#espwnt x reader

The bright Barcelona sun pierced through your curtains, dragging you awake in a golden haze that made you regret every last glass of wine from last night.

“I should not have drunk that much,” you groaned, pulling on your favorite sweatpants and a matching zip-up hoodie, both stitched with the tiniest embroidery of your brand’s monogram, SL, on the hem. You slid on oversized sunglasses, gold lettering of your brand glinting faintly on the temple, and padded barefoot toward the door.

The air outside was warm already, scented faintly with the jasmine crawling over the garden walls. Barcelona was supposed to be a short-term escape. Just a place to breathe, to create again, to stop feeling like Paris and your brand were swallowing you whole. You had rented this little house on impulse, enchanted by its courtyard garden. What you hadn’t expected was Eli Putellas next door, waiting with her teapot and smile that could shame the sun.

Eli had welcomed you into her orbit like you were a long-lost niece. Morning tea, shared watering cans, gossip traded over hydrangeas. She told you stories about her daughters with maternal pride and exasperation, and in turn listened as you rambled about disastrous dates, sleepless nights, and half-baked baking experiments.

The best part? She had no idea who you were. To Eli, you weren’t the woman behind Solenne, a brand that graced billboards in New York, Milan, London, Paris. You weren’t a “genius” that glossy magazines liked to profile. You were simply the young neighbor who showed up in sweats with mismatched socks, laughed too loud, and burned toast more often than not. And you loved it.

Today was no different. You found her already on her patio, cup of steaming tea in hand, the stray cat she always fed sprawled lazily on a chair beside her.

“Oh, carinyo, you can’t be serious,” Eli said, shaking her head, dark eyes sparkling as you stood with the hose poised over her rose bush.

“Eli. I swear,” you said, one hand clutching your stomach as you laughed at the memory. “She ordered three raw eggs—of the menu, cracked them into a glass, and just—” you mimed throwing your head back, swallowing. “Like she was in a Rocky montage. At dinner! Our poor waitress was so weirded out.”

Eli nearly spit out her tea. “Ai, Déu meu!” She pressed a hand to her chest, scandalized. “In front of you? In a restaurant? This is barbaric, nena. Not a date.” [Oh, my God]

“It was performance art,” you deadpanned, turning off the hose and sinking into the chair across from her. “I took one look at that protein cocktail and knew I was leaving early. Paid the bill, wished her the best of luck with her cholesterol, and went to a bar with a friend instead.”

Eli leaned forward, eyes wide in horror. “Nena… where are you meeting these women? Honestly. Are you… are you picking them up off the street?”

You burst out laughing. “Not off the street! Just… friends of friends, mostly.” You shrugged, sipping from your mug of herbal tea. Which wasn’t technically a lie. The problem was most of your “friends of friends” existed in circles of money and monotony, the kind of people who thought raw eggs counted as a personality trait.

Eli sighed like a martyr and patted your knee. “I worry about you. Too beautiful, too smart, too funny, and yet you sit across from me telling me stories about egg-guzzling gym rats.”

You groaned dramatically, hiding your face behind your mug. “I’m starting to think Barcelona is cursed.”

“Barcelona is not cursed. Your taste in women is cursed,” Eli corrected primly, before softening with a chuckle.

The conversation lulled for a moment, the sound of cicadas buzzing lazily between you. Eli set her mug down and gave you that motherly tilt of her head.

“How’s work, nena?” she asked warmly.

Your lips curved into a small smile. For once, the answer was easy. Back in Paris, you’d felt smothered by your own success, drained dry of creativity. But here in Barcelona? Here you woke up with sketches dancing behind your eyelids, with a need to touch fabric and sew until your fingers ached.

“It’s been… wonderful,” you admitted softly. “I sent some sketches to the company for feedback before I start sewing.”

Eli beamed. “See? You are happiest when you are creating.”

She didn’t know, of course, that the “company” was yours. That the sketches she thought were shuffled off to some faceless superior were instead passed down to your atelier, your team waiting for your word like scripture. You let her think you were just one of many designers. You downplayed it easily. “Oh, nothing glamorous. I just stitch a few things here and there, send them along, and hope they don’t look like trash bags.”

Eli swatted your arm, scandalized. “Trash bags? Ai, dona, don’t speak about your work like that! If it comes from you, it cannot be ugly.”

Her faith in you made your throat tighten. She really had no idea.

“If you ever need help, nena, I am right here,” she added earnestly.

You smiled into your mug. “I’ll keep that in mind, Eli. Maybe you can help me wrestle a sewing machine when it misbehaves.”

Eli suddenly grew quiet, staring at you over her tea. You felt the weight of the mom-stare and shifted nervously in your chair.

“…What?” you asked warily.

“How old are you, nena?” she asked, squinting slightly like she was lining up puzzle pieces.

“Twenty-seven,” you answered slowly, suspicious. “Why?”

Eli looked up toward the sky as if calculating something, then back at you with a triumphant nod. “That will work.”

“What will work?”

She ignored you, speaking more to herself. “Yes, yes… that will be fine.”

“Eli,” you warned.

She set her mug down with a decisive clink. “Alright. Enough of this nonsense. You have been on a multitude of dates since you arrived in Barcelona and they have all failed—”

“Geez, thanks for sugarcoating it,” you muttered.

“So,” she continued briskly, “I am taking matters into my own hands. My daughter Alexia—”

“Eli…”

“No, no, no, no, no.” She wagged a finger at you. “Let me finish before you say yes.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“She is only three years older than you. You like them older, don’t deny it. She is beautiful, strong, successful. She plays for Barça. You should come to a game with me, nena. It’s in a couple of weeks. Don’t you know someone on the team?”

You hesitated. “Hm… yes. The company sponsors a few players on the women’s side, and some on the men’s.” You tried to make it sound casual, though it wasn’t exactly easy to hide a sponsorship portfolio the size of yours.

“Perfect.” Eli clapped her hands, delighted. “I know Alexia is free next Saturday. You are also free next Saturday. The two of you will go on a date, and then we will go to the game later that week. Perfecto.”

“Eli…” You started, but faltered when she held up her hand like a queen commanding silence.

“Not taking no for an answer,” she said firmly. “You think about it. You have a business trip, no? After you return from your business trip, you give me your answer.”

You bit back a laugh at her sheer determination. “…Fine. But only because it’s you.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” she said smugly, rising to her feet. Then, as if matchmaking her daughter was just a warm-up, she called back over her shoulder: “Now. What bread did you make yesterday?”

You followed her inside, chuckling. “Fresh baguettes. With honey and jam from that market you showed me.”

Eli clasped her hands to her chest like you had just announced world peace. “Ah! This I must try. Move over, I am taking over your kitchen.”

And just like that, your terrifying new reality, going on yet another blind date, was eclipsed by Eli raiding your bread basket.

“Hola, Mami.”

Alexia kissed Eli on the cheek before sliding her gym bag against the wall. Her hair was still damp with sweat from practice, sticking to her temples, and all she wanted was to shower in Eli’s guest bathroom and then devour whatever was simmering on the stove.

“Hi, vida,” Eli said slyly, not turning from the cutting board. Her knife worked in a steady rhythm, onions piling in neat crescents beside her. The smell of sautéing garlic and tomatoes filled the kitchen, warm and inviting.

Alexia narrowed her eyes at the tone immediately. “What are you plotting?”

“Me?” Eli raised her brows, slicing into a clove of garlic with exaggerated innocence. “Nothing. Just… good news.”

From the couch, Alba cackled like a crow. “Oh no. You’re in trouble.”

Alexia groaned. “Alba, don’t encourage her.”

But Alba was already pushing herself up, abandoning her reality show. She jogged barefoot to the kitchen, grinning like a child on Christmas morning. “I need front row seats for this.”

“Alba, calla,” Eli scolded, pointing the knife at her like a conductor’s baton. Then she turned back to the pan, sweeping the onions into the sauce with a flourish. “So. I know you said no more dating, Alexia—”

“Ay, Mami…” Alexia leaned heavily against the counter, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling.

“Alexia,” Eli said sharply, knife still in hand. “Listen to me. She is lovely. My neighbor, the one I told you about? From Paris. But her Spanish and Catalan, perfect. How rare is that?”

“Mama…”

“Twenty-seven years old,” Eli continued, plowing straight over her daughter’s groans. She began stirring the sauce with gusto, like she was narrating a recipe. “Works for a small fashion brand in France, but she came here for inspiration. Such a sweet girl. Very modest, very polite. Too humble, honestly. Her sketches are beautiful. And the clothes she sews—¡un arte!” [it’s art]

Alexia frowned despite herself, curiosity slipping in. “Fashion?”

“Yes, fashion!” Eli waved the wooden spoon dramatically, nearly splattering sauce across the counter. “Clothes, bags, shoes, you know everything. And she is single.” Eli’s voice dropped conspiratorially, eyes flicking toward Alba as if this was top secret gossip. “She tells me about her disaster dates. The last on ordered raw eggs. In a glass and drank them!”

Alba clutched her chest like she’d been shot. “Perdona? What kind of Rocky Balboa nightmare is that?”

“Exactly!” Eli smacked the spoon against the pot for emphasis.

Alexia covered her mouth, but a laugh still broke through. She shook her head, fighting it down. “That’s… disgusting.”

Eli leaned across the counter, lowering her voice to a stage whisper. “So, you will take her out Saturday. I know her favorite restaurant, the French one downtown. It reminds her of home.”

“What?” Alexia blinked. “No. No way.”

“Yes way.” Eli was already bustling to the oven, sliding out a tray of salmon like she hadn’t just detonated a bomb. “And I made the reservation for you.”

Alba clapped her hands together. “Oh, this is better than reality TV.”

“Mama!” Alexia shoved her hands through her hair, pacing now. “You’re setting me up on a blind date without even asking me?”

Eli smiled sweetly, setting the salmon on the counter. “Finally, she understands. Besides, I am your mother. I have the power.”

Alba leaned across the table, stage whispering to Alexia, “You’re doomed.”

“Shut up, Alba.”

Eli carried on as if she hadn’t heard. “She would be here tonight but she is traveling. Business trip in Madrid, I think.”

Alexia squinted. “Madrid?”

You weren’t in Madrid. You had told Eli you were in Milan for meetings with an upcoming brand you wanted to buy. But Eli had latched onto Madrid and, once again, you hadn’t corrected her.

Alexia groaned. “Mami, I’m not interested in dating. I told you. I’m focusing on football right now.”

“Football, football, football!” Eli threw her hands up toward the ceiling. “Is that all you think about? You will shrivel into an old woman with only a ball for company. Live a little!”

Alba snorted, already stealing a piece of bread from the counter. “Imagine her tombstone: Here lies Alexia. Married to football. Boring at parties.”

Alexia smacked her arm. “Alba!”

Eli, unfazed, plated the salmon like a general preparing her troops. “Saturday. No tracksuits. She will probably want to drive herself, so be on time—no, be early. And you will dress nicely, entiendes?”

Alexia groaned, dropping her head into her hands like the world was ending.

Alba patted her back with mock sympathy. “Poor thing. Forced to have dinner with a beautiful, talented woman. What a tragedy.”

Alexia lifted her head just enough to glare at her sister. “I hate you.”

Alba grinned, already buttering her stolen bread. “Love you too.”

And for all her groaning, Alexia couldn’t help the tiniest flicker of intrigue at the edges of her mind. Paris, fashion, sketches, humble, pretty, disaster dates with raw eggs. She shoved the thought down quickly, telling herself it didn’t matter. She was done with dating….Right?

Your Milan apartment was the kind of place people in magazines tried to imagine into existence. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the skyline, the faintest shimmer of sunset draping the Duomo in gold. The air inside smelled faintly of peonies and vanilla, your signature diffuser, and beneath it, the sharper tang of leather and varnish from the prototypes strewn across your glass coffee table.

You stood over them like a curator at a museum, your silk blouse tucked neatly into high-waisted trousers, hair twisted up to keep it off your face. One bag in particular caught your eye with thin sheets of recycled marble dust pressed into supple panels, the surface cool under your fingertips.

“Magnifique,” you whispered before switching into Italian for the pair of twenty-something Milanese sisters perched nervously on the edge of your cream sofa. Your voice carried awe, not performance. You lifted the bag, cradling it like fragile porcelain. “This—this is not accessory. This is a conversation. People will stop in their tracks. They will want to know the story.”

The sisters exchanged a look, one biting her lip, the other blinking fast. Pride warred with disbelief on their faces.

“We… we were not sure anyone would see it that way,” the elder confessed, her Italian lilt strong. “Most people told us it was… troppo strano. Too strange.”

“That is why I am here.” You set the bag back on the table as if it were a relic from another era, reverent. “Fashion without risk is death and being safe is boring. What you two are doing? This is resurrection. This is… future.”

A spark of hope lit their faces. The younger sister leaned forward. “You mean you would use our designs?”

“I don’t just want your designs.” You leaned in, the dim light catching the sheen of your blouse, your tone deliberate. “I want you. Both of you. Your hands, your imaginations, your madness. I don’t buy talent to cage it, I give it a stage. Solenne should not only whisper luxury. It should scream daring. And you—” you gestured to the marble bag, then to the shimmering woven-metal prototype— “you two are daring.”

Silence, thick and weighty, hung for a moment. The sisters sat stunned. Then the younger burst into a shaky laugh, covering her mouth. “Is this real? We thought you were only coming to… look. To be polite.”

Your smile was faint but sharp with certainty, the kind that had charmed venture capitalists and terrified rivals. “I never just look.”

By the time they left, their eyes were bright and their hands trembled as though they were carrying invisible contracts already signed. You could see it, the marble dust and the metal threads woven seamlessly into Solenne’s fall/winter line. The kind of risk that didn’t just make waves, it made history.

Hours later, you stepped out of a taxi into the cool Milan night, the hum of scooters and chatter in the streets below rising like music. Desiree, your assistant, best friend, and unofficial keeper of your sanity, walked beside you in her oversized blazer, phone in hand as always. She was already typing up the outline of the contracts, thumbs flying.

“Des, you’ve been typing since they left,” you said as you tugged your coat tighter.

“That’s because unlike you, I don’t trust lawyers to capture the poetry of ‘marble dust handbags,’” she replied without looking up.

You laughed softly, shaking your head. Desiree had been with you since you were eighteen, two wide-eyed girls sharing a cramped dorm room at FIT in New York. You had a sketchbook full of dreams, she had a major in Cosmetic and Fragrance Marketing she wasn’t sure she even liked. Somewhere between 3 a.m. study sessions and scarfing down 7 dollar pizza from the sketchy corner store, she had become your family. When your brand exploded in the middle of your freshman year, Desiree hadn’t hesitated, she jumped ship to join you. “Assistant,” she called herself, though the truth was she ran half of Solenne when you were too exhausted to blink.

As you both entered your Milan headquarters, Desiree finally shoved her phone into her bag and smirked. “So. You were saying Eli set you up?”

You groaned so dramatically it echoed in the marble lobby. “Yes. Oh, she thinks I’m in Madrid, which… I never said. I told her Milan. But she decided Madrid, so now I am apparently in Madrid. Oh how I love that woman.”

Desiree snorted. “Honestly? As she should. I love her. She makes sure you eat, she bosses you around, she calls you nena. She’s like, Mediterranean me and it’s amazing.”

“She also made a reservation at that French place for a blind date,” you muttered, pressing the elevator button. “I told her I wasn’t sure, but she just smiled at me and waved a spoon in my face. It was… terrifying.”

Desiree stopped mid-step, her eyes wide with glee. “Wait. Hold on. Let me guess.” She snapped her fingers. “Alexia Putellas.”

You froze, hand hovering over the elevator panel. “…She did not say the name.”

“She didn’t have to. Who else is she setting you up with? Eli said her eldest daughter, plays for Barça, of course the last name Putellas. Do the math, genius.”

You blinked. “Dating is messy. Especially when it’s with someone else in the public eye. You know how I feel about that.”

The elevator dinged. Desiree shoved you inside and leaned against the rail, arms crossed, eyes glittering. “Babe. You’re telling me you’re too busy to have dinner with one of the hottest, most eligible women in Spain? And Eli already likes you? You realize you already got the Mom approval before the date and you want to blow that up?”

You pressed your palms to your face. “You are supposed to be my assistant. You’re supposed to support me in these situations.”

“I am supporting you. Supporting you to finally get some.” Desiree grinned wickedly. “At least go for the food. Worst case? You eat steak frites and text me an SOS halfway through.”

By the time you sank into your desk chair upstairs, you were half-smiling despite yourself. You scrolled through emails until Desiree plopped onto your office couch, kicked off her heels, and tucked her legs under her.

“I’m just not sure, Des,” you admitted. “Fall/Winter Fashion Weeks are approaching and for some reason we’re doing all four. Who even approved that schedule?”

“You did,” she said flatly, picking at the hem of her blazer.

You groaned. “Why do I hate myself?”

“Because you’re a control freak.” She leaned forward, her tone suddenly softer. “But listen. You’ve been at this since you were fifteen. Designing, grinding, raising your sister, taking care of your cousins, supporting your grandmother. You’ve been responsible your whole damn life. You’ve never been allowed to just… be twenty-seven. To do stupid things like date. Or fall in love.”

Her words sank into you, quiet but heavy. You stilled, fingers hovering over your desktop keys.

“Babe,” Desiree continued, now standing to take your hands. “You keep going on dates with bums because you know they’re bums. It’s safe. They’ll never stick. Eli didn’t raise a bum. So you’re scared, because what if it’s different this time? What if it’s real?”

Silence stretched, the city humming outside your windows.

Finally, you groaned, letting your forehead drop to the back of your chair. “Fine. Maybe I’m scared of a real relationship.”

Desiree beamed. “And that’s progress.” She smacked your arm. “So go on the damn date. What’s the worst that could happen? You eat good food, flirt a little, and if it’s a disaster, you send me memes about it after. Done.”

You peeked up at her with a reluctant smile. “You are insufferable.”

“And you love me.” She flopped back onto the couch with the dramatic sigh of a woman who had just won a war. “Now, let’s order pasta. Milan men are useless, but their chicken is actually bomb.”

When your plane touched down in Barcelona that Saturday morning, exhaustion tugged at your bones, but you didn’t head home. Instead, you drove straight to Eli’s… which was next door but you get the point. The original two day in Madrid had been longer than expected, endless meetings stacked on top of one another, but somehow your mind was already buzzing with the next project. Still, when it came to Barcelona, Eli was your first stop as always.

You knocked on her door, and within seconds, it swung open.

“¡Nena!” Eli beamed, pulling you into her arms before pressing a kiss to each of your cheeks. Her perfume smelled faintly floral, and her lipstick left the faintest smudge on your cheek.

You laughed, letting her pull you inside. “Buenos días, Eli.”

“How was Madrid?” she asked immediately, guiding you toward the kitchen like you lived there. She set a steaming cup of coffee in front of you before even taking her seat, fussing over the sugar jar and sliding a plate of toast your way. “Come, sit, tell me everything.”

You stirred the coffee, the spoon clinking softly. “It was good. The company absorbed a Milanese small business and then hired the creators to work as designers. Then we are starting the process to launch a fragrance line. So that’s another thing I have to think about. You know, the scent combinations, packaging, mood boards, all of it.”

Eli waved a hand as if dismissing your empire sized worries. “Ai, carinyo, just smell around the garden and something will come to you. The roses, the jasmine, all the herbs, it is all there. You designers make things complicated when it is simple.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “If only the investors thought that way.”

Her lips curved into a sly little smile, one you’d grown to recognize over these past months. Mischief lived in that smile.

You set down your cup slowly, narrowing your eyes at her. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“Like what?” she asked, feigning innocence far too dramatically to be believable.

You leaned back, crossing your arms. “Like you’ve just successfully trapped me in one of your schemes.”

Eli pressed her fingers together in mock contemplation before breaking into a grin.

“Tonight at eight, right?” you said before she could open her mouth, already laughing.

She clapped her hands together like a little girl. “¡Sí, nena! At the French restaurant you like. What is the name again?”

“La Vigne Cachée,” you supplied with a sigh.

“¡Eso! Yes, yes,” Eli nodded enthusiastically, shooing you with her hands. “Take the whole day, eh? Get your nails done, buy new makeup, wear that black dress—the one that shows off your cul.” [Ass]

“Eli!” you gasped, your hand flying to your chest before you dissolved into laughter. “You cannot just say that!”

“¿Por qué no? It is true,” she shrugged, sipping her own coffee with perfect composure. “If I had that dress and that cul, I would wear it every day. Even to the bakery.”

You buried your face in your hands, laughing so hard your shoulders shook. “You are outrageous.”

“I am honest,” she corrected, patting your arm like she was offering sage wisdom. Then she stood suddenly, tugging you up with her. “Go, go, go. No wasting time. This is important!”

“Important?” you echoed, dragged halfway to the door with a piece of toast still in your hand.

“Yes!” she insisted, waving her free hand in the air like a conductor. “Do your hair, paint your nails, spray some of that fancy perfume. Make sure she cannot look away.”

“She?” you repeated, voice tight with amusement.

Eli only smiled knowingly, kissed you on the cheek again, and quite literally shoved you out the door.

As you stumbled onto the front step, still laughing, you called back, “If this goes badly, Eli, I’m blaming you!”

Her voice followed you down the walk, triumphant and teasing. “If it goes badly, it is because you didn’t wear the black dress!”

La Vigne Cachée was the kind of place that whispered exclusivity with its dim golden light, velvet drapes, and tables spread far enough apart that privacy felt like part of the service. The air carried the soft hum of French jazz, the scent of butter and garlic weaving through candle smoke.

Alexia had arrived absurdly early like too early. She had told herself it was because she hated being late, but really, it was because Eli had been insistent, mysterious, even and Alexia hadn’t been on a real date in years. She sat there, fidgeting with the edge of her napkin, shifting her water glass, checking her phone. She had played numerous high stakes games and never felt such anxiety as she did in that moment.

And when those doors open and you walked in, her world stopped and her anxiety flared.

You stepped into the restaurant with an elegance that made heads turn. Your French curl braids flowed over your shoulders, catching the light like threads of silk. The black gown clung to you in the right places, the thigh-high slit daring yet effortless. The fabric looked impossibly smooth, like liquid under the chandeliers, but it was something you had made yourself. It was a prototype spun from hemp, disguised as luxury silk, something you had been working on for quite some time.

Your smile was radiant, the kind that warmed the room instantly, and for Alexia, it felt like someone had just cut the power to everything else. The noise of the restaurant dimmed, the servers blurred, and her chest tightened like she’d just sprinted up the pitch.

You caught sight of her immediately, sitting at a corner table, stiff but striking in her blazer, her hair falling in soft waves. Her eyes were locked on you, wide and unguarded, and it made you bite back a knowing smile. She didn’t recognize you and quite frankly you liked that.

“Alexia?” you said softly as you reached the table.

She stood so quickly her chair almost scraped the floor. “Sí—uh, yes. Hi.”

Your laugh was low, playful, your accent wrapping around the word. “Hi.”

She pulled out your chair, still looking as if she couldn’t believe you were real. You slid into it gracefully, the slit of your gown revealing just enough to make her look away quickly, ears pink.

“So,” you began once she sat back down, tilting your head. “You like to arrive… how do you say? Extremely early?”

Her lips quirked. “I—well, I didn’t want to be late.”

“Mm,” you teased, leaning on your hand. “Or maybe you were nervous.”

Alexia gave a short laugh, looking down at the table as if it could save her. “Maybe.”

“Don’t worry,” you said, your tone gentle, mischievous. “I don’t bite. Unless you ask nicely.”

Her head snapped up at that, eyes widening, and you laughed, enjoying the flush spreading across her cheeks.

From there, the conversation flowed with shocking ease. You didn’t talk about work, neither of you asked the expected questions about careers or accomplishments. Instead, you talked about little things.

Her favorite spots in Barcelona. Your favorite bakeries in Paris. How she preferred the beach at sunrise, while you swore sunsets were superior. The worst dates you’d both been on. Your reenactment of the story of the man who tried to split the bill after ordering three bottles of wine had her wheezing.

The flirting came naturally, slipping into the spaces between laughter.

When the waiter asked if you wanted another glass of wine, Alexia said yes without hesitation, just to stretch the night longer.

When your hand brushed hers reaching for the breadbasket, neither of you moved right away.

When you leaned in to tell her a story, she leaned in too, like she couldn’t bear the thought of space between you.

By the time dessert arrived, Alexia had forgotten every reason she’d sworn off dating. All she knew was that she didn’t want this night to end. And by the way she caught you smiling at her—playful, knowing, and utterly captivating, she suspected you didn’t either.

The dinner stretched on until the candles at your table had burned low, wax pooling at their bases. Neither of you noticed the time until the waiter gently cleared his throat and dropped the bill.

Outside, Barcelona’s night air was warm but crisp, the kind that hummed with weekend energy. The city lights reflected off the cobblestones, laughter spilling from nearby bars. You and Alexia lingered on the steps of La Vigne Cachée, neither moving to leave.

Alexia shoved her hands in her pockets, shoulders rolling like she was preparing for a post-match interview. “So…”

“So,” you echoed, smiling. “You survived, didn’t you? My company isn’t that bad?”

Her laugh was soft, genuine, and it made your chest flutter. “Better than I expected.”

You arched a brow. “Expected? You were expecting bad?”

“No,” she said quickly, shaking her head, eyes wide. “Not bad. I just… I didn’t expect this.” Her voice dipped at the last word, like she wasn’t sure she should admit it.

For a moment, you simply looked at her. The way the streetlamp hit her hair. The sharp angles of her jaw softened by the hesitant smile tugging at her lips. You had a rule, always. No kissing on the first date. that ways you were able to keep things clean, controlled, at your pace. But standing here, watching Alexia fight to keep her composure when you could practically feel the gravity pulling the two of you together… it made you reckless.

You stepped closer, close enough that she inhaled sharply. Your fingers brushed her arm, just a whisper of contact, and her eyes flicked to your lips before darting back up.

“Do you always look like you’re thinking too much?” you teased, voice low.

Her throat bobbed. “Probably.”

That was all it took. You leaned in and kissed her, soft but sure, your hand finding the edge of her jaw. Her lips parted in surprise before she melted into it, her body angling instinctively toward yours and her hands finding your waist. It wasn’t long, but it was enough to make the world tilt, the hum of traffic, the chatter from the bar across the street, all of it dimmed until there was only the warmth of her mouth and the rush of your pulse.

You pulled back just slightly, close enough that your breath still mingled with hers. “I don’t usually do that,” you admitted, a playful glint in your eyes.

Alexia’s lips curved slowly, a little dazed, a little triumphant. “Neither do I.”

You laughed, brushing your thumb against her sleeve before stepping back. “Well… maybe rules are meant to be broken.”

She was still watching you like you’d just rewritten the laws of physics, her smile lingering even as you waved, slid into your car, and disappeared into the night.

And for the first time in a long time, Alexia Putellas didn’t think about football.

To say you and Alexia had hit it off was an understatement. It wasn’t fireworks or some chaotic crash of chemistry, but it was something softer, something that hummed underneath your skin like a rhythm you already knew. You truly just… clicked.

Both of you the eldest siblings, both of you carrying the weight of responsibility for younger sisters, both of you working so hard your family could finally breathe. Alexia bought her mom a home and gave Alba a safety net. You worked yourself ragged so your grandmother could retire and your younger sister could dream without limits. It was a bond that required no explanation, you simply understood each other.

Alexia knew you worked in fashion now, of course. But she didn’t recognize you. She thought Solenne was some small but promising label, and you didn’t correct her. She wasn’t the type to scroll endlessly through Instagram or devour fashion magazines, and she couldn’t care less about trends. She posted on social media when her sponsors required it and that was the extent of it.

Oddly enough, you liked that. Because with Alexia, you weren’t the girl who was Karl Lagerfeld’s apprentice at the ripe age of sixteen (he discovered you after a video of the amateur fashion show when viral.) Not the twenty one year old who inherited Chanel’s creative director seat only to be torn apart by critics when you stepped down. Not the woman who built her own multi-million empire before the age of thirty. With Alexia, you weren’t even the genius behind Solenne.

You were just you. The you who drew silly sketches and shoved them under Alexia’s nose, demanding opinions she didn’t know how to give. The you who dragged her unwillingly to Pilates, laughing at her grimaces. The you who stopped to feed every stray cat on your morning walks with Eli. The you who drove like the Formula 1 was your day job, forcing Alexia to clutch the passenger seat like her life depended on it. But Alexia loved every messy, unpolished piece of that you.

No one was happier about the two of you than Eli. Which is how you ended up getting kidnapped into Sunday dinner.

“Nena, enough is enough.” Eli planted herself in the doorway of your sewing room, hands on her hips. Her sharp eyes swept across the organized chaos of fabrics draped over chairs, sketches pinned to the glass board, and journals stacked like teetering towers. “You finally have the day off, Alexia is already at my house, and you can finally meet Alba.”

You didn’t even look up from the machine as you guided a seam through the needle. “Eli, I’m almost finished—”

Eli gasped dramatically and marched right up to you, plucking the thread from between your lips. “Don’t you dare talk with needles in your mouth, and don’t think I didn’t notice.”

You gave a nervous laugh. “Notice what?”

“Did you even eat today?”

You froze and the whir of the machine died as you sheepishly turned to face her, guilty

as a schoolchild.

Eli narrowed her eyes, then sighed, muttering in Catalan. “Ai, these artists. Starving yourselves for ‘the vision.’” She looped her arm through yours and started pulling you away from the table like a misbehaving teenager.

“Eli, I’m still in my these clothes—”

“They are black leggings, nena. Nobody will care. Let’s go.”

You allowed yourself to be dragged through the backyard, the two of you slipping through the little garden gate into her house like you had a hundred times before.

“The next time you do this,” Eli warned, wagging her spatula as you stepped inside, “you don’t want to know what I will do. Entesa?” [Understand?]

“Yes, mademoiselle,” you mumbled, head down like a child caught sneaking sweets.

“Bonita!” Alexia’s voice came from the living room as she immediately got up and wrapped you in a hug, lifting you slightly off the ground. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be buried under sketches.”

Before you could answer, Eli whacked the back of Alexia’s head with the spatula.

“Ow—Mama!” Alexia ducked, glaring at her mother.

“And what is wrong with you? You knew she was in that sewing dungeon all day and didn’t drag her out?” Eli whacked her again, making you snort.

“Mama!” Alexia yelped, dancing out of reach.

You clutched your stomach as you laughed harder than you had in weeks, watching Eli chase her grown daughter around the kitchen with a spatula.

“What the fuck?”

The new voice made you turn. A woman stood in the doorway, jaw practically on the floor. You recognized her instantly from Eli’s framed photos, Alba.

Her eyes bulged. “You’re—you’re—you’re—”

“Alba!” Eli smacked her youngest with the spatula now. “Language, niña! Mouth like a sailor.”

Alba stumbled back, pointing at you like she’d seen a ghost. “Mama, do you know who this is? This is the creator of Solenne. The one I dragged you to in Paris. Lagerfeld’s prodigy. Chanel’s golden child. The reason my bank account cried for six months after that handbag.”

You tried to hold back, but laughter exploded out of you again, especially when Alexia tightened her grip on your waist, looking baffled.

“Ugh, you two are impossible,” Alba groaned at her mother and sister’s dumbfounded expression, digging her phone out of her pocket. “Fine. Look. Wikipedia. Here. Read.” She shoved her phone between them.

Alexia leaned over her shoulder. “Wait, what?”

Eli squinted at the screen. “Nena!” She whirled back to you, scandalized. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

You wiped tears of laughter from your eyes. “Eli, I did tell you. I told you about my company, my designs, my reasons for moving—”

“You made it sound like you were knitting sweaters for Etsy!” Eli smacked you lightly with the spatula, too.

“Ow—Eli!”

“You need to give yourself more credit. This is incredible. You should be proud.”

Your smile softened. “I am proud. It’s my baby. But sometimes…” You shrugged. “Sometimes it feels safer to keep it small.”

Eli softened, cupping your cheek for just a second before turning back to the stove like nothing had happened. “Bah. Enough. Dinner!”

Dinner was a warm, chaotic blur. Eli served roast chicken with lentil salad, proudly remade from your accidental invention last week. Conversations flowed, effortlessly as you and Alba fell into easy banter. Yes, she fangirled at first, she even snapped a sneaky photo to send to her friends in a group chat, but after five minutes she was roasting you like a sister.

“You’re cooler in person,” she admitted between bites of salad. “Like, not as scary. I thought you’d be… I don’t know. Untouchable.”

“Untouchable?” you laughed. “Alba, you’ve seen me choke on tea at your mother’s table.”

“She’s right,” Eli agreed dryly. “Not untouchable. A disaster.”

Everyone laughed, even Alexia, though she slipped her hand over yours under the table.

Later, when Eli asked about your sister, pride bubbled up in your chest as you told them about Olympe and her basketball dreams, about little Étienne and his big heart.

“Nena, where is your sister? I never asked. She’s in university, right?” Eli handed you the bread basin she had, filled with cut up sliced of the sourdough loaf you gave to her.

You smiled at the thought of your sister. “Olympe? She’s in her first year of uni. She goes to university in America, and she plays for the woman’s basketball team at her school. She wants to go into the WNBA,” you explained with pride.

Eli smiled as well, “That’s very good! When she joins we will all go watch her games.”

You laugh at Eli’s ambition, she was already planning this far ahead.

By the time you and Alexia slipped out into the night, your cheeks hurt from smiling.

“Déjà vu,” you teased as Alexia walked you home, the moonlight catching in her hair.

She grinned. “What do you mean?”

“Standing outside like this. First date all over again.”

Her laughter was soft, full. She pulled you into her arms the second you unlocked your front door, tumbling onto your couch in a heap of limbs and quiet giggles.

“Why didn’t you tell me about Solenne?” she pouted, tugging playfully at your leggings.

“Chérie, I did tell you,” you laughed, brushing a curl from your face. “You just weren’t listening.”

Her lips brushed your shoulder. “Mama’s right. You don’t give yourself enough credit. I didn’t think ‘too humble’ was a thing until you.”

You exhaled, voice softer. “Sometimes the attention is overwhelming. “I know. I just enjoy the quiet, I’m not sure. Sometimes the attention can be… Comment dit-on cela en espagnol?” [How do you say this in Spanish?]

“Overwhelming?” Alexia offered.

“Yes. Exactly, it’s overwhelming. Like when I stepped down as creative director at Chanel to put my full attention on Solenne after I graduated, and the whole thing was blown out of proportion. All these reporters saying it was the worst decision of my career and my brand would never take off. It got so bad some teachers at my little cousin’s school talked bad about me near him and had him in hysterics. My poor Étienne, he had to change schools which is the last thing he needs. Since then, I guess I realized it’s safer to keep it small, even when it isn’t small at all.”

Alexia only hummed, her hand sliding under your shirt, rubbing circles at your waist. “Well… small or not, I’m proud of you.”

You blinked back a sudden rush of emotion, whispering, “Thank you, mon amour.”

Alexia let the silence sit, but the warmth of her hands dragging up and down across your skin was a reminder she was still here.

“Why did you choose Solenne?” Alexia asked.

“My grandmother’s name. She’s always supported me and when I started it was the only thing I could give to her really, I was only fifteen,” you whispered, the reputation of Alexia’s hands lulling you to sleep. “Besides it sounds elegant and classy, which was all I wanted.”

“How old is your sister and cousin? I don’t think you’ve told me.”

“Olympe is actually seventeen. She graduated a year early so she could go play early. She plays for the University of Connecticut. Étienne is eight going on nine. He’s my baby, I love him so much. He has the sweetest heart, and he’s really into football right now. Olympe is trying to turn him onto basketball. He lives with our mamé because both of his parents travel for work,” you let out a loud yawn. [Grandma]

Alexia kissed your temple, her voice gentle. “Go to sleep, guapa. I’ll be here in the morning.”

And you did wrapped up in her warmth, lulled by the simple, unfamiliar peace of being loved without expectation.

The box felt like it was shrinking around you the longer the match went on. The cheers from the crowd below were deafening, the claps of drums and chants of culers vibrating through the glass. Yet your nerves buzzed louder. You fiddled with your stacked rings, gold, platinum, brushed silver, sliding them up and down your fingers until Eli reached over and gently stilled your hand.

“Nena, what is wrong?” Eli asked when you suddenly folded yourself in half in your seat, hair falling like a curtain around your face. “The game is almost over and you spent most of it worrying and staring at Alexia.”

“I can’t do this,” you whispered against your knees, then lifted your head to groan. It wasn’t your first football game, you knew Jules Koundé and went to many of his games. “This isn’t like cheering for Jules or Aurélien or the French team. This is… different. This is me wearing her jersey. This is me sitting in the family box. This is Alexia.”

“Aww,” Alba cut in with a teasing smirk, her eyes never leaving the pitch as the final whistle blew. “You already got the WAG routine down. Cute outfit, nervous energy, cheering for your girl like the world is ending.”

You sat up straighter and looked at her, scandalized. “It’s technically Alexia and I’s first public outing where people might connect dots. I was already spotted at concessions and you know how I value my privacy, so if one—”

“You’re rambling again,” Alba sing-songed, resting her chin on her fist. “Huge ball of anxiety, but you’ll live. Stop overthinking.”

You blinked at her. Eli blinked at her. The two of you turned in tandem, shocked.

“What?” Alba asked, defensive under your twin gazes.

“That’s actually… good advice,” you said slowly, as if testing the words.

Eli clutched her chest like she’d been shot. “It’s a miracle.”

Alba tossed her hair dramatically. “What can I say? Genius strikes when you least expect it.”

“I can say you finally had a good thought,” Eli muttered into her coffee cup.

“Mama!” Alba gasped.

You laughed so hard you clutched your stomach, rings clinking together, just when the door opened.

“What are we laughing at?” Alexia’s voice floated in, warm and amused. She looked radiant with her sweat slick hair tied up, cheeks flushed, and her jersey clinging to her still burning skin.

“Good game, vida,” Eli said, rising to kiss her daughter’s cheek.

“Yeah, good game, I guess,” Alba mumbled, before Eli smacked her arm and physically nudged her toward the door.

“We are going to the family room,” Eli announced far too quickly, dragging Alba out despite her whining.

“Subtle,” you whispered with a grin.

Alexia stepped closer, and without thinking you were already out of your chair, wrapping your arms around her neck. Her hands immediately found your waist, pulling you flush against her. You gave her a quick peck, murmuring, “Good game, chérie. So proud of you.”

Alexia’s lips curved before she tightened her hold and captured your mouth again, this time slower, lingering, kissing you like she’d been waiting the whole ninety minutes for this exact moment.

“Capi will you make the TikTok—

“What the fu—”

“Capi?”

You both jolted apart, Alexia spinning halfway toward the door where Jana, Bruna, Esmee, and Salma stood in a messy clump. Jana’s jaw had practically hit the floor. Bruna’s eyes were comically wide. Even Esmee, usually reserved, had her mouth parted in shock. Salma, however, was smirking.

“Oh, my God,” Bruna whispered. “You’re kissing someone.”

“Not just someone,” Jana pointed, eyes narrowing as if solving a puzzle. “That’s—wait. That’s—”

“Hi,” you said smoothly, switching into your practiced but genuine smile that you used for investors, journalists, the rare public appearance. You extended your hand like you hadn’t just been caught making out with their captain.

“Uh…” Esmee blinked, still processing.

Bruna elbowed her. “Say something!”

You chuckled lightly, then turned toward Salma, who was already stepping forward. “Salma,” you greeted warmly, pulling her into a hug. “Congratulations again on the contract. I’m so glad we’re working together.”

Salma grinned knowingly. “Gracias. I had a feeling this was coming.”

Alexia stood frozen, her ears red. “Am I… am I the only one who didn’t know about Solenne?” she muttered under her breath.

Jana’s eyes shot open wider. “Wait. Solenne? You’re Solenne?”

“Like… the fashion Solenne?” Bruna’s voice cracked on the word. “The one on Vogue last month?”

“Well, I created it.” You smoothed the skirt of your dress under your Alexia jersey and shrugged delicately. “But tonight I’m just here as Alexia’s date.”

That sent the three of them into a fresh wave of whispering chaos. Alexia pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Okay, enough,” she said firmly, shepherding them toward the hall. “Go. Make your TikToks. Leave us alone.”

The four scurried off, still whispering loudly.

When they disappeared, Alexia groaned. “They’re never going to let me live that down.”

“They’ll survive,” you teased, linking your arm through hers as you walked out together.

Outside, your freshly detailed black G-Wagon gleamed under the stadium lights, windows tinted dark enough to bounce back the reflection of the floodlights. Eli and Alba had texted that they’d gone ahead to the restaurant, giving the two of you space.

Alexia opened the passenger door, hand sweeping theatrically. “Get in.”

You shook your head immediately. “Absolutely not. You just played ninety minutes. You’re exhausted. I’ll drive.”

“Carinyo.” Her voice softened, her hand still braced on the door. “Please. Let me spoil you. Besides, you drive like a lunatic.”

Your lips twitched, torn between practicality and the warmth in her eyes. Finally, with a mock sigh, you slid inside.

Alexia shut the door, jogged around, and climbed into the driver’s seat. The car purred to life.

“You better drive safe,” you teased, buckling in.

Alexia smirked, shifting into gear. “Bonita, as long as I don’t drive like you we will be safe.”

You were in the middle of cooking dinner, onions just beginning to sizzle in the pan, when the doorbell rang. You barely spared it a second thought as you crossed the flat, wiping your hands on the edge of your robe. You expected Señora García — your elderly neighbour who occasionally needed to borrow something — or maybe Marc from next door, who had an uncanny habit of asking you to open bottles for him.

You pulled the door open.

“Mi amor?” Alexia’s voice was soft, surprised. Her eyes swept over you in one slow glance; your hair wrapped in a towel, a robe she’d never seen before hanging loosely from your shoulders and tied at your waist. Warm air drifted out behind you, rich with the scent of onions and oil, the quiet hiss of something frying following it.

“Ale?” You blinked, momentarily thrown. She was meant to be having dinner with her mother and uncle. She’d told you that herself that afternoon, kissed you gently, murmured that she’d see you in the morning. “Wha-your mum?”

“Mamí isn’t feeling too great, so we rescheduled.” Alexia supplied it easily, but her brow furrowed as she took you in again. “Is everything okay?” The question carried more than it needed to. You weren’t expecting someone else, were you?

“Yeah. Everything’s good.” You were still a little stunned, but you leaned up onto your tiptoes anyway, pressing a light kiss to her lips, grounding yourself in something familiar.

“C-can I come in?” she asked.

“Huh? Oh. Yes. Yes, of course. Sorry, I just wasn’t…” You trailed off, shaking your head.

“I can go, if you want.” Alexia half-turned, gesturing back down the corridor. It would hurt, leaving like that, but she would. If it was what you needed, she’d do it without hesitation. She would do anything for you.

“No, don’t be stupid.” Your smile came easily now, the haze lifting. You reached for her hand, tugging her gently into the flat. “I’m in the middle of making my tea, but I think I’ve got enough for you?”

“Tea?” Alexia echoed, amused. “As in the drink?”

“Oh, uhhhhh ... Dinner. Cena, right?”

“Sí,” Alexia smiled, warmth settling back into her features. “Cena.”

“Am I interrupting something?” Alexia asked as she settled onto one of the bar stools, the wood creaking softly beneath her weight.

You snorted, shoulders relaxing as you turned back toward the stove. “No. Not really.”

“Not really?” Alexia’s eyes narrowed just slightly, that familiar glint of curiosity (and suspicion) settling in. “So I was interrupting something.”

You rolled your eyes, lips curling despite yourself. Damn Alexia and her infuriating ability to listen, to catch the pauses between words, to infer more than you ever intended to give away.

“No, no…” you tried, waving a hand dismissively as you reached for the wooden spoon, stirring the chicken now sizzling in the pan. Alexia didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. She simply raised an eyebrow, folding her arms loosely as she watched you. Waiting.

“Fine,” you huffed, defeated. “So. Obviously, you know Thursdays are quieter.” You glanced over your shoulder at her, then back to the pan. “When I first moved here, I used them to explore. Walk everywhere. Get lost on purpose. Learn the city.” You paused. “But now I have you to show me everything…”

You caught the way her blush bloomed instantly, warm and unmistakable, creeping up her neck and settling high on her cheeks. It mirrored your own.

“So,” you continued, clearing your throat, “I use Thursdays as a bit of a… ‘me day’. You know?”

“A… ‘me day’?” Alexia echoed, the words foreign on her tongue.

“Yeah. Like, self-care.” You shrugged, reaching for the chilli. “Face masks. Hair masks. Shaving. All that stuff. And then I cook.” Your robe and the pan in front of you.

She hummed softly, thinking it through. “And…” Alexia paused, tilting her head. “That helps you unwind?”

“Yeah.” You nodded, a little more serious now. “Everything’s so different compared to Germany or England. New language, new systems, new expectations. There’s just … a lot … of information all the time.” You shrugged again. “So this is my time to decompress. Reset a bit. Be English for a while. No translating or learning. Just me.” Then, lighter, teasing, “And as a bonus, it sets me up nicely for weekend games.”

Alexia smiled at that as she stood, moving toward you until she was close enough that you could feel her warmth at your back. Carefully, deliberately, she rested her hands on your hips, thumbs brushing just above your hips, turning you to face her.

You looked up. She was close. Impossibly so. The soft light from the kitchen cast gentle shadows across her face, her hazel eyes catching the flicker of the candle you’d lit earlier, reflecting the tiny flame.

“You’re beautiful,” you said before you could stop yourself.

The effect was immediate. Her breath caught. Her cheeks deepened from pink to a vivid red, lips pressing together in a shy, almost disbelieving smile.

“I don’t think anyone has called me that before,” she admitted quietly.

“Well,” you shrugged, resting your forehead briefly against her chest, “you are.”

Carefully, tenderly, she smoothed some damp hair away from the back of your neck, her touch reverent.

“So are you, mi amor,” Alexia murmured. She pressed a light kiss to the top of your head. “Inside and out.”

January 2022

“Mmmmm, bon dia, mi amor.” Alexia’s voice was low and warm as she snuck up behind you, her arms settling easily around your waist.

You jumped despite yourself, shoulders tensing for half a second before you relaxed back into her, instinctively leaning into the familiar comfort of her body. You laughed softly at your own reaction.

“Hi, beautiful.” You tilted your head slightly, pushing your cheek out in invitation. She obliged immediately, pressing a light kiss there before giggling under her breath.

“I brought un chocolate,” she said proudly as she pulled back just enough to reach around you.

You gasped, entirely overdramatic, eyes lighting up as she passed you the warm cup. “And it’s from that place down the road.” You pouted, clutching it like something precious. “Ale, that’s so sweet.”

“Only for you, mi amor,” she replied easily, lips curving into a soft smile as she watched you take your first sip.

“Iros!” Get a room. Mapí’s voice rang out from the other side of the room.

“Tú y Ingrid son igualmente asquerosas,” you and Ingrid are just as gross. Jenni chimed in without missing a beat followed immediately by an indignant “Oi!” from Mapí.

You stuck your tongue out in Mapí’s direction, choosing to ignore the comment entirely as Alexia laughed quietly beside you.

“So,” you said after taking another sip, finally disentangling yourself from her arms. “I was thinking… what are you doing tomorrow after training?”

You already knew the answer, really. Her mum and sister were both out of town this week, and Alexia had been noticeably restless, unsure what to do with a suddenly free Thursday evening.

“Uhhh… no sé.” I don’t know. She shrugged, eyes flicking down briefly. “Probably just relax… por qué?” Why

“Well,” you started, hesitating, eyes dropping to your shoes. “I was thinking… do you want to come to mine tonight?”

Alexia blinked. “But it’s Thursday…”

“I know.”

“But Thursdays are your day.”

“I know that too.” You smiled into your cup, taking another sip, deliberately casual. She stared at you now, clearly trying to work through it, unsure where the line was.

You sighed, rolling your eyes affectionately. “You want to sit and relax and be calm, right?”

“Sí,” she answered slowly.

“And I want to see you tonight.” You paused, softer now. “So. Two birds with one stone. Relax at my place.”

“Two … birds?… Qué?”

“It’s an expression.” You waved it off. “I’ll be having a relaxing night in my flat. You’ll be having a relaxing night in yours. So let’s relax together.”

“But it’s your-”

“Ale,” you interrupted gently. You reached for her hand with your free one, threading your fingers through hers and giving it a small squeeze. “I want you there.”

She looked at you then, really looked, her expression softening completely. The noise of the room faded into the background a little as her thumb brushed over your knuckles.

“Okay,” she said quietly, smiling.

Alexia was almost giddy as she waited for you on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, hands clasped together like she didn’t quite know where to put them. You were still in the bathroom, pulling out all of your bottles, tubs and jars, lining them up with careful familiarity. When you finally opened the door for her earlier, you’d looked utterly adorable - your now-familiar robe, affectionately dubbed your fancy robe, hanging loose around your body, exposing a sports bra and last season’s training shorts. Alexia had pretended not to notice the small stitched 11 on your thigh, though her heart had swelled all the same.

“Okay, baby,” you said as you flopped onto the sofa beside her, a basket of brightly coloured things balanced on your lap. “You ready?”

Alexia eyed the contents with open suspicion. She had never seen this many products outside of a shop before.

“Where do we start?” she asked, carefully pushing the silly flutter of anxiety aside.

“I usually start with hair.” You reached into the basket, pulling out a small glass bottle. “Oil and massage first. Then face mask.” You nodded toward a vivid green tub. Alexia shuffled a little closer, nodding along as if she understood.

You smiled softly at her nervousness. You knew she was excited, she’d been buzzing since she arrived, but new things had always unsettled her, no matter how much she wanted them.

“Do you want me to do yours,” you asked gently, “or do you want to do it yourself?”

She hesitated, then looked up at you. “You,” she said. “Por favor.” Please

“Of course, beautiful.” You leaned in, pressing a series of quick kisses to her lips until she was giggling despite herself. “Sit on the floor for me?”

She slipped off the couch obediently, settling between your knees. You poured a little oil into your palms, rubbing your hands together to warm it before threading your fingers into her hair. Almost immediately, you felt her relax. With each slow circle of your fingers against her scalp, her shoulders dropped, her breathing deepened. A quiet, unguarded moan slipped from her before she could stop it.

“You’re tense, my love,” you murmured.

“Cansada,” Tired she mumbled, voice low and heavy.

“Relax,” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”

Alexia would later swear it was the best ten minutes of her life. Your hands were magic, coaxing the stress of the season out of her bit by bit. You worked through every tight spot, even the stubborn kink at the back of her neck that had been bothering her for weeks, until her head felt light and her body loose.

“Te toca a ti,” Your turn, she slurred eventually, eyes half-closed.

“I did mine before you came, baby.” You smiled, helping her back onto the couch, amused by the soft oh she let out as she sank into the cushions. “Face masks next.”

She stretched lazily, then nodded. “Puedes hacerlo?” Can you do it?

“Of course, beautiful girl.”

You straddled her gently, placing the tub on the arm of the sofa. Her hands found your waist without thinking.

“Hola,” you smiled.

“Hola,” she echoed, grinning. You leaned down, kissing her slowly, deliberately.

“Mmm… t’estimo, mi amor.” I love you

“Love you too, baby,” you murmured back.

You dipped your fingers into the cream. “This might be cold,” you warned.

“Oye,” she protested as you touched her cheek, jerking away instinctively.

“Ale,” you whined, laughing, gently cupping her jaw to keep her still. “Don’t move.”

“Sí, mi amor,” she agreed, smiling softly, eyes closing as she let you take care of her.

“I’m happy I asked you to come over tonight,” you whispered. 

“I’m happy I said yes.”

April 2026

“Ale,” Pina smiled brightly as she slipped herself neatly between you and Alexia, linking an arm through each of yours before either of you could react. “Y/N.”

“Hola,” Alexia replied easily, offering the younger girl a fond smile.

You, on the other hand, narrowed your eyes. The tone was too sweet. The grin too wide. You knew that look — Pina was absolutely up to something.

“What?” you asked flatly, untangling yourself.

“What do you mean what?” Pina shot back, feigning offence as she pressed a hand to her chest.

“You know exactly what I mean.” You raised an eyebrow at her, unimpressed.

She held your gaze for a second, then sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes and tipping her head back toward the sky. “Ugh, fine. You caught me.” She lifted her hands in surrender. “We were just wondering if you wanted to go on a team night out?”

You hummed. “Who’s we?”

From the other side, Alexia turned her head, already scanning the room for the usual culprits.

“Esmee…” Pina started.

“And?” You folded your arms, waiting.

“Clara…” she added carefully.

You pursed your lips, unconvinced.

“AndCataKikaSydneyVickyOnaMapíandLaia,” Pina rushed out in one breath.

“No.” Alexia’s voice was sharp, immediate, cutting across.

“But you didn’t even hear what the plan was!” Pina whined, shoulders slumping.

“I don’t need to hear it,” Alexia replied firmly. “It’s not happening.”

She sounded every inch the mother she pretended she wasn’t. You couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your lips, well aware of how much she claimed to despise the Team Mother title the fans had gifted her.

“But, Ale…” Pina tried again, arms flopping uselessly at her sides.

“No.”

“Por fav-”

“No, Clàudia.”

“Por qué?” Why Pina tilted her head up, brown eyes wide and shining, fully committing to the act.

“Do not even attempt that,” Alexia warned, already recognising the tactic. “It is a Thursday.”

“So?” Pina countered immediately.

“So it is a Thursday, and we cannot go out.” Alexia’s eyes flickered, just briefly, toward you.

Pina caught it. Instantly, she twisted around to face you, latching on with renewed hope.

“Please?” she tried.

Behind her, you saw it - the subtle shift in Alexia’s expression. Not the stern captain now, but something softer. Hopeful. Thursdays had become sacred. Your shared self-care nights. Quiet. Calm. Something Alexia cherished more than she ever admitted. Ever since that first time years ago, it had become a regular feature in her life and would anything to protect it.

You sighed lightly. “You go,” you conceded. “Ale and I will have to rain-check.”

“Boooo,” Pina huffed, shoulders slumping again.

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alexiaputellas: just like the old days Load more comments

barcafan: can’t believe we’ve got two Putellas’s now  y/nputellas: yeah, you still tackle me just as hard… ↳ alexiaputellas: worked out, didn’t it? ↳ y/nputellas: sí 🙄❤️ number1culer: literal twins kika.nazareth: cute then, cute now ❤️ ↳ alexiaputellas: aw gracias kika ↳ kika.nazareth: wasn’t talking about you ↳ alexiaputellas: I said no flirting with my sister!!

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y/nputellas: this little girl just made her Camp Nou debut Load more comments

alexiaputellas: we did it kiddo, used to dream of this putellas11: give her that contract now!! what a game 🔥 albaps9: still the same smile. proud of you hermanita! elialexiaalbayn: you did it, my girl! so so proud of you! barcabarcabarcaaa: and what a debut it was 🔥🔥 kika.nazareth: didn’t just play Camp Nou, you owned Camp Nou ↳ y/nputellas: me? you scored a brace! ↳ kika.nazareth: only from your assists. we can share the spotlight, stargirl 😘 ↳ vickylopezz._: i thought capi said no flirting ↳ y/nputellas: you saw nothing :)

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alexiaputellas: great away day & assisting my hermana on her first goal Load more comments

y/nputellas: perfect way to score my first ❤️  kikafan: not kika literally laying on top of her 😭  kika.nazareth: already falling for me ↳ y/nputellas: clearly you fell for me and just knocked me over↳ claudiaapina: just casually flirting on capi’s post

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fcbfemeni: Y/n Putellas signs for the first team until 2028! Load more comments

carlajuliaa_: go shine ✨ kika.nazareth: yes stargirl!! y/nputellas: an absolute honor culers  alexiaputellas: my sister ❤️

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kika.nazareth: lil dump of my recent faves Load more comments

vickylopezz._: could you not have told me to smile or something? y/nputellas: guapa  ↳ salmaparalluelo: i swear your sister is the most oblivious person ever kikafan: posting y/n twice in one dump 👀 y/nputellas: maybe your new nickname should be lil dump from now on ↳ kika.nazareth: that’s my lil dump for you ↳ patri8guijarro: you two are disgustingly cute

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y/nputellas: 500 matches I’ve looked up to you ❤️ Load more comments

alexiaputellas: happy we get to do this together now kiddo albaps9: mi hermanas kika.nazareth: 🌟🌟 patri8guijarro: la reina and mini la reina 

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kika.nazareth: glad you’re on my team Load more comments

putellasx2: me too kika, me too y/nputellas: we’re gonna need to practice more celebrations at this rate ↳ kika.nazareth: come over then ↳ y/nputellas: on my way! ↳ alexiaputellas: what’s going on? ↳ y/nputellas: nothing ale, just preparing to score some more barcafan: the best link up!!

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y/nputellas: couple days off Load more comments

alexiaputellas: why is kika there? I thought you said you were going on a date? ↳ vickylopezz._: oh capi ↳ alexiaputellas: what? ↳ vickylopezz._: you’ll get there patri8guijarro: cuties kika.nazareth: my stargirl 🌟 Liked by y/nputellas ↳ alexiaputellas: my?? @y/nputellas you better start talking ↳ vickylopezz._: told ya

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"Alright, chicas," Jonatan, the assistant coach, clapped his hands. "Today’s session is about fitness monitoring. New program."

The squad collectively groaned.

Jonatan grinned, holding up his own wrist. "Apple Watches, Oura Rings, whatever you’re wearing; we’ve synced them all into the Barça Fit app. We’ll be tracking movement, calories, sleep, steps. Weekly rankings."

"Weekly rankings?" Patri repeated, deadpan. "Like we’re Pokémon Go characters?"

"It’ll be fun," Mapi smirked, already fiddling with her Apple Watch. "Finally, proof that I’m fitter than Ingrid."

Ingrid rolled her eyes. "Delusional."

Y/N chuckled, sliding her own watch on. She’d bought it mostly for running, but now it seemed it was going to betray her in ways she hadn’t considered. She cast a quick glance at Alexia, who was smirking knowingly, like she’d already predicted how this was going to go.

“Just don’t check the leaderboard too obsessively,” Jonatan warned. “It’s for motivation, not obsession.”

Which, in retrospect, was the beginning of the end.

“Welcome to the Hunger Games,” Patri announced dramatically as she scrolled through her wrist. “Except no one dies. Well, unless Alexia kills us during fitness drills.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Alexia muttered, stretching casually, though her lips twitched like she was holding back a smile.

You were perched on the bench nearby, tying your shoelaces tighter than necessary to keep from laughing. Being around this team was like being thrown into the middle of a sitcom, but you were used to it by now. What they didn’t know, yet, was that you were also Alexia’s girlfriend.

And that was something neither of you had shared with the team.

Not because you were hiding out of shame, far from it, but because you both agreed it was kind of nice having something just yours. Barcelona Femení was a family, but they were also terrible gossips. If one person knew, the whole team would know, and by dinner the entire city of Barcelona might as well.

So, for now, you stayed under the radar.

“Alright, everyone synced?” Mapi clapped her hands together like an evil mastermind. “Ready for a challenge? The rules are simple. Every activity is logged. Whoever has the highest numbers by the end of the month wins. Losers…” her eyes swept over the group with mock menace, “…buy the winners dinner.”

“Plural?” Ingrid raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, plural.” Mapi smirked. “Me and whoever else is worthy of standing next to me at the top.”

“Delusional,” Aitana muttered.

“Competitive,” Mapi shot back.

You leaned against the bench, trying not to smirk too much as you looked at Alexia. She wasn’t saying anything, just scrolling lazily through the app like she wasn’t taking it seriously. But you knew better. If there was one thing your girlfriend hated, it was losing. She’d never admit it, but she was one of the most competitive people you’d ever met.

The first week was chaos.

Aitana got spotted doing yoga in the locker room between drills. Even Irene, who swore she “didn’t care about dumb leaderboards,” started doing pushups in the hall before meetings.

“Patri’s been running laps around her kitchen at midnight,” Mapi announced one day, reading the rankings. “You can’t be that desperate.”

“I wasn’t running laps,” Patri protested. “I was… making tea.”

“Fifty floors of tea?” Mariona snorted.

Everyone laughed, the usual chaos of the locker room. Y/N pretended to check her bag, hiding a smile. She and Alexia had been careful, workouts only logged during normal hours, nothing suspicious.

But then came Wednesday night.

It was 2:43 a.m. Y/N lay flat on Alexia’s bed, chest heaving, sweat sticking to her skin.

“That was…” she panted, “…not yoga.”

Alexia, sprawled next to her, smirked. “It burned calories.”

“Alexia.” Y/N turned her head, glaring weakly. “You know our watches log this stuff.”

“Mm.” Alexia stretched an arm above her head, unbothered. “Let them think I’m committed to midnight Pilates.”

“They’re going to think something,” Y/N muttered, covering her face with her hands.

Alexia only chuckled, rolling over and pressing a kiss to Y/N’s shoulder. “Relax, cariño. They’ll never piece it together.”

Except the next morning, Patri’s voice rang through the training pitch.

“WHO THE HELL IS WORKING OUT AT 2:40 IN THE MORNING?!”

Y/N nearly tripped over the cone she was dribbling around.

The entire squad crowded around their synced app, gasping, laughing, speculating. Two names flashed in the “Completed Workouts” section: Alexia Putellas and Y/N L/N. Both logged exactly 47 minutes. Both at 2 something in the morning.

Mariona’s eyes were wide. “That’s… creepy.”

Ingrid raised an eyebrow. “Coincidence?”

“Coincidence my ass,” Mapi said, smirking. “Who does HIIT at 2:40 a.m.?”

Alexia jogged over, calm as ever. “What’s going on?” she asked, feigning innocence.

“Your watch thinks you’re an insomniac,” Patri accused, waving her phone.

Alexia peered at the screen, lips twitching. “Ah. Yeah, sometimes I can’t sleep. I like to…move.”

Y/N nearly choked on her water. Move. That was one way to put it.

“You too, Y/N?” Mariona teased, glancing at her. “Starting rookie hazing early with 3 a.m. cardio?”

Heat crawled up Y/N’s neck. “I- uh..I couldn’t sleep either.”

Alexia, the devil herself, simply patted Y/N’s back like a supportive captain. “Good habits, eh?”

The squad laughed it off, eventually distracted by training. But Y/N knew it wouldn’t be the last time. Not with Alexia’s cocky grin lingering like a secret weapon.

Sure enough, it happened again.

Friday night. 1:58 a.m. Alexia had pulled Y/N into her home gym after a movie night. "Just ten minutes," she’d promised. Ten minutes turned into thirty of… well, not exactly gym exercises. Y/N had begged her to turn off the watch. Alexia just raised a brow and whispered against her ear, “Where’s the fun in that?”

Saturday morning, locker room chaos.

“Okay no, this is too weird,” Patri said, holding up her phone again. “You two did another workout together at the exact same time? Middle of the night?”

“Do you have like a secret pact?” Mapi asked, grinning. “The Midnight Fitness Club?”

“Maybe they’re vampires,” Mariona suggested.

Y/N sputtered, “It’s… It’s just a coincidence!”

“Twice?” Patri deadpanned.

Alexia smirked, cool as ice. “Some people value discipline.”

Y/N wanted the ground to swallow her whole.

By the third time it happened, there was no saving face.

Monday. 3:12 a.m. 62 minutes logged.

“Okay,” Mapi slammed her hand on the table during breakfast. “Confess. What’s going on between you two?”

The entire squad stared at Y/N and Alexia.

Y/N’s heart pounded so loud she swore it echoed in the cafeteria. Her fork trembled in her hand. Alexia, on the other hand, leaned back casually in her chair, sipping her coffee like she was immune to mortal panic.

“Going on?” she repeated smoothly.

“Yes!” Patri said. “Three nights this week. At ungodly hours. Both of you. For the exact same amount of time. Nobody’s that coordinated without planning it.”

“Unless…” Mapi’s grin spread wickedly. “…you’re planning something else.”

Laughter exploded around the table.

Y/N buried her face in her hands. “Oh my god.”

Alexia reached over, calmly plucking a piece of toast from Y/N’s plate, unfazed by the chaos. “You all think too much,” she said with a shrug. But her eyes - oh, her eyes were sparkling with mischief as they flicked to Y/N’s flushed face.

She was enjoying this.

Far too much.

The second week was underway. First thing in the morning, the press room at Ciutat Esportiva was buzzing, as it always did days before a Champions League fixture. Cameras, microphones, questions flying in every direction. Alexia handled it with her usual calm authority, giving clipped but confident answers in that smooth captain’s voice.

Y/N, sitting two seats down, tried to appear equally composed. Except she wasn’t. Because all she could think about was the way Alexia’s hand had brushed against hers under the table, out of view. A feather-light touch, a silent promise.

“Y/N,” one reporter called. “How are you finding your first Champions League campaign with Barça?”

Y/N blinked, forcing a smile. “Um, it’s been incredible. The support from the team makes everything easier.”

Beside her, Alexia gave the tiniest smirk. Y/N sat up straighter, praying no one noticed the warmth creeping up her neck.

The press session ended, players dispersing back toward the training ground. The squad was chattering, joking, debating who gave the most boring answer (Patri, unanimously).

But as soon as the hallway cleared, Alexia caught Y/N’s wrist.

“Five minutes,” she whispered.

Y/N blinked. “Now?”

Alexia’s grin was sinful. “Now.”

The gym was empty. Everyone else had either gone to shower or other media. Alexia closed the door behind them, tugging Y/N into the corner where the mats were laid out.

“This is reckless,” Y/N hissed, though she was already letting herself be pulled down onto the mat.

Alexia leaned in, brushing a stray hair from her face. “This is cardio.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You love it.”

Twenty-five minutes later, both of their watches buzzed. Workout complete.

Y/N groaned, flopping back onto the mat. “We’re doomed.”

Alexia only laughed, stealing a quick kiss before tugging her up. “Relax, cariño. Nobody checks it immediately.”

She was wrong.

By lunch, the notifications had been spotted.

“WHAT?!” Patri’s voice rang through the cafeteria. “Again?!”

The table erupted in chaos. Phones were whipped out. Screens shoved in faces.

“11:47 a.m.,” Mariona read dramatically, like a courtroom prosecutor. “Right after media. Guess who logged a 25-minute workout together?”

All eyes turned.

Alexia chewed her chicken calmly. Y/N nearly choked on hers.

“Oh come on,” Mapi said, grinning ear to ear. “You guys aren’t even trying to hide it now.”

“Maybe they’ve got a secret training pact,” Ingrid offered, though her smirk betrayed that she didn’t believe it.

“Yeah,” Patri deadpanned. “The Pact of Suspiciously Synced Heart Rates.”

Y/N dropped her fork. “We just… like to… stay active!”

Laughter roared around the table. Even Ona, usually quiet, chuckled into her salad.

Alexia sipped her water, completely unfazed. “Discipline,” she said again, shrugging like it was the simplest answer in the world.

Y/N wanted to scream.

From then on, it became a running joke. Every random moment, the squad checked their app.

After recovery yoga: both Alexia and Y/N logged an “extra” 15 minutes. After team dinner: another 40 minutes mysteriously appeared at 10:55 p.m.

Even after media days, when the entire squad was together; somehow, someway, those two always logged matching sessions within minutes of each other.

“They’re sneaking off,” Mariona announced one day, loud enough for half the locker room to hear.

“They’re definitely sneaking off,” Mapi agreed. “I swear I saw them disappear after physio yesterday.”

“You’re imagining things,” Y/N squeaked, tugging on her boots.

Mapi leaned in, mischievous. “Am I?”

Y/N’s ears burned.

By the third week of suspiciously synced workouts, the Barcelona locker room had shifted from amused curiosity to full-on investigation mode.

“This isn’t normal,” Patri declared one morning, scrolling through the app like it was evidence in a courtroom trial. “Nobody works out this much together unless there’s a secret.”

“Or unless they’re dating,” Mapi added, smirking.

Y/N fumbled with her laces so hard she almost tied her boots together.

Alexia, lounging nearby, looked entirely unbothered. “Or maybe we’re just competitive,” she said smoothly.

“Competitive?” Mariona repeated. “At two in the morning?”

Alexia’s shrug was the picture of captainly calm. “Discipline.”

The squad groaned in unison.

That afternoon, a new plan was hatched.

“Operation Caught-in-the-Act,” Mapi announced proudly in the physio room. “We’re going to prove it once and for all.”

“How?” Ingrid asked, though the twitch of her mouth suggested she already knew she was going to regret asking.

“Stakeout,” Mapi said, like it was obvious.

Mariona grinned. “Like detectives.”

“Exactly.”

Patri crossed her arms. “This is ridiculous.”

“…but brilliant,” Mariona added.

Patri sighed. “Fine. I’m in.”

The first attempt came after training.

Y/N and Alexia had barely slipped out of the locker room, heading toward the side hallway, when whispers echoed behind them.

“Follow them!” Mapi hissed.

Y/N glanced over her shoulder, heart skipping. She could’ve sworn she saw Mariona’s head pop out from behind a vending machine.

Alexia, unfazed, leaned down and murmured, “Don’t look back.”

“I think they’re actually following us,” Y/N whispered.

“They’ll lose interest.”

Spoiler: they didn’t.

The “stakeout squad” trailed them down the hall, ducking behind corners with the subtlety of toddlers playing hide-and-seek.

At one point, Ingrid had to physically pull Mapi back because she was giggling too loudly.

But when Y/N and Alexia slipped into the gym and closed the door, the squad rushed to peek inside, only to find the pair genuinely lifting weights.

“Damn it,” Mapi muttered.

“Told you,” Patri said smugly.

Except twenty minutes later, both watches buzzed, logging an “extra activity” session that didn’t match what they had witnessed.

Mapi stared at her phone in disbelief. “How?!”

“Maybe they’re… multitasking?” Mariona offered.

The group dissolved into wheezing laughter.

The second attempt came after a media day.

Knowing their habit of vanishing after press duties, the squad decided to set a trap.

“We’ll all stay together,” Patri insisted, gathering the team in the tunnel. “No one leaves until we’re dismissed. That way, no sneaking off.”

Y/N’s stomach sank. Alexia, of course, looked like she’d just been handed a puzzle to solve.

Sure enough, ten minutes later, Alexia leaned down, whispering low into Y/N’s ear, “Meet me by the physio room. Two minutes.”

“What? They’re literally watching us!”

“That’s the fun part.”

And somehow, impossibly, Alexia pulled it off. A casual excuse to grab water. A wave at a staff member down the hall. A quick detour.

By the time Y/N nervously slipped away, the squad was still huddled, distracted by Mapi trying to convince Patri to start a TikTok series called Fitness Gate.

Twenty-five minutes later: ding. Both watches buzzed.

Mapi’s jaw dropped. “No. Freaking. Way.”

“They’re magicians,” Mariona whispered, staring at her screen. “Or spies.”

It became a game, the squad versus the secret couple.

During a recovery pool session, Patri and Mariona stationed themselves at opposite exits to “block escape routes.” Somehow, Alexia and Y/N still vanished, logging a suspicious 30 minutes.

At team dinner, Mapi hid behind a menu, watching their every move. The next morning, their watches revealed a perfectly matched midnight “yoga” session anyway.

Even when Ona, usually the quiet observer, joined in, she could only shake her head. “They’re professionals. You won’t catch them like this.”

Mapi gasped. “So you admit there’s something to catch!”

Ona smirked but said nothing.

Y/N, meanwhile, was living in a constant state of near-heart-attack.

“They’re literally hunting us,” she whispered one evening at Alexia’s apartment, clutching a cushion to her chest.

Alexia stretched out on the sofa, scrolling through Netflix like nothing was wrong. “They’re not hunting. They’re playing.”

“They’re scheming! They’re going to corner us one day!”

Alexia finally looked up, grin tugging at her lips. “Then we’ll tell them.”

Y/N squeaked. “You’re not even a little nervous?”

“No.” Alexia reached over, tugging her onto her lap. “You’re mine, and sooner or later they’ll know. Until then…” She brushed her lips against Y/N’s ear. “…I like watching you squirm.”

Y/N groaned into her hands. “You’re evil.”

“Evil,” Alexia echoed, chuckling. “But irresistible.”

The next morning, when both of their watches logged a suspicious 3 a.m. “core workout,” the squad went feral in the group chat.

Mapi: THEY DID IT AGAIN. Patri: At 3 a.m.??? Do they ever sleep? Mariona: This is insane. I’m making a conspiracy board. Ingrid: Please don’t. Mariona: Too late.

One thing was clear: the squad wasn’t giving up.

And Y/N knew it was only a matter of time before one of their schemes actually worked.

It started with Mariona showing up to training with a roll of tape and a stack of printed screenshots.

“Everybody to the meeting room!” she announced dramatically, waving the papers in the air. “It’s time.”

Patri groaned. “Oh no.”

Mapi’s grin spread like wildfire. “YES. The Board.”

Within minutes, the squad had crowded into the unused video-analysis room. The projector was off, the tactical diagrams ignored. Instead, Mariona slapped the first paper onto the whiteboard: a screenshot of the Barça Fit app showing Alexia Putellas and Y/N L/N logging a 52-minute workout at 2:11 a.m.

“Exhibit A,” Mariona declared.

Patri dragged a hand over her face. “This is ridiculous.”

“This is SCIENCE,” Mariona corrected, already taping up more screenshots. “Exhibit B. Exhibit C. Exhibit D. Notice the pattern?”

The board filled up fast: timestamps, matching workout durations, photos of Alexia and Y/N caught sneaking into hallways. Mariona even drew connecting lines with red marker, circling everything like she was solving a true crime case.

Ingrid sat with her arms crossed, watching the chaos. “You all realise you’re insane, right?”

“Insanely observant,” Mapi corrected, grabbing a marker and scribbling Possible Scenarios at the top of the board.

“Okay,” Mariona said, stepping back like a proud professor. “Hypothesis one: they are actually vampires. Nocturnal activity, unexplained energy at training, suspiciously glowing skin-”

“Vampires?” Patri interrupted.

“Don’t dismiss it,” Mariona warned.

“Hypothesis two,” Mapi said, taking over. “Secret training cult. They’ve created their own midnight fitness regime, probably involving sacrifices…”

“Oh my god,” Patri muttered, sinking into her chair.

“Hypothesis three,” Mariona announced with a flourish, “and the most likely: they’re sneaking off for… activities.”

The squad erupted into howls of laughter.

Meanwhile, down the hall, Y/N was tying her boots when she heard the commotion.

“What are they even doing in there?” she asked, side-eyeing the muffled shouts.

Alexia smirked knowingly, adjusting her shin guards. “Scheming.”

“Scheming?”

“Mm.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “They’re obsessed with us, cariño. Can’t stop thinking about what we’re doing.”

Y/N felt her face go hot. “Alexia!”

But Alexia was already strolling toward the pitch, shoulders relaxed, that cocky grin in place.

Back in the meeting room, Patri tried to salvage some sanity.

“Look, you don’t need conspiracy theories. The answer is obvious.”

“Exactly!” Mapi shouted. “They’re hooking up!”

Patri blinked. “…I was going to say they just train together. But sure, let’s go with your theory.”

Ona, who had been quiet as always, finally spoke up. “If they’re hiding something, they won’t slip up in normal situations.”

The room went quiet. Everyone turned to her.

“They’re too careful,” Ona continued, calmly flipping through her phone. “If you really want to catch them, you need to create a scenario where they think they’re safe.”

Mapi gasped, eyes wide. “Like a trap.”

“Yes,” Ona said simply.

Mariona slapped the board. “Operation Honeypot!”

“That’s not what honeypot means,” Ingrid muttered.

But Mapi was already scribbling “TRAP” in huge letters across the board.

The next day, the trap was set.

Jonatan had finished tactical drills early, so the players were gathered in the meeting room. Mariona raised her hand. “Coach, could you excuse us for a second? We just… need to discuss something privately.”

Jonatan raised an eyebrow but left, muttering about dramatic footballers.

The moment the door closed, Patri announced loudly, “Okay, emergency toilet break. Everyone out!”

The squad “casually” filed out, except for the stakeout team, who crouched outside the door like kids at a sleepover.

Inside, Alexia leaned back in her chair, smirking. “You hear that?”

Y/N blinked. “Hear what?”

“They’re setting a trap.”

“What?!” Y/N squeaked, whipping her head toward the door. “Are you serious?”

“Mm.” Alexia stood, tugging her wrist. “Come on. Let’s give them what they want.”

“What do you mean?!”

But Alexia just winked.

Outside, the squad held their breath as the door creaked open. Footsteps echoed down the hall. Then silence.

Mapi whispered, “They took the bait.”

Mariona nearly squealed. “This is it!”

The group crept after them, peeking around corners like cartoon detectives. Finally, they reached the physio corridor, where they found Alexia and Y/N…

…sitting calmly on the bench, scrolling their phones.

“Caught you!” Mapi shouted, bursting out from behind the corner.

Alexia looked up, unimpressed. “Caught us… waiting for physio?”

Y/N blinked, wide-eyed, clutching her phone like it was a lifeline.

Mapi froze. “Wait. But you…we…”

Behind her, Patri groaned. “This is pathetic.”

Ona smirked knowingly.

Later that night, when both watches buzzed with a 1 a.m. “HIIT workout,” the squad group chat exploded.

Mapi: THEY OUTSMARTED US. Mariona: They KNEW about the trap. Patri: Maybe because you shouted “Operation Honeypot” in the locker room yesterday. Ingrid: Clowns. All of you. Ona: Told you.

Y/N lay tangled in Alexia’s sheets, face buried in her chest. “They’re never going to stop.”

Alexia kissed her hair, chuckling. “Good. I like the entertainment.”

“You’re evil.”

“Evil,” Alexia echoed, grinning. “And still undefeated.”

By now, the team had reached what could only be described as obsession. The “mystery of the midnight workouts” had become a daily fixture of conversation, escalating from casual teasing to full-blown detective work.

“They’re laughing at us,” Mapi muttered one morning, scrolling through her phone like it had personally betrayed her. “Mocking us with their little synced sessions.”

“They’re mocking you,” Ingrid said dryly, tying her boots.

“No, they’re mocking all of us!” Mapi insisted. “Every suspicious workout is a declaration of war.”

Patri rolled her eyes. “You’re unhinged.”

Mariona nodded sagely. “But she’s right. It’s war.”

And so the schemes escalated.

First came the GPS trackers; Mapi sneakily slipped an AirTag into Alexia’s gym bag, proudly announcing, “Checkmate.” Except the next morning, the tracker pinged from a perfectly boring location: Alexia’s living room.

“Maybe they really are just doing late-night workouts,” Ingrid suggested.

Then came the hidden cameras; Mariona convinced the kit man to let her “test” a new GoPro setup in the gym. But when they reviewed the footage, all they saw was Alexia calmly riding a stationary bike for twenty minutes, before winking directly at the camera and walking out.

Mariona clutched her head. “She knows. She knows everything.”

Ona, as always, smirked. “Told you.”

Y/N, meanwhile, was living in permanent panic.

“They’re going to catch us,” she hissed one evening in Alexia’s apartment, pacing the floor like it was a crime scene. “Mapi has gone full FBI. Mariona has a board. Patri’s probably running background checks.”

Alexia lounged on the couch, scrolling through her phone like she hadn’t a care in the world. “Let them try.”

“You don’t understand…”

Alexia reached out, snagging Y/N’s wrist, pulling her onto her lap. Her grin was maddeningly smug. “Scared the team will find out just how much stamina their captain has?”

Y/N nearly fell off her lap. “ALEXIA!”

“What?” Alexia teased, brushing a kiss against her neck. “It’s just fitness, no?”

Y/N covered her face with both hands. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you love it.”

The problem, of course, was that Alexia’s cockiness wasn’t unwarranted.

Because that night, for reasons Y/N couldn’t even comprehend, their “session” stretched past an hour. And when their watches buzzed: Longest workout yet: 92 minutes. Y/N nearly cried.

The next morning, the squad erupted.

“NINETY. TWO. MINUTES.” Mapi screamed, slamming her phone onto the breakfast table like it was proof of alien life.

The entire team gathered around, jaws dropping.

“Ninety-two minutes of cardio at three a.m.,” Patri said flatly. “That’s not normal. That’s… borderline superhuman.”

Mariona whistled low. “Stamina.”

Ingrid’s eyebrow shot up. “Impressive.”

Y/N, sitting two seats down, choked so hard on her orange juice that Vicky had to thump her on the back.

Alexia, across the table, just smirked over her coffee. “Discipline,” she said again smoothly, like it explained everything.

Mapi slammed her hands on the table. “NO. This isn’t discipline. This is… this is…” She gestured wildly. “…something ELSE.”

The squad howled with laughter, voices echoing around the cafeteria.

Y/N’s ears burned crimson. Alexia, meanwhile, leaned back in her chair like a cat in the sun, entirely unbothered.

Of course, ninety-two minutes was the spark that lit a new fire under the squad.

“This is it,” Mapi said, pulling out her notebook later that day. “Our white whale. If we can’t catch them after this, we never will.”

Mariona nodded gravely. “We need the ultimate plan.”

Patri muttered, “Or you could just… ask them?”

“No,” Mapi snapped, eyes wild. “We don’t ask. We hunt.”

Ona chuckled under her breath.

Back in Alexia’s apartment, Y/N buried her face in a pillow. “They’re insane. They’re going to put us under surveillance.”

Alexia ran a hand lazily through Y/N’s hair, the smirk still lingering. “Let them. They’ll never win.”

“You’re too cocky.”

“Mm.” Alexia kissed her temple. “Maybe. But admit it, you like watching me win.”

Y/N groaned into the pillow. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

Alexia’s laugh was low, soft, and maddeningly smug. “Ninety-two minutes says otherwise.”

By now, the entire Barcelona women’s squad was in too deep.

What had started as harmless teasing had spiraled into a full-blown mission.

Mapi slammed her notebook down onto the cafeteria table like a manifesto.

“Operation Midnight Raid,” she declared.

Patri groaned. “That sounds illegal.”

“It’s not illegal,” Mapi countered. “It’s genius. We’re staying overnight at Ciutat Esportiva. No one leaves, no one sneaks off, no excuses. We’ll all be together; meaning no midnight workouts.”

“And if they still log a workout,” Mariona added dramatically, “then it proves something unholy is happening.”

Y/N nearly dropped her fork. “Overnight? At the training ground?”

“Yes,” Mapi said, narrowing her eyes at her. “A squad bonding sleepover. Everyone in the same place. No chance of… sneaky cardio.”

Across the table, Alexia calmly buttered her toast. “Sounds fun.”

Y/N gaped at her. Fun?!

That night, the squad transformed one of the media rooms into a makeshift dorm. Air mattresses, blankets, snacks, even a projector for movies. It had the chaotic energy of a school trip, players shrieking with laughter and tossing popcorn across the room.

Y/N sat stiffly on her mattress, glancing nervously at Alexia across the room. Alexia was leaning against the wall, arms folded, watching the chaos with that infuriating smirk.

“They’re watching us like hawks,” Y/N whispered when Alexia finally settled beside her.

“I know,” Alexia murmured back. “It’s adorable.”

“Adorable?!”

Alexia’s grin turned wicked. “Scared they’ll find out how much stamina their captain has?”

Y/N nearly smothered herself with her blanket.

The squad was relentless.

Every bathroom trip was monitored. Every trip to the vending machine was tracked. Mapi even set alarms through the night, insisting on “random checks.”

Around midnight, Patri shook everyone awake just to “make sure no one was missing.”

“Still here,” Alexia muttered, voice hoarse with sleep.

“Still here,” Y/N croaked, cheeks burning.

Mapi squinted at them suspiciously. “We’ll see.”

By 2 a.m., the locker room had finally quieted. Snores echoed, someone’s Spotify playlist hummed faintly from a corner, and the squad’s elaborate trap seemed airtight.

Y/N curled into her blanket, eyes heavy. For once, maybe, just maybe, they’d survive the night without suspicion.

Then she felt Alexia’s hand brush hers under the covers.

Her eyes flew open. “No,” she whispered. “Absolutely not.”

Alexia leaned close, her breath tickling Y/N’s ear. “Relax. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good,” Y/N whispered back firmly. “Because they’ll actually kill us if we-”

Her watch buzzed.

Y/N froze.

“What the hell?!” she whispered, glancing at the screen. Somehow, inexplicably, it had started tracking a workout.

Alexia’s eyes glinted with mischief. “Guess it knows something you don’t.”

“Alexia!” Y/N squeaked, yanking her wrist away. “Turn it off!”

Too late.

By morning, both watches proudly displayed a synced “low-intensity activity” session logged at 2:17 a.m.

Chaos. Absolute chaos.

Mapi screamed so loudly when she saw the notifications that half the staff came running.

“EXPLAIN THIS!” she demanded, waving her phone in Alexia and Y/N’s faces. “We locked you down! You had guards! You had surveillance! HOW?!”

Mariona collapsed onto the floor, wheezing. “They’re… unstoppable.”

Patri rubbed her temples. “This is insane.”

Ona smirked knowingly. “Told you they couldn’t be caught.”

Y/N wanted to dig a hole and crawl into it. “It must’ve been a glitch,” she babbled, waving her hands. “Like… like, maybe the watches picked up on… tossing and turning in our sleep?”

“Oh sure,” Mapi said, dripping sarcasm. “You both tossed and turned for twenty minutes at the exact same time.”

Y/N made a strangled noise.

Alexia, of course, looked cool as ever. “Maybe we’re just in sync,” she said with a lazy shrug.

The squad erupted.

Later that night, safe in Alexia’s apartment, Y/N groaned into the couch cushion.

“We’re so close to getting caught. If they find out what we’re actually doing-”

“They will,” Alexia cut in calmly, tugging her into her lap.

Y/N blinked. “You want them to?”

Alexia smirked, leaning down until their noses brushed. “Eventually.”

“Why do you look so smug about this?”

“Because.” Alexia kissed her cheek, her grin maddening. “Ninety-two minutes wasn’t even our limit.”

Y/N let out a muffled scream into her hands.

The locker room buzzed with restless energy. The squad had tried everything; trackers, cameras, overnight stakeouts, and every time, Alexia and Y/N slipped through their fingers.

“This is it,” Mapi declared, standing on a bench like a revolutionary leader. “One final challenge. Winner takes all.”

“Winner takes what?” Ingrid asked, unimpressed.

“The truth!” Mapi shouted, pumping her fist.

Patri buried her face in her hands. “I can’t believe I play for a team of children.”

The “truth challenge” was announced later that morning: a team-wide competition of endurance circuits, balance drills, and strategy games. Partners were chosen at “random,” though everyone knew Mapi and Mariona had pulled the strings.

“Alexia and Y/N,” Jonatan read.

Y/N’s heart plummeted into her stomach. Of course.

Beside her, Alexia smirked as she fastened the resistance band around their waists. “Shall we?”

“They’re setting us up,” Y/N hissed.

“Let them,” Alexia murmured, leaning down to her ear. “We’ll win.”

The day was chaos from start to finish.

First was the endurance gauntlet. With the band tethering them, Y/N struggled to match Alexia’s pace, but her captain never slowed, guiding her with steady hands and smug encouragement.

“Keep up, princesa,” Alexia teased, barely breaking a sweat.

Second was the balance beam relay. Every wobble Y/N made, Alexia’s hand steadied her waist, whispering, “I’ve got you.” The squad hooted from the sidelines, Patri shouting, “This is basically a public date!”

By the time they hit the obstacle course finale, Y/N was exhausted, but Alexia was still running like she’d just started.

Hours later, when the dust settled and the scores were tallied for the first month of the fitness challenge, the inevitable happened.

“And the winners,” Jonatan announced, reading from his clipboard, “by a landslide… Alexia and Y/N.”

The squad erupted. Mapi shrieked, Mariona clutched her head in mock agony, Patri groaned like she’d lost all faith in humanity.

“Unstoppable,” Ingrid muttered.

Y/N, cheeks burning, shuffled awkwardly toward the front. Alexia, on the other hand, strode confidently, arm sliding casually around Y/N’s waist.

Jonatan handed them the prize, a ridiculous golden foam trophy someone had dug out of storage. The squad wolf-whistled, phones out, recording every second.

Alexia raised the trophy high, grin wide. “Gracias.” Then, with a casualness that sent the room into chaos, she added:

“And thank you on behalf of my girlfriend, too.”

Silence.

A beat.

Then absolute pandemonium.

“WHAT?!” Mapi shrieked so loud the windows rattled.

“I knew it!” Mariona screamed, pointing at the ceiling like she’d solved a murder case.

Patri dropped her water bottle. “Oh my god.”

Ona just smirked knowingly.

Y/N hid her face in her hands, mortified. “Alexia…” she groaned.

But Alexia only kissed the top of her head, grinning smugly at her teammates. “You all worked so hard to find out. Consider this your prize.”

The squad went ballistic; cheering, teasing, chanting their names like it was a championship win.

Later, when the locker room had calmed and the team was still buzzing about the reveal, Y/N slumped onto the bench, face bright red.

“You’re unbelievable,” she muttered, glaring at Alexia.

Alexia smirked, tugging her close with zero shame. “You’re mine. They were going to find out eventually. Might as well let them know when we’re on top.”

Y/N groaned, but couldn’t stop smiling when Alexia kissed her in front of everyone again, smug as ever.

Because, like always, Alexia had chosen the perfect moment.

You’ve had the house cleaned. You bought flowers you don’t have names for, white ones that her mother looked at and touched with one finger and said something soft in Catalan that you didn’t quite catch but understood anyway. You made food that took most of yesterday and some of this morning and you hid the banner you’d had made—500 partits. La nostra reina—in the hall cupboard until Alba found it and hung it herself, standing on a chair in her socks, crooked, not quite level, and somehow that made it better.

Alexia doesn’t know what to do with herself when she is loved like this. You’ve learned that about her over years of careful watching. She goes still in a specific way—jaw soft, the habitual tension in her shoulders releasing half a degree—and she processes it slowly, like her body needs time to convert it into something she can hold. Right now she is on the sofa with her Aunts hand on her knee, talking to her with her head tilted, and you are watching her from the kitchen doorway and the wine in your glass is getting warm and you don’t care.

Eventually she catches you looking.

The corner of her mouth moves. Not a full smile. Something smaller and more interior, something that belongs to the two of you specifically, a frequency only you can receive. You raise your glass. She raises hers. Across a room full of the people who love her most, across the noise of her family and her friends and the smell of the food and the low golden light of the lamp in the corner. Across all of it, she holds your gaze for long enough that you feel it in your sternum.

Your daughter hits the back of your knees at speed and grabs your leg with both arms. “When is cake?”

“Later,” you say.

“You always say later.”

“Because it’s always later until it isn’t,” you tell her. “Go find your tía.”

She makes a sound that is somehow both indignant and satisfied and peels away.

-

You find her in the kitchen standing with her back against the counter, and you find yourself being pulled by her gravity, slotting yourself into her space. She makes room for you with her body the way she always does, automatic, rearranging herself without thinking, her free hand finding your waist.

“Estàs bé?” you ask.

“Sí.” She says it simply, not a charade of happiness but the real thing, which still surprises you sometimes, still registers as a small gift even after all this time. She looks tired around the eyes, 82 minutes of giving everything in the way she always does, the way that makes the whole stadium make a low, synchronised sound when she touches the ball—but her colour is good and her grip on your waist is firm. “You did all of this.”

“We all did.”

“Tu ho has fet.” Her gaze is level, correcting you with the same directness she uses on the pitch. You did it. She means it as a statement of fact not of gratitude but somehow that makes it land harder. “I counted the flowers.”

“You—”

“Thirty-seven,” she says. “You bought thirty-seven flowers. I know because I tried to count them when I first came in and I lost count twice and then I started over and there are thirty-seven.” She takes a sip of her wine. Her eyes are dark and even and watching you with the quality of attention that once, early on, made you feel briefly like a problem she was trying to solve and now just makes you feel seen in a way that is almost too much. “Why thirty-seven?”

“No reason,” you say. “That’s how many they had left.”

She studies you. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“Mentidora.” She says it without heat. Liar. Her thumb moves once against your hip, a slow deliberate press, and you feel it like a signal. “Thank you,” she says. “For this. All of this. I don’t—” She pauses. You watch her find the word, the way she sometimes has to translate through two languages to get to the one she means. “I don’t always know what to do when things are—when there’s too much—”

“I know,” you say.

She exhales. “Yes. You know.” She sounds faintly amazed by this, even now, even years in. Her forehead drops to yours, a quiet private collision, and you stay like that for a moment in the middle of your kitchen with her family two rooms away and the noise of all of it surrounding you and her breath warm against your mouth. “Five hundred,” she says quietly, almost to herself.

“Five hundred.”

“Mare de Déu.” A short exhale, not quite a laugh.

“Are you proud of yourself?” you ask, because sometimes she needs to be asked these things directly.

A pause. Then: “Yes.” The word is small but completely without apology. “Yes, I am.”

You press your lips to the corner of her jaw, just below her ear, and feel her go still in that very specific way.

-

The night moves the way good nights do, without landmarks, only atmosphere. Her mother tells a story about a nine-year-old Alexia refusing to come inside for dinner because she was practicing juggling—malabars, she calls them, malabars amb la pilota—and she hides her face in her hands and says “Mamí, no” in the voice of someone who has been embarrassed by this story twenty times and would like it to stop but also doesn’t entirely want it to stop. Her uncle makes a toast that goes on two minutes too long and ends with something that makes Alexia press her knuckles to her mouth, eyes wet and bright.

You are building a picture. It assembles itself from fragments. The sound of her laugh when her best friend says something quick and low that you half-catch, the way she leans across the table to refill her cousins water without being asked, the moment she thinks no one is watching and her face relaxes into an expression that is simply hers, not Alexia Putellas the icon or Alexia your wife or any version constructed for an audience, just the face she has when she forgets to have a face.

You love her so much it is occasionally inconvenient.

Her daughter, your daughter, appears at your elbow at some point in the evening. Small, certain, with Alexias eyes and your habit of watching rooms before entering them. She is wearing her pajamas already because she decided to change two hours early and no one stopped her because there was no reason to stop her. She leans against your arm.

“Is it almost time for cake?” she asks.

“Almost,” you say.

She nods despite her pout, and goes back to wherever she was.

-

At ten past nine you catch Alba’s eye across the room. Alba is three years younger than Alexia and has the same bone structure and approximately three times the theatrical expressiveness. She lifts her eyebrows in a question. You give a small nod. She unfolds from her chair and begins the process of organising departure, which with this family is not quick and involves at least four different conversations being started and interrupted and resumed, coats located, someone’s keys found in the bowl by the door, your daughter extracted from the kitchen where she has climbed onto a chair to finish the last of something she wasn’t supposed to have more of.

Alexia is saying goodbye to her mother, one hand cupping the back of the older woman’s head, and her mother is saying something that you don’t try to hear because it’s not for you, and Alexia’s eyes close briefly.

Alba takes your daughter’s hand as she says, “don’t do anything i wouldn’t do.”

“Go,” you tell her, not able to look her in the eye.

She smirks, in that way she does when she’s making you aware she knows your deepest darkest secrets, and goes into the night with your six year old in tow.

-

The guilt of exiling your daughter lasts approximately thirty-six seconds.

It arrives while you’re stepping into the shower, the image of her face at the door, that smile of excitement at the prospect of being spoiled by her favourite person, and then the hot water hits your shoulders and the guilt dissolves the way guilt does when it was never really the right word for what you were feeling. You were feeling something closer to relief. Something closer to finally.

The bathroom fills with steam. You stand in it and let yourself think about what the night is, what it actually is: a night where no one will knock. A night where the bedroom door does not need to be locked, where you do not have to think about the particular geography of sound, which walls are thin and which aren’t, whether small feet are padding down the hallway. A night where you can be as loud as you need to be and Alexia can be as demanding as she gets when there is nothing to moderate her. You have been thinking about this, explicitly and in some detail, since you sent the first text to Alba three weeks ago asking if she could take her for the night.

You wash your hair slowly. You take your time with everything. There is no reason not to.

The shower door is fogged when you step out. You dry off without hurrying, catching your own reflection in the mirror as the steam begins to thin, partial at first, then clearer, your face resolving out of the white. You look at yourself the way you sometimes do in preparation of these things: clinically, taking inventory. The water has left your skin flushed. Your hair hangs dark and damp against your neck. You look, you decide, like someone who has plans.

You brush your hair out. You apply lotion with the deliberate attention of someone who is aware they are making someone wait and who intends to make them wait longer. The lotion is cold when it first hits your skin and then warms and you work it in slowly, up your calves, the backs of your thighs, the dip of your waist, not because you need to be thorough but because thoroughness is the point. Because somewhere beyond this door Alexia is waiting with the barely-contained patience of someone who has been well-behaved all evening and knows the evening is over and is not good at waiting even when she is pretending to be good at it.

The eyeliner takes two attempts. You smudge it deliberately on the third, decide that’s better. Something slightly undone, slightly approximate, the suggestion of effort rather than the proof of it. A touch of mascara. You step back and look.

Then you take the garment from the hook on the back of the door.

Black. Sheer in the places that are supposed to be sheer. The kind of thing that functions less as clothing and more as a question being asked. She hasn’t seen it yet. You bought it two weeks ago and folded it under other things in the drawer and have thought about it every day since with a frequency that felt slightly unreasonable and now feels entirely justified.

You put it on. You look at yourself.

Good, you think. More than good.

-

She is in the kitchen.

You hear her before you see her. The low undercurrent of movement, the quality of quiet that Alexia generates when she is doing something domestic and thinks she is alone. You come to the doorway and stop.

She is unloading the dishwasher. This fact is so mundane that it takes a moment to process against the reality of her, which is that she is Alexia Putellas, which is that she played her five hundredth match for the club of her life today, which is that she moves through your kitchen with the same economy and deliberateness she moves through everything, each gesture complete and considered, no motion wasted. Her back is to you. The shirt she changed into after the guests left fits her the way her clothes tend to fit her, accurately, like it has no other choice. You can see the line of her shoulders. The way her body tapers. The frame of someone built entirely for a purpose and who has spent decades in service of it.

You lean against the doorframe and watch her without announcing yourself.

This is one of your private inventories: Alexia in unguarded moments. Alexia when she doesn’t know she’s being looked at. The quality of her then is different, not better or worse than the version that exists for the world, just unfiltered, the signal without the processing. She reaches up to put something away and her shirt rides up and you see the strip of skin above her waistband and your mouth does something involuntary.

She goes still.

In increments. The movement slowing and then stopping, and you know she’s sensed you. She does this, has always done this, some calibration in her body that registers presence the way certain animals register weather. She turns.

Her eyes find you. They move down and then up and then down again, unhurried, taking their time with the inventory the way you just took your time in the bathroom, and there is something satisfying about this, about watching the wanting arrive in her face. It moves through her expression like weather moving through a landscape. Gradual, total, changing everything.

She leans back against the counter.

Neither of you speaks for a moment. The kitchen hums quietly around you. The light is the warm low kind you prefer, the kind she once said makes her feel like a person rather than a thing being evaluated, and in it her face is all shadow and angle, the dark of her eyes darker.

“Qué me estás haciendo.” She says it quietly, more to herself than to you. What are you doing to me. Not a question.

“Nothing yet,” you say.

Her jaw moves slightly. The closest she gets to a smile when smiling isn’t what she’s intending to do. She pushes off the counter and you stay where you are, watching her cross the kitchen toward you, and there is something about the way she moves when she wants something that still does what it has always done to you. A steady activation, warmth spreading from your sternum downward, your body receiving information and acting on it before your brain has finished processing.

She stops close enough that you can feel the heat of her. She doesn’t touch you yet.

“You took a long time,” she says.

“I was getting ready.”

“I can see that.” Her gaze moves over your face with the focused quality she brings to things she’s studying. Up close, she looks tired in a way the evening’s company softened but didn’t erase. Underneath the tiredness something else, something awake and intent and entirely directed at you. “You kept this from me.”

This. She says looking at the material hugging your body.

“I did.”

“Mala.” Bad. The word sits flat between you, a classification.

“You deserve a reward,” you say. “You’ve joined a very exclusive club, on top of being very patient all evening.”

The sound she makes is low and untranslatable. Her hands find your waist through the sheer fabric and the contrast is immediate. The warmth of her palms through something so thin it barely constitutes a barrier, her fingers pressing in with a firmness that bypasses polite and goes directly to honest. You feel your breath adjust.

“Bonita,” she says, almost inaudibly. Her thumbs trace upward, slow. “Tan bonita.”

You reach up and touch her jaw. Her skin is warm, the faint ghost of a day’s worth of everything still present in the tension she carries there. You feel her exhale when your thumb moves along her cheekbone, the breath leaving her slowly, like she’s deciding to let it.

“Alexia.”

“Dime.” Tell me.

“Come here.”

She kisses the way she does everything, with full attention, nothing held in reserve, the entirety of her focus consolidated into a single point. Your back meets the doorframe and her hands slide into the fabric and the cold air of the kitchen meets your skin properly and you make a sound against her mouth that you feel rather than hear. Her response is to press closer, eliminating the remaining distance between your bodies with the straightforward efficiency of someone solving a problem.

Your fingers go to her shirt.

Her mouth moves to your jaw, your neck, and you feel the pressure of her teeth, the border of a bite, and your head tips back against the doorframe and the ceiling is pale above you and her hands are everywhere and none of this is going slowly anymore.

You get her shirt off in the hallway. She gets you to the bedroom wall before you’ve finished processing the hallway. This is how it goes with her, never frantic, she is too controlled for frantic, but fast, purposeful, each thing leading to the next with the logic of inevitability. Her skin against yours is warm, almost hot, the heat of an athlete’s body, dense and certain, her muscles moving under your hands with a solidity that makes you want to map all of it slowly and also makes you want to skip the mapping.

She reads this in you, the way she reads things.

“Tota la nit,” she says. All night. A reminder. A promise. Her forehead is against yours and she is looking at you in the glow of the bedroom light with an expression that she only has here, in this room, with you, an expression you have no adequate word for in any language and have stopped trying to name. “We have all night.”

“I know,” you say.

“Then stop rushing.”

You laugh—an involuntary thing, surprised out of you. Her mouth curves. And then she moves and the laugh becomes something else.

It becomes the low, broken sound you make when her thigh slots between yours and presses up, hard, right where you’re already aching. The edge of the dresser digs into your lower back but you don’t care; you arch into her instead, chasing the friction she’s offering like it’s the only thing tethering you to the earth. Her hands are everywhere at once—sliding under the sheer black fabric, palms hot and possessive, thumbs dragging over your nipples until they tighten into sharp points that scrape against the lace. She makes that noise again, the one that lives in the back of her throat, half growl, half prayer.

“Bed,” she says against your mouth. It’s not a suggestion.

You don’t remember walking. One second you’re pinned to furniture, her tongue licking into your mouth like she’s trying to taste every second of the five hundred matches you just celebrated, and the next your knees hit the edge of the mattress you prepared hours ago. You stripped it down to nothing but the fitted sheet. Crisp, white, cool against the backs of your thighs when she tips you onto it. No duvet, no pillows except the two you left at the headboard because you knew you’d need something to grip. A singular bottle of lube placed directly in the middle. You wanted nothing in the way tonight. No barriers. Just skin and sweat and the sound of her losing every ounce of that famous control.

Alexia follows you down, knees bracketing your hips, and the sight of her like this—shirt already gone, sports bra peeled off somewhere along the journey, bare from the waist up—hits you deep in the gut. Her shoulders are flushed, the faint red lines where her bra straps sat all day still visible. You reach up and trace one with your thumb and she shudders, eyes fluttering half-closed.

“You planned all this,” she murmurs. Her voice is rough, the Catalan edge thicker now that she’s this turned on. She runs a hand over the bare sheet, then looks at you like she’s cataloguing every deliberate choice you made. “The bed. The lingerie. The way you made me wait.” Her fingers hook under the hem of the sheer top and drag it up, slow, torturous.

You lift your arms so she can pull it off. The cool air hits your skin and your nipples tighten further; she notices, of course she does. She leans down and takes one into her mouth without warning, tongue flat and hot, teeth grazing just enough to make your back bow off the mattress. Your hands fly to her hair, fingers twisting in the dark strands. She sucks harder, like she’s trying to pull the sound straight out of your lungs, and you give it to her—a moan loud and shameless because the house is finally, finally empty.

She switches to the other breast, hand sliding down your stomach, fingers dipping under the waistband of the tiny matching bottoms. She doesn’t take them off you yet, she just teases the edge, knuckles brushing the smooth skin above your clit, and you buck into her touch like you’re starving.

“Alexia—”

“Shh.” She kisses down your ribs, open-mouthed and wet, tongue tracing the line of muscle that’s appeared there from all the gym sessions she’s dragged you to. “Let me look at you first.”

She sits back on her heels between your spread thighs and just stares. The lamp you left on throws gold across her face, shadows pooling in the hollow of her throat, the valley between her breasts. Her eyes are black, pupils blown wide. She runs both palms up the insides of your thighs, pushing them wider, and the sheer fabric of the bottoms stretches tight over your cunt. You know you’re soaked; you can feel it, cool and tacky against the lace.

“Tan mojada,” she whispers, almost reverent. So wet. Her thumb presses over your clit through the fabric and your hips jerk. “All night you were smiling at my family like nothing was wrong, and this whole time you were thinking about me fucking you.”

You don’t deny it. You can’t. The words are true.

She hooks her fingers in the sides of the underwear and drags them down your legs, slow enough that you feel every inch of fabric slide over your skin. When they’re off she brings them to her face for half a second—breathes in like she’s savouring the scent of you—and the sight of it is so filthy you clench around nothing.

Then she lowers herself into position, and puts her mouth on you.

The first lick is broad and slow, flat tongue dragging from your entrance to your clit, and the moan she lets out vibrates straight through you. She does it again, and again, like she has all the time in the world now that the house is silent except for the wet sounds of her tongue and your ragged breathing. She sucks your clit into her mouth, gentle at first, then harder, two fingers sliding into you without warning—deep, curling, finding that spot that makes your vision spark white.

“Fuck—Alexia—” Your voice cracks. Your heels dig into the mattress, toes curling. The sheet is already damp under your back.

She doesn’t answer with words. She just fucks you with her fingers and her tongue like it’s her new favourite pastime. Every thrust of her fingers is matched with a swirl of her tongue and you’re shaking, thighs trembling around her ears. She hooks one of your legs over her shoulder for a better angle and you nearly sob at how deep she gets.

You come the first time like a dam breaking—hard, sudden, hips grinding against her face while she holds you down with one strong forearm across your stomach. She doesn’t stop. She gentles her tongue but keeps her fingers moving, drawing it out until you’re whimpering, oversensitive and still clenching around her.

When she finally pulls back her mouth is shiny, chin wet, and she looks so smug you want to kiss the look right off her face. Instead you grab her by the shoulders and flip her—surprising her enough that she lets you. You straddle her hips, the hard lines of her abs flexing under you, and lean down to kiss her. You taste yourself on her tongue and moan into her mouth.

“Your turn,” you whisper against her lips, already reaching for the waistband of her jeans.

Alexia’s hands catch yours before you can tug them down. In one smooth motion she switches your positions again, rolling you beneath her with that effortless athletic strength. Her body covers yours, warm and solid, pinning you gently to the cool sheet. She catches your wrists and guides them above your head, holding them there with one hand while her other palm slides down your side.

“No,” she says softly, voice low and warm against your ear. The single word is gentle, but there is steel beneath it. “This is my reward, sí?” She pulls back just enough to look at you, dark eyes searching your face with quiet intensity.

You open your mouth, but the words tangle on your tongue. Your body is still humming from the orgasm, skin oversensitive, clit still throbbing, and the way she is looking at you—calm, certain, hungry—makes heat flood your cheeks and your stomach at the same time.

“I… I just wanted to make you feel good,” you manage, voice breathy and a little unsteady.

Alexia’s mouth curves, slow and knowing. Her thumb strokes once over the inside of your wrist where she still holds you. “You already have. Now I want to take my time with you.” She leans down and presses a slow kiss to the corner of your mouth, then lower, along your jaw. “I want to fuck you, amor. Properly. The way I’ve been thinking about since you first walked into the kitchen wearing that little black thing.”

Your breath catches. The casual confidence in her voice, combined with the lingering sensitivity between your legs, sends another wave of flustered heat through you. You shift beneath her, thighs pressing together instinctively, and she notices immediately.

She releases your wrists but doesn’t move off you. Instead her hand trails down your body, palm gliding over your breast, your stomach, until her fingers slip between your legs again. She gathers the fresh slick there and circles your still-sensitive clit with feather-light pressure, just enough to make your hips twitch and a soft whimper slip out.

“Mira't,” she murmurs, almost tender. “Still so wet. Still shaking from the first one.” Her fingers slide lower, teasing your entrance before pulling away again. “I want to fuck your ass while you come around my fingers again. Em deixaràs fotre't el cul?”

The words, spoken in that low, velvet tone, hit you like a spark against dry tinder. Your face burns hotter. You are already nodding, unable to find your voice.

Alexia’s smile is small and satisfied. She kisses you once more, deep and slow, then sits back on her heels again. You watch, heart hammering, as she reaches for the harness you left ready on the bedside table. She undresses herself, buckles it on with unhurried efficiency, the thick black silicone cock jutting forward from her hips. The sight of it—combined with the knowledge of exactly where she intends to use it—makes your stomach tighten with nervous anticipation and raw want.

She slicks the toy generously with lube you left on the bed, then adds more to her fingers. When she looks back at you her expression has softened into something warmer, more careful.

“Turn over,” she says gently. “On your knees, chest down.”

You obey, limbs still loose and trembling from the earlier orgasm. You settle with your cheek pressed to the cool sheet, ass raised, knees spread. The position leaves you completely open to her, vulnerable in a way that makes your pulse race.

Alexia moves behind you, one hand smoothing soothingly down your spine. “Relax for me,” she whispers. “Breathe.”

Her fingers return first—slick and gentle. She circles your tight entrance with one fingertip, then slowly presses inside, giving you time to adjust to the intrusion. You moan softly into the sheet as she works you open with patient, careful strokes, adding a second finger when your body begins to yield. All the while her other hand reaches beneath you, two fingers sliding easily into your cunt, curling against that perfect spot inside you.

The feeling is overwhelming in the best way. Fullness in both places, her fingers stroking you from the inside while she stretches your ass with slow, deliberate scissoring motions. You are panting now, pushing back against her hand, the sensitivity from your first orgasm making every touch feel electric.

When she finally withdraws her fingers and replaces them with the blunt head of the strap, she moves with exquisite care. She presses forward inch by inch, one hand on your hip to steady you, murmuring soft praises in Catalan as the thick length sinks into your ass.

“Tan bona… that’s it, let me in. You take me so well.”

The stretch is intense, a deep, burning fullness that borders on too much and not enough at the same time. When she bottoms out, hips flush against you, she stills, giving you time to breathe through it. Her fingers never stop moving inside your cunt—slow, curling strokes that keep the pleasure high and constant.

Only when your breathing evens and you start to push back against her does she begin to move.

She fucks you with slow, deep rolls of her hips. Pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, each thrust measured and controlled. It all has you moaning openly, the sounds barely muffled against the sheets anymore. Every time she drives the strap deeper into you, her fingers press harder against that sensitive spot inside your cunt, pushing you relentlessly toward another peak.

“You feel so good,” she breathes, voice rough with arousal. One hand grips your hip while the other works between your legs. “So tight around me… and so wet on my fingers. Come for me again, amor. Let me feel it.”

The orgasm builds differently this time—slower, deeper, rolling up from somewhere deep in your belly until it crashes over you with shattering intensity. You come hard around her fingers, walls clenching rhythmically while your ass pulses around the thick strap buried inside you. The sensation drags the pleasure out longer, sharper, until you are shaking and whimpering beneath her, tears of overwhelming sensation pricking at the corners of your eyes.

Alexia rides you through every wave, hips rolling steadily, fingers never faltering until the last tremor fades and you collapse boneless against the sheet.

Only then does she ease the strap out with careful gentleness, unbuckling the harness and setting it aside. She gathers you into her arms, turning you so you are facing her, and pulls the tangled sheet over your damp bodies.

You are boneless. Genuinely, completely boneless, the kind of undone that takes a while to come back from, and you are in no hurry. The sheets are warm and tangled beneath you. The room has the quality of somewhere that has held something large and is now settling around the fact of it. The air different, the dark softer, the hush of the house a thing you can feel against your skin.

Alexia’s lips are still moving against your skin. Small things. Your forehead. Your temple. The corner of your mouth, which she finds without looking, with the accuracy of someone who has memorised the map.

“Perfecta,” she says, very quietly.

You roll toward her carefully, the way you move after, like the body has renegotiated its relationship with effort. You throw a leg over her hips. You press your mouth to the place on her chest you always press your mouth to, the landscape you know better than any other. Her heartbeat under your lips is still faster than resting. You feel it slowing.

Her hand moves to your lower back. Traces something. Stops.

“Are you okay?” Her voice has the particular texture of someone who has spent several hours being fully present and is now coming back into language from somewhere wordless.

“Ask me again in ten minutes,” you say. “When I’m a person again.”

The sound she makes is small and satisfied and you feel it more than hear it, a vibration in her chest.

You lie there. The city continues outside. The room holds its post-coitus quality, warm and dark and close, the air changed. Alexia’s hand moves slowly up and down your spine. Marking her territory.

After a while, when your heartbeats have settled and your breathing has evened out you say, without lifting your head: “There’s something for you.”

A pause. “What?”

“Nightstand. Second drawer.”

Her hand stops moving. “What kind of something?”

“The kind you open.”

She turns her head toward you. You can feel her looking at the side of your face but you keep your eyes on the middle distance, expression arranged into something that gives nothing away, which requires more effort than it should given the current state of your entire body.

She reaches across you. The drawer opens. You close your eyes and listen to the small sounds of her finding it, the ribbon, the paper, her silence as she starts to understand what she’s holding. You reach out without looking and find her ribs, your fingers tracing the grooves of them, the warmth of her skin, the evidence of her.

“You’re distracting me,” she says. Her Catalan comes through in the flatness of it, the accent thickening the way it does when she’s not trying to annunciate English words.

“I know,” you say.

Her breathing changes.

You watch her up close, from the angle of someone who has decided to witness this properly. Her face in the light is doing something you don’t have a word for. Puzzlement first, the working-through, and then the moment it arrives in her. The thing resolving. Her eyes move from the small plastic object in her hand and find you.

You reach up and touch her face. Your thumb finds the line of her brow, traces it back and forth, the thing your hands do without instructions.

“T’estimo,” you say quietly.

She stares at you. Her mouth opens slightly. Closes.

“De veritat?” Her voice is not steady. For Alexia this is, remarkable. Her voice is always steady. The steadiness is structural, load-bearing. “De veritat—”

“De veritat.” Really. Truly. Yes.

The sound she makes pulling you into her is one you have heard once before. You will never forget the first time you heard it, a different room, a different night, the same news, your daughter not yet a person, Alexia’s face doing this same impossible thing before she pulled you close and made this sound that is a laugh and something else, something that has no clean category, pure joy with nowhere sufficient to go except out.

The same sound. Exactly.

She holds you very tightly. Her face is in your hair. You feel the uneven quality of her breathing, the working-to-regulate and not quite managing it, and you hold her back just as hard—her shoulders, which carried today, which have carried every day, five hundred matches of carrying—and you feel her chest move against yours and you close your eyes.

The small test is somewhere in the sheets. It doesn’t matter where.

She pulls back after a moment to look at you. Her eyes are bright, the tiredness still there, the shadows still there, all of it still there and underneath it this—this open, undisguised, completely unmanaged thing on her face. She cups your jaw in both hands, her thumbs tracing your cheekbones, and looks at you the way she looks at very few things. With her whole self.

“When did you know?”

“Two weeks ago.”

Her expression moves. “Dos setmanes.” Two weeks. She is doing the accounting, tracking back through the fortnight, all the ordinary days you carried this. “Why didn’t you—”

“I wanted it to be tonight,” you say. “After today. After five hundred.”

She looks at you for a long moment. Her thumbs are still moving against your face, slow, the same unconscious marking. Then she exhales, a long, complete, the breath of someone setting something very heavy down in a safe place.

“Cinc-centes,” she says quietly.

“And two,” you say.

Her face breaks open. There is no other phrase for it. The smile arrives like something structural giving way, wide and real and slightly undone at the edges, and she laughs—short, bright, helpless—and then she is pulling you back into her and her lips are against your temple and she is saying things in Catalan too quickly and too quietly for you to catch all of it, fragments landing against your skin like something scattered and precious.

You catch gràcies and estimada and no m’ho puc creure—I can’t believe it—and you hold her and let her talk and feel the warmth of her, this person who is yours and whose you are, and outside the city continues its indifferent hum and somewhere across it your daughter is asleep and soon there will be two and the night is still and long and holds all of it without difficulty.

even after you eventually moved in together, a year and a half into your relationship, you still made time for your weekly shopping trips. it was an unspoken part of your routine.

patri always pushed the trolley, list clutched in her left hand, calling out items for you to grab and drop in as you went.

“amor, we need pasta,” she called as you entered the next aisle.

you stopped in front of the shelves, scanning the options yet your eyes drifted to a new jar of sauce you hadn’t tried before. you tilted your head, considering it.

before you could reach for it, you felt a warm hand slid onto your waist, thumb resting just above your hip.

“you’ve tried that one, it’s just new packaging.” patri confirmed. 

you leaned into her automatically, “but i like roasted peppers.”

“well last time you said it was too ‘peppery’” she reasoned, squeezing your waist lightly before letting go.

you diverted your attention back to the pasta options, grabbing two different pasta shapes, each of you having your preferred pasta shape and both far too stubborn to compromise.

you weaved through the mercadona aisle by aisle, the trolley filling steadily as patri ticked items off her list. every so often she’d bump her hip into yours as you walked, or reach past you to grab something, fingers brushing your hand for longer than necessary.

naturally, a few extras made their way in too, much to her dismay.

“i think we should get these for when the girls come over later,” you said, turning to her with three different bags of crisps balanced in your arms. 

“we don’t need all three,” patri reasoned, reaching out to pick one from your selection, “plus everyone’s bringing food so we will end up with too much.”

“but this one’s a new flavour,” you argued, holding up a vaguely labelled ‘extra cheesy’ bag, “and you know i love sour cream and chive.” you added, holding up the other bag.

you gave her your best smile, the one that always worked.

patri stared at you for a moment, then sighed, muttering in agreement, “fine. get both.”

“thank you, amor,” you grinned, dropping them into the trolley before stepping forward to press a kiss to her cheek.

she grumbled something that sounded like a mhm, but she couldn’t hide the smile that tugged against her lips at the contact.

the same thing happened in the chocolate aisle. between your shared sweet tooth and you blaming your period, you somehow ended up with four different chocolate bars in the trolley.

patri shook her head, but she was smiling as she hooked a finger through one of your belt loops and tugged you back toward her, “you’re impossible.”

“you love me,” you said easily, “plus we can make chocolate covered strawberries.”

she kissed your temple instead of arguing, knowing she loved the nights the two of you were bundled up on the sofa, a bowl of chocolate in one hand and strawberries in the other to deny your suggestion.

“cariño,” patri said, squinting at the list, “you wrote ‘pre-match snacks’ but didn’t specify. protein bars? fruit? maybe yoghurt?”

“pickles!” you announced, feet already moving in the direction of the jarred selection.

“pickles?” she echoed, following after you quickly.

you stopped in front of the shelves, reaching for the salty jar without hesitation. when you turned, patri had frozen, the trolley abandoned a few steps behind her, mouth hanging open.

“what do you mean your pre-game snack is pickles?”

“i always have pickles before a game,” you replied, brows furrowed as you looked at her.

she narrowed her eyes, “who are you?”

“well,” you grinned, “i’d hope i’m your girlfriend, teammate, and favourite person in the world.”

she shook her head slowly, “no no, because my girlfriend refuses to eat pickles in burgers because they ‘make the cheese taste funny.’”

“well, they do,” you shrugged, “i don’t think pickles should go in burgers.”

she stepped closer, poking your chest with one finger, “i have personally picked a pickle out of your burger because you were too polite to ask the waitress to leave it off.”

“but this is different, and they help with cramps.” you added, walking past her.

her hand came up to her temple, holding as if she had been struck by a pan, not the realisation that her girlfriend did in fact eat pickles. “how long has this been happening?” she asked, before quickly adding on, “do other people know?”

“i’ve been doing this for like three years,” you said, “vicky literally calls me pepinillo.”

“i thought that was just a weird nickname!” she huffed, “have you been hiding them at home? how have i never seen them?”

“nope. they’re always on the top shelf of the fridge after i open them.”

“oye, i thought they were your dad’s from the last time he visited.” 

you laughed as she stood there in the middle of the aisle, completely bewildered with the new knowledge she had learnt.

“i’ve never seen you buy them,” she said, eyes narrowed at you, “where are you getting them from?”

“usually the shop down the road.”

her eyes widened, “you went food shopping… without me?”

“just the corner shop,” you said,  “with the nice old man who calls you guapa.”

“you went to see luis without me?” she asked, hand rising as she held it over her heart, “this is worse than the pickles.” she muttered.

you caught her face in one hand and squeezed her cheeks together, smushing her mouth into a stubborn little pout, “you’re being dramatic.”

“i think we may need to break up.” she muttered, though your hand was still squishing her face.

you raised your eyebrows, an amused smile taking over your face, hand dropping from her face, “you’re really going to break up with me over pickles?”

patri tilted her head, eyes flicking briefly down the aisle before returning to you, a slow smirk forming, “i’m considering it.”

you nudged her hip lightly with yours, “you’ll miss me.”

she scoffed, gripping the trolley handle and pushing it forward before you could say anything else, “i’ll miss the person i thought you were.”

-

later you were sat in your living room, the three bags of chips sat open on your coffee table, alongside the selection of snacks that kika, vicky, salma and ona had bought over. maybe three bags was one too many.

you were mid film when patri picked up the tv remote and paused it, the thought suddenly reappearing in her head, “did you guys know she eats pickles before a game?”

a chorus of ‘yes’ came from your fellow teammates, “that’s why she’s pepinillo.” vicky chimed in, directing a teasing smile at you. 

“and i bought her back homemade spicy pickles from portugal, she said they were the best she’s ever had.” kika added, a proud smile on her face. 

“so everyone knows but me?” patri asked, mouth slightly agape.

the girls couldn’t help but laugh at the shock on her face, “patri, even the chef has a stash of pickles in case she forgets to have one.” ona mentioned. of course the chef knew, everyone did.

“it’s for cramping, i used to eat them all the time when i ran.” salma confirmed.

“this is ridiculous.” patri muttered, though she was slightly annoyed at herself that everyone had noticed but her, how could she miss the one thing you ate religiously before every game? 

“i’m not sure i can look at you the same now.” she added, shrugging her shoulders casually. 

“amor, i’ve literally seen you drink beet juice before a game.”

“that was one time!” she defended, voice raising slightly, though you were too busy laughing, “and the doctor told me to try it for endurance!”

“we can add beets to our shopping list for next week.” you smiled, pushing her shoulder gently. 

she glared at you, shaking her head slowly, “don’t even try.”

While dating Alexia you’ve learned that there are many kinds of torture. The torture you’re experiencing tonight? Watching her get ready for your night out.

Standing in front of the mirror, in that calm and unbothered way that only Alexia could pull off. Her soft hair pulled up in a way that shows off her perfectly sculpted shoulders, perfume sprayed against all the right spots. Her long fingers adjusting the hoops in her ears.

That little smirk whenever she catches your gaze in the mirror, she knows exactly what she’s doing. 

You try so hard to be respectful, you really do. Especially when you’ve both been looking forward to dressing up a little and having a night outside of your apartment. But she just makes it so hard for you. Especially whenever she wears anything that shows off her back. 

Her soft golden skin, the slow dip of her spine and faint outline of tattoos that cover her back, but doesn’t hide how her muscles are so perfectly defined.

Every line of muscle, ink in her skin, the way they shift when she breathes. The moment you see her like this, it’s like your whole soul detaches from your body.

It’s art. Alexia is art. 

And it’s a special kind of evil watching her, sitting on the edge of the bed, hands gripping the sheets below you so you keep your hands to yourself. Trying to not lose all your dignity and self control, because once you do, you both know that neither of you would be leaving your bedroom.

Alexia doesn’t even have to say anything to you, her look says it all. Her perfectly arched eyebrow raised at you through the mirror, the light smug smirk that won’t leave her lips. She’s reaching for a ring on her dresser, calm and composed, like she isn’t slowly killing you with every slight movement.

Giving you another glimpse at the way her back flexes at the slight movement, cruelly defining even more of her muscles along her back. Every inch of skin, every muscle that you’ve kissed thousands of times before and are now desperately dying to devour all over again.

She slides the rings over her long fingers, watching you closely through the mirror, knowing how intently you are watching her, she slides them on slowly, slightly curling her fingers at the end. 

Subconsciously you’re pressing your thighs together knowing just how the coolness of those rings normally feel against the heat of your skin. How those long fingers feel when they’re deep inside you. 

Your breath hitches and you don’t realise the soft sound you’ve let out, not until you hear a low chuckle slipping past her lips, an amused glint in her eyes.

‘What’s wrong, cariño?’ Alexia tilts her head to the side, a condescending pout on her lips, voice innocent, but the way she glances at you over her shoulder is anything but innocent.

You breathed in deeply, swallowing hard and blinking a few times in hopes you could try to reset your brain. Try to think clearly through this Alexia haze that’s clouded all your thoughts. It didn’t help. Not one bit.

‘Nothing,’ Your voice is a bit too hoarse to pass off as casual, ‘Oh, absolutely nothing,’ Your eyes trailed over the skin of her back, just like you'd shamelessly been doing the whole time.

Alexia’s finished getting ready, you both know that, but she keeps reaching for things she doesn’t need. Adjusting her jewellery, smoothing invisible creases from the dress she’s wearing, fingers fiddling with the clasp of her necklace again, even though it’s already secure around her neck. 

Anything to make sure her back keeps flexing in all the right ways. She loves the way your eyes struggle to look at anything but her sometimes. It's honestly unfair at how effortlessly she makes your self control crumble until there’s nothing left.

You’re already wrecked by the flex of her shoulders, the delicate slope of her spine and the occasional glance she keeps throwing at you, her eyes now darker than before, almost like she’s challenging you, wanting you to do something.

One minute you’re sitting on the edge of the bed, gripping the sheets, thighs pressed together in a vain attempt to ease the pressure building low and deep inside you. The way you get so worked up by the little things she does. Alexia never has to try. You’re wrapped around her finger, both figuratively and literally.

Next minute you’re making your way towards her, self control withered away and you finally snapped. You needed to feel her soft golden skin and the way her muscles twitch under your touch. You needed to feel her against your lips, kissing all over her back, all over her muscles and tattoos until there isn’t an inch of skin you haven’t kissed.

Your eyes never left her back, stopping just behind her, she didn’t move but watched as your hand hovered before lightly brushing against her skin. Your fingertips trailing down the line of her spine, her skin was soft and warm. And you admired the way her body reacted to your touch. Skin prickling with goosebumps that followed where your fingers had touched.

Alexia lets out a shaky breath, shoulders subtly shuddering but you notice it. You’re way too focused on her body to not notice her reactions. The way she’s been so composed compared to you, it was only fair you tried to make her half as flustered.

Sliding your arms around her waist, palms flat over her bare stomach, feeling the way her abs flex under your touch as you pull her against you. Everything about her drives you absolutely insane. You’d had enough.

Your lips find her shoulder, pressing a soft kiss against her skin, teeth grazing lightly that makes her breath hitch. Another kiss slightly lower, then one that traces the curves of her tattoos along her upper back. Lips following the pattern of the ink, leading you to the soft slope of her spin.

You don’t rush it. You couldn’t even if you tried. Taking your time to trail your lips against Alexia, the way her muscles feel every time you press a kiss against them, and the way she tastes against your lips. It makes your head dizzy in all the right ways.

With every soft sound that passes her lips, you smile against her skin, Alexia leans back into you, wanting to feel your lips press harder against her. Right now you weren’t about to deny Alexia of anything that she wanted. 

‘You drive me insane, you know that?’ Having kissed your way back up, you whisper against her neck. Eyes closed and forehead pressing against her back, trying to learn how to breathe again after she’s made you so weak.

‘Oh,’ She turned around, your arms still wrapped around her waist, ‘I really couldn’t tell,’ Her fingers gently ghosting along your jaw before she wrapped her lips with yours. She pressed her lips hard against yours, in a way that makes your brain short-circuit, hazy, and not able to think about anything else but her. 

She kissed you like that, her fingers firm along your jaw, keeping you in place when she pulled away and you tried to follow her lips, ‘Come on, cariño, we don’t want to be late,’ 

A quick kiss on your lips before she turned her back to you, reaching for her bag, as if she hadn’t just spent the last however long unraveling you without even needing to really touch you. There was a smirk on her lips when she looked over her shoulder, eyes catching yours with a glint of smug mischief.