#hf32

The first time you held Gael, it was an accident.

Well, not a real accident, more like an unplanned moment during a barbecue at Raphinha and Taia’s place. You were only meant to pass him from one person to the next, a quick pit stop between hands. But Gael had other plans, gripping your shirt with sticky fingers and letting out a gurgling laugh like he had just found a new favorite toy.

From then on, the baby was obsessed with you.

And Héctor noticed.

Now, weeks later, you're back at the same house for another get-together. The sun's out, the pool's full, music’s low in the background, and everyone’s a little sun-kissed and smiley. Most of the players are in the backyard, throwing a ball around and trash-talking each other with loud laughter. You’re not with them.

You're sitting on the patio couch with Gael balanced on your hip, bottle in one hand, wiping drool from his chin with the other. His curls are damp from a bath and his cheeks are rosy with warmth, head resting comfortably on your chest as you hum softly to him like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Héctor can’t stop staring.

He’s standing just behind the sliding doors, leaning against the wall like he’s pretending to check his phone. But his eyes are locked on you. He doesn’t even like babies that much, or, at least, he never thought about them. It was always “later,” always “someday,” filed away under the same vague timeline as a mortgage or maybe a dog.

Until now.

Until he saw you.

You don’t notice him watching, too focused on gently rocking Gael and rubbing slow circles on his back. There’s this soft smile on your lips, so small and calm and real, and Héctor feels something shift in his chest.

You glance up just then and catch his eye through the glass.

He stiffens like a deer caught in headlights.

You give him a little wave with the hand that isn’t cradling Gael, then tilt your head to the side, mouthing "what?" with a confused smile.

He shrugs.

You raise your eyebrows, mouthing again, this time with a grin: "Do you want to hold him?"

Héctor’s already shaking his head before you finish the sentence. “No way,” he says under his breath, even though you can’t hear him. He points to you, then to Gael, then clasps his hands together in a dramatic perfect pair gesture.

You roll your eyes but look flattered.

Eventually, you carry Gael back inside, resting him against your shoulder.

“He fell asleep,” you whisper. “Raphinha said we could put him in the crib upstairs, but I kind of don’t want to move him.”

Héctor looks down at the tiny body curled against your chest and swallows hard.

“You’re really good with him.”

You laugh softly. “You say that like it’s a surprise.”

“I mean…” he shrugs, cheeks a little pink. “I always knew you were sweet, but this is different.”

You shift your weight and gently rock Gael again. “Different how?”

“Like…” He trails off, eyes bouncing between you and the baby. “Like it’s natural. You look like his mom.”

You blink. “Is that a weird thing to say?”

“No.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Just kind of trippy, I guess.”

You give him a teasing smile. “You’re totally getting baby fever right now.”

“I am not.” He protests it instantly, too quickly to be convincing.

You step closer, lowering your voice. “You totally are.”

“Am not.”

“Oh, come on,” you whisper, grinning. “You’ve been staring at me for like twenty minutes like you’re seeing your future.”

“Maybe I am.”

The words are out before he can stop himself.

You blink. Your eyes go wide for a second, surprised at his honesty.

Héctor doesn’t look away. “I mean it.”

You look down at Gael, still peacefully asleep in your arms, then back up at Héctor with a softness in your gaze that melts him completely.

“Do you think about it?” he asks, quieter now. “Like… one day? Having a family?”

“With you?”

He nods.

You smile again, gentler this time. “Yeah. I think about it.”

He watches you swaying side to side with the baby, the warm gold of the sunset lighting up your hair, and something stirs deep in his chest. It isn’t fear or nerves. It’s peace. Hope. Something that feels a lot like home.

“I never used to,” he says quietly. “Not seriously. But seeing you with him… I don’t know. It makes me want things I didn’t even know I wanted.”

Your fingers brush gently against Gael’s back as you glance up. “You don’t have to want it right now.”

“I know. But I’m not scared of it. Not with you.”

You reach out with your free hand and take his, lacing your fingers together. His thumb rubs slow circles over your knuckles.

After a few quiet beats, you smirk. “So… you are getting baby fever.”

He groans. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“It’s already a thing.”

“I just said you’d be a good mom, that’s all.”

“And that you saw your future. And that you weren’t scared of having a family.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“You’re in love with me.”

He leans in, resting his forehead lightly against yours. “Yeah. I am.”

Your smile grows, warm and glowy and smug. “Want to hold him now?”

“Nope.”

“He’s asleep.”

“That’s worse. What if I drop him?”

“You won’t.”

“You say that, but I will.”

You laugh, adjusting Gael’s blanket and kissing the top of his head. Héctor watches you again, quieter this time, like he’s trying to memorize it. You, holding a baby. You, in a moment of calm and love and gentleness. You, as someone’s future, his future.

“Okay,” he says suddenly. “I’ll hold him. But only for like thirty seconds.”

You light up. “Seriously?”

He holds out his arms, bracing himself. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

But you’re already beaming, handing Gael over slowly like you’re passing off the crown jewels.

Héctor takes him carefully, gently, terrified and fascinated all at once. Gael shifts slightly but doesn’t wake, nestling into Héctor’s chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your hand rests lightly on Héctor’s arm.

He looks up at you.

You smile.

“See?” you whisper. “You’ll be good at this.”

He holds the baby like he’s holding something sacred. Maybe he is.

You’ve been working at Cris’s salon for almost six months now, and it’s honestly the best job you’ve ever had. It’s busy, yeah, but it’s the fun kind of busy. The kind where the coffee machine is always humming in the back, the speakers play early 2000s pop, and Cris is chatting up every client like they’re old friends. Most of the time, they are.

The vibe is less “pretentious beauty studio” and more “your favorite cousin’s house where everyone talks too loud and gossips with curlers in.” You love it. And you love Cris. She’s exactly how you imagined a Spanish salon owner should be, blonde, fierce, and never one to hold back an opinion. You’d been nervous your first day, sweeping hair off the floor and fumbling through shampoo routines, but she’d immediately taken you under her wing.

Now you know all her regulars, all their kids’ names, and all their drama. But your favorite part of the job? That’s easy.

Héctor Fort.

Cris’s son.

A living, breathing plot twist.

The first time he walked in, you didn’t know who he was. You’d been in the back room folding towels when she called out, “Mi amor, ya estás aquí,” and then, casual as anything, he walked through the door like he wasn’t model-level attractive or famous or both. You blinked, stunned, a little bottle of argan oil halfway through falling off the shelf.

He gave you that small, polite smile and mumbled a hello as Cris immediately fussed over him. “He’s so scruffy,” she said, ruffling his curls. “He won’t let me cut it properly.”

And then she dragged him into her chair, rolling her eyes like she wasn’t secretly obsessed with him.

Now it’s kind of a thing.

Héctor drops by the salon every couple of days. Sometimes for a trim, sometimes to drop off Cris’s lunch, sometimes for no real reason at all. And lately, when he comes in, he finds you. Which, weirdly, he never seems to mind.

Today, he strolls in just after two in the afternoon, sunshine and all. His curls are tucked into the hood of his hoodie, sunglasses perched lazily on his nose, and he’s got that mischievous smile you’ve started recognizing as “he’s about to say something dumb on purpose.”

Cris is working on a client at the front, and you’re at the sink rinsing out dye bowls when you hear the bell above the door. You peek out from behind the divider.

“Hola, guapa,” he says to you, not even glancing at his mom yet.

You narrow your eyes. “You only say that when you want something.”

Héctor leans against the counter and shrugs. “Maybe I just missed you.”

“Maybe you’re full of it.”

“Both can be true,” he grins, tilting his head.

Cris peeks over her client’s shoulder. “Héctor, don’t flirt with my staff when I’m busy.”

You snort and shake your head, already turning back to rinse another bowl. But you feel the heat rise in your cheeks anyway. He’s like this every time - joking, smiling, calling you guapa like it’s a regular word in his vocabulary. And even though you know it’s mostly harmless fun, it still makes your stomach do a little kick.

He follows you into the back room like he owns the place.

“Do you even have an appointment?” you ask without looking at him, stacking the bowls beside the sink.

“Nope.”

“So you’re loitering.”

“I brought Mamá a coffee,” he says, holding up a little cardboard tray with two cups. “One’s for her. The other’s yours.”

You hesitate, then look over at him. “Really?”

He nods. “I didn’t know how you take it, so I got it sweet. Like you.”

You groan. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” he says, handing you the cup, “you still take the coffee.”

You take a sip. He’s right - it’s sweet, just how you like it. The warmth spreads through your fingers and your chest all at once.

“You spoil me.”

“I try.”

There’s a beat of quiet while you both lean against the counter. The salon hums with background noise - Cris chatting about someone’s boyfriend, scissors snipping, low music playing.

“You’re always here,” you say, sipping again. “Don’t you train or something?”

“I do,” he shrugs. “But the days I don’t, I come here. Mamá likes it.”

You raise a brow. “You sure it’s for her?”

He tilts his head toward you. “You caught me.”

You glance down at your cup, heart weirdly unsteady. “So… are you flirting, or are you just like this with everyone?”

He looks at you, and for once, there’s no smirk. Just something soft in his expression.

“I don’t bring coffee to everyone.”

Your throat goes a little dry. “Right.”

He shifts, just slightly closer. You can smell his cologne now, light and clean and stupidly good. He sets his cup down and crosses his arms.

“I think Mamá’s hoping I’ll fall for a nice, sweet salon girl,” he says, like it’s a joke. But he’s still looking at you.

You blink. “And?”

He shrugs. “I don’t hate the idea.”

That does make you laugh. “You’re so dramatic.”

He grins again. “I’m serious.”

Before you can reply, Cris shouts from the front, “Héctor! Stop distracting her and sweep the floor if you’re going to be here!”

You both jump a little, caught.

Héctor sighs dramatically. “Slave labor.”

You toss him the broom anyway. “You heard the boss.”

He catches it one-handed, rolls his eyes, and starts sweeping. “Fine. But only if you promise to cut my hair next time.”

You blink. “Me?”

He nods. “Not Mamá. You.”

You glance out toward the front where Cris is still with her client, then back to him. “You trust me with your curls?”

“Dangerously,” he says, giving you a wink. “Besides, you’re my favorite stylist and the only one that makes them look just right.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re a menace.”

“But your menace,” he says.

And maybe he’s kidding.

You're not supposed to be here.

Well, okay, you are supposed to be here. You’ve been officially invited to the Fort household for dinner and a movie, which sounds cute and innocent enough. You even brought dessert, like a proper guest. Héctor’s mamá smiled and kissed your cheek in greeting, and his papá gave you a nod from the kitchen, beer in hand and an apron tied loosely over his Barça hoodie.

Everything was chill. Cozy.

But then dinner ended. His mamá took a call from a friend, his papá went out to walk the dog, and suddenly, you and Héctor were left alone in the living room. Dim lights. Warm blankets. A romcom you barely paid attention to.

It started with you teasing him. Something about how he got teary-eyed during the last movie you watched together. He denied it, obviously. Called you dramatic. Said he was just “hydrated.” Which, honestly, made zero sense but had you laughing anyway.

Then he kissed you to shut you up.

And you let him.

And then you didn’t want him to stop.

Now his hands are on your waist, your legs tangled with his on the couch, and your brain’s moving in molasses because all you can focus on is the way he’s kissing you like he’s starving. Héctor always kisses like that. All in, no hesitation, like he needs you to feel every part of him that wants you.

Your fingers are tangled in the back of his curls, your chest rising fast against his hoodie, and your mouth is probably swollen, but you couldn’t care less. His hand slides under the hem of your shirt, and your breath catches, but not in a scared way. Just in a ‘god, that feels good’ kind of way.

You shift slightly under him, arms around his neck, and mumble against his mouth,

“Héctor…”

“Mhm?” he says, not even pretending to pull away.

“Your papá’s gonna be back soon.”

“Don’t care.” He kisses you again.

You let him. Again.

But, like, of course, that’s when the door opens.

Of course, that’s when the sound of jingling keys and sneakers on tile cuts through your very hot, very not PG moment.

You freeze. Héctor’s mouth is still barely brushing yours. His hands are suspiciously still under your shirt.

And then you hear it, 

His papá’s voice, all casual and oblivious:

“Hola! The dog pooped twice, which feels unnecessary but-”

He steps into the living room.

And stops dead.

Time screeches to a halt.

You and Héctor jerk apart like teenagers in a coming-of-age movie. Which, to be fair, is basically what this feels like. You scramble to sit up, yanking your shirt down and trying not to look like someone who was just minutes away from completely losing her mind on her boyfriend’s couch.

Héctor just kind of blinks. Red-faced. Breathing way too fast.

His papá stares. Then blinks. Then narrows his eyes.

Nobody says anything.

You feel your whole body turn into one giant blush. Your lips tingle in a very ‘I’ve-been-kissed-with-a-lot-of-intention’ kind of way. You can feel them, puffy, warm, stupidly obvious.

You glance at Héctor, and yep. He’s just as wrecked. Hair messy, mouth flushed, pupils still dark like he hasn't emotionally processed the fact that his father just walked in.

“Oh,” his papá says slowly. “Cool.”

Héctor clears his throat. “Hi.”

His papá raises a brow. “Hi.”

The air is thick with ‘oh my god, please let a sinkhole open beneath me’.

You shift awkwardly, trying not to touch Héctor, even though your thigh is still very much pressed against his.

His papá walks a few steps in, eyes darting from Héctor to you and back again. “I thought we agreed, no funny business in the common areas.”

“We weren’t,” Héctor starts, then visibly gives up. He rubs the back of his neck and sighs. “Yeah. Lo siento.”

You open your mouth to say something. Apologize? Laugh? Evaporate? Even you’re unsure.

But his papá just chuckles. “Next time, maybe wait ‘til you’re actually alone. Just a thought.”

You want to die.

And then, like the universe hasn’t already punished you enough, Héctor’s mamá walks in from the hallway, phone still in hand.

“What’s going on?”

His papá looks at her, deadpan. “Your son was trying to repopulate the Earth.”

You swear your soul leaves your body.

“Héctor!” she gasps.

“Mamá!” he groans, dragging his hands down his face. “Seriously?”

You whisper, “Can I go home now?” into his shoulder.

He whispers back, “You’re never going to look either of them in the eye again, are you?”

You shake your head.

His mamá, mercifully, tries to smooth it over. “They’re teenagers, love. It happens.”

“Yes, but not on the couch I nap on,” his papá mutters.

Héctor rolls his eyes.

It’s quiet again. But not in a good way. In the ‘so tense you could slice it with a butter knife way’.

Finally, his papá claps his hands together and announces, “I’m going to pretend I didn’t see anything. You two can watch your movie. Just…” he looks directly at Héctor, “keep it G-rated, yeah?”

Héctor nods. “Yes, sir.”

“And maybe ice your face or something. You look like you lost a fight with a vacuum.”

You bury your face in your hands and wish for death.

When both parents retreat, his papá back to the kitchen and his mamá to the upstairs hallway, you and Héctor sit there in stunned silence.

He finally leans over, nudging your shoulder. “So…”

You side-eye him. “So…”

He smiles. A little too smug for someone who just got humiliated in front of his father. “That was hot, right?”

You hit him with a pillow. “Shut up.”

He laughs, ducking and grabbing your wrist before you can swing again. He tugs you closer, pulling you into his side, and you roll your eyes even though you don’t fight him on it.

“You’re the worst,” you mumble.

“Maybe.” He kisses your temple, softer this time. “Still worth it.”

You sigh into his hoodie, heart still racing from the adrenaline. “I’m literally never coming over again.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Not after that.”

“My parents like you.” He grins. “A little too much, apparently.”

You glare up at him. “If your papá makes another joke about us ‘repopulating the Earth,’ I’m breaking up with you.”

“No, you won’t.”

You groan. “Why are you so confident?”

“Because you’re still cuddled up with me after getting caught red-handed. That’s real love, cariño.”

You hate how right he is.

You had been scrolling TikTok all afternoon, half-bored, when you stumbled on the prank trend again. The one where girlfriends casually ask their boyfriends, “If you were athletic, what sport would you play?” You’d already seen a hundred versions, but the thought of Héctor’s reaction made you snicker out loud.

He was the most competitive person you knew. If someone beat him at Mario Kart, he’d demand a rematch until he won. If someone hinted he wasn’t good at something, he’d work twice as hard just to prove them wrong. So the idea of telling him, Barcelona’s rising right back, that you didn’t consider him athletic? That was perfect.

When he got home from training, you were already setting up your phone discreetly on the coffee table. He walked in, hair damp from the shower, training kit hanging loose, humming under his breath. He always seemed to bring the energy of the pitch into the house with him, and normally you’d melt at the sight. But today, you had a plan.

“Hey,” he greeted, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. “How was your day?”

“Pretty good,” you answered innocently, sliding your phone into position. “Just… thinking about something.”

That caught his attention. He dropped his bag and turned toward you with raised eyebrows. “Thinking about what?”

You looked up at him, keeping your face as neutral as possible. “If you were athletic, what sport do you think you’d play?”

For a moment, silence. Héctor blinked once. Twice. His head tilted like you had just spoken another language.

“If I was athletic?” His voice rose, incredulous. “What do you mean if?”

You bit your lip, struggling not to burst out laughing. “Like, just imagine. If you were athletic. What sport would you choose?”

His jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me right now? You do realize what I do every single day, right?”

“Yeah,” you said sweetly. “But like, if you were athletic-”

He cut you off with a dramatic gasp. “I am athletic! I literally play for Barcelona! Do you think they just let anyone put on this badge?” He tugged at his training shirt like it was proof enough. “I train more in a week than most people do in a year.”

You nodded slowly, pretending to think it over. “Okay, but if you were athletic, maybe you’d be like… a swimmer? Or tennis?”

That pushed him over the edge. His hands flew up in frustration, his voice climbing higher with every word. “A swimmer? You think I’d maybe qualify for sports if I were athletic? I run ten kilometers every match! I’ve got stats to prove it!”

You broke then, laughter spilling out uncontrollably as you clutched your stomach. The phone caught everything - his wide eyes, his hand gestures, the way he looked personally betrayed.

“Wait… wait,” he said, realization dawning. He narrowed his eyes at you. “This is a TikTok thing, isn’t it?”

You couldn’t even respond, too busy gasping for air through your laughter.

“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, grabbing a throw pillow and gently tossing it at you. “I actually thought you’d lost your mind for a second.”

Still laughing, you managed to get out, “Your reaction was priceless. So dramatic. Like I just told you football isn’t a sport.”

“Because that’s exactly what it sounded like!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms out wide. “You’re basically saying my entire life doesn’t count.”

You leaned against him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Relax, superstar. Of course you’re athletic. You’re the most athletic person I know.”

He gave you a side-eye, lips pressed together like he was trying not to smile. “You think that’s gonna save you? No. I’m officially plotting my revenge. You won’t know when or how, but it’s coming.”

You giggled, settling against his shoulder. “I’ll take my chances.”

Héctor grabbed your phone from the table and replayed the video. Watching his own shocked expression sent him into a fit of laughter too, though he tried to cover it with a groan. “Nah, this can never see the light of day. Imagine Gavi seeing this. I’d never hear the end of it.”

“Which means I’m definitely posting it,” you teased.

He clutched the phone to his chest protectively. “Over my dead body.”

You smirked. “So dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” he repeated, feigning offense. “You’re lucky I love you. Otherwise I’d never forgive this level of disrespect.”

You grinned, looping your arms around his neck. “Lucky me.”

You’re barely standing on your tiptoes, arms stretched like crazy, fingers just brushing the top shelf of the cupboard when a shadow looms behind you.

“Seriously?” Héctor’s voice is warm with laughter. “Again?”

You don’t even turn around. You’re too focused. The unopened bag of tortilla chips is right there. You’re so close. You give one last desperate jump, fingers swiping at the plastic…

...and then a hand casually plucks it from the shelf like it was nothing.

You turn with a scowl, already knowing who you’re glaring at. He’s standing smugly behind you, still in his training gear, hair all messy and windblown. Tall. Smirky. The love of your life and also the bane of your existence.

“I had it,” you grumble, snatching the bag from his hand.

“You didn’t,” he says, grinning. “You were doing that little tiptoe dance. It was cute, though.”

“I wasn’t being cute, I was being independent.”

“You can be both.”

You huff and shove past him, but you’re smiling. Barely. You climb up onto the kitchen stool and start opening the chips with much more force than necessary. You can feel him watching you from behind.

“What?” you say, not looking at him.

“Nothing. Just thinking about how the stool’s taller than you.”

You whip around and throw a chip at him. He dodges it easily, still grinning.

“I could fight you,” you declare.

Héctor steps closer, towering in that stupidly casual way he does, until he’s standing between your knees with his hands on either side of you, resting on the counter. “I’d let you win,” he says softly.

You narrow your eyes. “You do think I’m cute.”

He leans in until your noses nearly touch. “I think you’re the cutest thing to ever walk the earth.”

You roll your eyes dramatically, but your heart’s pounding all stupid and fast because he’s so close and he’s still sweaty from training and he smells like cologne and grass and you kind of want to die a little bit. But like, in a happy way.

“You’re annoying,” you mutter.

“Mm, but you love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

He kisses your cheek, and you know you’ve lost the battle. Again.

The height jokes started early. They started on the first date, actually, when you’d stepped out of your apartment and Héctor had blinked down at you and gone, “You weren’t kidding.”

“I told you I was small,” you’d said.

“Yeah, but I didn’t think you meant pocket-sized.”

You’d kicked him in the shin for that. Playfully. He hadn’t even flinched. Of course, he hadn’t. His legs are like tree trunks.

But instead of making you self-conscious, he’d leaned into it with this weird, unshakable admiration. Like he was constantly amazed by you. Like every time you struggled to reach something or wore his hoodie and drowned in it or stood next to him in a photo, he just fell in love a little harder.

Once, he called you “travel-sized for convenience.” You’d hit him with a throw pillow. He’d called you “dangerously cute” in retaliation. It was a cycle.

You’re getting ready for bed when he does it again.

You’re brushing your teeth, wearing one of his massive shirts that reaches past your knees, and he walks into the bathroom behind you. He sees you standing on your tiptoes at the sink, just so you can spit properly into it, and he laughs.

You glare at him through the mirror, toothpaste foam around your mouth. “Say something,” you dare him.

“Wasn’t gonna,” he says, totally lying.

You rinse and wipe your face. He comes up behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, and rests his chin on top of your head like it’s his favorite thing. You roll your eyes and try to shrug him off. You fail. He’s too strong, and you’re kind of secretly obsessed with how effortlessly he manhandles you.

“You make me feel like a garden gnome,” you mumble.

“You’re my garden gnome,” he says, voice soft.

You blink. “Was that supposed to be romantic?”

He shrugs, still hugging you. “Kind of.”

You twist in his arms to face him. He smiles down at you, and it’s unfair. His eyelashes are so long it should be illegal.

“I’m serious, though,” he says, resting his forehead on yours. “I love how little you are. I feel like I get to protect you all the time.”

“You do not need to protect me.”

“I know. You’re scrappy.” He kisses your nose. “But still.”

You narrow your eyes. “You just like that you can lift me without breaking a sweat.”

“That too.”

You’re waiting in the front hallway when he gets home, still in your cozy socks and one of his hoodies that fits more like a dress on you. You hear the keys before the door clicks open, and then there he is, kicking off his shoes, hair damp from a quick shower at the facility, eyes lighting up the second he sees you.

“You didn’t have to wait up,” he says, voice soft as he sets his bag down.

You shrug. “I wanted to.”

He smiles, walks over, and pulls you into him like it’s the only thing he’s been looking forward to all day. You melt instantly, burying your face in his chest, his arms wrapping all the way around you with room to spare.

“You’re warm,” you mumble into his hoodie.

“You’re tiny,” he replies, grinning against the top of your head.

Without warning, his hands slide under your thighs and he picks you up like it’s the easiest thing in the world. You squeal, instinctively wrapping your arms and legs around him like a koala.

“Héctor!” you scold, laughing. “Warn me next time!”

“No,” he says simply, turning toward the couch with you still clinging to him. “You’re meant to be carried.”

“Says who?”

“Says gravity. And me. Mostly me.”

You roll your eyes. “I could walk.”

“Yeah, but this way, I get to hold all of you at once.”

You try to keep your face neutral, but the blush gives you away. He notices. Of course he does.

“Shut up,” you grumble as he sits down, keeping you in his lap like it’s second nature. Like you’re meant to be there.

“Didn’t say anything,” he says, kissing your temple. “But you’re awfully cute when you’re flustered.”

You fake a groan, tucking yourself further into him. He just chuckles and holds you tighter, like the size of you fits perfectly against the size of him. Like he wouldn’t change a thing.

Later that night, you’re curled up in bed together. You’ve taken your spot on his chest, half on top of him, one leg thrown across his waist. He’s running his fingers lazily through your hair. His voice is soft.

“I think the universe made you this small just so I’d always have an excuse to hold you.”

You’re half asleep, but that makes you open your eyes and look up at him. “You’re sappy.”

“I’m in love.”

You sigh dramatically. “I guess I can live with that.”

He grins. “You’re my favorite little thing.”

“I swear to God, if you call me bite-sized one more time-”

“Bite-sized. Fun-sized. Compact. Petite. Perfect.”

You smack him with a pillow. He kisses your forehead anyway.

You stared blankly at the half-packed suitcase on the bed, then at the closet, then back at the suitcase. “This is ridiculous,” you mumbled to yourself, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “I’m just meeting his family. It’s not the end of the world. I shouldn’t be this nervous.”

Still, your heart’s going crazy, and your hands can’t stop fidgeting. You’d packed and then unpacked three times already, trying to find the perfect thing to wear to impress Pedri’s parents. Pedri walked in a moment later, phone still in hand, but his attention almost immediately shifted from the Instagram post he was looking at to you. “You okay?” he asked, his voice calm and even as usual. 

You looked up, giving him a nervous smile. “I feel like I’m going to forget how to speak the moment I meet tu mamá.” He chuckled, tossing his phone onto the bed and walking over to sit beside you, “You’re overthinking, sol (sunshine). My parents are going to love you.”

You give him a fairly sassy look. “You have to say that.” “No,” he said, giving you a sassy look back, and bumping your shoulder gently with his. “I’m saying it because it’s true.”

Pedri took your hand in his, running his thumb slowly over your knuckles. “My mamá’s going to be obsessed with you. She’s been asking about you for weeks. And my papá? He already likes you. He said anyone who can make me this happy and in line must be some sort of saint.” 

You let out a small laugh, despite the nerves. “So I’ll be fine?” “You’ll be perfect.” he grins.

You sighed and leaned your head on his shoulder, grateful for how effortlessly he calms your nerves. “I just… I want them to see how much I care about you. I don’t want to mess it up.”

Pedri turned toward you slightly, his voice quiet and genuine.  “You already show me how much you care every single day. They’re going to see that too. And if they don’t see it in the first five minutes, my mamá will get out the baby photo albums to embarrass me, and, if you pay attention, you’ll be her favourite forever.” You smile into his shoulder. “Tempting. You were a cute ass baby.” He grinned and kissed the top of your head. “Just be yourself. That’s who I love, and that’s who they’ll love, too.” 

Pedri stood up and offered his hand to you. “Vamos, we have a suitcase to pack, a flight to catch, and my mamá made croquetas. If you’re nervous, eat first. That’s her rule for everything.” You laughed and took his hand, butterflies still fluttering, but in a different way now. 

Maybe, just maybe, it would be okay.

You sat curled up on Pau’s bed, knees hugged yo your chest, your suitcase still half-zipped and lying on the floor. Everything was packed. Everything was ready. But you weren’t.

Your mind kept spinning in circles. ‘What if they don’t like me?’ ‘What if I say the wrong thing?’ ‘What if I somehow embarrass Pau or myself in front of his whole family?’

You barely noticed the sound of footsteps before you felt the bed dip beside you. Pau didn’t say anything at first - just sat quietly, his presence calm as always, like he knew you needed a minute or two. 

Finally, you glanced at him. “Is it obvious I’m lowkey freaking out?” He smiled gently, his green eyes warm and soft. “A little. But only because I know you.” You groaned and hid your face behind your knees, “I’m sorry. I know this is supposed to be exciting, and it is, I promise. I just… I don’t know. Meeting your parents feels like a really big deal.” 

Pau nodded slowly, taking his time to respond. “It is a big deal. But that doesn’t mean it has to be scary.” You looked up at him, your brows furrowed. “Aren’t you nervous?” He shook his head, and then reached for one of your hands, his fingers wrapping tightly around yours. “No. Because I know them, and I know you. And I know how much they’re going to like you.” 

You let out a shaky breath. “What if I say something weird? What if I don’t say enough? What if tu mamá thinks I’m too quiet? Or what if tu papá-” “Hey,” Pay cuts you off gently, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. “It’s okay to be nervous. But you don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be yourself. My parents… they’re kind people. They’re not going to judge you. They’re excited to finally meet the girl I’ve been talking about for months.” 

A small smile makes its way onto your face. “You’ve been talking about me?” He smiled, his own cheeks going a little pink. “Kind of a lot.”

That made you laugh, and Pau laughed too, a little shyly, his eyes crinkling at the corners nonetheless. “Mi mamá’s probably already made ten different things to eat just because she doesn’t know what you like. She’s going to spoil you. And mi papá… he’s quieter, like you and me, but he’ll ask about football or something to bond with you.”

You look down at your joined hands, then up at Pau again. “I really want to make a good impression.” “You will,” he said simply. “Trust me.”

And the way he looked at you right then - so sure, so confident, so proud - you started to believe him. 

You squeezed his hand, another smile forming on your lips. “Okay, let’s go then.”

Pau smiled back, standing up and offering you his hand to help you up off the bed. “You’ve got this. And if anything gets weird, I’ll fake an emergency and drive us back.”

You laughed. “Deal.”

“Okay, lowkey, what if your mamá hates me?” You asked the question halfway through putting on your jacket, frozen in place with one arm through the sleeve. Ferran looked up from where he was zipping up the duffel bag by the door, eyebrows raised, clearly not expecting that level so suddenly. 

“Hates you?” he repeated, blinking like you’d said something in another language. “What are you talking about?”

You let your arm flop uselessly out of the jacket and sat down on the bed, letting out a long digh. “I don’t know, Ferran. She’s your mamá. She probably has, like, sky-high expectations and perfect Valencian princess ideas of the girl her only son’s supposed to bring home. What if I disappoint her?”

Ferran stared at you for another few seconds, before slowly standing upright and crossing the room towards you, trying, and failing, not to laugh. 

“Valencian princess ideas?” he repeated, amused. “Do you hear yourself?”

You groaned and fell back on the bed, arms splayed out dramatically. “I’m serious.”

He climbed onto the bed next to you, propping himself up on one elbow as looked down at you. “Vale, escúchame, reina (okay, listen to me, queen). My mamá isn’t scary. She’s just a mamá. And she’s going to love you.”

You cracked an eye open. “You’re just saying that because you love me.”

“Exactly,” he said, kissing your cheek, “and soon, she’s gonna see that too.”

You turn to face him fully, propping your chin on your hand. “What if I talk too fast? Or sat something dumb in front of your papá? Or like… accidentally curse during dinner?” Ferran laughed again, then leaned in until your noses were almost touching. “Then you’ll fit right in.” That made you smile, despite the nervousness still bubbling in your stomach. 

He reached over to brush a piece of hair behind your ear, his voice gentler now. “You’ve got nothing to prove. You being you? That’s all they want. My sister’s already excited to meet you. My mamá’s probably baking something right now just because I told her your favourite dessert.” Your heart smiled. “You told her that?”

“Of course I did,” he said, as if it were obvious. “You think I’m not bragging about you every chance I get?”

You roll your eyes but the felt starts to ebb away.

He leaned in slightly, giving you a soft kiss. “Vamos. I’m excited.” You laugh and get up, resuming putting on your jacket.

Lamine noticed you nervously adjusting your shirt for the millionth time in the last five minutes, your eyes flicking between the floor and the couch. You hadn’t said anything aloud, but he could sense the tension that’s building up inside you. He knew how important today was for you. Meeting his family for the first time, especially during Christmas, was bound to bring a wave of nervousness over you. You were excited, of course, but you couldn’t shake the anxiety in your stomach either. 

“Hey,” he said softly, elbowing your side to get your attention, “¿qué ocurre (what’s wrong)?” You turn your head to look at him and smile tightly back at him, “Yeah, I’m just… nervous, I guess.” Lamine frowns, “Nervous? About what?” 

You sighed and fixed your hair yet again. “I really want them to like me, Lamine. It’s your family, they’re important to you, so I want them to like me. I don’t want to mess anything up.” Lamine smiles at you reassuringly, slinging an arm around you in a casual fashion. “I promise, they’re going to love you. Mi mamá’s been pestering me to meet you, and Keyne’s hardly scary. You’ll be fine.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, raising an eyebrow. “You say that now, but what if I say something awkward or do something weird? What if they don’t think I’m good enough for you?” He just laughed, shaking his head. “You’re not going to mess up. You’re perfect as you are.” He smiles more softly now, his dark brown eyes looking into yours, “They’re so excited to meet the person who makes me so happy. You have nothing to worry about.”

His words were gentle, but as they usually do, they carried a confidence that made you feel lighter. Lamine talked about them so fondly, you knew they’d be kind, but the thought of being actually in the same room as them for the first time still made your palms a little sweaty. 

“Besides,” Lamine continues, more playful now, “if you ever feel too nervous, just hang out with Keyne. He gives the best hugs and he’ll happily tell you all about all his soft toys and their names.”

You laughed, “I’m sure I’ll be fine, so long as I don’t embarrass you.” 

Lamine’s face softened once again as he turned your face to look at him. “You could never embarrass me, mi amor. You mean so much to me, and my family knows that, and I’m excited for them to see it in person too.” 

You take a deep breath, feeling the weird tossing of your stomach soothe as the moments pass. Lamine was right, annoyingly, he often is. His family would see how much you both love each other, and they’d understand. There’s nothing to be nervous about.

“You always know how to calm me down,” you whispered, leaning into his side, his body warm, as usual. 

Lamine kissed your forehead. “That’s because I’m always around your anxious ass. I’ve cracked the code on how to make you see sense again.” he snickers, and you playfully slap his arm. 

After a few more moments of laughing, the room goes quiet again and Lamine smiles at you. “Ready to go?” He holds his hand out for you to take as he stands up to leave. You nod and lace your fingers with his, heading towards the front door. 

“Te amo (i love you).” he murmurs as he kisses the top of your head. “Yo también te amo (i love you too).” you smile up at him, and he smiles back.

You were pacing again. Back and forth in front of Pablo’s bed, feeling too restless to sit still. Christmas in Los Palacios. With his family. His parents. His sister.

You froze when you heard a soft laugh behind you. 

“Bebé,” Pablo says, calling your attention as he leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed and a teasing, but soft, smile on his face, “you’re going to wear a hole in the floor. Cálmate.”

You gave him a look, but he was already walking towards you, his presence alone making the nerves calm slightly. “I’m freaking out, Pablo,” you said, the words coming out faster than your normal tone. “What if they don’t like me? What if I say something weird or-” “-trip over something? Spill wine on mi mamá’s couch? Bring a dish with ingredients that someone’s allergic to?” he offers, raising an eyebrow with that stupid, teasing smile still on his face. 

You groaned and slapped his chest. “You’re not helping!”

Pablo laughs, pulling you into his arms. His arms slide around your waist like they have done a million times before, like that’s his favourite place for them to be, and maybe, it is. “I am helping. I’m making you realise how silly it sounds.”

You sigh, resting your forehead against his chest, the steady beat of his heart against your ear. “I just… I want them to like me. I mean, they’re your parents. This is kind of a big deal.” 

“They’re going to like you.” he said firmly, and when you looked up, he was already looking down at you with those big, perfect eyes of his. “They’re going to love you, actually. Because I do.”

Your breath hitched ever so slightly at the way he said it, so very certainly. Like it was the most obvious and natural thing in the world. “You do?” He rolled his eyes with a grin. “Of course I do. Do you really think I’d take any girl home for Christmas? Mi mamá might cry. She’s a crier. Mi papá will pretend he’s chill, but he’s probably going to ask about your entire life story 10 minutes after you meet him. And Aurora? She’ll be happy to have another girl her age-ish around.”

“Dios mío.” you mutter, burying your face in his hoodie. “But they’ll love you,” he said, his voice a little softer now. “Because you make me ridiculously happy. You’re the first person I’ve never been nervous to bring home.” Your heart squeezed a little. All your nerves, your doubts, your ‘what-if’s - they didn’t disappear, but they felt quieter, dulled by the way Pablo seemed so confident and the way he held you tight. He made you feel like you already place in his family, even if you hadn’t actually met them yet. 

You wrapped your arms tighter around his waist and then dropped them to your sides in a final squeeze. “Vale, I’m ready.” “Good,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “Because they’ve been ready for you since the second I told them about us.”

You were sitting on the edge of the couch, nervously twisting the strap of your bag in your hands. Your suitcase packed, coat hanging by the door, and Marc had already triple checked the passports and plane tickets. Everything was ready for the flight back to Barcelona… except for your nerves. 

Marc popped his head in from the hallway, grinning like he did, cheeks slightly pink from the cold air outside. “You ready?”

You hesitated. “Almost.”

He paused, then walked over, his smile softening when he saw the way you were chewing your bottom lip. “You’re nervous.” You sighed, leaning back on your hands. “Is it that obvious?” Marc sat down beside you, pulling you closer to him. “You’re usually the confident one between us. I’ve never seen you sit this still.” 

You let out a quiet laugh, then groaned. “I just… I want to make a good impression. I mean, it’s your family. What if they think I’m not good enough for their son or something? What if they don’t even like me?!”

Marc turned to face you fully, his expression serious, but soft. “Hey. Cállate, idiota (shut up, idiot). You’re overthinking this. First of all, that’s not even possible. And second, they’re not trying to like you. They already do. I’ve told them all about you. About how kind you are. How funny you are. How you’ve got this really annoying habit of stealing my hoodies and acting like it’s yours-”

You playfully smacked his arm, but he grabbed your hand before you could pull it back, lacing his fingers with yours. “I’m serious,” he said, voice quieter now. “They’re excited. Mi mamá’s been texting me asking what kind of snack you like, and mi papá’s already made a list of places to show you in Granollers. You don’t have to prove anything to them.” 

You blinked, taken aback by how certain he was. How calm. How much he believed in you. “You don’t think I’ll say or do something dumb?” Marc chuckled. “If you do, they’ll probably just think it’s funny. Like I do.” That made you smile, your nerves softening just a bit. Leaning your head on his shoulder, you let yourself breathe for the first time all morning. “Okay, I’m ready now. I think.”

Marc pressed a kiss to the top of your head, holding you there for a moment. “Good. Because mi hermana’s already threatened to disown me if I don’t bring you home soon.”  You laughed again, the tension finally beginning to ease. “How nice of her,” you reply sarcastically. 

He grinned and then stood up. “Vamos. You’re about to be the favourite in the family, and I’m not even mad about it.”

You took his hand, heart still fluttering - but this time, it wasn’t from nerves. It was from the way he looked at you, with nothing but love.

You sat at the kitchen island, holding a mug of hot chocolate that you hadn’t touched in 10 minutes. Your bag was by the door. Your phone was charged. The car had a full tank of petrol. You’re due to leave in five minutes. And yet, you’re still spiraling. 

Across the kitchen, Héctor is humming to himself while getting his last few little bits ready, completely unbothered, like he wasn’t about to bring you home to meet the people who literally raised him. 

“Do you think your mamá and papá will like me?” you asked suddenly, your voice barely louder than a whisper. 

Héctor froze and turned to face you slowly, like he wasn’t sure if you were joking. You weren’t.

“Wait,” he said, wa;king over with a soft, confused smile. “You’re actually nervous?” You looked down at your hot chocolate. “Yeah… like, very.”

He leaned against the counter beside you, gently tugging the mug out of your hands and setting it aside. “You do realise my mamá’s probably already planned some sort of girl’s night for the two of you or something right?” Your head snapped up, “What?”

He chuckled. “Yeah. She’s excited to finally have another girl around. She even said, and I quote, ‘bring that sweet girl of yours around so I can finally meet her properly and feed her well.’ Her words. Not mine.”

You blinked. “That's oddly comforting.”

“She’s a mamá. It’s how she shows love,” Héctor said with a shrug, brushing his fingers over your wrist gently. “And my papá? He’s more reserved, but if you ask him anything about the garden or football, he’ll fall in love with you instantly.”

You let out a soft laugh, the knot in your stomach loosening by a fraction.

“No sé (i don’t know),” you mumbled. “I just… I want to be enough. For them. For you.”

Héctor’s hand immediately found yours, his fingers warm as always. “Oye,” he said, tilting his head so you’d meet his eyes. “You’re already enough. More than enough. You don’t have to try and be anything you’re not.” “But-” “Nope.”

He cut in softly, giving your hand a squeeze. “I’m serious, I wouldn’t be bringing you home if I wasn’t sure - if I didn’t want them to know the person who makes me the happiest.”

Your heart fluttered. 

He leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “You’re not auditioning for anything. You’re just coming home with me. And they’re gonna love you, because you’re you.”

You leaned into his touch, letting out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding. “Vale. Let’s go meet your mamá and see what kind of terrifyingly welcoming night she has planned for me.”

Héctor grinned. “That’s my girl.”