. “Can you not? Just shut up for once.”

Jungkook shrugs, utterly unrepentant. “I’m just helping the people get the real story.”

Blake snickers. “I’m giving the people what they want. Unlike some people,” he adds, flicking a glance at Jungkook.

Jungkook holds up his hands. “Hey, I’m not the one pretending he doesn’t FaceTime his barber before every match.”

You throw your arms out, exasperated. “Oh. My. God. Can I just film one normal video without it turning into your personal stand-up routine?”

Blake winks at you. “Sorry, love. He’s petty because I’m the fan favorite.”

Jungkook scoffs. “Fan favorite my ass. Your fans are thirteen-year-olds making thirst edits.”

“Better than being the reason people mute their TVs,” Blake shoots back. "Blake, focus, just ignore him. Next question. What’s the weirdest superstition you have before a game?”

Blake starts to answer, “Okay, so I always put my left sock on—”

“—because the right one’s too busy crying for help,” Jungkook interrupts.

“JUNGKOOK!” you screech.

Hugo lets out a shrill whistle. “Jeon. Five-minute time-out. Go hydrate. Or drown yourself in the ice bucket. Whichever’s easier.”

Jungkook arches a brow. “Can’t. Gotta supervise. She might start asking real questions.”

You shove your phone into Hugo’s hands before you accidentally hurl it at Jungkook’s head. “Okay. I’m done. We’re done.”

Blake, still cracking up, catches your wrist. “C’mon, don’t tap out now. Let’s finish the TikTok. We’ll behave.”

“I highly doubt that,” you snap, glaring at him and then shooting a lethal look over Blake’s shoulder at Jungkook.

Jungkook lifts his brows. “Don’t look at me. I’m the model of good behavior.”

“Yeah. In whose fantasy?” you spit back.

Blake gently squeezes your arm, his voice softening. “Hey. Don’t let him get under your skin. He’s just jealous.”

Jungkook lets out a scoffing laugh. “Of what exactly? Her neon pink top or your spray tan?”

“Oh my god,” you groan, pressing your palms over your eyes. “I swear to fucking god, I will end you, Jeon Jungkook.”

He walks closer, voice low and teasing. “I’d like to see you try.”

You inhale sharply, the proximity suddenly a bit too charged, his eyes glinting dark under the bright sun. Blake blinks between the two of you, lips pursing.

“Okay. Okay, this is getting weird,” Blake cuts in. “Anyway. I’m finishing this TikTok.”

You snap back to attention. “Yes. Thank you. Professionalism. Wow. What a concept.”

Blake steps back into frame, adopting his breezy grin. “So. Weirdest superstition. I always put my left sock on first, then right sock, left boot, right boot—”

“—and then checks the mirror to practice his goal celebration,” Jungkook interjects. Again.

Blake flips him off without missing a beat. “No, but thanks for your input, princess.”

Jungkook puffs out a sigh. “You’re welcome. Glad to keep the content authentic.”

“Okay. Next question!” you say, determined to salvage something. “Who’s the biggest diva in the locker room?”

Jungkook smirks instantly. “Blake. One thousand percent.”

Blake gasps. “Fuck off! It’s literally you, Mr. Three-Hour Tattoo Touch-Ups.”

Jungkook frowns. “That’s called maintenance.”

You rub your temples. “I feel my lifespan decreasing every second I stand here.”

Mateo suddenly shouts from across the field, “Ask who Y/N wants to date from the team!”

Jungkook crosses his arms, glancing at you, eyes cool but edged with something sharper. “Yeah… why don’t you answer that one?”

Your cheeks burn. “Because it’s none of your business, you troll.”

Blake nudges you. “Just say it’s me and be done with it.”

Hugo swoops in, grabbing your shoulders. “Okay. Break time. Or I’m calling security on everyone.”

You’re too fucking tired to move. The sun has drained you dry, leaving your limbs heavy and your brain buzzing like a faulty neon sign. Maybe it’s just the heat. Maybe it’s the relentless churn of having to work—having to film, to smile, to create content even when everything, even the sky itself, screams that it’s not the right time.

Whatever the reason, you feel off.

There’s too much happening all at once. BB’s Luxe is going well—objectively, it’s thriving—but some part of you keeps whispering that it’s either too much or somehow still not enough. You sink deeper into your couch, letting a random episode of Gossip Girl flicker across the screen like white noise. Your hair spills down your back in soft waves. Periodically, your hands reach up to knead the tension from your own shoulders. You make a mental note—for the fifteenth time—to book a massage soon.

If there’s time.

Lately, time feels like some imaginary currency everyone else seems rich in, and you’re just scraping coins together.

You pick up your phone, thumb flicking over to TikTok. The player interviews are performing well. Jungkook’s little interruption has gone viral—comments full of laughing emojis, shipper theories, people reading sexual tension into every sideways glance. It’s good. It’s the kind of content Hugo drools over.

And yet… there’s that annoying voice inside you that keeps saying it’s not enough.

That you’re not doing enough.

“Watching anything good?”

The voice cuts through your fog, and you glance up sharply. Jungkook stands in the doorway, wearing that sheepish, half-boyish, half-fucking-infuriating grin. The audacity of this guy—to be a complete asshole one minute and an adorable human the next.

“Just a show,” you mumble, gesturing at the TV. “Are you two done gaming or what?”

“Kinda.” He scratches the back of his neck, damp hair falling into his eyes. “Carla called him, so we’re on a break. Might watch something in a bit.”

Without waiting for an invitation, Jungkook crosses the room and drops into the couch beside you. He’s close enough that his knee brushes yours, and you hate how your skin registers the contact immediately—heat sparking through your body like an electric wire.

“Boring,” you sigh, rolling your eyes. “You guys never go out.”

“We’re too old for that shit,” he counters, lips curling into the faintest grin. “Besides, are you going somewhere tonight?”

You bite the inside of your cheek. The thought of loud music, flashing lights, sweaty bodies pressing in on all sides—it makes your stomach churn. You don’t want to go out tonight. You’re not…feeling right. Maybe it’s just your social battery, drained to the last flicker.

“Probably,” you lie, voice flat.

“Mhm.” He tilts his head, leaning it against the sofa cushion, watching you through half-lidded eyes. “Though you’ll be staying in tonight,” he declares, a lazy certainty in his voice.

“Barcelona’s nightlife can’t survive a Friday without me.”

“Can you survive a Friday without Barcelona’s nightlife?” he shoots back, raising an eyebrow.

You side-eye him, turning your attention back to the TV. For a moment, the silence settles between you both, soft and oddly comforting. It almost feels normal—like maybe, in another universe, the two of you could be…friends. Or at least two people who can exist in the same room without tearing each other apart.

It could be peaceful. Maybe even fun.

But Jungkook never lets things stay peaceful for long.

“Your parents coming to the BB’s Luxe launch?” he asks suddenly, voice softer than usual. He angles his body slightly toward you, searching your face for any cracks in your calm.

Your chest tightens. A dry chuckle slips out of your mouth. “My parents have better things to do than watch me sell face cream.”

“Have you invited them?”

“I will.” You stare at the screen, jaw tight. “But they won’t come.”

“You can’t possibly know that.”

“I do, Jungkook.”

He hesitates, wetting his lips. “Wanna talk about it?”

You let out a sharp exhale, frustration burning in your veins. “Just…let it be.”

“But we could talk about it. Maybe you’d feel—”

“Jungkook, for fuck’s sake.” Your voice slices through the quiet, sharp as broken glass. “I said I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t even know why you’re bringing this up. It’s not like we’re friends or anything.”

His gaze drops, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. “Right. We aren't.”

She'd put them there this morning without asking Joe, wanting them visible when the families arrived. A piece of their history that predated everything else—before he was hers, before she was his, when they were just two people who understood each other in ways they couldn't explain.

Footsteps on the stairs. Y/N turned to find Joe in a gray henley and jeans, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"You look nice," she said.

"Thanks." He glanced around the living room, taking in the decorations. "Place looks good."

"The decorators did good work." She crossed to him, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from his sleeve. "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

The two words that had become his default. Y/N searched his face, finding the tension in his jaw, the flatness in his eyes that had been there since he'd come back. Since before he came back, if she was honest. Since he'd watched from the sideline while the season slipped away without him.

"Joe."

"I said I'm fine." He softened it with a hand on her waist, a brief squeeze. "Just want to get through tonight."

Get through. Not enjoy. Not celebrate. Get through.

Y/N swallowed the hurt and nodded. "Okay."

* * *

The Burrows arrived first—Robin and Jimmy from across town, then Dan and Jama, Jamie and Jessica trailing behind with a casserole dish and apologetic smiles about a last-minute grocery run.

Y/N watched Joe shift into host mode, accepting hugs and handshakes, answering questions about his recovery with practiced ease. Yes, the toe feels good. No, not a hundred percent yet but close. The team's fighting hard, just hit some bad luck.

Robin caught Y/N's eye over Joe's shoulder, a question in her expression. Y/N gave a small shake of her head. Not now.

The doorbell rang again, and suddenly the house was full of Y/L/Ns. Her mom swept in first, pulling Y/N into a hug that smelled like her childhood, then immediately pivoting to embrace Joe with the same warmth. Her dad followed, shaking Joe's hand with the firm grip of a man who'd spent thirty years in construction and still didn't quite know what to make of his daughter dating a professional athlete.

And then her brothers.

Matt came through the door already talking, something about the drive from Louisville and a Waffle House incident that had Aaron threatening to leave him on the side of I-71. Lucas brought up the rear, arms full of gifts, navigating the chaos with the patience of a youngest sibling who'd learned to wait out his brothers' dramatics.

"Burrow!" Aaron spotted Joe and made a beeline for him, pulling him into one of those back-slapping hugs that men did when they wanted to show affection but couldn't just say it. "How's the toe? You looked good out there. Defense let you down."

Y/N winced internally, but Joe just nodded. "Getting there. Good to see you, man."

The two families circled each other with the careful curiosity of people who'd heard stories but never shared space. Y/N found herself playing traffic controller, steering her mom toward Robin, making sure her dad didn't end up stranded in a corner.

She shouldn't have worried. Within fifteen minutes, Jimmy and her dad had discovered a shared obsession with old muscle cars and were deep in conversation about a '69 Camaro her dad had restored in his twenties. Her mom and Robin had migrated to the kitchen, allegedly to help but really to do what mothers did—bond over the shared experience of raising children who'd somehow found each other.

The brothers were another matter entirely.

Y/N watched Matt corner Dan near the fireplace, already launching into his theory about the Bengals' offensive line struggles. Aaron had found Jamie, and the two of them were doing that thing where men sized each other up through sports opinions, testing boundaries and finding common ground.

Jessica appeared at Y/N's side with two glasses of wine, passing one over. "They're a lot, huh?

"They're harmless. Mostly." Y/N took the wine gratefully. "They just have opinions about everything."

"Football opinions?"

"Every kind of opinion. But yes, especially football."

Jessica laughed, watching Aaron gesture emphatically at Jamie about something. "I think they'll get along fine. Jamie's been waiting for someone to argue plays with who isn't Dan."

Y/N scanned the room for Joe, finding him near the back door, nodding along to something Lucas was saying. His posture was right—engaged, attentive—but his eyes were somewhere else. Somewhere farther away than this room full of people who loved them.

* * *

Dinner was loud in the best way, twelve people plus the kids crammed around a table meant for ten, passing dishes and talking over each other. Y/N had put Joe at the head, and she sat to his left, close enough to touch his knee under the table when she needed to.

She needed to a lot.

He was trying. She could see the effort in every response, every smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. When Matt started in on a breakdown of the offensive scheme—"That third-quarter drive last week was a thing of beauty, man"—Joe nodded and agreed and deflected with the ease of someone who'd spent years handling media.

But Y/N felt his leg tense under her palm. Felt him pull inward, even as his words stayed surface friendly.

"At least you're healthy now," Aaron said, reaching for seconds of the roasted potatoes. "That's what matters. Next season, you'll—"

"Aaron." Y/N's voice was sharper than she intended. The table went quiet.

Her brother looked at her, confused. "What? I'm just saying—"

"It's fine," Joe said, and there it was again. That word. Fine. "He's right. Healthy is what matters."

The conversation moved on, pulled forward by Robin asking about Y/N's family Christmas traditions and her mom launching into the story of the Great Gingerbread House Collapse of 2003. Laughter filled the room again, easy and warm, and Y/N let herself be carried by it.

But Joe's leg stayed tense under her hand. And when she glanced at him, she saw someone drowning in plain sight.

* * *

She lost track of him during dessert.

One minute he was there, accepting a slice of her mom's pumpkin pie, and the next his chair was empty. Y/N scanned the room—living room, kitchen, the cluster of brothers now fully bonded over a heated debate about college football playoffs.

No Joe.

She found him on the back deck, leaning against the railing in just his henley despite the December cold. Snow had started to fall, soft and steady, dusting his shoulders and the wooden planks beneath his feet.

Y/N grabbed a throw blanket from the couch and slipped outside, pulling the door closed behind her. The noise of the party dimmed to a murmur.

"You're going to freeze," she said.

Joe didn't turn around. "Needed some air."

She crossed to him, draping the blanket over his shoulders even though he hadn't asked for it. Then she leaned against the railing beside him, close enough that their arms touched, and waited.

The snow fell between them, catching in her hair, melting on his hands where they gripped the railing.

"I'm sorry," Joe said finally. His voice was rough. "I'm trying."

"I know you are."

"I wanted tonight to be—" He stopped, jaw working. "This was supposed to be good. Our families meeting, first Christmas together. And I can't stop thinking about—"

He didn't finish. He didn't have to.

"The season," Y/N said quietly.

"I sat on the sideline for thirteen weeks and watched everything fall apart. Cut my own cast off like an idiot because I thought I could fix it faster." The words came out flat, controlled, but she could hear the fracture underneath. "And it didn't matter. I came back and we still lost. I missed too much."

"You got hurt. That's not—"

"I got hurt, and the team paid for it." Joe turned to look at her, and in the porch light, with snow catching in his hair, he looked tired in a way that sleep couldn't fix. "And now I'm standing in there with our families, and everyone's being so nice about it, and I can't—"

His voice cracked. Just slightly. Just enough.

Y/N reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his. Cold skin, tight grip.

"You don't have to be fine," she said. "Not with me. Not ever."

"I don't want to ruin this for you."

"You're not ruining anything." She shifted closer, pressing into his side. "Joe, look at me."

He did. Reluctantly, like it cost him something.

"This is our first Christmas," she said. "Not our first Christmas where everything is perfect and the season went exactly how we wanted. Just our first Christmas. With all of it—the good stuff and the hard stuff and the parts that don't feel like enough."

Joe's eyes searched her face. "How are you so calm about this?"

"I'm not calm. I've been worried about you for weeks." Y/N squeezed his hand. "But I also know that this—right here—is what matters. Those people inside came to see us. Not your stats, not the playoff picture. Us."

The snow kept falling, heavier now, blanketing the yard in white. Inside, someone laughed—her mom, probably, at something Robin had said.

"Your brothers are going to think I'm an asshole," Joe said, but there was something loosening in his voice.

"My brothers have thought you were an asshole since the day I started working with you. They were convinced you were going to break my heart." Y/N smiled. "They came around."

"When?"

"When they saw how you looked at me." She paused. "How you've always looked at me, apparently. Even when I thought I was the only one paying attention."

Joe was quiet for a long moment. Then he pulled her closer, wrapping the blanket around both of them, and pressed his forehead to hers.

"I love you," he said. "Even when I'm being—"

"Grumpy?"

"I was going to say difficult."

"Same thing." She kissed him, soft and brief, tasting snow on his lips. "I love you too. Now come inside before our mothers send a search party."

* * *

Something had shifted when they walked back in. Y/N could feel it in the way Joe's hand stayed at the small of her back, the way his shoulders had finally relaxed.

He wasn't fixed. She knew better than to think one conversation on a snowy deck could undo weeks of frustration and disappointment. But he was present in a way he hadn't been all night.

"There you are!" Lucas spotted them first. "Matt's trying to convince everyone that the '85 Bears would beat any modern team, and I need backup."

"The '85 Bears couldn't handle a modern offense," Joe said, and Y/N watched her brother's face light up.

"Thank you." Lucas grabbed Joe's arm, pulling him toward where Matt and Dan were deep in debate. "Tell him. Tell him about defensive evolution."

Y/N let him go, watching as Joe waded into the argument with something that almost looked like enthusiasm. Matt immediately challenged him, and Joe pushed back. Engaged. Let himself be present.

Robin appeared beside her, two cups of hot cider in hand. She passed one to Y/N without comment, and they stood together watching the chaos unfold.

"Thank you," Robin said quietly.

Y/N glanced at her. "For what?"

"For knowing when to pull him out." Robin's eyes stayed on her son, who was now gesturing animatedly while Aaron nodded along. "He's been carrying this season like it's a personal failure. His father and I have tried, but—" She shook her head. "You got through."

"I just reminded him why we're here."

"That's not a small thing." Robin touched her arm, brief and warm. "I'm glad he has you."

Y/N felt her throat tighten. "I'm glad he has all of you."

Across the room, Matt said something that made Joe laugh—a real one, surprised out of him—and Y/N felt something in her chest unknot.

* * *

The families left in waves—his parents first since they were just across town, then Dan and Jamie with their wives and kids, then her parents heading back to the hotel with promises to meet for breakfast. Her brothers were last, the goodbye stretching into three separate debates about driving logistics and a promise to continue the Bears argument via group text.

Y/N closed the door behind Lucas and leaned against it, suddenly aware of how tired she was.

The house was quiet again. Dishes in the sink, wrapping paper from the gift exchange scattered across the living room, the tree glowing softly in the corner.

Joe stood at the mantel, looking at something. When Y/N crossed to him, she saw what had caught his attention.

The snow globes. Side by side, catching the light from the tree.

"You put them out," he said.

"Seemed right." Y/N leaned into his side. "First Christmas together. First Christmas they're in the same house."

Joe picked up his, turning it over in his hands. The tiny cardboard fans waited inside, frozen in their eternal cheer.

"I used to shake this and think about you," he said. "Christmas 2020, sitting alone in my office while Olivia was downstairs, imagining you doing the same thing in your apartment."

"I was." Y/N reached for hers, cradling the familiar weight. "Trying to convince myself it was just a thoughtful work gift."

"It wasn't."

"I know that now."

They stood together in the quiet, snow still falling outside the window, the house settling around them. Y/N shook her globe gently, watching the orange and black confetti swirl around the stadium.

Joe did the same.

"I'm sorry about tonight," he said. "About being—"

"Don't." She set her globe down and turned to face him. "You showed up. You tried. And when you couldn't try anymore, you let me find you."

"That's a low bar."

"It's not, actually." Y/N touched his face, guiding his eyes to hers. "Letting someone see you when you're not okay—that's hard. You did that tonight. With me."

Joe set his globe beside hers on the mantel, then pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her like she was the only solid thing in a shifting world.

"Merry Christmas, Y/N," he said against her hair.

She held on tight, listening to his heartbeat steady against her ear. Outside, the snow kept falling, blanketing everything in white.

"Merry Christmas, Joe."