#ferran

The first thing you registered was that you had never closed the balcony doors the night before. You could feel the breeze reign into your room, curtains flowing, and the rain.

Soft, almost a ghost of it, droplets falling on the balcony and drawing shadows in the long, dusty columns of morning light that fell lazily across the duvet. You had no idea what time it was, but the city was slowly waking up outside in a distant hum of traffic and the occasional run from someone who had been caught in the unexpected summer drizzle.

Inside your apartment, however, the world had shrunk to the tender embrace of skin on skin—you, lying on your stomach, face half-buried in your pillow, one arm stretched out across the mattress, still drifting off, and Ferrán.

Ferrán, whose chest was pressed against your back, his arm draped heavy and possessive over your waist, and his hand splayed flat against your stomach beneath the hem of the oversized T-shirt you had thrown on before bed. You could feel his breath, slow and even against the back of your neck, in a warm, rhythmic puff that stirred the tiny hairs at your nape, and it woke shivers down your spine in its path.

He was still completely asleep, his body loose against yours, and you could tell in the way his fingers curled into the fabric of your old T-shirt. So you tried not to move, shifting as slowly as possible over one of your elbows to check the time.

The soft numbers on the clock you had bought when you moved were barely visible on the nightstand, but it was ten something.

You had gotten back from dinner well past midnight, full of wine and laughter and the kind of easy joy that came from watching Ferrán trade jabs with his friends across the table, his hand never leaving your knee. Pedri had given you most of his attention, as he usually did to make you feel more welcomed, and Laura had softened by the end of the night, even engaging in small talk with you, asking about your job and your family. That sliver of progress had lit up your walk back home.

But it felt like it had happened a lifetime ago. Now, there was just the unhurried pace of your morning: the weight of your boyfriend, the quiet, and the slow, golden morning stretching out in front of you like a cat that never really woke up from its slumber.

You turned a little bit, the collar of your T-shirt sliding slightly off your shoulder, just enough to glance at Ferrán. His face was slack with sleep, lips parted just barely, a few strands of that freshly cut hair falling across his forehead. He looked younger like this, like an old photograph of himself. You would never tell him that, because he had changed his style to appear more mature, but with the sharp edge of his jaw hidden against your shoulder blade, you couldn’t help but smile at his almost boyish expression.

You loved him like this. You loved him in every version, but this one—unguarded, unbothered, only yours—was your favourite.

And when you shifted back to the comfort of your pillow, you felt his arm tighten around your waist, pulling you flush against him with a low, sleepy murmur. His nose nudged the curve of your neck, and you felt his lips brush your skin, barely a whisper.

“Mmm…” the sound was rough, deep with sleep, and it vibrated against your bare shoulder. “What time is it?”

“Late,” you whispered back, your voice just as hoarse. “We slept in.”

He hummed, a satisfied sound that trembled when he exhaled, and his hand slid up from your stomach to cup your ribs, thumb tracing the underside of your breast lazily under your T-shirt, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

“Good,” he mumbled, barely awake, “it's Sunday. We’re allowed.”

You chuckled softly, and it got swallowed by the pillow, “We have to take the dogs out soon.”

“They can wait,” he said, and his voice was still thick, but there was a flicker of consciousness in it now, a hint of that teasing edge he always carried. “They’re patient.”

“Ferrán,” you warned, but the weight of the threat got lost between your lips and his smile.

“Shh—” he pressed a kiss to the back of your neck, then another, and another, trailing a slow, deliberate path up toward your ear. His hand shifted again, fingers splaying over your stomach and pressing gently, like he was memorizing the way you breathed. “Let’s just stay here for a while.”

You melted into him without meaning to. Your body just yielded, softening against the firm line of his chest, your legs tangling with his, bare and warm, under the mess of sheets that overnight had slid down towards your hips. And when his knee nudged between your thighs, sheets sliding down further, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you had been holding.

“Fer—,” you tried again, but his name came out thinner this time, less of a warning and more of a sigh.

“Hmm?” he was more awake now—his palm, flattened against your stomach, had found its purpose by slipping lower, fingers grazing the waistband of your underwear. His mouth got to the spot behind your ear, that sensitive hollow that made your toes curl, and he kissed it slowly, deliberately, like he had all the time in the world.

“Last night,” you started, your voice catching when his teeth nibbled your earlobe, “you said—we said we’d—”

You had said you would take a walk after breakfast, take the dogs to Montjuïc and do some exercise while enjoying the fantastic views from up one of the hills in Barcelona. You had said it on a whim, as a passing comment, when he still had his toothbrush in his mouth, and you were on your way to the room after feeding the dogs that had completely ignored the sound of their food hitting the bowl because they were too comfortable in their beds.

But you didn’t fully remember what exactly had been Ferrán’s answer, now that his hand was slipping just beneath the waistband of your underwear, palm flat and warm against the edge of your hipbone. He paused, teasing, waiting, and held it in the curve of your body like a promise.

“We also said we’d stay home tomorrow,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp against your skin. You shuddered as he added: “And tomorrow is today.”

You let out a shaky laugh, and turned in his arms, twisting until you were facing him, his hand slipping out of your underwear. The sight of him—sleep-tousled, eyes half-lidded and dark, and that infuriatingly smirk curving his lips—made your stomach flip, and your breath got caught in your throat when his palm found the outside of your thigh, and hitched it over his hip like it belonged there.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” he said softly, and the teasing glint in his eyes softened into something else. Something quieter, something you could feel in the way he brought his other hand up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “You’re so beautiful in the morning.”

“Well, you’re so cheesy this morning,” you shot back, but your voice cracked on the last word, and you both knew you didn’t mind his antics.

He ignored it with a grin in his mouth and leaned in, his lips meeting yours. Slow, like you had all the time in the world. Not the hungry, desperate kisses from the night before, when the clock was ticking and you were on his lap and his hands were under your T-shirt before you could even realise. It was different—unhurried. Lazy, a kiss that tasted like morning breath and sleep-warm skin and the pause of a day that existed just for the two of you.

His mouth moved against yours like he was savouring it, his tongue swiping across your lower lip, and your fingers tightened in his hair in response. He made a sound—a low, gravelly hum that you felt more than heard—and pulled you closer, his arm banding around your waist until there was no space left between you.

His knee pressed higher, and you gasped against his mouth, your hips tilting instinctively.

“We have to be quick then,” you breathed, and he smiled against your lips, his heart warm. He knew how much you loved his dogs, and it was sweet to see you care for them, but the sweetness rotted into something sinful when he saw how fast you crumbled for him.

“They can wait until I’m done with you,” he murmured, rolling you onto your back in one smooth motion, settling between your thighs like he belonged there—and he did, he did. He braced himself on his forearms, caging you in, the warm gold of the chain he carried around his neck caressing the side of your chin, and looked down at you with that look, the one that made your heart stutter behind your ribcage and your head dizzy with want.

» But you…” he added, lowering his head to press a kiss to your collarbone, then lower to the hollow of your throat, “you I can’t wait for.”

Your breath hitched when his mouth found the swell of your chest, his hands sliding up under your T-shirt and pushing it up, up, until the morning light fell across your ribs. He pulled back just enough to look at you, hair falling into his eyes, lips parted and slightly swollen, and you thought—you knew—you would never get tired of this. Of mornings like this, of him.

“Ferrán,” you whispered, and his name was a prayer, a plea, a promise all at once.

“Yeah?” he kissed the corner of your mouth, patient, waiting, his hand splayed in the underside of your breasts, holding you like you could fall apart from his touch alone.

You tugged at the waistband of his boxers, your fingers brushing the sharp jut of his hipbone, and the hitch in his breath was all the answer you needed, “Don’t make me wait.”

He chuckled against your lips, his breath a ghost of what was to come as he kissed across your collarbone, down to your breasts, and you shuddered, eyes closed. He mouthed at your nipples, your back arching off the bed just beautifully, your hands tugging at his hair, and you felt him gasp, hiding a groan in the back of his throat.

He trailed his kisses down your sternum, down to the hollow between your ribs and your stomach when you sucked in a shaky breath, and then nuzzled his nose into the skin underneath your belly button with a hum.

You sucked up a breath, looking down to him, catching your lower lip with your teeth when you saw the dangerous smirk grazing at your underwear. His eyes were dark as he slid your panties off of you, kneeling at the end of the bed, and he wasted no time to kiss a path of wet patches in the inside of your thighs, hoisting one of your legs over his shoulder.

You closed your eyes, lost in his mouth, throwing your head back against the pillow when he leaned into you, savouring you whole, and you couldn’t see him, but the first moan that escaped your pretty lips shivered down his back and into his boxers, and his hand shot down to squeeze himself, already hard.

“Oh, Ferrán,” you whimpered, breath ragged, as he pinned you down to the mattress, tongue swirling and working you up. “Oh, Ferrán.”

The fabric of the sheets under your hand was wrinkled in a mess when you reached out for him with one hand—for his hair, slightly shorter than the day before, dishevelled and delicious, where you buried your eager fingers—and then with the other, that he interlaced with his. He looked so wrecked when you blinked down at him, eyes glossy and lost between your legs, that you didn’t even think of what you looked like.

And then you saw him, fisting himself loosely as he mewled faintly into your core, and your hips buckled into his face, his nose rubbing just in the perfect place.

“Amor,” he breathed out against you, and you felt the slight stubble of his sharp jaw against the sensitive skin of your thighs. His hand shot to keep you from closing your thighs around his head, and you nodded, barely registering if you pronounced any sound at all when you heard the cockiness in his voice, “aren’t you just the prettiest thing?”

“Mm-hm,” you managed out, audibly gasping when he stopped holding you open with his hand, leaving an imprint of his palm on your thigh, and sneaked his fingers in between your legs, slipping one into your warmth.

“Oh, God” he mumbled, dropping his head into your stomach when he felt you flutter around him, your hand tugging at his hair.

“Fer,” you whimpered, the muscles of your legs tightening in spasms, “Fer, I told you not to make me wait.”

What you really wanted to say was that you didn’t want him to wait as well… But he was too far gone to understand, anyway.

Usually you wouldn’t keep him away from devouring you every entirely, in that toe-curling hunger that you can taste every time he kissed you, but lately the workload is so that you’re too tired to do anything else other than actually sleep—this Sunday morning is the first one in a couple of weeks you have to yourselves.

And as he pumped his finger in and out of you, you shifted your hand, head tipping back when he added another, and reluctantly untangled your fist from his chocolate locks and rested it on his cheek.

You didn’t really know how to draw his attention other than pulling him in, making him move up your body until he kissed you, deep and dirty, and all you could taste was yourself. You moaned into his mouth, both hands holding him as he caged you, one around his shoulders and the other back into his hair, and when you opened your eyes you had his broad, tattooed back before you.

“I need you—I need you to fuck me, Fer,” you whispered, and you relished in the way his shoulder blades shifted under your touch, his hips buckling into the bed.

“Fuck—” he groaned, head dipping down to nip at the skin of your neck, absolutely defeated. “Fuck, don’t say those things, mi amor.”

But he was already reaching back to palm himself over his boxers, pulling his fingers from you, and you sighed disappointedly into the heated air of the room in his absence. Tomorrow night, after work, you could ask him to take his time, to take you apart in his bed, but today—today you just wanted to feel him.

So you shivered when he barely lowered his boxers before stroking himself, groaning into the bruises he left in your collarbone, and dragged his cock through your folds. He held his breath, pulling his head to look into your eyes, “Ready?”

You nodded frantically, lips half-forming a sentence, ready to answer, when he pressed the head of his cock into your entrance, and your words got swallowed by his mouth when he exhaled a breathy moan into your kiss.

Whatever restraint he had got lost when you crossed your legs behind his back, pulling him into you, and all he could think was that you were sucking him in slowly but so tight, and he could barely hold it together. So he sat up a little bit, rocking into you gently, and took you with him, still raggedly breathing the same air.

He could see your hair, splayed in your pillow like every morning, slightly sweaty around your forehead, where you rest underneath him, and he laced his fingers with yours again, pinning your hand up and over your head, his other hand coming to your hip to hold you in place.

“Feels so nice—” you slur, thoughts and sanity fading away in your eyes until all he could see was the reflection of his messy hair into the dark of your pupils.

He dipped his head back into your mouth, kissing you, grinding into you with practiced ease—pulling out and pushing back slowly, building up the momentum, until Barcelona vanished altogether. No traffic, no rain, no morning; just his hand on your hips, your nails on his back, and pleasure prickling under your skin as you rocked your hips upwards to meet his.

Because you could barely register that you were clenching around him, his strokes choking you when he tilted his hips in that delicious way he left you breathless, and he was panting into your neck, and you were babbling into his ear—

“I love you,” he said, and you sigh, the sound escaping the back of your throat in a shaky moan, and he didn’t hiss when you digged your fingers further into his back, but you saw his eyes roll into the back of his head.

“I—” you started, his pace picking up, his tongue running over your neck, softening the bites that he left in his path, “I love you.”

You slid one of your calves over the curve of his ass, still clothed, to pull him closer, and you bit back a breathy laugh when you realised that he didn’t even take his boxers out. A laugh that turned into a gasp when pistons into you faster, your walls fluttering around him.

You could almost taste your orgasm in the angle of his hips, your wrists slightly on fire under the strength of his hands, and he didn’t even realise he was still holding you like that when your back arched against his chest, the moan of his name falling like a promise from your mouth.

You barely managed to rock back your hips against his as you came around him, and he followed shortly after, biting down into the skin between your neck and your shoulder, thighs trembling slightly as he filled you up.

Instead of pulling back he just crumbled on top of you, and you felt his weight like a blanket, spent and breathless. And in a heartbeat you were giggling, one hand on his hair, the other over your eyes, and he kissed the curve of your shoulder in disbelief.

“What’s so funny?”

And you were out of breath, and you could feel the exhaustion creeping up your limbs, but he was still inside of you, and his smile was drawn into your skin like a tattoo.

“I think you went overboard today,” you whispered, throat hoarse, your wrists sore. But he didn’t answer, hiding his embarrassment into your flesh, his nose nuzzling at your jaw, and he kissed you until he made you forget.

And later, by the time you moved again, the sun had climbed higher in the sky and there was no sign of rain anymore. Your T-shirt was somewhere on the floor, underwear scattered not that far away, and you were tucked against his side, your cheek pressed to his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

Ferrán’s fingers traced lazy patterns up and down your spine, and every now and then he’d press a kiss to the top of your head, like he couldn’t help himself.

“I have to pee,” you murmured, your voice thick with contentment. “And we definitely need to shower.”

“Mmhm,” he complied, but he didn’t move.

“Together?” he added, a second later, and you heard the mischief in the way he delivered the question.

You lifted your head just enough to raise an eyebrow at him, smiling.

“You’re insatiable,” and you tasted the laughter in his mouth when he kissed you again.

author 's noteㅤ✶ㅤgood night from spain, my guys, i really hope the smut didn't suck haha it's been too long since the last time that i gave it a try, but after going to maroon 5's concert a couple of weeks ago and realising that they had a song called sunday morning, the idea popped into my mind and i couldn't get rid of it. this will be my last ferrán fic for the moment ( here are my reasons ) but i hope you still stick around! love youuu 🤍

The roar of eighty thousand people didn't sound like cheering, it sounded like a physical wall of noise, a tidal wave that crashed over the MetLife Stadium and shook the very concrete of the stands.

Ferran didn't hear the whistle. He didn't hear the screams of his teammates. He only felt the sudden, jarring silence in his own head the moment the ball kissed the back of the net.

For a heartbeat, the world froze.

The white of the goal-line, the blur of the goalkeeper's desperate dive, the emerald green of the turf, it all sharpened into a singular, crystalline image.

Then, the world exploded. He run. He run for his life in direction of the corner flag. His foot collided with the steel of the flag sending it flying.

His teammates were on him in an instant. The air felt too thick to breathe, heavy with the scent of crushed grass and the electric charge of a miracle.

"Ferran! Cabrón! You actually did it!" A weight slammed into his back, sending his feet further into the turf. Gavi’s voice was a screech in his ear, high and frantic.

Then came Pedri, then the rest of them, a chaotic pile of red jerseys and sweat and screaming lungs. "You did it! Vamoooos, you beautiful bastard!"

Ferran let them haul him up, but his legs felt like lead. He looked toward the stands, his eyes scanning the sea of red and yellow until they locked onto one spot. One face. Liliana stood gripped to the railing, her knuckles white, her face streaked with tears that she didn't seem to notice.

She wasn't screaming like the others. She was shaking, her hand pressed firmly over her mouth as if trying to keep it from leaping anymore screams.

Their eyes met across the distance, and in that look, the stadium vanished. The noise dimmed to a hum. "Te amo," he whispered, though the words were lost in the cacophony.

The ceremony was a blur of gold confetti and blinding flashbulbs. The trophy, a heavy, glittering piece of art, felt surreal in his hands. He held it aloft, the metal cool against his palms, but his gaze kept drifting.

He didn't care about the cameras or the commentators shouting his name into microphones. He only cared about the girl in the stands who had seen him at his absolute lowest. The one that supported him all the way.

As the players began to wander the pitch, embracing staff and family, Ferran pushed through the crowd. He didn't stop until he reached the edge of the VIP section. "Lili!" She didn't wait for him to reach her. She vaulted over the low barrier, ignoring the security guard's startled shout, and launched herself at him.

Ferran caught her, the impact knocking the wind out of him, but he didn't let go. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, the scent of her blossom perfume cutting through the smell of salt and turf. "You did it," she sobbed into his jersey. "Ferran, you actually did it."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his chest heaving. His eyes were bloodshot, his face smeared with dirt and sweat. "Did you see it? Tell me you saw it."

"I never took my eyes off you for a second. Not one second Ferri."

"I thought I was going to miss," he admitted, his voice cracking with a low hopeless laugh. "Right at the end, I thought, 'Not again. Please, not again."

Liliana reached up, cupping his face with both hands. Her palms were warm, grounding him. "Look around, Fer. Look at the scoreboard. You didn't miss."

"I can't believe it's over."

"It's not over. It's just starting cariño.“

“Madre mía, te amo amor. Te amo muchísimo." He laughed, a jagged, breathless sound, and kissed her hard, a desperate, hungry kiss that tasted of salt and victory.

Seeing Ferran posing with the trophy every player has dreamed of since childhood set a long resting stone in her heart free. Feeling said trophy be with her hands while taking photos with love of her life was even more unreal. The weight of the gold medal around her neck dangling over her stomach was another sight beside the trophy that lunged several emotions into Ferran’s already overstimulated self.

The ride back to the hotel was a cacophony of reggaeton and shouting. The team bus was a rolling party, the players jumping in their seats, champagne spraying against the windows, even thoug a quarter of the team wasn't even legal to drink alkohol yet.

Ferran sat in the back, Liliana’s hand locked in his. De LaFuente fortunately made an exception for the closest family members to join the players on the ride back.

The Valancian was exhausted, the kind of bone-deep fatigue that made his muscles twitch, but the adrenaline kept him wired. "You're shaking," Liliana whispered, leaning her head on his shoulder.

"I'm just... I'm vibrating," he replied. "I feel like if I stop moving, I'll wake up in my bedroom in Barcelona and find out I dreamt the whole tournament."

"You didn't dream the bruises on your shins," her low laughter vibrated against his shoulder.

"True," a small smirk joining hers.

"Or the way you looked when you scored. You looked like you'd just won a billion in lottery." Ferran tightened his grip on her hand. "In a way, I did." She kissed his shoulder after that.

The hotel was a fortress of security, the lobby swarmed by press and fans.

Because of the win, the usual restrictions had vanished. The "family" floors were open, and the atmosphere in the hallways was electric. Doors were open, music was blaring from various suites, and the smell of expensive champagne filled the air.

When they finally entered his room and the door clicked shut, the silence was instantaneous and deafening. Ferran leaned his back against the door, sliding down until he hit the carpet. He let out a long, shuddering breath, his head hitting the wood with a soft thud.

Liliana stood over him for a moment, watching the way his shoulders slumped. The public mask of the champion was gone, replaced by the fragile boy she had known since they were teenagers.

"Finally," she said softly. "Finally," he echoed. She knelt in front of him, reaching out to unlace his sneakers. "Stay still. Let me."

"I can do it, Lili."

"I know you can. But let me." And he did. He watched her small hands work, the focused expression on her face. As the shoes came off, Ferran felt the weight of the last four years pressing down on him.

The memories of the midnight panic attacks, the scrolling through Twitter and seeing thousands of people call him a failure, the suffocating feeling of not being enough for the club, the country, or himself.

"They're going to stop now, aren't they?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. Liliana stopped, her hands resting on his knees. She looked up at him, her eyes searching his. "Who?"

"The people. The ones who said I was finished. The ones who said I was a liability. The ones who told me I didn't have the mental strength for this. Everyone." Liliana shifted, crawling onto his side and wrapping her arms around his neck. She pressed her forehead against his.

"Do you think a gold medal changes the world, Ferran?"

"I hope so," his voice carried a bittersweet hiccup.

"It doesn't change the world. It just changes the narrative. The people who hated you for the sake of hating will find something else to complain about. But the people who actually matter? They saw you fight through the dark to get here. That's the part that counts." She places a lingering kiss into his hair while his head sank into her arms, his hands grabbing hold of them.

"I almost quit," he confessed, the words spilling out now that the dam had broken. "Three months ago, during the qualifiers... I sat in the locker room and… I… I couldn't breathe. I thought I was having a heart attack. I just wanted to go home. I wanted to hide in the house and never see a football again." Liliana pulled back, her expression softening.

"You told me you were just tired."

"I lied. I was terrified. I felt like a fraud. I kept thinking, 'Why am I even here? Someone else deserves this spot. Someone who isn't breaking apart inside."

"And yet, you stayed."

"Because you wouldn't let me leave." Liliana smiled, a small, sad tilt of her lips. "I didn't stop you from leaving. I just reminded you that you weren't alone in the dark. There's a difference." He closed his eyes, leaning into her. "I don't know how you did it. How you dealt with me when I couldn't even look in the mirror."

"It was easy," she whispered. "Because when I looked at you, I didn't see the 'liability' the newspapers wrote about. I saw the boy who used to practice until his toes bled in the rain. I saw the person who makes me laugh when I'm having a bad day. The world sees a player, Ferran. I see you." He pulled her closer, burying his face in her chest.

A single, jagged sob escaped him, followed by another. He didn't try to hide it. He didn't have to. In this room, there were no cameras, no fans, no critics. There was only the girl who had loved him when he was nothing, and who loved him now that he was everything.

"It's okay," she murmured, stroking the back of his neck. "Just let it go. It's all gone now."

They stayed like that for a long time, the only sound the hum of the air conditioner and the distant muffled cheers from the hallway. Eventually, the tension left his body, replaced by a heavy, comfortable lethargy.

Ferran pulled back, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He looked at the gold medal still draped over his neck, reflecting the dim amber light of the hotel lamp. "It looks smaller in here," he noted.

"Everything looks smaller when you're not fighting for it, or when the whole world keeps an eye on it." He chuckled, reaching out to pull her up and onto the bed. They tumbled onto the duvet, limbs tangled, the expensive fabric bunching around them.

"I'm starving," he admitted. "You just played ninety minutes in a World Cup final. Of course you're starving."

"I want something terrible. Like, really greasy. A burger the size of my head." Liliana laughed, the sound bright and clear. "You're an elite athlete. Your nutritionist would have a stroke."

"My nutritionist isn't currently holding a World Cup medal. He didn’tscore the winning goal either. I think I've earned a burger."

"I suppose you have." He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow to look at her. The adrenaline had faded, leaving behind a raw, tender intimacy. He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb, his gaze softening. "I love you, Lili."

"I love you too, you idiot."

"I mean it. I really mean it. I don't think I would have made it to this room tonight without you. I don't think I’d have made it past last year without you." Liliana reached up, pulling his face down to hers.

"Then stop talking about it and just be here with me." The kiss was slower this time, devoid of the desperation of the pitch. “Enjoy it now. Cause you deserved it more than anyone.“ It was a promise, a quiet acknowledgment of everything they had survived together.

As they lay there, the world outside continued to scream his name, but inside the room, Ferran finally found the one thing the trophy couldn't give him.

Peace.

"Hey," she whispered against his lips. "Yeah?"

"Do you think the hotel has room service’s burgers?" He grinned, a genuine, wide smile that reached his eyes for the first time in months. "I'm about to find out." He reached for the phone, but before he could dial, he stopped, looking at her again. "Wait."

"What?"

"I just want to stay like this for five more minutes. Just us. Before mister will lecture me about das food tomorrow." Liliana smiled and pulled the duvet over both of them, cocooning them in a private world of warmth and silence.

"Five minutes," she agreed. "Then I'm ordering fries too."

"Deal." He closed his eyes, listening to the steady beat of her heart against his chest, knowing that no matter what the next season brought, no matter who shouted or what was written in the papers, he was already home.

“Te amo más que a nada,“ he whisperes against her temple. “Te amo más. Mi MVP.“

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