#ft7

You weren’t expecting to run into this many kids when you came back to Foios. The little football campus by the park had changed since you were last here, and Ferran had insisted on tagging along because he hadn’t been back in months. You’d thought he’d just enjoy a quiet walk with you, maybe grab a coffee, but he seemed to have other ideas.

The moment you walked onto the field, Ferran’s eyes lit up. Little kids in mismatched kits were running around, laughing, chasing the ball with more energy than seemed humanly possible. A small boy tripped over his own feet and landed in a heap, only to pop back up, grin wide, and kick the ball straight toward another kid. Ferran crouched slightly, his hands on his knees, just watching.

“Look at them,” he whispered, almost to himself. “They’re so… alive.”

You laughed softly, looping your arm through his. “It’s just kids playing football. You’ve seen it a hundred times.”

“No, I mean it,” he said, eyes fixed on the field. His voice had a softness to it that made your chest tighten. “It’s… cute. Like really cute. I didn’t realize I’d miss this so much.”

A little girl ran past you, her ponytail bouncing, and Ferran followed her with his gaze, almost mesmerized. She stopped, kicked the ball toward the goal, missed by a mile, and ran off laughing. He chuckled, low and warm, and squeezed your hand.

“You’re acting like you want one of them,” you teased, nudging him gently.

He looked at you, wide-eyed, a grin tugging at his lips. “I don’t know if I want one. I think… I think I really, really want one.”

You stopped walking and stared at him. He was serious, voice a little husky. “Ferran…”

He shrugged, shrugging off the weight of embarrassment. “I just… watching them play, seeing how happy they are, it makes me think about what it would be like with our own. You know, a little kid running around, messing up the house, laughing when they score a goal.”

You laughed, imagining it. Ferran in the backyard, holding a tiny football in his hands, teaching a little one how to dribble. “You’d be such a soft dad,” you said, poking him in the chest.

“Soft?” he repeated, tilting his head. “I’d be the softest. I’d spoil them rotten.”

Your laugh softened when you saw him bend down to help a boy who had tripped over the edge of the turf. His hands gently steadied the child, brushing dirt from his shirt without a hint of impatience. Ferran’s eyes softened even more when the boy looked up and smiled at him shyly.

“That,” you said, pointing at him, “is the exact look of a man who is already imagining bedtime stories and tiny football jerseys.”

He gave you a sheepish smile and shrugged again, but there was no hiding the sparkle in his eyes. “Maybe I am,” he admitted. “I didn’t think about it before, but… yeah. Seeing these kids makes me really want one of our own.”

You squeezed his hand tighter, feeling warmth spread through you. “I think we’d make a great team,” you said. “You could handle the football lessons, and I’d handle the crying and the tantrums.”

Ferran laughed, that deep, happy laugh that always made your heart melt. He leaned close and whispered in your ear, “I’d do both if it meant seeing them smile like this.”

A small girl ran up to him, tugging on his shirt, and he knelt down instinctively. She chattered something you didn’t catch, and he nodded, listening carefully, his expression gentle and attentive. When she ran off again, he stood and looked at you, a soft awe in his gaze.

“I can’t get over it,” he murmured. “They’re just… amazing. I want that. I want little chaos, little happiness, little humans running around calling us mom and dad.”

You laughed again, resting your head on his shoulder. “Well, maybe we should start practicing then,” you teased, thinking of the tiny little humans you could one day call yours.

He chuckled and wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close. “I think we should. I think I’m officially in love with the idea of our future little team.”

And as you stood there together, watching kids dart across the field with uncontainable energy, you realized that baby fever wasn’t just a joke for Ferran. Seeing him light up like this, seeing him soft and full of love, made your heart swell. You could picture it perfectly, laughter echoing through the house, tiny footballs scattered across the living room, bedtime stories and stolen kisses, and Ferran, the softest dad you’d ever seen, loving every second of it.

“Promise me,” you said quietly, “that when the time comes, we’ll do it together.”

You never really know what tired feels like until you’re holding a newborn at three in the morning, your hair a mess, your eyes barely open, and your partner right there with you trying to figure out if the tiny human in your arms is crying because he’s hungry, gassy, or just wants to prove he’s in charge of the house now.

That’s how you and Ferran discover parenthood.

The first weeks are messy and beautiful all at once. Leo, your son, is small and perfect, with his father’s eyes and a stubborn little pout that you’re convinced comes from Ferran’s side of the family. He cries at random hours, makes funny faces in his sleep, and completely owns both your hearts.

Ferran is a natural, though he doesn’t always believe it. On the second night home from the hospital, he hovers over the crib like a security guard, whispering, “Is he breathing?” at least a hundred times until you have to drag him back into bed. He only relaxes when you press your cheek to his chest and remind him that babies make weird noises when they sleep.

By the fourth night, you catch him holding Leo at two in the morning, swaying back and forth with his shirt half open and his hair sticking up in all directions. He’s humming a Barça chant under his breath, which makes you laugh so hard you nearly wake the baby again.

“You’re soothing him with football songs?” you whisper.

“They’re classics,” Ferran argues, looking down at Leo with pride. “He’s gotta know them early.”

Moments like that are the sweetest, even when everything else feels chaotic.

Feeding is new too. Through it all, Ferran sits beside you, ready with water bottles, burp cloths, and his full attention. Maybe too much attention, because half the time you look over and catch him staring at your chest like he’s in some sort of trance.

“Ferran,” you hiss one morning when Leo’s finally latched peacefully, “stop staring.”

He doesn’t even look embarrassed. “What? He gets to look, why can’t I?”

You throw a blanket at him, which only makes him laugh harder. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m appreciating the view,” he teases, sliding his arm around your shoulders. “Multitasking. Papá duties and husband duties at the same time.”

Despite your exasperation, you can’t help smiling. There’s something so endearing about the way he looks at you, like he’s even more in love now that you’re a mother.

Of course, it isn’t always soft and romantic. Sometimes, it’s pure comedy.

Like the day Ferran proudly insists he can handle the diaper change on his own. You’re half-dozing on the couch when you hear him shout from the nursery.

“Amore! Amore, he peed on me!”

You stumble in and find Ferran holding Leo at arm’s length, his shirt completely soaked, and a look of betrayal plastered across his face.

You burst out laughing so hard you can barely take the baby from him. “Welcome to parenthood.”

“Unbelievable. My own son, turning on me like this.”

Later, you find him telling baby Leo, “You owe me a clean shirt, little man.”

Another time, Ferran tries to burp Leo after a feed, rocking him gently against his shoulder, only for Leo to spit up right down his back. Ferran freezes, looks at you with the most dramatic expression, and says, “He’s plotting against me.”

“Or he just had too much milk,” you say, trying not to laugh as you grab a cloth.

Still, Ferran never complains. He just changes his shirt for the third time that day and keeps going. He’s patient, endlessly so, even when Leo cries for an hour straight. He’ll pace the living room, whispering soft words in Spanish, kissing the baby’s head, and rocking him until he finally settles.

Your favorite moments, though, are the quiet ones.

Like when you wake in the middle of the night and find Ferran sitting in the rocking chair, Leo asleep on his chest. His head is tilted back, his eyes are closed, and he’s whispering a little prayer of thanks under his breath, like he still can’t believe this tiny boy belongs to you both.

Or when he places Leo between you on the bed one Sunday morning, propping him up carefully so you can all lie together. “Look, he’s smiling,” Ferran insists, pointing at Leo’s tiny expression.

You squint at your son. “That’s gas.”

“No, it’s love,” Ferran says stubbornly. “He loves us already.”

Then there’s the day you take Leo for his first walk in the stroller. Ferran pushes proudly, stopping every two minutes to peek inside and make sure the baby’s comfortable. He insists on pointing out trees, birds, and passing dogs as if Leo can actually understand.

“Look, hijo, that’s a pigeon. Don’t trust them, they’re shady,” Ferran whispers dramatically.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t deny how adorable he looks, crouching down to adjust the blanket with so much care.

At home, he’s constantly snapping photos, documenting every stretch, every yawn, every tiny fist curl. You catch him one evening scrolling through his camera roll with a grin so wide it hurts your cheeks just looking at him.

“He looks like me here,” Ferran insists, pointing at a photo. “See? That’s my nose.”

“Or maybe my nose,” you counter.

He leans over to kiss you. “Who cares. He’s perfect either way.”

The days blur together in a mix of laughter, exhaustion, and heart-bursting love. You and Ferran are learning as you go, making mistakes, and figuring it out one messy diaper at a time. But through all of it, Ferran is your rock.

When you’re overwhelmed, he wraps his arms around you and says, “We’ve got this.” When you’re too tired to think, he takes over, whispering soft encouragement to both you and Leo. He makes it feel like the three of you are in your own little world, one you never want to leave.

Late one night, when Leo finally falls asleep after hours of fussing, you collapse beside Ferran on the couch. You’re both exhausted, but he looks over at you with that same lovesick expression he’s worn since the day you told him you were pregnant.

“You know,” he whispers, brushing his hand over yours, “I thought scoring goals was the best feeling in the world. But it’s nothing compared to this.”

You lean against him, heart full. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says firmly, glancing toward the crib where Leo is sleeping peacefully. “This is everything.”

And you know he means it.

You swear you do not know how Ferran Torres ended up in your kitchen again. One minute you were texting him about something stupid that happened at work, and the next minute there was a knock on your door and a very smug six-foot-something footballer was standing there with two iced coffees like he owned the place.

He slips inside without waiting for your permission. He never waits. He just wanders in like he pays rent.

"You looked stressed," he says, handing you the coffee he knows you like. "Thought you needed this."

You roll your eyes, trying not to smile because this is Ferran. This is what he does. He flirts with everyone, charmed his way through half of Barcelona, and somehow convinced himself that teasing you was his full-time job.

"Do you ever stop being dramatic?" you ask.

"Not when it gets me in the door," he says, leaning on your counter. His eyes stay on you way too long, and you ignore the way it warms your face.

You take a sip. It is perfect. Obviously.

"You gonna tell me why you looked like you were about to fight someone in that voice note?" he asks.

"I wasn't about to fight anyone," you say, defeating your own argument by scowling.

"Sure," he says, smiling like he is enjoying this a little too much. "Your eyebrows were basically touching."

You shove his arm, but he hardly moves. He tilts his head like you have just given him the best part of his day.

He always does that. Looks at you like you made the sun rise. You always assume he just likes messing with you. That is the safe explanation. The logical explanation.

You grab your laptop, ready to finish some work before he distracts you too much. But you can already feel him behind you, leaning over your shoulder, smelling ridiculously good for a man who claims he just got out of training.

"You're tense," he murmurs, placing his hands lightly on your shoulders. "You need to relax. You work too much."

"Maybe I work too much because someone keeps showing up at my place," you retort, even though you do not really mean it.

"Yeah?" he says, lips pulling into a grin that should be illegal. "You want me to stop coming over?"

You freeze. He watches you, the question light, casual, but his shoulders stiffen like the answer actually matters.

"You can come over," you say quietly. "I like it."

The relief that washes over his face is embarrassingly obvious. He tries to hide it, but he is horrible at hiding anything around you.

"Good," he says. "Because I was gonna keep coming anyway."

You snort, and he pretends to look offended. He is impossible. Absolutely impossible.

He follows you to the couch like a golden retriever with a crush, tossing himself onto the cushions beside you, one arm thrown over the back of the couch so his hand is perfectly positioned above your shoulder. He always sits like this.

You never lean into him.

He always waits.

Today, for some reason, you feel a little tired, a little soft, so you let your shoulder rest lightly against his side. His breath catches. Subtle, but you feel it.

"You good?" you ask, glancing at him.

He nods like he forgot how to speak.

You try not to think about it.

You try not to think about the fact that Ferran has been your best friend forever, that he flirts with you constantly, that he shows up with coffee and takes care of you in a way no friend really does, and you try not to think about how easy it would be to fall for him.

You try not to think about it because you are convinced he does this with everyone. He is flirty by nature. It is just him.

He turns on the TV and puts on some reality show he pretends he hates but absolutely keeps up with.

After a few minutes, he glances at you again.

"You know," he says, "most people would kill for this."

"For what?" you ask, raising a brow.

He gestures between you two. "Quality time with me."

You laugh so loudly that the neighbors probably hear you.

"I'm serious," he says, even though he is smiling. "You should feel honored."

"Sure," you say. "I am deeply blessed."

He nudges your knee with his. "You sound very convincing."

"You want a certificate or something?"

"Maybe," he says. "Or a kiss."

You snort. "Calmate."

He pretends to pout, even though his eyes are sparkling.

He does this all the time. Jokes about kissing you. Jokes about how you should fall in love with him. Jokes about how good you would look together. You never take him seriously. You cannot. Because if you did, and it turned out he was messing with you, you would literally never recover.

But he keeps looking at you. Not in a joking way this time. Not in a casual way either. He is watching you like he is considering something dangerous.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" you ask.

"Just thinking," he says.

"About?"

"How oblivious you are," he mutters under his breath.

You blink. "Excuse me?"

"Nothing," he says quickly. "You hungry?"

You narrow your eyes. He distracts himself by standing and heading to your kitchen, opening your fridge like he lives here. He starts pulling out ingredients for something you did not ask for.

"Ferran," you say, following him. "What was that comment?"

"What comment?" he asks, way too innocent.

"The oblivious one."

He turns to look at you. Really look at you. His eyes soften, and he rests his hip against the counter, hands in his pockets like he needs to keep them there or he might do something reckless.

"You really don't get it, do you?" he asks quietly.

"Get what?"

He laughs once, breathless and frustrated. "You think I flirt with everyone."

"You do flirt with everyone."

"Not like I flirt with you."

Your stomach drops.

He steps closer, slowly, giving you every chance to move away. You do not move.

"I flirt with you because I want you," he says, voice low. "Not for fun. Not for practice. Not because it's my personality. I want you."

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

He is barely a breath away now, eyes flicking down to your mouth before returning to your eyes.

"You keep thinking I'm just playing around," he says softly. "You have no idea how gone I am."

Your heart is fighting for its life.

"Ferran," you whisper. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I thought I was being obvious," he says, almost laughing. "I come over every day. I bring you coffee. I touch you every chance I get. I basically stare at your mouth like it's my job. I thought maybe one day you'd actually get it."

You feel your face heat. "I thought that was just you being you."

"Me, being me, would not be in your kitchen confessing like a character in a drama," he says. Then he leans forward slightly. "Me being me would kiss you right now."

You swallow. "So why aren't you?"

"Because I want you to kiss me," he says. "I want to know you want me too. Not because I flirted. Not because I teased you. Because you actually want me."

Your hands shake a little, and he notices. His eyes soften even more.

"You can tell me to drop it," he says quietly. "I'll still be your friend. It'll hurt, but I'll handle it."

You look at him. At the man who has shown up for you more times than you can count. At the man who has been right next to you for years, waiting for you to see him.

"I do want you," you say, so quietly you're not sure he hears.

But he does.

He freezes, eyes wide, breath caught.

"You do?" he asks, voice faint.

"Yeah."

He takes one tiny step closer, giving you every moment to change your mind.

You do not.

You reach up, take his face gently between your hands, and kiss him.

The sound he makes is ridiculous. Half relief, half disbelief, and all Ferran. His hands fly to your waist, pulling you closer, kissing you like he has wanted this forever.

When you break apart, slightly breathless, he rests his forehead against yours.

"Told you I wasn't joking," he murmurs.

"Okay," you say, smiling. "Maybe you were right."

He grins like he just won the Champions League.

"Say it again," he says.

"You were right."

He beams.

You meet him at a crowded café in Valencia, one of those warm afternoons when the sunlight bounces off every glass surface and the air feels heavy with chatter. You are not looking for anything in particular, just waiting for your coffee when someone brushes past your table. You glance up, and that is the first time you see him.

His eyes.

Brown, warm, and somehow more expressive than words could ever be. They are curious and kind, but with a spark that feels dangerous in the best way. You cannot look away, not even when he notices your stare and offers a sheepish smile.

“Sorry,” he says, his voice almost as soft as his gaze. “Didn’t mean to bump into you.”

You shake your head, trying to gather yourself. “It’s fine. Completely fine.” You hear yourself add before you can stop it, “You have… really nice eyes.”

His smile grows into a grin, a little surprised but clearly pleased. “Gracias. That’s not usually the first thing people say.”

From that moment, you are done for.

The first weeks of knowing him are punctuated by your constant, almost compulsive comments. You tell him his eyes remind you of autumn, of hot chocolate, of the way dusk settles on a quiet street. Every time you say something, he laughs, sometimes pretending to roll his eyes, sometimes hiding his face in his hands. But you can tell he secretly loves it.

One night, you sit beside him on a bench near the beach, the ocean restless in front of you. He is telling you about football, about training sessions that feel endless, about pressure that weighs heavy. You are listening, but your eyes keep tracing the lines of his face, the way the lamplight glints in his pupils.

“You’re staring,” he says suddenly.

“I know,” you reply easily. “I can’t help it. Your eyes are ridiculous.”

He chuckles, leaning back. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s true every time.”

For a moment, he is quiet, then he turns toward you. His gaze is steady, more intense than before, and you feel heat rise to your cheeks. “If you keep looking at me like that,” he murmurs, “I’m going to kiss you.”

And so he does.

Months slip into years, and your little habit never fades. Every milestone, every celebration, every argument even, you find yourself reminding him of the same thing: that his eyes are your favorite part of him.

When he picks you up from the airport after a long trip, you hug him and whisper, “I missed your eyes.” When he scores an important goal and runs into the stands to find you, you tell him, “They sparkle more when you’re proud of yourself.” When he is exhausted after training, sprawled on the couch with his hair messy, you tilt his face toward you and sigh, “Even when you look like a disaster, your eyes don’t.”

He pretends to be annoyed sometimes, groaning dramatically. “Are you ever going to stop?”

“No,” you say firmly. “Never.”

The truth is, he has learned to live for it.

One rainy evening, the two of you are cooking dinner together. Well, you are cooking and he is mostly stealing ingredients from the chopping board, leaning against the counter like he owns the place. You catch him doing it for the fifth time and threaten him with the wooden spoon. He laughs, and when his laughter fades, you catch him watching you.

“What?” you ask, narrowing your eyes.

“Nothing,” he replies, though his lips are twitching. “Just… no one’s ever made me feel like this. Like I’m worth being looked at.”

You soften instantly, setting the spoon down. “Ferran, you’ve always been worth it. Your eyes just make it obvious.”

He blinks, his gaze flickering with something vulnerable, something unguarded. Then he crosses the space between you and wraps his arms around your waist, his chin dropping onto your shoulder. “You’ll never understand how much that means to me.”

“Maybe not,” you say softly, brushing a kiss against his temple. “But I know I’ll never stop reminding you.”

The habit carries into the smaller, quieter moments of your life. On mornings when he wakes before you and just lies there, watching you breathe, you eventually open one eye and whisper, “Staring’s my job.” On nights when he falls asleep on your lap during a movie, you run your fingers through his hair and murmur, “Even closed, your eyes are perfect.”

He always groans, telling you that you are impossible, but the smile tugging at his lips betrays him.

The day he proposes, it happens in the most ordinary way. You are back in Valencia, walking through the same streets where you first met. The café is still there, unchanged, and he insists you stop by. You sit at the same table, order the same drinks, and laugh about how it feels like a lifetime ago.

Then he grows serious, his hand slipping into his pocket. “I’ve been carrying this around for weeks,” he admits, his voice low. “Waiting for the right moment.”

Your heart skips. “Ferran…”

He pulls out the ring box, opening it carefully, but his eyes never leave yours. “You always say you fell for my eyes first. I fell for the way you saw me. So I want to keep being seen by you, for the rest of my life.”

You feel tears spring to your eyes, the world tilting around you. “Yes,” you breathe, nodding furiously. “Yes, of course.”

When he slides the ring onto your finger, you laugh through the tears. “You know what I’m going to say, right?”

He groans, already smiling. “Don’t.”

“Your eyes,” you declare, kissing him between words, “are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

You’re sitting on the bench in the park, watching as Ferran chases after Bea with that ridiculous grin of his, the one that makes your heart do this weird little flip every time. She squeals, tiny legs pumping as fast as they can go, and Ferran pretends to be slow, letting her get a tiny lead. His brown hair is sticking up in every direction thanks to the wind and his constant running, and somehow he still manages to look effortlessly perfect.

Ferran finally catches up with Bea, swooping her up in his arms. She squeals again, kicking and wrapping her tiny arms around his neck. “Papá! Put me down! I’m too fast for you!” she yells, but the grin on her face betrays her words.

“You? Too fast for me? Never,” he says, laughing. He twirls her around once, making her shriek again, and then sets her down gently, letting her run off to the slide. You follow her with your eyes, heart swelling, and notice how relaxed Ferran looks. You know this is his favorite kind of day, the kind that’s messy and loud but soft and warm at the same time.

“Oi, Pedri, bet you can’t beat me at the seesaw,” Eric says, hopping onto one side with Bea on the other. Pedri narrows his eyes and smirks, climbing onto the opposite side. “Whatever, I could beat you easily,” he teases, but Bea immediately protests, waving her arms.

“I want papá!” she cries, pointing at Ferran who is now stroking a random dog he found. Ferran looks over and smiles at her, giving her a dramatic thumbs-up. “Tío Eric, Pedri, you’re failing at uncle duties,” she declares, climbing down from the slide and running toward him.

Ferran drops everything and scoops her up again, spinning her around. She giggles uncontrollably, and you lean against a nearby tree, watching your little family in action. Somehow, this chaos feels like peace, like a perfect little bubble where nothing can go wrong.

“Ready for a snack?” Ferran asks after a while, setting Bea down gently on a blanket you spread on the grass. She nods vigorously, grabbing a granola bar and chewing with great determination. Pedri and Eric sit down across from you, each grabbing a juice box. They’re not exactly stealthy about their admiration for Bea, constantly leaning over to talk to her, making her laugh with goofy faces, and you can see Ferran watching them, smiling softly but a little protective.

“You guys are way too soft,” he says, but his tone is teasing, not serious. “She’s my daughter, I need to keep her on her toes.”

“Oh please,” Eric says, rolling his eyes, “you’re not the only one who gets to spoil her.”

Bea leans over, pointing at Eric. “Tío Eric funny! Pedri funny too!” she declares. Pedri nudges her gently, ruffling her curls. “Yeah, we’re the funniest tíos ever.”

Ferran laughs, shaking his head. “You three are ridiculous.” He leans down and kisses Bea on the forehead, making her squeal again. “Alright, enough snacks. Let’s play tag.”

Before you know it, everyone is running. Bea is laughing so hard she can barely breathe, and Ferran is careful to keep her within reach, scooping her up whenever she trips or tries to run too fast. Eric and Pedri are darting around with her, making her giggle even more, and you’re standing there in awe. This is exactly the kind of day that makes you fall for Ferran all over again.

Eventually, Bea collapses on the blanket, tired from all the running and laughter. Ferran sits next to her, pulling her onto his lap and brushing a curl from her face. “That was amazing, huh?” he asks softly, kissing her temple. She nods sleepily, snuggling against him.

Pedri and Eric are sprawled out on the blanket nearby, clearly exhausted but happy. “You two need a nap after all that running?” Ferran asks, glancing at them. Eric groans dramatically. “I think we need a week of recovery after this.” Pedri just laughs and shakes his head.

Ferran leans back against the blanket, holding Bea close, and you sit beside him, letting your hand brush against his. He looks at you and smiles softly. “She’s amazing, isn’t she?”

“The most amazing,” you reply, watching Bea yawn and snuggle closer to him.

Ferran kisses your cheek lightly. “I know, right? And these two,” he gestures to Eric and Pedri, “are the perfect tíos. She’s lucky to have all of us.”

Bea suddenly lifts her head and points at Pedri. “Tío Pedri, tickle!” she demands. Pedri doesn’t hesitate, poking her side gently. She bursts into giggles, and Ferran laughs too, shaking his head. “Alright, I guess I’m outnumbered,” he says. “But don’t get too comfortable, you’re still mi pequeña niña.”

The rest of the afternoon is a blur of giggles, chasing, hide and seek, and more snacks. Bea is unstoppable, bouncing between her tíos and her papá like a little ball of energy. Every now and then, Ferran stops to hold her, brush her hair, or whisper something silly that makes her dissolve into laughter. Eric and Pedri are constantly joking, teasing her, and making silly faces, and it’s impossible not to smile at the pure joy of it all.

As the sun starts to dip lower, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange, Bea yawns again and leans against Ferran. “Tired,” she mumbles.

Ferran lifts her into his arms, walking toward the car. Eric and Pedri trail behind, carrying the leftover snacks and toys. You fall into step beside Ferran, watching as he hums softly to Bea, his arm securely around her. The park is quieter now, but the warmth lingers.

Once in the car, Bea curls up against Ferran, falling asleep almost instantly. You watch him glance at her sleeping face, soft and serene, and your heart melts. He catches your gaze and smiles, squeezing your hand. “I love her so much,” he whispers.

“I know,” you say softly. “She’s incredible, just like her dad.”

Ferran chuckles, looking down at Bea again. “We’ve got the best little family, don’t we?”

You nod, leaning your head on his shoulder. “The best.”

And as you drive home, the sound of the city fading behind you, you realize that days like this - messy, loud, soft, and perfect - are the ones that really matter. Ferran’s hand brushes against yours, warm and reassuring, and you can feel the happiness in your chest swelling. Bea snores in her car-seat between Eric and Pedri, who are chatting quietly in the back, already planning the next day’s adventures.

You told him it was supposed to be simple. You made that clear from the start, before you ever let him kiss you, before you ever let him in. Casual. No feelings. Just bodies meeting in the dark and parting in the morning. And Ferran had nodded, with that easy smile of his, the kind that made it seem like he could agree to anything.

At first, it worked. You would meet at odd hours, sometimes after his games, sometimes when you needed someone to fill the silence of your apartment. He never pressed. He never asked questions beyond the surface. He was a safe place to fall into, warm skin and whispered jokes, strong arms pulling you close until you drifted off.

But slowly, almost without you noticing, he changed.

The texts started arriving at times you hadn’t agreed upon. Not just late at night or when he was lonely. He started asking about your day, about the work you hated, about the friend you had been fighting with. He lingered after, not just for an hour but for breakfast. Once, he left flowers on your kitchen counter before slipping out, and you stood there staring at them, unsure if you should smile or panic.

He was falling. You could see it in the way his eyes softened when they found yours. You ignored it because you had promised yourself you would.

Then the test turned positive.

You stared at the tiny blue line as though it had been written in fire. Your hands shook. You sat on the bathroom floor for what felt like hours, the hum of the fan filling your head with static. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t part of the deal.

When you told him, he didn’t react the way you thought he would. He didn’t shout. He didn’t leave. He sat down on the couch, elbows on his knees, and ran his hands over his face.

“Okay,” he said at last, voice steady but rough. “Okay. We can do this.”

You blinked at him. “We?”

His eyes lifted, wide and earnest. “Of course we. You’re not alone in this. You don’t ever have to be.”

That was when you realized it. He was happy. Overwhelmed, yes, but under it all there was a glow in him. He wanted this. He wanted you.

You felt sick.

The days after blurred together. Ferran started coming by more often, under the excuse of checking on you. He brought food, vitamins, even books about pregnancy that you had no interest in reading. He touched your stomach sometimes, so gently it was like he was afraid you would break.

You tried to remind him of the rules. That this had never been meant to mean anything. That you weren’t interested in strings, in labels, in the sharp edges of love. But every time you said it, he just smiled a little sadly, as if he knew something you didn’t.

“You don’t have to say it,” he told you one evening when you were curled on the couch. “I know how I feel. That’s enough.”

It should have been comforting. Instead it terrified you.

Weeks passed. Your body began to change, subtle at first and then more obvious. The nausea hit hard in the mornings, and Ferran was always the first to show up with tea and crackers, sitting on the bathroom floor with you like it was the most natural thing in the world. He brushed your hair back when you were sick. He laughed with you when your moods swung sharp. He treated you like you were already something more than casual, more than temporary.

You wanted to hate him for it. Instead, you found yourself waiting for his key in the door.

Still, the thought of letting go of your independence, of tying yourself down to someone who clearly wanted forever, was too much. So you pushed.

One night, after dinner, you told him. “You need to stop acting like this is… more. It’s not. You’re getting too attached.”

The words hit him like a strike. His fork stilled on the plate. His jaw clenched. For a long time, he said nothing.

Then, quietly: “Too attached? That’s our child, cariño. How am I supposed to treat this like nothing?”

You looked away, nails biting into your palms. “We agreed. No feelings.”

“I lied,” he said, voice breaking. “I lied because I didn’t think I’d ever feel like this. But I do. I’m in love with you. And I want this baby with you. I want us to be a family.”

The silence after was suffocating. You wanted to scream, to cry, to admit that part of you wanted it too. But the fear was louder.

So you shook your head. “I can’t.”

His chair scraped back. He stood, pacing like he couldn’t fit himself in the room. “You can’t, or you won’t?”

You didn’t answer.

He exhaled, sharp and pained, then gathered his things. “I’ll still be here. For you. For the baby. Even if you don’t want me.”

The door shut behind him, and you pressed your face into your hands, tears burning your eyes.

For days, you avoided him. He kept texting, kept checking in, but you gave short replies, if any at all. You told yourself you were protecting him. That if you cut him off, he would stop hoping for something you couldn’t give. But the truth was simpler. You were protecting yourself.

And yet, when the next ultrasound came, you realized you wanted him there. You wanted his hand around yours when you saw the blurry shape on the screen. You wanted his voice steadying yours when your heart was beating too fast.

So you called.

He arrived breathless, as if he had been waiting by the phone. He smiled through tears when the heartbeat filled the room. He kissed your temple without thinking. You let him.

On the ride home, you kept glancing at him, at the way he drove one-handed because he wouldn’t let go of your fingers. Something inside you shifted, fragile but real.

Later, when he walked you up the stairs, you stopped him at the door.

“Ferran,” you whispered, afraid to look at him. “I don’t know if I can give you what you want. I don’t know if I can promise forever. But I… I don’t want to do this without you.”

His breath caught. Then his arms were around you, holding you so tightly it felt like he was trying to piece you back together.

“That’s all I need,” he murmured into your hair. “That’s enough.”

You leaned into him, your fear still there but quieter now, drowned out by the steady beat of his heart against yours. Maybe love wasn’t something that needed to be promised. Maybe it was something that grew, slow and stubborn, until it became impossible to ignore.