#obvithebestsoph!marcbernal

So you kept it private. The stolen glances when cameras were around, the quiet phone calls late at night, the shared playlists you both had to hide from public Spotify profiles. Your relationship existed in the negative spaces, between the shadows and the silence.

What made it both easier and harder was the way fans unknowingly made it into a game. They loved Marc. They loved you, too, since you had your own little online presence through fashion, lifestyle vlogs, and the occasional football-related post. The internet loved connections, so your names got tossed into edits sometimes. The edits were always harmless, side-by-side clips of Marc laughing in a post-match interview and you laughing in a TikTok, with captions like “same vibe” or “if only they knew each other.”

You would watch them with Marc on his couch, the two of you doubled over in laughter at how dramatic the music was. “This one says we’d be soulmates,” you said once, scrolling through fan edits while Marc rested his chin on your shoulder.

“They’re right,” he whispered, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek before you could complain about him distracting you.

Every time fans paired you up like that, you both swore the universe was playing a cruel little joke. They had no idea how close to the truth they were.

Still, you and Marc stayed quiet. The secret became yours to protect, and for months, you did it flawlessly.

Until one lazy Sunday afternoon.

You were sitting on Marc’s bed, hair in a messy bun, no makeup on, the softest hoodie you owned wrapped around you. He was moving around the room behind you, switching between folding his clothes and trying to beat you at whatever music quiz game you had put on the TV. You had decided to go live on Instagram, something you hadn’t done in a while, to chat with your followers while sipping on a smoothie.

“Hi guys,” you greeted, smiling into the camera. The comments flew in instantly, people spamming emojis and asking questions about your week. You started answering them casually, joking about your latest vlog, chatting about skincare, even ranting a little about how Barcelona’s match the night before had nearly given you a heart attack.

For the most part, Marc was quiet in the background. He had put his headphones in, humming to himself as he sorted laundry. You were so used to his presence that you almost forgot he was there.

Until he wasn’t just in your world. He was in everyone else’s.

It happened so fast you almost missed it. Marc had walked across the room to grab his phone, and for a split second, the camera caught him in the corner of the frame. His profile was unmistakable - the slight blonde in his hair, Barça training shorts, the way he carried himself. He noticed right away and froze like a deer caught in headlights, eyes flicking toward you before ducking out of sight.

But it was too late.

The comments section exploded.

“WAS THAT MARC???” “NO WAY NO WAY NO WAY.” “you casually have a barça player in the back??? 😭😭” “girl explain.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach. “Uh,” you laughed nervously, trying to keep your tone light, “what are you guys talking about?”

But the internet wasn’t stupid. Screenshots were already flying around. People were clipping the live and slowing it down, circling Marc’s blurry figure in the corner of the frame like amateur detectives.

Marc peeked his head out from behind the doorway, biting back a grin at your panicked expression. “You’re cooked,” he mouthed silently.

“Don’t,” you whispered, covering your mic with your hand for a second, glaring at him.

The live carried on for another five minutes before you excused yourself and ended it abruptly, tossing your phone onto the bed with a groan. “We’re screwed,” you muttered, burying your face in your hands.

Marc sat beside you, calm as ever, his arm slipping around your shoulders. “We’re not screwed,” he said softly. “It was bound to happen at some point.”

“Marc, they’re going to go insane. Look at them.” You gestured at your phone, where notifications were already spiraling out of control. “There are Twitter threads, TikToks, edits. It’s everywhere.”

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to your temple. “And what’s so bad about that? They already thought we’d be good together. Now they just know we are.”

You peeked at him through your fingers. He looked completely unbothered, like the weight of the world wasn’t about to crash onto your heads. His calmness was infuriating but also grounding.

“They’re going to ask questions,” you said quietly.

“Then we answer them,” Marc replied. “Or we don’t. It’s our choice.”

The way he said it made you feel lighter. You realized he was right. This wasn’t some scandal. You weren’t doing anything wrong. You were just two people who cared about each other, who happened to get caught in one blurry Instagram Live frame.

By that evening, “MARC AND Y/N” was trending. The edits were back, only now with proof, the old clips spliced together with the moment Marc walked through your live. Fans were losing their minds, half screaming about how obvious it had been all along, half celebrating like they had personally set you up.

Marc scrolled through them on his phone, laughing at the captions. “‘They’re endgame.’ That’s my favorite one,” he said, showing you the screen.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smile. “You love this, don’t you?”

He shrugged, leaning in to kiss you again, slow and deliberate. “I love you. And if people know, they know. I’m not hiding that anymore.”

You’re used to the looks. The double takes in restaurants. The sideways glances at airports. The way whispers follow your heels whenever you step into a stadium in head-to-toe designer and Marc’s jersey slung across your shoulders like an afterthought.

You’re used to it, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting sometimes.

Especially today.

You scroll through your phone while waiting in the car outside the training ground. The latest tabloid headline flashes across your screen with a photo of you and Marc holding hands after dinner last night. You wore a Balmain blazer. He wore sweatpants. You looked like a business deal. He looked like a teenager.

“Gold Digger Girlfriend? Bernal’s Beauty Boasts Luxury While He Keeps It Low-Key”

It’s not even creative. Just recycled accusations with new outfits.

You sigh and toss your phone into your purse as Marc slides into the passenger seat beside you, cheeks still flushed from training, curls damp and messy.

“Why do you look like that?” he asks, leaning over to kiss your cheek, voice light and soft and a little suspicious.

You shrug, forcing a smile. “Just the internet being the internet.”

His eyes narrow. “Did they post again?”

You hum noncommittally and reach for his hand instead. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

But Marc knows you. He knows the difference between your I’m fine and your don’t ask me because I might cry. He sits back in his seat and pulls your hand into his lap, thumb stroking slow circles across your skin.

“They don’t know you,” he says after a while. “They don’t know anything.”

You glance at him. “That’s what makes it so annoying. They assume just because I wear heels and fly first class that I must be using you.”

Marc scoffs. “They clearly haven’t met your mother.”

You let out a small laugh despite yourself. “She’d sue them for libel before I even got the chance.”

He grins. “Or challenge them to a duel.”

You laugh again, louder this time. “Can you imagine her in a fencing mask?”

“Yes. Terrifying.”

You squeeze his hand. “Still. I hate that it reflects on you. I don’t want people thinking you’re stupid or being taken advantage of.”

Marc’s voice is firm. “Anyone who thinks that doesn’t deserve to be near us.”

You blink a few times and then look out the window, biting back the emotion pooling in your chest.

You’ve been together for a little over a year now. And Marc’s been nothing but kind. Soft when you needed comfort, steady when your world went spinning. He never once acted insecure about the fact that you sometimes pay for dinner, or that your last name opens doors even his Barcelona badge can’t.

You remember the first time he came to your family’s estate in the south of France. You could practically see the panic in his eyes as the butler opened the door and someone handed him a glass of champagne.

Later that night, while curled up in your enormous canopy bed, he whispered, “I thought your family was rich, not Netflix series rich.”

You smiled and kissed him on the cheek. “Does it freak you out?”

“A little,” he admitted. “But only because I thought I was spoiling you with those Prada earrings.”

You’d told him then, and you told him now, “The only thing I care about is you.”

Marc squeezes your hand again. “You know what I think we should do?”

You glance at him, wary. “What?”

“Post your real life.”

You raise a brow. “Marc, I literally just posted a reel of my trip to Santorini in Dior.”

“Yeah,” he grins, “but you left out the part where you took a call from the Spanish ambassador while picking out sea urchin.”

You snort. “So you want me to go full royal-core?”

“I want you to tell the truth,” he says, shrugging. “Let them choke on it.”

You look at him for a long time. He’s so calm. So unbothered. Like he’s never once questioned whether you’re with him for who he is or what he does. Like he’s already decided you’re real, and that’s that.

You smile. “Fine. But if we’re going public public, I’m posting your love notes too.”

His eyes widen. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would. ‘To my princess who scares me a little but kisses like an angel’ shall I continue?”

He tackles you across the middle console with a groan, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your neck.

“I take it back,” he mumbles. “Let them think you’re a gold digger. Just don’t read that one out loud.”

You giggle, tangling your fingers in his curls. “Too late. I already bookmarked it.”

He groans again but doesn’t let go.

And honestly, you don’t care anymore.

Let the world assume what it wants. Let the internet write stories. Let strangers call you shallow for having nice things and a boyfriend who happens to play in La Liga.

You know the truth.

You were raised in silk sheets and horseback riding lessons. You were taught diplomacy before you were taught math. You learned how to curtsy before you learned how to drive.

And yet, the softest thing in your life is Marc.

His hands, his voice, the way he looks at you like you’re made of stardust, not scandal.

Let them talk.

[CLIP ONE – 9:12am – voiceover]

“Okay, it’s matchday, and I’m already late.”

The camera turns on to show your half-made bed and a blur of your arm reaching for lip balm. You're half in frame, tying your hair back. In the background, Marc’s hoodie is slung over your desk chair, and his duffle bag is gone. He left two hours ago.

You glance at your phone. “He already texted me like four times. I said I’d get there before warm-ups. That was a lie.”

You set the camera down, still recording. “Alright. Let’s fix this face.”

[CLIP TWO – 10:03am – makeup cam]

You zoom in on your concealer with a flat look.

“I got four hours of sleep and Marc is gonna be on national television. That’s not equal.”

You’re not glam. Mascara, light brows, and gloss. Clean, simple. You hold up his jersey - this season’s home kit - and pull it over your tank.

Cut to a mirror shot. You shrug. “This is the look. I’m so excited.”

[CLIP THREE – 11:41am – car POV]

You film the steering wheel and talk over it.

“I met Marc when he was still in the youth system. I don’t think either of us thought I’d be filming his game days for an audience two years later.”

You pause. A beat of quiet.

“I’ve watched him play a million times, but today’s a first start. I can feel it in my chest.”

[CLIP FOUR – 12:22pm – arrival]

You pan your camera over the stadium crowd, not filming your face. The noise is constant. The wind’s loud in the mic.

“Warm-ups just started,” you say, breathless. “He waved at me when he saw me walk in. Like a full-on wave. In front of everyone.”

You flip the camera to your lap. “He’s getting bold.”

[CLIP FIVE – 1:08pm – during match]

There’s no voiceover. Just shaking footage of the field as the crowd rises. You zoom in. Marc, number 28, is in the middle of a breakaway.

When he scores, the screen jolts. You gasped. Loudly. And you didn’t edit it out.

[CLIP SIX – 1:45pm – whistle’s blown]

You don’t go down to the pitch right away. You film your hand picking at your sleeve.

You whisper, “He’s gonna be buzzing.”

Then cut to him jogging off the field toward you, sweat in his hair, arms already half outstretched. The smile he gives you is huge - proud, relieved, still riding the adrenaline.

He presses his forehead to yours for a second, then steps back, glancing at the camera like he just remembered it exists.

“You filmed it?” he asks.

You nod, not saying anything. He looks at you again, more serious this time. “Did you see the whole run?”

“I saw everything.”

He exhales. “Good.”

[CLIP SEVEN – 2:27pm – outside the locker room]

The two of you sit on a bench. He’s showered and changed. You’ve stopped filming him so close now. Your camera rests between you both, angled just enough to catch the side of his face.

Marc takes a sip of water, then looks over at you. “You didn’t scream this time.”

“I was in shock,” you say.

“Not disappointed?”

You shake your head. “You didn’t need anyone screaming. That goal shut the whole place up.”

He grins and leans forward, elbows on knees. “You filmed it?”

You lift your camera. “Obviously.”

[CLIP EIGHT – 4:03pm – parked in the car]

You’re both quiet. There’s traffic ahead, but neither of you are in a rush.

Marc glances at you, then gestures to the camera. “You still filming?”

You shrug. “I can stop.”

He doesn’t ask you to. Just looks ahead and says, “Today felt real.”

You nod. “You deserve it.”

He lets out a low laugh, soft. “You always say that.”

“It’s always true.”

Another pause. Then: “Thanks for coming.”

You turn the camera off.

[FINAL CLIP – 6:12pm – at home]

You sit on the floor of your shared apartment. Marc’s jersey is back over your shoulders, and his legs are stretched across the couch behind you, barely in frame.

You look into the lens like you forgot you were filming.

“He’s asleep already,” you say. “I think the match drained him. I’m gonna end the vlog here.”

You tilt your head slightly and smile. Not big. Just a small, quiet kind of soft.

Marc is sprawled on your bed, half buried under your pillows, scrolling on his phone like he has nothing better to do with his life. You’re in front of the mirror, hair soaked and dripping onto your old Barça tee. Your arms are already getting tired. You’ve been finger-coiling for what feels like hours and you’ve barely finished one side of your head.

“Baby,” you groan, dropping your hands dramatically onto your lap. “I can’t do this today. My curls hate me.”

Marc looks up slowly, like he’s bracing himself. “You’ve been doing the same section for fifteen minutes.”

“That’s because it keeps frizzing!” you snap, and then sigh, slumping forward. “I don’t get it. I used the leave-in. I raked it through. I even tried that dumb TikTok method with the microfiber towel. I don’t know if I wanna finger coil or brush style or just shave my whole head at this point.”

He sets his phone down and props his chin on your pillow, watching you through the mirror. “You’re so funny please don’t go bald,” he sniggers, finding himself hilarious. “Seriously though, I like your hair.”

You look at him, unimpressed. “You like it when it’s dry and perfect. Not when it looks like this.” You flick a stubborn curl that’s already starting to poof.

He sits up and crawls to the edge of the bed. “That’s not true. I like it when it’s messy and frizzy and in my face when you hug me. I like it when it’s up in that pineapple thing and you pretend you’re not trying to be cute.”

You stare at him. “That’s literally just how I sleep.”

“Still cute,” he shrugs, smiling.

You roll your eyes but smile too. He’s annoying like that, disarming you when you’re halfway to a breakdown.

“Okay but seriously,” you say, turning back to the mirror. “Do I do finger coils or brush style? I don’t wanna be here all night.”

Marc gets up and walks over to you, his bare feet soft against the floor. He looks at your half-finished curls like he’s trying to read a secret code. Then he grabs your brush, lifts a small section of your hair, and tries to run it through.

You flinch. “Ow! Babe, no. You’re supposed to start from the ends.”

“Right,” he says sheepishly, placing a kiss on your shoulder as a peace offering. “Teach me. I’ll help.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You want to help style my hair?”

“I’ve seen you do it like, a hundred times. I think I can handle a few curls.”

You hand him the brush, more curious than confident. “Okay. You brush the section out, add a bit of curl cream, and then either finger coil or use the brush to curl it as you pull through.”

Marc takes the product bottle with the kind of seriousness he only reserves for football and you. “Curl cream, got it. This smells nice.”

“That’s the expensive one. Don’t use too much.”

He grins. “No promises.”

You watch him section a small strand of your hair and start the process. His fingers are clumsy but gentle, and he mutters instructions under his breath like he’s narrating a match. You’re trying hard not to laugh.

After a few tries, he actually gets the hang of it. You’re not kidding - your curls start clumping beautifully under his hands. Defined. Soft. Springy.

“See?” he says, clearly proud. “You don’t need to stress. You’ve got the best hair assistant in Spain.”

“You might be better at this than me,” you mutter, half offended, half impressed.

Marc beams. “You’re welcome to hire me full time.”

You lean back against him as he works, the two of you sharing this soft little moment, your knees pulled up and his hands threading through your curls with more care than you expected from a guy who once thought 3-in-1 shampoo was good enough.

“Thanks, amor,” you say after a while, quieter now. “I just… it’s dumb. I know. I don’t usually get this frustrated. I just wanted it to look good today.”

He pauses, his hands resting on your shoulders. “It does look good. But you don’t have to do anything special for me, you know that, right? I like it when you leave it natural. I like it when you don’t do anything at all.”

You twist around to look at him. “Even when it frizzes?”

“Especially when it frizzes,” he says, leaning in to kiss the edge of your temple. “Means it’s real. You’re real. And still the prettiest person I’ve ever seen.”

You groan and bury your face in his chest. “Stop talking like that or I’ll cry. And then I’ll have to rewash everything.”

He laughs into your hair. “I’m just saying. You’re beautiful. Curls or not.”

The rest of the evening goes slower, calmer. He helps finish the last few sections, and you fluff your roots together once everything’s dried, the two of you standing side by side in the mirror like you’re getting ready for prom.

You catch his reflection staring at you, soft-eyed.

“What?” you ask.

Marc shrugs. “Just thinking how lucky I am.”

You shake your head, laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you, maybe.”

You pretend to gag but secretly, you love it. The way he looks at you. The way he sees past the frizz and the frustration. The way he makes your most exhausting routines feel like love stories.