The apartment feels colder tonight. You’re not sure if it’s the air or the silence that’s getting to you. The lights are low, the TV is on but muted, and there’s a candle burning on the table - a halfhearted attempt at warmth that only reminds you of what today was supposed to be.

Your seventh anniversary.

Seven years. Since you were fourteen. Since he was that skinny boy with sunburned cheeks and big dreams, telling you he’d make it one day, and you’d both laugh because he already believed it with his whole heart. You remember sitting on the old swing set behind your building, your knees brushing his, and him saying, “When I’m playing for Barça, I’ll fly you to every game.” You’d giggled like it was the most ridiculous promise in the world. And he’d said it again, dead serious.

You believed him anyway.

And he did it - the fame, the money, the life you’d both only seen in dreams. But somehow, along the way, he stopped keeping the smaller promises. The simple ones. Like being here tonight.

You glance at the clock again. The second hand clicks too loudly. 10:47.

There’s still time, technically. Time for him to remember, time for him to burst through the door with that wild grin, time for him to say, “Sorry I’m late, but you didn’t think I’d forget, did you?” You picture him holding flowers. Or maybe your favorite takeout, just like the first time he could finally afford to pay for dinner himself. You want to believe he’ll remember. You’ve been telling yourself that all week.

But your phone stays quiet.

You pull the blanket tighter around you, scrolling through messages you’ll never send. Half-written texts clutter the draft box. Where are you? deleted. You didn’t forget, right? deleted. It’s fine, we’ll celebrate another day. deleted. You settle for none of them.

It isn’t fine, and you know it.

The thing about Pablo is that he isn’t careless in the usual way. He cares, and that’s the problem. He cares too much about everything, all at once - football, training, keeping up with expectations, being what everyone needs him to be. Somewhere in that chaos, you just stopped fitting neatly into his schedule. You’ve turned into one more responsibility, one more thing to juggle.

And you hate that feeling. The idea that loving him has to be something he manages, not something that comes naturally.

You think about how different it was when you were teenagers. He used to show up outside your window at midnight, still in his training gear, just to talk. You’d sit out on the curb for hours, sharing cheap snacks, laughing until your parents threatened to lock you both inside. He’d walk you home with his arm around your shoulders, whispering that he didn’t want to leave yet.

Now he leaves all the time.

The apartment feels too big for one person. His things are everywhere - shoes by the door, jacket on the couch, gym bag half-zipped by the wall. There’s comfort in the clutter, but it doesn’t make up for the emptiness that comes with it. You keep staring at his things because it’s the only way to feel like he’s still here.

You remember how he used to text constantly. Little things, like look at this dog I saw or this guy on the bus looks like Pedri. He’d call between training sessions just to tell you he missed you. Lately, it’s different. Now you’re the one leaving messages that get seen hours later, or worse - forgotten entirely. You’ve convinced yourself a hundred times that it’s not personal, but when it’s your anniversary, and he’s not even home, it feels pretty damn personal.

You stand, walk to the kitchen, and open the fridge. The leftovers from the dinner you made earlier sit untouched. You’d planned it out days ago. His favorite pasta, the wine he pretends not to like because it’s “too fancy.” You even wore the dress he said he loved once - the one you’d had tucked away for something special. The irony stings.

You set your phone on the counter. The screen lights up with a notification.

PABLO: Still at training. Don’t wait up. Love you.

You almost laugh. It’s so short. So thoughtless. Like it could’ve been sent to anyone.

Training. Always training.

You type out a reply but erase it before sending anything. There’s nothing to say that wouldn’t turn into an argument over text, and you’re too tired to start one through a screen. Instead, you grab your wine glass and take it to the balcony. The night air bites at your skin, but it’s grounding. You look out over the quiet city, the hum of traffic far below. For a second, it feels like being back home - before the fame, before the chaos, before everything started slipping through your fingers.

You think about the last real moment you had together. Maybe two months ago, when he surprised you with breakfast in bed. You’d laughed as he nearly spilled orange juice everywhere, and he’d kissed you like he was making up for lost time. That morning, you’d thought maybe things were getting better. That maybe he still remembered what it meant to make you feel loved. But then came another week of double sessions, sponsor meetings, and traveling. Another week where “we’ll make time” turned into “maybe next weekend.”

You take another sip of wine, eyes stinging a little. You can feel the tears building, but you blink them away. You’ve cried enough over this, over him.

A memory flickers in your mind, uninvited - one of those teenage moments that always hits too hard. The two of you sitting in his childhood bedroom, walls covered in posters of Messi and Xavi. He’d been sprawled on the floor, scribbling in a notebook. You’d been on his bed, tossing a small ball at the ceiling and trying to memorise the smell of his pillow.

“Do you think we’ll still be like this when we’re old?” you’d asked.

“How old?” he’d said, grinning.

“Like... twenty.”

He’d laughed, rolling onto his back. “That’s not old.”

“It is when you’re fourteen.”

He’d reached up, grabbed your hand, and pulled you closer. “Then yeah. We’ll still be like this.”

You wonder if he even remembers saying that.

By the time the clock hits midnight, you’ve given up pretending he’ll come home. You take your plate to the sink, blow out the candle, and crawl into bed. His side is cold. The smell of his cologne lingers faintly on the pillow.

You lie there for a long time, trying not to spiral, trying not to think about how much it hurts to feel forgotten by someone who once made you feel like the center of his world. You tell yourself it’ll get better after this week, after the next match, after whatever excuse he gives this time. But you don’t believe it.

You fall asleep facing the door, as if he might still walk through it.

When the sound of keys hits the lock, it’s already morning.

The sound of the lock doesn’t even wake you. He moves quietly, too used to late nights and creeping in after training. His bag hits the floor with a soft thud. A sigh. Then footsteps heading toward the shower. You stir when the water turns on, but keep your eyes closed.

He doesn’t notice you’re awake.

You listen to the sound of the water running, trying to figure out if you feel angry, disappointed, or just empty. You used to wait up for him no matter how late he was, used to greet him with a kiss and half-asleep smile. Now, you can’t even pretend to be okay.

The mattress dips when he slides into bed. His arm wraps loosely around your waist, and it’s almost cruel - the instinctive affection of someone who doesn’t realize what they’ve done. His hand is warm against your skin, but it doesn’t feel comforting. It feels like something borrowed. You stay still until his breathing slows, until you’re sure he’s asleep.

You lie there, staring at the dark ceiling, and your mind drifts back. To another bed, another night, another version of the two of you.

Back then, he hadn’t been famous yet. He was still Pablo from Los Palacios, still the boy who biked to training with one shoelace undone. You were sixteen, and he’d been gone most of the week for youth matches, texting you every night with countdowns until Saturday.

Two more sleeps.One more.Tomorrow. Promise I’ll make it special.

You hadn’t expected much. You were just kids, after all. But when you opened your window that morning, there he was, grinning up at you with a paper bag from the bakery and a little bouquet of wildflowers in his hand.

“Happy anniversary, guapa.”

You’d rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop smiling. “You stole those flowers, didn’t you?”

He’d laughed, eyes bright in the sun. “Borrowed. They were lonely.”

He’d spent the whole day with you. No plans, no distractions - just the two of you wandering through the park, talking about everything and nothing. He’d told you about training, about how nervous he’d been the first time a coach from Barça came to watch. You’d told him how proud you were, and he’d gone quiet, looking at you like the world stopped spinning for a second.

“You really think I’ll make it?” he’d asked softly.

“I know you will.”

He’d smiled in that crooked way of his, the one that still makes your stomach twist even now. “Then I have to make it. Can’t let my girl be wrong.”

You’d spent the afternoon at the beach, shoes off, water up to your ankles. He’d tried to teach you to skip stones, and you’d failed miserably, which had led to him laughing so hard he almost fell over. You’d pushed him, and he’d grabbed you, both of you ending up soaked and breathless.

That night, you’d sat on the sand watching the sun go down. He’d pulled his hoodie off and draped it over your shoulders, sitting close enough that your legs touched.

“You know,” he’d said, eyes on the waves, “if I ever forget this day, you have permission to break up with me.”

You’d snorted. “That’s dramatic.”

“I’m serious.” He’d looked at you then, his face all sincerity and sunlight. “This is our first one. It’s important.”

You’d smiled. “You really think we’ll have more?”

“I don’t think,” he’d said. “I know.”

And then he’d kissed you for the first time that night - soft, nervous, the kind of kiss that makes your chest ache even years later when you remember it. You’d both been shivering from the cold and laughing through it, but it had been perfect.

Afterward, walking home hand-in-hand, he’d stopped suddenly under the streetlight. “Wait.”

“What?”

He’d taken off his necklace - the little one with the tiny cross he always wore - and held it out to you. “For luck,” he’d said. “For us.”

You’d tried to refuse. “Pablo, no, that’s yours.”

“Then it’s yours too.”

You’d kept it for years. You still have it, tucked away in a drawer somewhere. The chain’s broken now, but you never threw it out. Sometimes you still find yourself tracing the cross between your fingers when you’re anxious. It’s like holding a memory.

The memory fades when the early sunlight filters through the curtains. The warmth hits your face, and for a moment, you almost forget why your chest feels heavy. Then you hear him stirring behind you.

“Morning,” he mumbles sleepily, voice rough from exhaustion.

You don’t answer.

He shifts closer, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder. “You up already?”

Still nothing.

He props himself up on an elbow, confused. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

You finally turn to face him, your expression calm but tired. The words are sitting on the tip of your tongue, but you swallow them. Not yet. You’re not ready to explode - not when he’s just waking up, not when you can still see the boy from the flashback hidden behind the man he’s become.

He brushes your hair out of your face, eyes soft. “You okay?”

You look at him for a long time. He looks so genuine, so oblivious. It makes it worse somehow.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I’m fine.”

He leans in for another kiss, and you let him, though it feels hollow. His phone buzzes on the nightstand a second later. He checks it quickly - always football, always someone needing him - and you see his smile fade into that professional seriousness he wears like armor.

“Shit,” he mutters. “I gotta go soon.”

Of course he does.

You watch him get up, grabbing clothes from the floor. He’s half-dressed before he even notices you’re still watching.

“I’ll be back early tonight,” he says, already distracted, already miles away.

“Sure.”

He pauses. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” you repeat, and it’s almost a whisper.

He nods, not convinced but too rushed to press. He leans down, kisses your forehead, and leaves with a quick, “Love you.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

You sit up slowly, pull your knees to your chest, and stare at the empty side of the bed. The necklace flashes faintly on the dresser where you left it last week after finding it again. You reach for it, twisting it between your fingers, and suddenly it’s all too much - the years between that promise under the streetlight and this moment now.

You’d thought growing up together meant you’d never drift apart. You’d thought love like that would always stay the same.

But maybe that’s what hurts the most.

Maybe the only thing worse than losing someone is watching them become everything they ever dreamed of and realizing you’re no longer part of the dream.

The day drags in that slow, heavy way Sundays tend to. You wake up late, not because you slept well, but because you didn’t really want to wake up at all. The sunlight’s too bright when it hits your eyes, and the bed feels too empty.

Pablo’s gone before you even step into the kitchen. There’s a note on the counter in his rushed handwriting - Had to leave early, training got moved. Love you. You stare at it for a few seconds before folding it neatly and setting it aside. You don’t even know why you keep them anymore. Maybe out of habit. Maybe because they’re the only proof that he remembers you exist between one obligation and the next.

You spend the morning cleaning just to keep your hands busy. The place doesn’t need it, but scrubbing the counters feels better than sitting around doing nothing. You wash dishes that are already clean. You change the sheets. You reorganize the bookshelf for no reason at all. Every little task is a distraction, a way to drown out the ache that’s been sitting quietly in your chest since last night.

By noon, the apartment looks spotless, and you still feel just as restless. You make yourself lunch - something simple, something he likes, without really thinking about it - and sit on the couch, phone propped beside you.

That’s when the FaceTime ringtone starts.

Aurora.

You can’t help but smile a little. It’s been weeks since you’ve properly talked, even though she’s one of the few people who’s seen you and Pablo grow up from the very beginning. She was there through every milestone, every fight, every make-up. In some ways, she’s always felt more like family than anything else.

You swipe to answer, forcing your voice to sound brighter than you feel. “Hey, Rora.”

“Hola, cariño!” she greets, her grin filling the screen. “You look so pretty! What’s the occasion?”

You laugh lightly. “Just existing, I guess.”

She rolls her eyes playfully. “Existing with good skin, apparently. Teach me your ways.”

You smile, leaning back into the couch. “Sleep deprivation and coffee. That’s the secret.”

Aurora laughs, and the sound is comforting - loud, familiar, warm. For a while, you just talk about nothing in particular. She tells you about work, about her roommate’s awful cooking, about how their parents are driving her crazy trying to get her to visit more. You tell her a few stories too, small things like the new plant you got or the movie you watched last night. It feels normal. Easy.

Almost enough to forget.

But then she asks, “So, what are you and my disaster of a brother up to today?”

Your stomach drops for a second, though you keep your expression perfectly neutral. You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, forcing a small shrug. “He’s training again. You know how it is.”

Aurora frowns, tilting her head. “On a Sunday?”

“Yeah. They changed the schedule last minute, I think.”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “Hm. Okay. So what about you? Any plans?”

“Not really.” You keep your tone light. “Might go for a walk later, maybe read for a bit.”

She hums, studying your face through the screen. “You sure you’re okay? You sound... tired.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Just didn’t sleep much. It’s fine.”

Aurora doesn’t look convinced. You can tell she’s debating whether to push it or not. She knows you too well - probably better than Pablo does lately. You can almost feel her trying to read between the lines, to catch the lie that’s hiding behind your smile.

“Mm,” she says finally, her tone gentle. “Well, make sure you rest, okay? You’re always looking after him, but who looks after you, hm?”

You try to smile again, but your throat tightens a little. “I do fine, Rora. Promise.”

She gives you that knowing look - the one that used to terrify you when you were younger, back when she could see straight through you no matter what. But she doesn’t press. Instead, she changes the subject, chatting about her upcoming weekend trip and showing you the dress she bought for it.

You laugh at her commentary, teasing her for overpacking, and for a moment it feels good to laugh again. Like you’re not sitting there with the weight of last night still lodged in your chest.

Eventually, she says, “Okay, I should go. But hey, tell Pablo to call me later, alright? He’s been ignoring me again.”

You nod quickly. “I’ll remind him.”

“Good. And tell him I said to be nice to you.”

You let out a short laugh. “I’ll pass that on.”

She waves at you through the screen, smiling. “Love you, cariño.”

“Love you too.”

The call ends.

You sit there for a while, staring at the blank screen. The apartment feels even quieter now. Like her voice left an echo behind that makes the silence heavier. You lean back against the couch, letting out a slow breath. You didn’t lie exactly - you just didn’t tell the truth.

Aurora always has this way of making you feel seen. She would’ve known instantly if you’d cracked even a little. You’d spent the whole call keeping your smile perfectly measured, your voice steady, your tone casual. You even laughed at all the right moments. You played your part flawlessly.

And yet, when you catch your reflection in the black screen of your phone, you barely recognize yourself.

You look tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep can fix. The kind that sits in your bones.

You set the phone down and glance toward the window. The city hums quietly outside. It’s a nice day - clear skies, golden light spilling across the balcony. You think about going out like you told Aurora you would, but the thought of facing the world feels like too much effort. Instead, you curl up on the couch, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders, and scroll through your photos.

There are hundreds of them. You and Pablo through the years. Some from before he even debuted, others from stadiums, plane rides, quiet nights in hotel rooms. You stop on one from that first anniversary - the two of you sitting on the beach, his hoodie drowning you, both of you grinning at the camera. He looks young, sunburned, happy. You look the same.

You swipe to another one. Your second anniversary. Then the third. Each one feels like watching a time-lapse of two people slowly drifting apart.

You pause when you reach last year’s. You’re both dressed up for dinner, his hand on your waist, your head resting on his shoulder. It should look perfect, but now all you can see is how distracted he looked even then. His smile never quite reached his eyes.

You lock your phone, setting it face-down on the coffee table.

The rest of the afternoon slips by quietly. You read for a bit but don’t remember a single sentence. You make tea. You check your phone every so often, hoping for a text that doesn’t come. You think about calling Aurora back, maybe actually telling her what’s wrong this time. But you don’t. You’ve already used up all your pretending for the day.

By the time the sun sets again, the loneliness feels heavier than it did last night. It’s not the kind that comes from being alone, though. It’s the kind that comes from being with someone who’s supposed to make you feel loved - and realizing you can’t remember the last time you really did.

The car is quiet except for the low hum of the engine and the thudding in Pablo’s skull that hasn’t stopped since training. His phone keeps buzzing against the console, lighting up with messages from the team group chat, from Pedri, from someone about a sponsor event. He ignores them all. He’s tired, hungry, and still irritated about the drills that went over schedule. All he wants is to get home, shower, and sleep.

When his sister’s name flashes across the screen, he almost lets it ring out. Aurora only calls when she wants something - gossip, family updates, to nag him about not visiting. But the guilt kicks in, so he taps accept with a sigh.

“What,” he mutters, one hand on the wheel.

“Hola, Pablo,” she says, voice way too calm.

“Hola,” he replies, already bracing himself. “What’s up?”

“Why is your girlfriend upset?”

He frowns immediately, glancing at the road. “What? She’s not upset.”

“Sí, lo está,” Aurora says flatly. “I just called her. She looked sad.”

“She’s fine,” he says too quickly. “Probably tired. You’re reading too much into it.”

Aurora hums, that slow, judgmental sound he’s known since childhood. “You sure about that?”

He clenches his jaw. “Yes, I’m sure. She didn’t say anything to me.”

“Maybe because she’s tired of saying things to you,” she fires back, and he feels his patience thinning.

He grips the wheel tighter, knuckles white. “I don’t have time for this, Rora. I’ve been training all day. I’ll talk to her when I get home, okay?”

There’s a pause. Then her tone shifts - sharper, firmer. “Pablo, deja de ser un cabrón.”

His stomach drops, heat rising in his chest. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what it means,” she snaps. “You get so wrapped up in football that you forget there’s a person waiting for you at home. You can’t treat her like she’s some background character in your career.”

He exhales hard, jaw tight. “You don’t even know what’s going on.”

“I don’t have to,” she says. “I can hear it in your voice.”

That sets him off. “I’m not doing anything wrong, Aurora. You always act like I’m this selfish asshole, but you have no idea how much pressure I’m under right now. You don’t get it. None of you do.”

“I get it,” she says calmly now, which only makes it worse. “But being busy doesn’t mean you stop caring.”

He scoffs. “Whatever. I’ll handle it.”

“Yeah?” she says coldly. “You’d better.”

He doesn’t answer. He hangs up instead, tossing the phone into the passenger seat. The call ends with a sharp click that echoes in the silence.

For a moment, he just sits there, pulse pounding. His reflection stares back at him in the windshield - tired eyes, clenched jaw, the shadow of guilt he’s trying hard to ignore. He runs a hand through his hair and curses under his breath.

He tells himself Aurora’s just overreacting. She always does. His girlfriend would’ve said something if she was actually upset. She’s not the type to stay quiet. Maybe she was just having an off day. Maybe Aurora caught her in a weird mood. That’s all.

Still, his chest feels tight the entire drive home. The closer he gets to the apartment, the angrier he gets - not just at Aurora, but at the thought that his own sister’s been talking to his girlfriend behind his back, making him look like an idiot.

By the time he parks, the anger’s sitting heavy in his stomach. He slams the car door harder than necessary, grabs his bag, and stalks toward the building, jaw locked.

He’s already replaying the argument in his head, already feeling that defensive spark in his gut. He knows exactly what he’s going to say when he walks in.

The moment the door opens, the quiet hits him like a wall. The faint smell of her shampoo still lingers in the air. The lights are low again, and her book is still open on the couch.

He doesn’t even drop his keys gently this time. They clatter against the counter as he storms inside.

His voice cuts through the silence, sharp and accusing. “Why are you snitching to my sister for?”

And just like that, the spark ignites.

Your heart sinks. You stare at him, blinking like you didn’t hear right. “What?”

He throws his hands out. “Aurora called me. Saying you’re upset, like I’m some kind of asshole boyfriend. What the hell did you tell her?”

You scoff, standing from the couch. “I didn’t tell her anything. She called me. We talked, that’s all.”

“Yeah, and somehow she still thinks I’m the bad guy.” He laughs, sharp and humorless. “Guess she didn’t get that idea from nowhere.”

You shake your head slowly, your chest tightening. “You seriously think I’d go complain about you to your sister? God, Pablo, she asked how I was. I said I was fine. Because I am fine, remember?”

“Clearly not,” he snaps. “Otherwise she wouldn’t have called me yelling in my ear.”

“Then maybe she sees something you don’t.”

He stops, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You stare at him, searching his face for any hint that he might understand - that he might remember what day it was, what he forgot, what you’ve been sitting here trying not to fall apart over. But there’s nothing. Just that blank confusion, that self-assured disbelief.

You let out a shaky laugh. “You really don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?” he bites back.

You nod slowly, lips pressed together, and it hits you like a wave - the sadness, the anger, the disbelief that he’s actually standing here making you feel like you did something wrong.

“You forgot our anniversary.”

He blinks, caught off guard for half a second, then scoffs. “That’s what this is about?”

You almost can’t believe it. “Are you kidding me?”

“It’s not like I meant to forget!” He throws his bag down, frustration pouring off him. “I had training, meetings, sponsor crap. You know how busy I am. You of all people should understand that.”

Your jaw tightens. “I do understand, Pablo. I’ve always understood. I’ve been understanding since we were sixteen, since you started missing plans for matches, since I sat alone in hotel rooms while you did interviews. But this? Our seven-year anniversary? You didn’t just forget a date. You forgot me.”

He drags a hand through his hair, pacing. “You’re being dramatic. It’s one day. We can celebrate later.”

“One day?” Your voice cracks, anger laced through it now. “It’s not about the day, it’s about what it means! You promised me that you’d never let this happen. You used to care, Pablo. You used to show up. You used to want to show up.”

“I still do!” he shoots back, defensive. “But I’ve got responsibilities now. You think I can just drop everything for a date night?”

“That’s the problem,” you say quietly, shaking your head. “You act like I’m just another thing on your to-do list. Like spending time with me is an inconvenience.”

He rolls his eyes, groaning. “Oh my God, stop twisting my words. You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“That I’m doing my best!” His voice rises, the walls catching the sound and throwing it back at you. “I give everything to this career, and I’m doing it for us! For our future! You think it’s easy balancing all this?”

You stare at him, stunned. “Don’t act like I don’t support you. I’ve stood by you through everything. Every game, every injury, every late night. But somewhere along the way, it stopped being us. It’s just you. Everything’s about you.”

He laughs bitterly, shaking his head. “Right, because you’ve got it so hard, huh? Sitting here at home while I’m working my ass off every single day.”

That one hits like a slap. “You think that’s fair?” you whisper. “You think this is easy? Watching the person I love forget who he is, forget who we are, and then act like I should be grateful for scraps of attention?”

His voice hardens. “You’re overreacting.”

“No,” you say, louder this time. “I’m not.”

For a moment, the air between you crackles. His jaw flexes. He looks angry, but underneath that, there’s something else - guilt maybe, or fear, but he buries it too fast for you to catch it.

You step closer, your tone trembling but steady. “You remember when we were teenagers? You used to bike across town after training just to see me for fifteen minutes. You’d text me goodnight even when you were exhausted. You’d say you couldn’t sleep until you heard my voice.”

He looks away. “That was different. We were kids.”

“That’s the saddest thing you’ve ever said.”

He looks back at you, eyes narrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’ve become everything you used to hate. The guy who’s too busy, too self-absorbed, too tired to care. The guy who thinks love is optional.”

He scoffs again, but this time it sounds weaker. “You don’t get it.”

“Then make me get it!” you snap. “Explain how forgetting the person who’s been with you since before you were anyone is supposed to make sense. Explain how I’m supposed to sit here smiling like it doesn’t break me every time you walk out the door.”

“I didn’t mean to forget!” he shouts back. “You act like I did it on purpose!”

“Intent doesn’t erase the hurt, Pablo!” you yell. “You didn’t just forget a date, you forgot me. You forgot the kid who believed in you before anyone else did. You forgot the girl who sat in freezing stands watching youth matches, the one who used to wait outside Ciutat Esportiva for hours just to see you for five minutes. You forgot the reason you even wanted to make it in the first place.”

He stares at you, chest rising and falling, but his pride doesn’t let him break. “You think I don’t appreciate you?”

“Appreciate me?” You let out a hollow laugh. “No, you appreciate me like you appreciate a jersey you hang up after a match. You care, but only when it’s convenient. You don’t feel it anymore.”

“That’s bullshit,” he snaps, stepping closer. “You don’t know what’s in my head.”

“I used to,” you say softly. “I used to know exactly what you were thinking just by looking at you. Now I can’t even tell if you still love me or if I’m just another part of your routine.”

“Of course I love you,” he fires back instantly, but it sounds like reflex, not truth.

You stare at him for a long time, heart pounding. “Then why doesn’t it feel like it anymore?”

The question hangs there like smoke - thick, heavy, impossible to ignore.

Pablo runs a hand down his face, muttering under his breath. “You’re impossible sometimes, you know that?”

You flinch. “Yeah. Must be exhausting, having to deal with a girlfriend who expects you to give a damn.”

“Don’t twist this,” he says sharply. “You think it’s easy for me either? You think I like being gone all the time? I’m trying to build something real here. For both of us.”

“But you already had something real,” you whisper. “And you’re throwing it away.”

He laughs bitterly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You always find a way to make me the villain.”

“You’re not the villain,” you say, voice breaking. “You’re just not the boy I fell in love with.”

That lands like a punch to the gut. His expression flickers - pain, anger, denial = but it hardens again in seconds.

“Maybe that’s because you’re stuck in the past,” he says coldly. “People grow up, things change.”

“Love doesn’t,” you whisper. “Not if it’s real.”

For a second, neither of you move. The silence is unbearable. You can hear the ticking of the kitchen clock, the distant city noise outside, the sound of two people barely holding the pieces together.

The silence is thick enough to choke on. Pablo’s pacing again, jaw tight, the air between you crackling with everything that’s been said and everything that hasn’t. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat, every word hanging like a spark waiting to catch.

You cross your arms, voice trembling. “No, of course you can’t. You never can.”

He freezes mid-step. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means every time things get hard, you walk away,” you say, voice steady but sharp. “You don’t talk, you don’t try, you just run. You act like if you ignore it long enough, it’ll fix itself.”

“Because talking to you is like talking to a wall!” he snaps. “You’ve already decided I’m the villain in this story.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “You’re the one who made it a story, Pablo. I was just trying to live it with you.”

He glares at you, breathing heavy, the vein in his temple twitching. “You think I don’t care? You think I don’t feel this? God, you act like I’m some heartless prick who doesn’t give a damn about you.”

“Then prove me wrong!” you shout, tears spilling over now. “Do something, say something, show me that you care! Because words don’t mean anything anymore, Pablo. You’ve said them all before.”

He runs both hands through his hair, muttering curses under his breath, pacing harder, faster, like he’s about to combust. “You want me to show you?”

“Yes!”

“You really want me to?”

“Yes, I do!”

He stops dead. His chest is rising and falling, eyes wide and wild, like he’s trying to stop himself from saying something reckless. Then it bursts out of him, raw and desperate.

“Marry me.”

You blink, stunned. “I’m sorry, what?”

His jaw clenches. “You heard me.”

“Pablo,” you breathe, heart racing. “This isn’t funny.”

He turns sharply, stalking to where he threw his jacket earlier. “Does it look like I’m joking?” His voice cracks slightly at the end, the frustration bleeding into something vulnerable. He digs into his pocket, pulling out a small black box that looks way too real for this to be a bluff.

You stare, frozen. “No way.”

He walks back toward you, not gently, not gracefully - just raw emotion driving him forward. He thrusts the box out toward you. “Marry me.”

You look down at it, then up at him. “Pablo, you can’t just- this isn’t- are you seriously doing this right now?”

“Yes, right now,” he fires back, voice trembling between anger and pleading. “You want to know if I care? I bought this three months ago, okay? It’s been sitting in my locker, waiting for the right time, but clearly there’s never going to be one. So here.” He pushes it into your hands. “Marry me.”

Your throat feels tight. You stare at the box, at him, at the boy who’s been driving you crazy for years, the boy you’ve loved since you were both kids who thought the world revolved around each other.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen,” you whisper. “You’re angry. I’m angry. You don’t even-”

He cuts you off, stepping closer, his eyes shining. “I don’t even what? Love you? Because I do. I’ve never stopped. Even when I’m an idiot, even when I forget things, even when I make you cry. You’re the only constant in my life that isn’t football. And I can’t lose you.”

The words hit like a punch straight to the chest. His voice is shaking, his hands too. For the first time all night, the anger drains from his face, replaced by raw fear.

You open the box slowly. The ring is simple, gold with an opal, just the kind of thing that screams him.

You blink through tears. “You had this all this time?”

He nods. “I was waiting until something important happened. I wanted to make it special, you know? Like, ‘hey, we made it.’ But you kept saying I’d changed, that I didn’t care anymore, and I just-” He breaks off, dragging a hand down his face. “I can’t let you think that. I can’t stand you thinking I don’t love you.”

You stare at him for a long moment, your heart splitting between anger and something unbearably tender.

“Pablo,” you whisper. “You can’t fix an argument with a ring.”

“I’m not trying to fix it,” he says hoarsely. “I’m trying to prove that I meant every promise I ever made to you. That I still want this. I still want us.”

You shake your head, laughing through tears. “You’re so stupid sometimes.”

He half-smiles, broken but real. “Yeah, but you love me anyway.”

You stare at him, eyes glassy, chest aching. “You don’t even realize what you just did, do you?”

He frowns. “What?”

“You just proposed in the middle of a fight.”

He shrugs helplessly. “Guess that’s kind of our thing. We yell, we make up, we drive each other insane, and somehow we still end up here.”

You laugh, choked and teary. “You’re unbelievable.”

He takes a shaky breath. “So is that a no?”

You look down at the ring, at the tiny, stupidly beautiful thing he’s been carrying around for months, and something in your chest finally cracks open.

“It’s a yes,” you whisper.

His eyes widen. “Yeah?”

You nod, tears spilling freely now. “Yeah.”

For a moment, he just stares at you like he doesn’t quite believe it. Then he lets out a breath that sounds like he’s been holding it for years and pulls you into him. His arms wrap tight around your waist, his face pressed into your shoulder, and all the tension between you melts into something soft and trembling and real.

You can still feel his heart pounding against yours, erratic, unsteady, alive.

You laugh quietly against his chest. “You know, you’re supposed to get down on one knee or something.”

He huffs a half-laugh. “You were yelling at me. Didn’t think it’d go down too well.”

You grin through your tears. “You’re insane.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his smile faint but warm. “Yeah. But I’m yours.”

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.”

Your night was supposed to be chill. You were wearing your softest hoodie, a bag of chips was slowly being demolished, and you were curled up in bed doing what you always did when you had the house to yourself, talk to both your amazing best friend and Pablo Gavi at the same time.

Two separate convos. Two completely different vibes.

One was your usual unfiltered girl talk with Val, full of memes, hypotheticals, and absurd plans like moving to a cabin in Iceland and raising goats. The other was Gavi, sweet, teasing, a little flirtatious, and just on the edge of being something more.

You were doing just fine juggling the two until Val had to go and say that.

VAL: Would you ever let me steal you away from your little footballer, just for one night?

You rolled your eyes but smiled, snorting at her dumb little smirking emoji. Classic Val. She’d been teasing you ever since she found out you’d been talking to Gavi more than you probably should, considering how hard and fast you were catching feelings.

So you decided to tease her back.

Your fingers flew across the keyboard, already grinning.

Y/N: You can have me any way you want, just ask nicely 😘

You sent it.

A second later, your stomach dropped.

You sent it.

To Pablo.

You sat up so fast the chips went flying. Your jaw dropped. Your soul left your body. Your fingers scrambled across the screen, panic flooding your veins.

“No no no no no,” you whispered, already praying for a way to unsend that message even though you knew damn well messages was not gonna be that merciful.

Message: Delivered. Read.

Oh god. He’s seen it.

Before you could even begin typing a frenzied explanation, the typing dots popped up.

Then disappeared.

Then came back.

Then disappeared again.

You were gonna die.

Then, finally:

GAVI: Oh?

You stared at the screen.

Then another message came through.

GAVI: I didn’t know I had those kinds of options.

Your face burned so hot you were sure it lit up the room. You buried your face in your hands, half-screaming into your palms, half-laughing because of course this would happen to you.

And then he sent one more:

GAVI: Should I ask nicely then?

You froze.

Okay. So maybe this wasn’t the catastrophe you thought it was.

You stared at that message for a full minute, your heart pounding like you’d just sprinted a marathon. You were pretty sure your brain short-circuited. Pablo Gavi, national football treasure and certified menace, was absolutely flirting with you.

And now? You had two options.

Play it cool, or combust.

So naturally, you chose chaos.

Y/N: I mean… depends on what you’re asking for 😇

You watched the message send with a mix of dread and thrill. The pause that followed nearly killed you, but then-

GAVI: You. Obviously.

You could not believe the words on your screen.

Y/N: Just me? You typed back before you could second-guess yourself.

GAVI: What else would I need?

You didn’t have time to scream because he was still typing.

GAVI: But if you’re offering any way I want…

Okay. Now you were the one typing and deleting like ten times because you couldn’t get your brain to form a decent sentence. Finally, you just went for it.

Y/N: Say please.

He replied within seconds.

GAVI: Please.

GAVI: Please come over.

Your stomach flipped.

GAVI: Please let me kiss you the second you walk in.

You were clutching your phone like it was oxygen.

GAVI: Please wear my hoodie.

GAVI: Please stay the night.

You blinked, overwhelmed in the best way possible. This boy was not playing around.

Y/N: ...So if I actually show up right now, you’re really gonna do all of that?

GAVI: Only if you ask nicely 😏

You laughed out loud, shaking your head. Your fingers hovered for a moment, heart pounding in your throat.

Y/N: On my way.

You didn’t wait for another message. You were already hopping out of bed, throwing on jeans and your sneakers, adrenaline in your blood like you were about to run a heist.

As you grabbed your keys, your phone buzzed again.

GAVI: Hurry. I’ve been good all day. You owe me.

You bit your lip and grinned, your heart practically doing backflips.

Maybe you should text Val back later and thank her for being the accidental wingwoman of the year.

Or not.

You’re up before the sun, which is honestly shocking, considering you and Pablo stayed up past midnight. Not for wild party reasons or anything, just to be dramatic about the moment he officially turned twenty-one. You’d made him sit on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, and counted down the last ten seconds of his youth like it was New Year’s. He’d grinned the whole time, let you yell “happy birthday!” way too loud, and kissed you like he was proud to be celebrating it with you.

Now he’s still fast asleep, all curled into himself with the sheets tangled around his hips and his hair a total disaster. His mouth is parted, soft snores escaping every couple of seconds. You almost feel bad waking him up.

Almost.

You crawl back into bed and press a kiss behind his ear. “Pablo.”

He groans and pulls the pillow over his head.

“Pablooo,” you say again, dragging the vowel out this time, and he blindly reaches an arm to trap you against him like that’ll shut you up.

“Five minutes.”

“It’s your birthday.”

“Mhm,” he mumbles. “Still tired.”

You poke at his side until he rolls onto his back, squinting up at you with the grumpiest expression imaginable.

“I was dreaming,” he complains.

“Oh yeah? About what?”

“You. But you were being nicer in the dream.”

You laugh and lean in to kiss his cheek, his jaw, the tip of his nose. “Well, dream me didn’t bake you a cake yesterday, so real me still wins.”

He sighs dramatically but slides a hand around your waist. “You just want me up so you can give me my present.”

“Guilty.”

He opens one eye. “Is it you in lingerie?”

“Absolutely not. Your mother is literally expecting us in two hours. I refuse to be responsible for making us late.”

“Wouldn’t blame you if we were,” he mutters, tugging you down against his chest anyway. “Just five more minutes like this.”

You let him have ten.

By the time you’re in the car, he’s fully awake, bouncing his knee the whole ride to his parents’ house. He tries to act casual about it, like this is just another birthday, but you know better. Pablo’s always had a soft spot for home. For his mom’s cooking, his dad’s dry jokes, his sister’s dramatic stories, and the way Javi always slips him a beer behind his mother’s back.

The door swings open before you can knock. Belen lights up when she sees him.

“Mi niño!” she says, already pulling him in for a hug. “Feliz cumpleaños, mi amor.”

You hang back for a second, watching how Pablo melts into her. He’s taller than her now, a little buffer too, but he still hugs her like he’s fifteen.

Then she turns to you and gives you a warm hug too. “Gracias por cuidar de él.”

You smile. “He’s not that hard to take care of.”

Pablo snorts from beside you. “See? Proof. I’m low maintenance.”

“You’re emotionally clingy and you always forget where you put your keys,” you tease.

His mom laughs. “Just like his father.”

The house smells amazing, like garlic and peppers and something warm baking. Aurora appears from the kitchen with a tray of little croquettes and a giant grin.

“¡Felicidades, tonto!” she says, setting the tray down so she can pinch both his cheeks at once.

“Ow. You’re literally older than me and still bullying me.”

“That’s my job,” she says sweetly, then hugs him tight. “Happy birthday.”

Her boyfriend Javi claps Pablo on the back and hands him a bottle of beer.

“Belén’s distracted,” he says with a wink.

The living room is already decorated with balloons and a big blue banner that says Feliz 21, Pablo. There’s music playing softly from the kitchen speaker, and when you glance out the window, you see the table on the patio is already half set for lunch.

It’s warm. Not just the temperature, but the whole house. Loud and lived in and happy. And Pablo is glowing in it.

You help Belen in the kitchen while Pablo goes outside with his dad and Javi to fire up the grill. She chats about everything and nothing while she lets you plate up salads and sneak little bites when she’s not looking.

“He’s been so much calmer this year,” she says at one point. “Still intense, still a Gavi, but softer.”

You smile to yourself. “He’s growing.”

“He’s happy,” she says. Then, after a beat, “I think you have something to do with that.”

Lunch is a feast. There’s grilled meat and peppers, roasted potatoes, fresh bread. Belen tops up everyone’s drinks while Javi tells stories about his university days, half of which Aurora interrupts to correct.

Pablo keeps a hand on your thigh the entire time under the table. Sometimes he taps your knee when he’s amused, or squeezes when someone makes a joke at his expense. He barely looks away from you when Belen brings out the cake.

It’s simple, chocolate with blue icing and a little fondant football on top, but he looks genuinely touched.

“You made this?” he asks his mom.

“Con amor,” she replies.

He turns and kisses her cheek. “Gracias, Mamá.”

Everyone sings. Pablo pretends to hate it but smiles through the whole thing anyway, then blows out the candles in one breath. You nudge him under the table.

“What’d you wish for?”

He grins. “Not telling you.”

“You’re such a brat.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I wished to marry you someday. Who knows.”

Your face heats instantly. Belen catches your eye and winks. Pablo Sr. groans.

“Dios mío,” he says, standing. “I’m getting another beer.”

Later, back at home, you kick your shoes off by the door and fall face-first onto the couch. Pablo collapses right next to you.

“That was a lot of food.”

“You had three helpings of potatoes.”

“They were so good,” he says, stretching out his limbs. “I’m in pain.”

You laugh. “Worth it?”

“Completely.”

He turns to look at you, propping his chin on your shoulder. “Today was perfect.”

You smile and smooth a hand over his curls. “You deserve it.”

He leans in, brushing his nose against yours. “Can I open your present now?”

“I already gave it to you this morning.”

He pouts. “That wasn’t a present, that was teasing.”

You blink at him, pretending to be offended. “Excuse you. That was a very thoughtful, very affectionate wake-up call.”

“I was asleep. I don’t even remember it properly.”

You laugh, tugging him closer. “Fine. You want your real present?”

He nods eagerly.

You kiss him once, slow and sweet, then pull back to reach under the couch cushion. His eyes widen when you hand him the little box.

“Is this…?”

“Open it.”

Inside is a silver chain bracelet with a small engraved plate that reads mi sol. He goes quiet, turning it over in his hands.

“I know you don’t wear a lot of jewelry,” you say softly, “but you’re always saying the sun makes you feel calm, so I thought-”

“I love it,” he says, immediately. Then again, quieter, “I love it.”

You help him put it on. He stares at it for a long time, then looks at you like he’s seeing the sun itself.

“You’re my favorite part of today,” he says.

You smile, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Even more than the potatoes?”

He kisses you. “Way more than the potatoes.”

His hands find your waist, tugging you gently onto his lap. The kiss deepens, slow and steady. There’s no rush in it. No urgency. Just that soft buzz of being in love and full and tired in the best way.

“You’ve still got chocolate on your lip,” you murmur, pressing your mouth to the corner of his.

“Take it off, then.”

You do.

And then a little more.

And maybe you forget about the cake leftovers in the fridge and the two missed calls from Aurora. Because right now, it’s just Pablo’s warm hands on your hips and his soft voice saying your name in the hush between kisses.

You met when you were seven, while playing football out in the schoolyard on one of your first days at your new school in Tegueste, after moving from Lanzarote, another Canarian Island, the closest one to Spain. You were quite a good wee player, but were met with the ground after being tripped by another boy, who looked about your age. Your bottom lip had wobbled as you looked at your now-skinned hands. The boy, looking as guilty as if he’d killed you, crouched down in front of you.

“Lo siento mucho. Lo prometo, no fue mi intención. ¿Estás bien (i’m so sorry. i promise i didn’t mean to. are you okay)?” he had asked tentatively. You sniffed and nodded. Your eyes had gone back to his face, and he had spoken up again.

“Puedo besarlo mejor por ti. Eso es lo que hace mi mamá cada vez que me lastimo (i can kiss it better for you. that's what my mami does whenever i get hurt).” Almost immediately, you nodded once more and held your hands out to him. The boy had pressed a small kiss to each of your palms.

“¿Está todo mejor ahora (is it all better now)?” “En realidad no, pero duele menos. Quizás seas mágico (not really, but it hurts less. maybe you’re magic).”

“Tal vez (maybe),” he smiled and helped you up, “Soy Pedri. Bueno, Pedro, pero todos me dicen Pedri porque soy pequeño y el otro Pedro es grande (i'm pedri. well, pedro, but everyone calls me pedri because i'm little, and other pedro is big).” he introduced, gesturing to a much larger boy across the yard. “¿Cómo te llamas (what’s your name)?” Pedri asked as he helped you up from the floor. “Y/N. ¿Quieres que seamos amigos? Soy nuevo y no tengo ninguno (do you want to be friends? i'm new, and i don't have any).” He nodded and you guys wandered off, back towards the classroom, as the bell had gone. 

And that’s how you met your boyfriend, best friend, and love of your life. 

Having been there for each other through the highs and lows, you two are closer than anyone else either of you know. No longer seven and clueless, the pair of you are curled up in bed, the rain pouring outside, you reading, Pedri on his phone beside you. There was a peaceful silence, besides the sound of rain on the windows and the occasional paper sound coming from your book. 

You turn the page and something falls out, sliding into your lap. Confused, you pick it up, what is it but a pressed white rose and a note? “Be my valentine?” you laugh and look up at Pedri, who’s watching you with a raised eyebrow, waiting. Grinning, you lean across the bed a little, connecting, before pulling away and murmuring against his lips, “Most certainly, I’ll be your Valentine. Considering you’ve been asking since we were 15, do you really even have to ask anymore.” “Yes, I do, because I know it makes you feel special, it makes me feel important, and it actually improves the general romantic-ness of our relationship,” he says firmly, but with a soft, signature Pedri smile.

“Woah, alright. And thank you, it’s very sweet.” you press another kiss to his lips, expecting just a peck, but very quickly, his tongue is in your mouth and you’ve been pulled to straddle his lap. “I have a few more Valentine’s gifts for you, don’t worry.” Pedri says with a smirk and hungry glint in his eye. You know you’re in for a long night, but aren’t at all mad about it.

You had been sitting in second-period Science, right before lunch, when one of the receptionists from the front office came into the classroom, asking you to pack up your things and come with her. Confused, you did so, trailing behind the older woman, back to the main office. Standing there in the office is a faux-distraught-looking Pau, claiming to be your cousin, needing to pick you up early as there’s been a family emergency. Behind her back, you cover your mouth to stifle a laugh.

A few minutes later, and you’re all signed out and walking out to the carpark with Pau. “You know, you can’t just pull me out of school whenever you want, right? Our ‘grandma’ can only die so many times.” you laugh. He just shrugs and intertwines his hand with yours. “Oh well. I’m taking you on a date.” “A date? At 11.45 in the morning?” “Sí. We’re having a picnic on the beach,” he announces proudly. “On the beach, huh? So all the sand can get in our food? Delightful.” you laugh, he whacks your arm.

“Calla, it’s meant to be romantic (shut up).” Pau teases back, unlocking his car and opening the passenger door for you. “Princesa.” You roll your eyes at the nickname. Most boyfriends would use it in a cute way, their “princesa,” but no, not your boyfriend. Pau just uses it to tease you. He makes a dramatic gesture of it, helping you in by taking your hand and everything. You keep forgetting he has free reign to drive you guys anywhere now. So maybe random Friday lunch dates after a long week will become a more regular occurrence.

 The drive to the beach is fairly short, and most of the way there, you just give Pau the rundown on this week’s school gossip. It’s sunny and warm today, good weather for a picnic. Turns out, Pau’s version of a picnic is a salad and water for him, a sandwich and a lemonade for you, eaten on the tailgate of the car, however, to look out onto the beach while you eat, the car has to be reverse parked.

Pau is awful at reverse/parallel parking, and only just barely passed it on his test, so, while it is a little illegal, you always do it for him. It’s funny, you’re only studying, don’t even have your proper license, and can drive a lot better than him in many ways. Once the car is successfully parked, you both get out, opening the boot and sitting in it, cuddling close to each other.

You both sit in silence for a while, eating and drinking, until Pau randomly speaks up once more. 

“You know how you left your phone at mine the other day?”

You suddenly feel a little nervous. “Yeah..?”

Pau grins. “Wanna explain why you have over 500 saved edits of me on TikTok?” 

You’re quite tempted to die of embarrassment. Literally, mortified. He takes immense pleasure in your pink face. 

“We can do it like that… if you want to.”

You almost don’t want to ask. “Do what like what?” “Do you want it from the back, with your face in the pillow so you can yell as loud as you want to?” He says with a suggestive smirk, quoting the audio of the most recent edit you’ve saved, knowing exactly what he’s doing. 

“Shut up,” you mutter, slumping down further. But he doesn’t shut up. Doesn’t even think about it, and 20 minutes later, you find yourself topless, laying in the boot of the car, Pau having put the backseats down for a rather messy makeout, like the good, horny teenagers you are. He lays next to you, both of you breathless. For a good few moments, the only sound that is heard in the car is both of you panting. “You know, I actually brought us out here for the ‘romantic’ date to ask you to be my Valentine,” he says. “Really? Well, the answer is yes.” you chuckle breathily, sitting up.

“How am I meant to go back to school, looking live I’ve been mauled by a dog after going to ‘say goodbye to our grandma with my cousin.’?” casually, you laugh, but Pau’s face is far from amused. “No way in hell are you going back to school. We’re going straight to my bed, mi amor.” You giggle and he finally laughs too. “Alright. Maybe we should try your suggestion from earlier.”

His grin only grows.

You’ve been in a ‘talking stage’ with Lamine for the past two or three months. You had been friends as kids when he still lived in Rocafonda, you grew apart a little with age, but you’ve gotten closer again after starting high school.

You guys are in the same literature and mathematics classes, so you often give him notes or go to his place to help him with homework. He’s very sweet, he looks at you like you’re a beautiful girl, not some piece of meat, he’s always giving you little gifts and things too. You’ve gotten to know his mother better and met his little brother, Keyne. His papá seems to like you too on the few occasions you’ve met him.

Tonight, you’ve come over to help him with some of the literature homework. You’re laying on his bed, paper and books in front of you as you explain the concept it as best you can, when his mamá, Sheila, puts her head in the door, speaking to you with a warm, motherly smile.

“Hola, Y/N. ¿Te gustaría quedarte a cenar (would you like to stay for dinner)?” Lamine watches you intently, waiting for your reply, almost as if this was planned… although, you didn’t notice that. “Sí, Le enviaré un mensaje de texto a mi mamá y le preguntaré. Gracias señorita Ebana (yes, i’ll text my mamá and ask. thank you miss ebana).” you smile back. Sheila nods and leaves the room again, shutting the door. 

You and Lamine go back to doing the homework, although he seems more nervous and less focused than before. “Are you alright?” you frown, noticing that he has been staring at your face and not the book for the past two minutes. He blinks and looks away, a little flushed. “Sí, sí, sorry. I just… zoned out.” You give him a sceptical look but nod. “Vale. Now, back to page 167 (okay)…”

The two of you continue reading and writing until Sheila comes back to say dinner’s ready. When you get to the table, Lamine makes sure to pull your chair out for you and hand you your plate first. Sheila giggles behind her hand as she watches her son, clearly in on something you’re not, so you’re confused for a moment, but then move on. The table is fairly quiet, aside from Keyne chattering away in his high chair. With no siblings at home, you find it very entertaining and help him with a few spoonfuls of the spiced and seasoned rice, watching and laughing at him as he goes. Sheila watches on with a smile, grinning at the secret plan Lamine had made with her, but also at you and Keyne interacting. 

After dinner, you help to clear the table and do a few of the dishes with Sheila, Lamine watching on with love in his eyes from the living room floor as he half plays with Keyne, and half admires you and how well you and his mamá are getting on. Once the dishes are done, you go and sit next to Lamine on the floor again.

“You wanna keep going on the homework?” he asks. You nod and head back to his bedroom. He tells you that he needs the bathroom and that he’ll be in in a minute. When he reenters, you’re sitting on his bed, and he has his hands behind his back, holding something. You frown in confusion and laugh, watching him as he smiles back nervously at you. “What?” you laugh. Lamine takes a deep breath and moves his hands from behind his back. In one hand is a bouquet of long-stem red roses, and in the other, is a small, navy-blue, velvet box. Your eyebrows immediately rise in surprise and your eyes go from the roses to his anxious, but hopeful face. When you don’t immediately take them, he pushes them towards you a little more, you snap out of the haze that is those beautiful brown eyes of his and take the flowers and jewellery box.

You smile at him before opening the box, inside is one of the most beautiful necklaces you’ve ever seen. It’s (gold/silver) the colour he knows you prefer, a small iridescent opal pendant hanging from it. Inside the box, is also a small note.

“Be my valentine?” in Lamine’s signature neat, although slightly crooked, handwriting.

You laugh shakily and cover your mouth, staring at it for a second before putting the bouquet and necklace down on the bed and standing up to hug him. You rest your head on your shoulder, and whisper out your answer. “Yes, yes of course I’ll be your valentine.” he grins and tilts your head up. “¿Puedo besarte (can i kiss you)?” you nod, and a few moments later, those gorgeous plush lips of his are on yours. You pull away a few seconds later and laugh, still close, your forehead resting against his, looking into his eyes once more.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“For what?” “Saying yes.” the taller boy smiles. You laugh, shaking your head slightly, “Of course I said yes. I’d be an idiot not to.”

Lamine pulls away and reaches for the box on the bed once more, he takes it out and gestures for you to turn it around. You feel the cool, delicate (gold/silver) on your neck and his fingers carefully doing up the clasp behind you. 

That night, you have your first sleepover together, and cuddle in bed most of the night, deciding homework can wait until tomorrow.

You’ve never had a Valentine before. Yep, 20 years old and not a single Valentine. So it’s kind of crazy that you’re first ever one will be the Pablo Gavi. 

You didn’t think he’d ask you, considering you were dating and it was probably just assumed, but alas, you arrived home from the grocery shopping to find a whole display of flowers, balloons and various other things on the dining room table, a proud Pablo standing next to it. 

You laugh in shock, almost dropping the grocery bag in surprise. Instead, you deposit it onto the kitchen counter and go over to him. Grinning his usual wide smile, he wraps his arms around your waist and kisses you passionately for a good while, but when he gets distracted and his kisses start trailing down your neck, you laugh and pull away, bringing his head back up again. “Save that for later, amor.” He chuckles and presents the table to you properly. You take a closer look and there are multiple bottles of your favourite perfume and skincare products. There’s no makeup as always as Pablo refuses to buy it for you because he thinks you look even prettier without it. Dotted around are multiple bags, Dior, Mercadona, Victoria’s Secret (you can hardly imagine what he’s picked out from there), shoes, and a new dress, with flowers all around the place, and a big sign in the middle of the table. 

“Will you be my Valentine?” 

You laugh, just taking it all in. “What kind of question is that? Who else’s would I be?”

He shrugs and kisses you again. “Is that a yes then?” you roll your eyes and laugh for what feels like the millionth time. 

“Of course, mi amor. Siempre, sí (forever, yes).”

Once more, that cheeky grin appears on his face. You squeak when you’re lifted up the waist, legs automatically wrapping around his waist. As he carries you past the table, he picks up the Victoria’s Secret bag, making a beeline for the bedroom.

Right now, you’re laying on your boyfriend of three years after yet another long day of uni. The silence had been comfortable as he gently scratched his fingers through your hair and kissed your forehead over and over again, in fact, you were almost asleep. But your half-dozed-off state is interrupted when Héctor speaks up.

“Can you look at my foot?” “What?” “My foot.” you just stare at him for a moment.

“Your foot?” you repeat, slower. He nods as if that was a perfectly normal request. 

“Why exactly?” “Because it hurts and you’re training to become a physio.” After staring at him for a moment longer, you sigh and relent, moving to crouch at the end the chaise of the couch, pulling off his sock. “Do you not have professional physios for this?” “Yeah, but I like you better.” Inspecting his foot, you frown. “There’s nothing wrong with it.” “Yes, because it’s the other one.” You pull off his right sock instead, and your eyes widen.

“Héctor Fort García, what did you do?!” you gasp, glancing up to his face, which had the biggest grin on it. On the inside of his right foot, are your initials and birthday, as well as your anniversary date, all written in your handwriting. 

“Got another tattoo.” “I can see that. Why that, and why there?”

“Because that’s the foot I score goals with. So now, every goal I score, every pass, every tackle, every run, is dedicated to you, like you’re there helping me kick, in thought, of course.”

You watch him in surprise for a moment before laughing in disbelief and coming back up to kiss him and give him a hug.

“Estás loco (you’re crazy).”

“Sólo para ti, mi amor (only for you, my love).” he laughs back, pressing yet another kiss to your nose. 

You lay together in silence for a moment, before Héctor speaks up again.

“If you couldn’t tell, this was a very long way of asking you to be my Valentine?”

“Yeah, alright.” you laugh. You two are always laughing when you’re together, because there’s always something to laugh about. Whether it be Héctor messing up an English word, or you spilling something all over yourself, you both find humour in everything. 

“Just, ‘alright’?” he sniggers, shoving you a little.

“What would you prefer I say then, hm?”

“How about a ‘Yes, please, dear boyfriend that just got my name and birthday permanently tattooed on his body.’?” “Mmmm… I think I’ll stick with ‘Yeah, alright.’” you tease, which earns his fingers under your arms, tickling you until you slide off the couch and are crying tears of laughter.

You lie awake in the quiet of the night, staring at the ceiling, eyes wide open. The room feels too dark, too still. You try to slow your breathing, to force your mind to settle, but the shadows crawl closer with every passing second. Your heart pounds like a drumbeat you cannot control. You know what’s coming, the dreams that leave you breathless, the ones that make the air heavy in your chest.

You don’t want to fall back asleep. Not now.

Sliding out of bed, you pause for a second, looking over to where Pablo should be. The bed feels too empty without him. You pull on a sweatshirt and tiptoe toward the living room, hoping to distract yourself with something. Maybe the soft hum of the city lights outside will calm your racing thoughts.

You curl up on the couch, pulling a blanket over your legs, and try to focus on the slow flicker of the streetlights beyond the window. But it’s no use. Your mind replays the nightmare again, the one where everything feels wrong, where you are alone in a cold space with no way out. You wipe your eyes and let out a shaky sigh.

Then you hear footsteps padding down the hall.

Pablo appears in the doorway, rubbing his eyes, hair tousled from sleep. He looks around the living room and spots you on the couch. His face softens immediately. “Hey,” he says quietly. “What are you doing out here? You scared me.”

You glance at him, trying to offer a small smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I couldn’t sleep.”

He steps closer and sits down beside you, the couch sinking a little under his weight. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You hesitate, the lump in your throat growing heavier. But his presence feels safe, like the world is less frightening when he is near. So you tell him. You tell him about the nightmares, the way your chest tightens when you wake up, the helpless feeling that clings to you long after your eyes open.

Pablo listens without interruption. His hand finds yours, fingers intertwining gently, grounding you. “I hate that you have to go through that,” he says softly. “But I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere.”

His words are a balm, soothing the ache inside you. You lean your head against his shoulder and close your eyes, breathing in the calm of his steady heartbeat.

“Do you want to try to sleep again? Together?” he asks.

You nod. “I’m scared the nightmare will come back.”

He smiles, a warm curve that lights up his whole face. “Then I’ll be your shield. I’ll keep the bad dreams away.”

You stand up with him, hand still in his, and you walk back to the bedroom. The bed looks inviting now, filled with the promise of comfort and warmth. You crawl in beside him, slipping under the covers. Pablo wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close.

For a moment, the silence is just right.

You feel safe here, in his arms.

Then your voice breaks the quiet. “Please come back to bed.”

He chuckles softly. “I never left.”

You’ve known Pablo since before he had money and fame. Since he was a wiry kid with too-big front teeth and bruises on his knees from falling over trying to impress you with football skills.

He’s been your best friend forever. Always there, always loud, always acting like the center of the world and dragging you with him like gravity. But lately he’s been acting… off.

Like how he practically growled at that guy from your uni who asked if you were single last weekend.

Or how he started sitting closer. Not in a “hey, I’m comfy around you” kind of way. In a “if our arms brush one more time I might explode” kind of way.

Or how he stares at your phone screen now when you’re texting. And not subtly. He leans in. Neck craning. Eyebrows twitching. Mouth pressed tight.

You’d call him out if he weren’t so obvious about it already.

Tonight, you’re at his place, flopped on the couch, half-watching some dumb movie you’ve both seen a hundred times. His hoodie swallows you whole, sleeves covering your hands. You’re scrolling through your texts when you feel him shift beside you.

“Who’s that?” he asks, voice flat.

You glance up, confused. “Huh?”

“On your phone.” He nods toward the screen. “You smiled.”

You blink. “I smiled?”

He nods again, eyes pinned to your phone like it insulted his whole bloodline.

“It’s Nico,” you say slowly, watching his jaw tighten. “The guy from lecture. I just asked for the notes.”

Pablo makes a noise in the back of his throat, almost like a scoff, but more annoyed. He slumps deeper into the couch, crossing his arms. You watch the muscles in his forearm flex under the fabric.

“Oh,” he mutters, clearly not meaning it.

You turn your body to face him, raising your eyebrows. “What’s your deal?”

“No deal,” he says quickly. Too quickly. “I just think that guy’s a loser.”

“He’s nice.”

“He’s boring.”

You snort. “You don’t even know him.”

“I don’t need to know him. He looks like he does magic tricks for fun.”

You burst out laughing, which only seems to frustrate him more. He sits up straighter, eyes blazing now, and you swear there’s actual panic bubbling behind the sarcasm.

“Why are you even talking to him?” he asks, quieter this time.

“Because I needed the notes.”

“There’s like five million other people in your class.”

You narrow your eyes. “Are you seriously mad that I asked someone else for help?”

“No,” he says. “I’m mad because you could’ve asked me.”

You blink. “You’re not even in uni.”

“Still would’ve figured it out.”

His voice is soft now, but there’s an edge to it. Something raw. You stop laughing.

He runs a hand through his hair, pulling at it a little, then lets out a sigh. His whole chest rises and falls like he’s just come back from a sprint.

“I don’t like it,” he admits. “When you talk to other guys.”

The room goes quiet. You’re not breathing. He’s not looking at you.

You swallow. “Why not?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then, finally, he mutters, “Because they don’t know you like I do.”

You shift, curling one leg up underneath you. “So?”

“So they don’t know how you hate mushrooms, or how you fake-laugh when you’re nervous, or that you always sleep facing the wall.”

He finally looks at you, and something in his expression makes your throat tighten.

“They don’t know how you hum when you’re focused. Or that you rewatch the same sad part of that one movie every month just to cry. They don’t know the sound of your laugh when you’re actually happy.”

You don’t say anything. You can’t. You’re pretty sure your heart is somewhere in your throat.

“I know all of that,” he says, voice cracking just a little. “And it pisses me off that someone else might get to learn it, too.”

You blink fast, your chest fluttering.

“Are you… being jealous right now?”

He groans and covers his face with his hands. “Yes. Obviously. Jesus.”

You stare at him, heat crawling up your neck.

“You’re literally blushing,” you point out, voice half a whisper.

He groans louder, dragging his hands down his face. “Yeah. Thanks. I’m aware.”

“Pablo.”

He peeks at you through his fingers.

“You could’ve just told me.”

“I didn’t want to make it weird.”

You snort. “You’ve been making it weird.”

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever. I’m just saying… maybe you shouldn’t talk to Nico.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because I like you. And he’s not even funny. And also he smells weird.”

You burst out laughing again, and Pablo just watches you like he’s trying not to smile.

He doesn’t succeed.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, shaking your head.

“But you like me,” he says softly, almost like a question.

You meet his eyes. “I really like you.”

He exhales so deeply it’s like he’s been holding his breath since last year.

And then he scoots closer. Just a little. But enough that your knees brush.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, voice a whisper now.

You nod. “Finally.”

And when he does, it’s everything you hoped it would be.

A little clumsy, a little desperate. But warm. Familiar. Like coming home.

After, you’re curled into his chest, and he’s running his fingers through your hair, smug and soft all at once.

“You’re not actually gonna talk to Nico again, right?”

You look up at him. “You’re seriously still stuck on that?”

He shrugs. “What if he tries something?”

“Then he’ll have to deal with my possessive best friend who kisses me like he means it.”

He grins. “Damn right.”

You shake your head and laugh into his hoodie.

The kind of silence that feels like static in your chest. You sit on the couch with a blanket around your shoulders, phone face-down beside you even though you've checked it at least fifteen times in the last hour.

You told him to go.

That’s the part that haunts you. The part that keeps replaying like some tragic chorus. You told him to go when he asked if you wanted him to stay. And now here you are, replaying the conversation like it’s some kind of punishment.

“I just need time,” you’d said. “I don’t know what I feel right now.”

And Pablo had nodded, jaw clenched and hands in the front pocket of that hoodie you always stole. He didn’t beg. He didn’t even ask a second time. He just looked at you with those sharp, unreadable eyes and left.

That was four days ago.

You haven’t eaten anything proper. Your bed still smells like him. Your Spotify keeps trying to play songs that remind you of the way he used to look at you, eyes full of unspoken things he never quite knew how to say.

You don’t know how it got like this.

You were tired. He was busy. You felt like a backup plan to the rest of his life and he felt like you were pushing him away. You argued. You cried. He didn’t.

And that made it worse.

He just stared at the floor and let you say all the things you didn’t mean.

Now you’re curled up, wearing one of his sweatshirts like some sick comfort, when you hear it.

Three knocks.

You freeze. Heart stalling. It could be a neighbor. Could be your groceries, even though you didn’t order any. But your chest knows before your brain does.

It’s him.

You open the door and there he is, standing there with wet hair from the rain and his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Like he’s unsure if he should really be here.

He doesn’t say anything.

Neither do you.

For a moment it’s just the soft patter of rain behind him, and the buzzing in your ears, and the lump in your throat that you pretend isn’t about to make you cry.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he says, finally.

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the door. “Me either.”

He glances away, like he’s trying not to look at you too long. Like it’ll hurt too much.

You open the door wider.

He doesn’t step in right away. His eyes flick over your face, the blanket still wrapped around your shoulders, the sweatshirt that’s his.

“I feel lost without you,” he says quietly, almost like he’s not sure you’re meant to hear it.

You blink.

The words hit harder than anything else ever could.

Because you feel it too.

Like a part of you’s gone missing. Like nothing quite makes sense anymore. Like even the sound of your own breathing is wrong without him beside you.

You don’t answer. You just reach for him. Tug him inside. Close the door behind him like you’re shutting out all the noise that’s been between you.

Your hands go to the sides of his face and he leans into your touch without hesitation. Like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His eyes search yours, and you finally see it - the ache. The exhaustion. The fear.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” you whisper.

He nods.

“I just… I was scared. Of how much I care. Of how it felt like you weren’t really there sometimes.”

“I was trying,” he breathes. “Even when I was away, I was trying so hard. But I didn’t know how to show it without messing it up.”

Your forehead touches his. The warmth of him is overwhelming.

“I don’t want to be apart again,” you whisper.

“Me neither.”

And just like that, the dam breaks.

He kisses you like he’s trying to apologize and explain and start over all at once. His hands are in your hair, and yours are curled into his jacket, and you’re standing there in the middle of your quiet apartment with the world outside still pouring down rain.

The kiss is slow. Like he’s making sure it’s real. Like he’s trying to memorize you again.

When you finally pull away, your cheeks are wet, and you’re not sure if it’s yours or his.

“You could’ve hated me,” you say, voice trembling. “I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t say that.”

“You didn’t even fight.”

“I thought I had to let you go if that’s what you needed.”

You pull him to the couch. Sit with him like you used to, legs tangled, his arm around your waist, head resting on his shoulder. It feels like home again. Like maybe the worst part is behind you.

You sit in silence for a while. Not uncomfortable. Just still. Breathing each other in again.

Then, like it’s nothing, he murmurs, “I didn’t want to go. When you said to.”

You press your forehead against his shoulder. “I didn’t want you to leave either.”

“You scared me.”

You nod. “I scared myself.”

His hand finds yours. Threads your fingers together like muscle memory.

“I’m still scared,” you admit.

“Me too,” he says. “But I’d rather be scared with you than without you.”

You don’t say anything. Just kiss his knuckles.

The storm outside starts to fade into nothing. The world feels softer. A little brighter. You don’t know what tomorrow looks like. But tonight, you have this.

You have him.

And maybe that’s enough.

Maybe that’s everything.

“I feel lost without you.”

He meant it.