#obvithebestsoph!pedri

You know something is wrong the moment he steps through the door.

Pedri’s smile is there, the one he wears like a shield, but you can see the heaviness behind his eyes. Training days can be brutal, especially when the team’s morale is shaky or the media has been circling like vultures, waiting for the smallest slip. He tries to shake it off before he crosses the threshold, you can tell, but you’ve lived with him long enough to read between the cracks.

Still, he bends down immediately when Bea barrels into him, her little arms wrapping around his neck, her tiny voice shouting, “Papá, you’re home!” She’s in her pyjamas, even though it’s still early, her curls a wild halo from playing too hard all day. Pedri scoops her up, spinning her once, twice, before he sets her down and crouches to greet Leo.

Your son is slower, more deliberate, toddling over with his stuffed elephant dragging on the floor. Pedri lifts him carefully, pressing a kiss to his forehead, whispering something soft that makes Leo giggle. For a moment, it almost feels like everything is fine.

But you know better.

He sits with them on the floor, Bea showing him a drawing she made, Leo babbling nonsense words while Pedri pretends to follow every detail. His laugh is genuine when Leo trips over his elephant and then plops into his lap, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s like there’s a wall built there tonight, one he doesn’t want anyone to see past.

You don’t push. Not yet.

Dinner is noisy, Bea talking a mile a minute, Leo making a mess with his spoon, Pedri nodding and chuckling, pretending to be completely immersed. He’s present for them, and for you too, asking how your day was, teasing you when you roll your eyes at the chaos. If anyone else were here, they would never guess something was wrong.

But you feel it. In the way he exhales just a little too heavily when he thinks no one notices. In how his shoulders don’t quite relax even after the kids are tucked into bed. In the silence he carries when the house finally goes still.

Later, after you check that Bea is curled around her stuffed bunny and Leo is breathing evenly in his crib, you find him in your bedroom. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor, fingers laced tightly together like he’s holding himself in place.

“You okay?” you ask gently, leaning against the doorframe.

He looks up immediately, forcing a smile. “Yeah, of course. Just tired.”

You nod, but you don’t press. You sit beside him, close enough that your knees touch, and he leans into you without even realizing it. His arm slides around your waist, pulling you closer, his head resting against your shoulder. He’s quiet like that for a while, and you let the silence stretch.

You know he wants to be strong for you, for the kids. He always feels the weight of being the one to hold everything together, the one who doesn’t falter. But there’s only so much a person can carry.

When the house has settled into deep night, you wake to find him still awake beside you. His body is tense, his breathing uneven, eyes wide open in the darkness.

“Pedri,” you whisper, turning toward him. “You’re not sleeping.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Then, finally, he admits, “I can’t.” His voice is rough, low enough that you know he’s been keeping everything buried all day.

You slide closer, pressing your forehead to his chest. “Tell me.”

He exhales shakily, like he’s been holding that breath for hours. “It’s just… everything. Training was hell today. Nothing felt right, every mistake got magnified, and I could hear the whispers. The pressure doesn’t stop. I try to push it away but it follows me even here. And I don’t want the kids to see me like that. I don’t want you to see me like that either.”

Your hand finds his, fingers untangling his clenched fist until he lets you hold it. “I always want to see you. All of you. Not just the strong parts.”

He swallows hard, his other hand covering his face. “I hate feeling like I’m failing. On the pitch, with the team, with you, with them. I come home and I want to be the dad they deserve, the husband you deserve, but inside I feel like I’m breaking.”

Tears prick your eyes, but you blink them back. You don’t want him to think you pity him. You want him to know you see him, every version of him, and none of it changes the way you love him.

“You’re not failing,” you whisper firmly. “You’re human. And you don’t have to carry all of it alone. It’s okay to let go here. With me.”

For the first time all day, he lets himself crumble. His shoulders shake as you wrap your arms around him, pulling him against you. He buries his face in your neck, and you stroke his hair, murmuring soft reassurances as the tension finally breaks. You don’t rush him, you don’t tell him to stop. You just hold him until his breathing steadies again.

After a long while, he pulls back, eyes red, face vulnerable in a way he rarely lets anyone see. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’ll never have to find out,” you promise, pressing a kiss to his temple. “We’re in this together. Always.”

He nods, slowly, as if letting your words sink in. He curls into you then, arms tight around your waist like he’s afraid to let go. The silence that follows is different from earlier, softer, safer. His body relaxes against yours, and eventually his breathing evens out as sleep finally finds him.

You stay awake a little longer, watching the lines on his face smooth out, brushing your fingers over his cheek. This is what you’re here for. Not just for the smiles and the victories, but for the nights when the weight of the world feels too much. For the moments when the house is quiet and he needs somewhere to fall.

The first time Pedri held her, he cried.

He’d been trying to hold it together up until that point - through the nerves, through your labor, through your first exhausted tears when they placed her on your chest. He’d kissed your temple and whispered that you did amazing, voice shaking just a little. But then they handed her to him, and his entire face changed.

The tears weren’t dramatic. Just quiet. Steady. Like his whole system had been overwhelmed and this was the only way his body knew how to process it.

And now, three days later, he’s still not over it.

She’s tucked into the crook of his arm, one hand resting against his chest like she’s claiming ownership. Pedri hasn’t moved in over an hour.

“She likes this position,” he says quietly, looking down at her like she might disappear if he blinks. “She’s comfortable.”

“She also liked the crib this morning,” you remind him from the other end of the couch.

“Not like this.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You sure you’re not the one who likes it more?”

He glances up, sheepish. “Okay, yeah, maybe I’m projecting a little.”

You don’t push. You don’t have the energy to. Your body is still recovering, your emotions are all over the place, and honestly? It’s nice seeing him like this. Tender. Focused. Completely undone by a six-pound human.

“She’s got a lot of expressions for someone who can’t talk,” he says.

“She’s dramatic. Gets it from you.”

“She does not.”

“Pedri, you cried because she sneezed earlier.”

“It was cute!”

You laugh under your breath and stretch your legs out. The house is quiet except for the faint hum of the washing machine and the occasional little breathy snuffle your daughter makes when she shifts in her sleep.

“She’s still so small,” he murmurs. “I don’t know how she’s real.”

He says it like it’s a fact he hasn’t fully accepted yet. Like he still expects to wake up and find out this was all a dream he made up.

“You want to hold her again?” he asks, already starting to adjust his grip so he can hand her over.

You shake your head gently. “You’ve got her. She’s calm with you.”

“She’s calm with you too.”

“Yeah, but I’m sore and tired and she threw up on my hoodie earlier.”

Pedri smiles. “Worth it.”

He looks so at peace like this. No pressure. No media. No match prep. Just sweatpants and a sleeping baby and the weight of a new kind of responsibility.

You let your eyes drift shut for a moment. Just a moment.

And of course, that’s when your daughter decides to wake up.

She shifts a little, lets out a soft sound, and starts fussing. Pedri sits up straighter immediately, already rocking gently, murmuring under his breath.

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay, cariño. What’s wrong, huh?”

You start to get up, but he waves you off with his free hand. “I’ve got her. Stay there.”

“She might be hungry-”

“I’ll check her nappy first.”

You watch him carry her over to the changing table like he’s handling a piece of glassware. There’s a noticeable improvement in how he moves now - slower, more confident. Still careful, but not as panicked.

You hear him humming softly as he works. He talks the whole time too, like he thinks she’ll respond if he keeps his tone low and steady.

“This one’s not too bad. You did good, pequeñita. Gave me a break this time. That’s generous of you.”

You smile to yourself. A few minutes later he comes back, baby freshly changed and swaddled again, and he sits down beside you instead of going back to the other end.

“She’s due for a feed,” you say.

“I’ll grab the bottle.”

“No, I’ve got it.”

“You sure?”

“I miss her,” you admit.

He doesn’t say anything, just hands her over, as carefully as if she’s made of gold.

You settle her against your chest and she latches almost immediately, her tiny fingers curling in and her forehead pressed to your collarbone. Pedri watches in silence, hand resting on your knee.

There’s a look on his face that’s hard to name. It’s part awe, part disbelief, and something deeper too. Something permanent.

“You really made her,” he says quietly. “You carried her. You did all the work. I just- I don’t know how to thank you for that.”

You glance up at him. “You don’t have to thank me. She’s ours.”

“I know. But still.”

You reach over and take his hand, interlacing your fingers. He squeezes once and doesn’t let go.

“I want her to grow up happy,” he says after a long pause. “Like… not just loved. But safe. Like she knows she can come to us with anything.”

“She will.”

“I want her to see me the way I see my parents. Like… I want to be someone she can lean on. I don’t care if I mess up everything else. I just want to be good for her.”

You smile. “You already are.”

“She doesn’t even know who I am yet.”

“She doesn’t need to. She just needs to feel it.”

He leans back, nodding slowly, eyes still locked on the way your daughter’s breathing has slowed again, belly rising and falling gently as she feeds.

It hits you again how new all of this is. How strange and scary and good it feels. You’re still figuring everything out, one hour at a time, but you’re doing it together.

It starts when you're out grocery shopping.

You don’t expect Pedri to stop dead in his tracks near the fruit section, eyes locked on something just beyond your shoulder. You follow his gaze, assuming he’s seen someone he knows, maybe a teammate or a fan. But no. His entire body has gone still for something far more dangerous.

A baby.

More specifically, a very chubby-cheeked toddler sitting in a trolley, babbling nonsense at a banana like it’s speaking back. The baby has curly brown hair and a onesie with blue onesie, and you can hear Pedri’s heart melting next to you. He’s not even blinking.

“Oh no,” you say, poking his shoulder. “Don’t even start.”

“What?” he says, clearly offended, though his expression is still soft and adoring. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.”

The baby giggles, clapping its hands, and Pedri exhales like someone just punched him in the stomach. “Look at him. He’s- he’s got tiny socks with ducks on them.”

You physically have to drag him toward the bread aisle before he offers to babysit a complete stranger’s child. He glances back over his shoulder like he’s leaving a piece of himself behind.

The obsession doesn’t stop there. If anything, it ramps up.

You catch him scrolling baby TikToks in bed the next morning, the volume turned down low so he doesn’t wake you. But you stir anyway, mostly because he’s laughing softly under his breath at a video of twin babies in matching pajamas.

When he notices you looking, he just grins and holds out his phone. “Tell me you wouldn’t want this.”

You blink at the screen. The babies are playing with a golden retriever. You bury your face in the pillow.

“Too early,” you mumble. “I haven’t even had coffee.”

“Babies don’t drink coffee either. That’s why they’re so peaceful.”

You groan and throw the blanket over your head.

The signs only get worse.

He volunteers to hold your friend’s baby at a dinner party and absolutely refuses to give her back. He rocks her gently the entire night, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’s been doing this for years. When she falls asleep against his shoulder, he whispers, “She trusts me. Do you see this? She trusts me.”

“Yeah, well, she also just spit up on your hoodie,” you say, reaching over with a napkin.

He doesn’t even flinch. “Worth it.”

You bring it up one night when you're doing the dishes together.

“Be honest,” you say, passing him a clean plate to dry. “Do you have baby fever?”

Pedri shrugs, but there’s a guilty little smile tugging at his mouth. “Maybe. It’s not that crazy, right?”

“Depends on if you’re planning to come home with a stroller tomorrow.”

He chuckles. “No strollers. Yet.”

You lean your hip against the counter, narrowing your eyes playfully. “Where’s this coming from, though? I didn’t think you were that into kids.”

He sets the plate aside, a bit more thoughtful now. “I wasn’t. I mean, not in a real way. But I don’t know. Lately, it’s like I see a baby and think... wow. That could be ours. And I think I’d be good at it. Not perfect, but… you know. I’d try hard.”

The vulnerability in his voice is quiet, but it knocks the air right out of your lungs.

You tilt your head. “You’d be so good, Pedri.”

He smiles at the floor. “You think so?”

You nod. “I’ve seen the way you make kids feel safe. Even adults feel safe around you.”

He glances up, meeting your eyes. “Even you?”

You fake a dramatic sigh. “I guess I feel safe around you.”

That earns you a wet towel to the face.

A few days later, he proves your point without even realizing it.

You’re on a walk when you pass a crying toddler on the sidewalk. His mother is frantically digging through her bag, clearly trying to find something to calm him down, but nothing’s working.

Pedri crouches without hesitation.

“Hey, amigo,” he says gently. “What’s going on, huh?”

The kid sniffles, looking suspicious of this stranger with dark hair and soft eyes. Pedri pretends to look shocked.

“You have no idea where your toy went? Eso es una locura. We should send out a search party. You can be the captain.”

The kid giggles, hiccuping through his tears. Pedri grins.

By the time the mother finds the missing toy car, her son is fully enchanted, clutching Pedri’s hand like they’re old friends. She thanks him over and over, but Pedri just waves it off like it’s nothing.

You watch him, arms crossed, smiling so hard it almost hurts.

Later, when you bring it up again, he just shrugs.

“I just don’t like seeing them cry,” he says. “I want to fix it, even if I can’t always.”

That’s when you know it for sure. He doesn’t just have baby fever. He has dad instincts.

That night, curled under a blanket, he holds you a little tighter than usual. There’s a calm silence between you. No TikToks. No teasing. Just warmth.

“I don’t need it to happen right away,” he murmurs. “I just like the idea that maybe one day, we could have that. You and me. A little us.”

You press your face to his chest.

“I like that idea too.”

He sighs into your hair. “Would our kid like football, you think?”

“Hopefully,” you answer. “They’d be amazing, I’m sure. Just like their papá.”

Pedri grins. “Can I pick out their first jersey?”

“You’re already planning their wardrobe?”

“Obviously. You think I wouldn’t dress our baby better than you?”

You laugh and he kisses the top of your head.

It’s not something you’re rushing. You still have time, goals, lives to live. But the way he talks about it, so softly, so seriously, makes your heart fold in on itself.

You’ve learned exactly three things about Pedri since you started dating him.

One: he’s not as quiet as he pretends to be.

Two: his favorite hobby is getting reactions out of you.

Three: it doesn’t matter how many people are watching, he’s going to flirt with you like it’s his job.

Unfortunately, today is a prime example of all three.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you hiss under your breath, clutching your glass of wine tighter than necessary.

Pedri doesn’t even blink. Just leans back in the patio chair, one arm slung lazily over the backrest, curls wild from the ocean breeze, and mouth tilted in that half-smile that makes your stomach somersault. “Like what?” he asks, innocent, eyebrows high.

You shoot him a look that could kill.

It’s a family barbecue at his parents’ place in Tegueste. Everyone’s here, his brother, cousins, aunties, one of his little cousins toddling around with watermelon juice dripping down his chin. Music’s playing low, the sun’s not quite set, and someone’s grilling sardines. It should be relaxing and fun. 

And it would be, if Pedri wasn’t eyeing you like he’s got a secret and you’re the answer.

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” you mutter, cheeks on fire.

Pedri just grins wider, reaching across the table like he’s going for the olives. Instead, he tugs your pinky under the table and brushes his thumb across your knuckle, subtle and maddening.

“You’re blushing,” he murmurs, voice low.

You yank your hand away and flick a cherry tomato at him. It bounces off his shoulder and lands in his lap. He picks it up and eats it slowly.

“I’m going to punch you,” you whisper.

“You’re going to kiss me,” he replies.

You nearly choke on your drink.

He’s not even trying to hide it anymore. For the past hour, he’s been relentless, sneaking touches when he passes behind you, eyes glued to you, whispering comments that should be illegal to say in front of his abuela.

It’s not that you don’t like it. You do. Way more than you should. But there’s something about being around his family, people you’re still getting to know, people who’ve known him since he was tiny and toothless and running around the garden with food smeared on his cheeks, that makes it all so much worse. Like he’s pulling you into some private joke while everyone else is just trying to enjoy their croquetas in peace.

“Want me to help you get more drinks?” he asks, standing up and stretching his arms overhead, knowing exactly what he’s doing when his shirt lifts and reveals just a hint of abs, Calvin Klein waistband, tanned skin, and happy trail.

You close your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“You love it.”

You do. That’s the problem.

You mutter something that sounds vaguely like a curse word and push back from the table, grabbing your empty glass and stalking toward the cooler at the edge of the patio. Pedri follows like a puppy. A smug, very attractive, absolutely unbearable puppy.

“You know my tío asked if we were already living together?” he says, reaching into the cooler for a bottle of sparkling water.

Your heart leaps into your throat. “He what?”

Pedri shrugs, twisting off the cap with one hand and handing it to you like he didn’t just drop a casual bomb. “Said we looked like the kind of couple that was already domesticated. His words.”

You take a long sip and try not to imagine your toothbrush next to his. “And what did you say?”

Pedri steps closer. Not enough for anyone to notice, but enough that you can feel his warmth. “Told him that we spend every night together in our big, queen bed, doing all sorts of things he doesn’t even want to know about.”

You freeze. “You what?”

His smile is devastating. “Relax. I’m joking.”

You smack him lightly on the chest. “Oh my god, what is wrong with you?”

He laughs, low and delighted, and it vibrates through your fingertips where they’re pressed against him. “You should see your face.”

“You’re evil,” you mumble, turning away before he sees how red your cheeks are now.

He catches your wrist gently. “I’m serious, though. I like being around you. Like, always.”

You glance up at him. For once, he’s not teasing. Just watching you with a soft kind of certainty that makes your heart do weird things.

“You can’t say that while your entire family’s in earshot,” you whisper.

“They’re not listening.”

“They’re right there.”

He leans in closer. “You’re cute when you’re nervous.”

You try to glare at him, but your lips betray you and curl upward anyway. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“I know,” he says, and kisses your cheek so quickly you barely have time to react.

You glance over your shoulder, fully expecting his mamá or abuela or someone to be staring, but everyone seems occupied, passing dishes, laughing at something Fer said, playing with the baby. Somehow, the two of you are in a little bubble of your own.

“You’re a menace,” you whisper.

“You’re obsessed with me.”

You shove him gently, and he stumbles back with a dramatic gasp like you’ve wounded him. “You’ll regret that,” he warns.

You raise an eyebrow. “Try me.”

And that’s how you end up hiding from him behind the lemon tree, ten minutes later, breathless from running and laughing and trying not to knock over any potted plants. He’s hunting you through his childhood garden like you’re playing tag instead of attending a very civilized adult gathering.

You crouch low, trying to catch your breath, knees buried in soft grass.

“Found you.”

You shriek when his voice appears just behind your ear. Before you can react, he’s got his arms around your waist and he’s lifting you off the ground, spinning you once before setting you down and pinning you gently against the tree.

“You’re deranged,” you say, giggling despite yourself.

“You’re adorable when you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

He leans in like he’s about to kiss you again, but this time he pauses just short. “You know I’d never embarrass you, right? Like, for real?”

The shift in tone is subtle, but you catch it.

You blink at him. “You kind of already did. Multiple times.”

“Okay, but only in the ‘you-blush-and-everyone-thinks-it’s-cute’ way. Not in the ‘let’s-make-this-unbearably-awkward’ way.”

You smile, letting your fingers trace the line of his jaw. “I know. You’re annoying, but you’re sweet about it.”

“Good. Because I like making you blush.”

“You like watching me suffer.”

“I love watching you suffer. Specifically in a cute, red-faced, squeaky-voice kind of way.”

You swat at his chest again, but it’s mostly for show. He catches your hand and laces his fingers through yours, swinging it slightly between you.

“Want to go back before someone sends a search party?” you ask.

“Only if you promise to sit next to me again.”

“I’m literally already sitting next to you.”

“Closer.”

You sigh, resigned. “Fine.”

“Like, thigh-to-thigh, maybe share-a-napkin kind of close.”

You narrow your eyes. “So needy.”

He grins. “The neediest.”

Back at the table, no one comments on your extended absence. Pedri plops down beside you and promptly steals your fork. You let him. You even let your knee bump against his under the table, and when he leans over to whisper something that makes your ears burn, you just nudge him with your shoulder and try not to smile.

Because yeah, he’s annoying. He’s flirty and smug and he knows exactly how to get under your skin.

But he’s also yours.

And honestly?

You’re half-asleep when he slides into the seat beside you.

First period hasn’t even started yet, the classroom’s still buzzing with sleepy murmurs and backpack zippers, and you’ve got your cheek pressed to the desk with a pen hanging loose between your fingers.

“Morning,” Pedri says, soft but already grinning.

You blink up at him, confused, then sit up quickly and try to hide the pencil smudge on your face. “Did we have homework?”

“No,” he says, laughing a little. “Not for today.”

You sigh and slump back into your chair. “Thank God.”

It’s always like this. Pedri gets there two minutes before the bell, finds your table, and plops down next to you like he’s been doing it forever. Most of the time, he doesn’t say much, just hums along to whatever’s playing through his earbuds or lets his head fall to the desk like he’s more tired than anyone else in the world.

But not today. Today, he’s fidgeting.

You don’t know what it is at first, the way his leg bounces, the way he’s playing with the strings of his hoodie, how he keeps glancing sideways at you like he’s working up to something. You chalk it up to a game day. Las Palmas has a match tonight, you’re pretty sure. You’ve never been, but it’s all anyone talks about when he’s in the starting eleven.

“Are you coming later?” he asks suddenly, like he’s read your mind.

“Huh?”

“The match,” he says, like duh. “We play Unión Viera tonight. It’s at home.”

“Oh,” you say. “I wasn’t planning to.”

His mouth twitches, like he’s trying to stay cool about it. “You should come. It might be good.”

“Are you saying that because you think you’re gonna score?”

He shrugs, still grinning. “Maybe.”

You roll your eyes and open your notebook. “If I come, I’m bringing a book.”

He leans in closer. “If you come and bring a book, I’ll be offended.”

You don’t reply, just shake your head while trying not to smile, and then class starts and he finally goes quiet beside you.

But that afternoon, he’s waiting for you by the lockers - again.

You’ve barely zipped up your bag before he reaches for it. Just takes the strap right off your shoulder and throws it over his like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I’ve got it,” he says.

“Pedri, I can carry my own stuff.”

“I know.”

You narrow your eyes. “Then why are you..?”

He grins. “Training.”

“Training for what? The backpack-carrying Olympics?”

“Strength,” he says seriously. “Endurance. Discipline.”

You snort. “You are so annoying.”

He shrugs like he doesn’t mind. “Wanna walk with me?”

You don’t say no. You never do.

It’s not just that Pedri plays for Las Palmas. Everyone knows that. It’s a big deal. People come up to him between classes, asking for updates or tickets or how his training is going. His face is starting to pop up in local papers and matchday posters at the little cafés near school. Teachers talk about him like he’s already gone. But with you, he’s just… Pedri. Still goofy. Still the guy who offered you his last pen in 2nd ESO and called you “the only person in the Canary Islands who reads during lunch.”

“You nervous for tonight?” you ask, just to make conversation.

He shrugs, adjusting your bag on his shoulder. “A little. But it’s not that deep.”

“It kind of is, though,” you point out. “Scouts come to those matches.”

He glances at you, face unreadable. “Yeah. I guess.”

You don’t know what to make of that. There’s something quiet in the way he says it, like he’s already thinking about leaving. About what happens when this year ends and he’s not just Pedri from class anymore.

You slow your pace without realizing. He matches it.

“Hey,” he says after a moment, kicking a rock along the sidewalk. “Do you want notes for bio? I copied all of it during free period.”

“Wait, you took notes?”

“Don’t sound so shocked.”

You laugh. “Yeah, sure. That’d help.”

He hands you his notebook when you reach your bus stop. You flip it open, eyebrows raised at the messy scribbles.

“Your handwriting is a crime.”

“You’re welcome.”

The bus rolls up before you can say anything else. Pedri hands you your bag like it weighs nothing, and you hesitate for half a second before stepping on.

“Good luck tonight,” you say over your shoulder.

He nods. “See you tomorrow?”

“Maybe.”

He grins like you just said yes.

That was the last normal week of school before summer hit - before finals, before graduation, before the real goodbye. You remember Pedri's last day more clearly than you want to admit: everyone signing each other’s shirts and hugging too tightly and promising to stay in touch. You didn’t cry, but you felt it coming the whole day, like a wave threatening to knock you sideways.

And Pedri?

He found you at the end of the day, shirt already covered in signatures, and held out a marker.

“Don’t leave me out.”

You signed his sleeve and watched him try to pretend he wasn’t nervous.

When you handed the pen back, he lingered. Looked like he wanted to say something. But he didn’t.

Instead, he smiled. “I’ll see you, yeah?”

And you just said, “Yeah.”

You didn't.

It's a quiet Monday. The kind where time stretches thin and quiet, sun streaming in through the shop’s front windows, dust drifting in the light. You’re behind the counter, half-focused on the stack of returns you’ve been meaning to sort since Monday. The bell above the door rings, and you glance up without thinking.

Then freeze.

Pedri González walks into the shop like he’s just another customer.

For a moment, your brain doesn’t catch up. He looks the same and not the same - older now, taller, more composed. His hair’s still got that soft curl, and his shoulders are broader beneath a plain white tee. But it’s his face that really stops you: familiar in a way that makes your stomach drop and twist all at once.

He doesn’t see you at first. His eyes scan the displays near the front, casual, unbothered. Just a guy looking for something to read. Until he turns, and his gaze lands on you.

And then?

That smile.

It pulls across his face like it’s automatic - soft and sure and immediate. Like he was hoping it’d be you.

You swallow hard. “...Hi.”

His grin grows. “Wow. Didn’t expect this.”

You blink. “Pedri?”

He gives a little wave, sheepish. “Hey.”

Your chest feels tight. It’s been years, actual years, and somehow your first thought is he hasn’t changed that much. He still carries himself like he’s trying not to be noticed - like he’s always halfway between invisible and unforgettable.

You clear your throat. “What are you doing here?”

He gestures vaguely to the shelves. “Looking for a book. It’s my mamá’s birthday next week.”

Of course. Rosy González. You remember her from the one time she picked him up early from school in her old car and waved through the window with the same exact smile Pedri’s wearing now.

You come out from behind the counter slowly, wiping your palms down the front of your jeans. “Okay. Anything in particular?”

“She likes emotional stuff,” he says. “Romance. The kind that makes you cry.”

You lead him toward the fiction section, still catching up with the fact that this is actually happening. He walks beside you quietly, hands in his pockets, gaze trailing the shelves like he’s reading every title and none of them at once.

“I didn’t know you were back in Tenerife,” you say, carefully casual.

“Just for the summer. A couple weeks off before pre-season starts again.”

You nod. “That makes sense.”

There’s a beat of silence. You grab a novel from the “Staff Picks” cart near the romance shelf, something dramatic, lyrical, heavy in that slow-burning way you think his mom would probably love.

“She’s not picky, right?” you ask, handing it to him.

He glances at the cover, then flips it over. “If it has feelings in it, she’s in.”

A small smile creeps onto your face. “Sounds familiar.”

That gets you a glance - quick but sharp. He tucks the book under one arm and leans a little closer, just enough for you to catch the faint smell of his cologne. Something soft. Clean.

“I used to read whatever you had with you,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

He smiles, eyes still on the books. “Back in school. You always had something in your bag. I’d look at the title and try to find it later.”

Your mouth goes a little dry.

“I didn’t know that,” you say quietly.

“Yeah,” he shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “You always seemed like you were halfway into another world.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You’re suddenly seventeen again, sitting on the front steps of the school building while Pedri offers you his hoodie because you forgot yours, watching the sky go pink while he reads the back of your book instead of saying goodbye.

You clear your throat and gesture toward the counter. “Let me ring that up for you.”

He follows you back. His footsteps are easy, steady. Comfortable in that quiet way that hasn’t changed since high school - like he’s always been more grounded than most people ever notice.

At the register, you take the book and scan it. He pulls out his wallet, taps his card, and before the receipt even prints, he says:

“Have you read it?”

You glance up. “Not yet. It’s on my list.”

He takes the receipt and slides the book into the paper bag you offer, then lingers just a little too long.

“Then when I finish it,” he says, “you’ll have to tell me what I missed.”

You try to hide the way your fingers curl around the edge of the counter. “Deal.”

He nods once, like it’s settled.

You expect him to turn and leave, but instead, he just stands there for a second. Looking at you like he’s trying to memorize the moment.

Then he says, “You know… I’m not in a rush. If you’ve got other recommendations.”

You raise a brow. “You want to buy more than one?”

He shrugs. “I trust your taste.”

And just like that, something shifts. Slight but definite.

You hand him another book, one from the stack you’ve been meaning to read for weeks. He doesn’t even check the price. Just adds it to the bag, says thank you, and walks out with a parting glance over his shoulder.

The door swings shut behind him, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

He remembered you.

And he came back.

He comes back the next day.

Same hoodie, different shirt. Hair still a little messy like he just rolled out of bed. He nods at you as he walks in, casual as anything, like this is routine. Like this is where he always starts his mornings.

You look up from the returns cart, caught off guard again, even though you really shouldn’t be.

“Back so soon?” you ask.

Pedri grins. “Told you I’d come give a review.”

You raise a brow. “Already finished it?”

He hesitates for a split second, just enough to give himself away. “Yeah. Last night.”

You don’t call him out on it. Not yet.

Instead, you lean your elbow on the counter. “Alright then, what did you think?”

He opens his mouth, pauses, then scratches the back of his neck. “I liked the writing.”

“The writing.”

“Yeah.”

You stare.

He stares back.

And then you laugh, turning away so he won’t see how smug your smile is. “So you didn’t read it.”

“I skimmed it,” he says, not even pretending to be offended. “I got the vibe.”

“You bought a whole book for ‘the vibe?’”

He shrugs. “Is that not valid?”

You roll your eyes. “Barely.”

Pedri leans on the counter, watching you like you’re the most interesting thing in the building. “You got another one for me, then?”

“You’re gonna waste your whole offseason budget on novels you’re not reading.”

He grins wider. “That’s fine. Worth it.”

You give him something else. Something you haven’t even opened yet. He doesn’t look at the synopsis. Doesn’t even pretend to read the back. He just hands over his card like this is a normal exchange and not a weird kind of tradition you’re both pretending isn’t happening.

He leaves with the book in hand and nothing else.

You watch him walk past the window, down the street, flipping the cover open like he might actually try this time. He probably won’t.

He’s back the next morning.

And the next.

By day five, you’ve stopped asking if he’s read anything. He just walks in, does a little head nod in greeting, and leans on the register like this is his full-time job.

You make fun of him.

He takes it in stride.

Sometimes you talk about other things. The heat. The new windows they’re installing on the second floor. His mamá’s obsession with crime dramas. Your current reading slump. His brother Fer stopping by just to be annoying.

“Fer’s the same,” he says, digging through the candy jar on the counter. “Still makes fun of me for everything. Saw the book on my desk last night and started reading the blurbs in a dramatic voice.”

You laugh. “He would.”

“He asked if I was writing love poems again.”

“Wait- again?”

Pedri goes still for a moment, then gives you a guilty side glance.

You blink. “Hold on. You used to write poems?”

“Absolutely not.”

“That’s so dramatic of you.”

“I didn’t,” he insists, but he’s smiling, and you can tell he’s lying.

You don’t press it.

You do tease him about it for the next two days.

Each book you hand over is less of a recommendation and more of a challenge. You start stacking the most emotional, dramatic ones you can find. Stuff you know he’s definitely not reading - 600-page generational sagas, postmodern romance with mixed timelines, depressing rural coming-of-age stories with metaphors for the sun.

He buys every single one.

Doesn’t even blink.

You’ve got a growing stack of receipt slips under the register with his name on them. Pedro González López. You don’t point it out, but you start organizing them in a little pile like they mean something. You tell yourself it’s for accounting. That’s a lie.

You catch him loitering more and more, hanging back even after the purchase is done. Watching you reshelve paperbacks like it’s fascinating, offering to help when the delivery boxes come in. One afternoon, he ends up alphabetizing a whole table of historical fiction because he’s “bored.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you tell him.

“I like doing nothing here,” he replies.

It makes your chest weirdly tight.

You’re still not sure what this is. It’s not flirting, not obviously. He hasn’t asked for your number or made any kind of real move. But it’s not casual either. You know the difference between someone being polite and someone showing up every day just to hear you talk.

You know what it looks like when Pedri likes someone.

You just don’t want to assume.

On day ten, he buys a novella that’s barely 100 pages and has a cover so pretentious it makes you laugh out loud when he brings it to the counter.

“You’re not even trying anymore,” you say.

“I’m branching out,” he insists.

“To books you can finish in one train ride.”

He winks. “Exactly.”

You hold the book in your hands, spine resting against your palm, and glance up at him slowly.

“You know you don’t have to keep buying them.”

Pedri’s smile falters. Just slightly.

You wait.

“I know,” he says.

You tilt your head. “Then why do you keep coming back?”

He hesitates - not embarrassed, but thoughtful. Like he’s been holding that answer for a while but wasn’t planning to say it out loud.

Then he shrugs and says, “I like talking to you.”

Your heart stutters in your chest.

And Pedri, as usual, doesn’t press.

He just takes his book and leaves, that same calm grin on his face, like he didn’t just say the most honest thing he’s ever said to you.

The cup is warm when he places it on the counter.

You don’t think much of it at first. Just another morning, another one of Pedri’s quiet little habits. But this time he doesn’t follow it with a book or a dumb comment about how he’s “branching into classics.” He just slides the cup toward you and nods.

“For you.”

You glance at it, then at him. “What is it?”

“Try it.”

You narrow your eyes a little. Suspicious. But you pick it up, peel the lid back slightly, and take a sip.

It stops you in your tracks.

You lower the cup slowly. “No way.”

Pedri says nothing. Just watches you.

You sip again. Slower. Trying to make sure your memory isn’t messing with you.

But it’s exactly the same. You know it instantly. The same hot chocolate you used to drink in homeroom. Smooth, rich, just sweet enough. And then that other part, that quiet little twist of flavor at the end. You never figured out what it was. You’d tried. Went to every café nearby back then. Ordered hot chocolate over and over again and never once found the same taste.

You even gave up eventually. Told yourself you were imagining it.

But now it’s back, sitting in your hands like it never left.

You look up at him. “Where did you get this?”

He shrugs. “Same place.”

You blink. “What place?”

Pedri doesn’t answer.

You frown. “You never told me where it was.”

“You never asked.”

“Yes, I did.”

He gives you a little smile. “You didn’t ask hard enough.”

You stare at him. “Is it close?”

“It’s on the way to the school. Still open.”

You try to think back. That one little street near the bus stop? Or the bakery side street?

“You used to bring this to me all the time,” you say slowly. “Every time it was cold.”

He nods. “Figured you wouldn’t get one yourself.”

“I didn’t even know what it was.”

“You liked it though.”

You pause.

“Yeah,” you admit. “I really did.”

Pedri takes a sip from his own cup. “You used to drink it before saying anything. Every time. Then you’d look at me like you’d just solved the meaning of life.”

You laugh under your breath. “It was good.”

“It still is.”

You study him.

“You never told me what made it taste like that.”

“Nope.”

“Are you going to now?”

“Nope.”

“It’s something weird, isn’t it?”

“It’s not that weird.”

You roll your eyes and take another sip. The taste hits your tongue again, but you still can’t name it. You just know it tastes like first period on a cold morning. Like plastic chairs and grey uniforms and the soft scrape of notebooks opening beside you. Like him.

You shake your head. “I thought maybe it was the milk. Or cinnamon or something. I even bought hot chocolate mix and tried to make it at home.”

“I know,” he says. “You told me.” But he would never tell you that that ‘twist’ was simply a shot of caramel.

Your smile slips a little. “I didn’t think you remembered.”

He shrugs again, more carefully this time. “I remember a lot of things.”

You look down at the drink. The taste hits again - not just the flavor but everything tied to it. Early mornings. Cold fingers. Him sitting next to you, half-asleep with his hood up, sliding the cup across your desk like it was nothing.

Back then, you didn’t think much of it. You figured he was just nice. Just a friend.

Now?

You’re starting to think you missed something.

You glance back up. “So is this your new thing now? Showing up every day with nostalgia in a cup?”

Pedri raises his eyebrows. “Depends. Is it working?”

You say nothing.

But you take another sip.

He smiles.

He doesn’t bring a book this time.

That’s the first thing you notice.

It’s late morning, sun already warming the floor through the front windows, and you’re flipping through invoices when the bell above the door rings. You glance up out of habit.

Pedri steps inside, same as always - plain white shirt, curls slightly flattened by the wind, sneakers just a little too clean for someone who walks everywhere. But there’s no book in his hand, no paper bag, not even a coffee today.

Just him.

He walks over to the counter slowly. Hands in his pockets. A little quieter than usual.

You smile at him anyway. “No reading material today?”

He shakes his head. “No book.”

You pause, noticing the shift. His tone’s different. Not in a bad way, just… more focused. Like he’s not here to joke around this time.

“Okay,” you say carefully. “So what brings you in?”

He looks at you for a second. Really looks. And then:

“I want to ask you something.”

Your stomach pulls tight.

You lean an elbow on the counter, trying to play it cool. “Alright. Hit me.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding it in.

“Do you want to get coffee? With me.”

There’s a pause. Not awkward - just quiet.

You blink. “Like. As in-”

“As in a date,” he says. Simple. Direct.

Your brain takes a second to catch up. Because even though you knew, even though the books and the hot chocolate and the soft glances all pointed in this direction, hearing it is different. It makes it real. Tangible. Inescapable.

Pedri watches you carefully. He’s not nervous, exactly. But he’s serious. Waiting for an answer like it matters.

Because it does.

You straighten up slightly. “You want to get coffee.”

He nods once. “Yeah.”

You chew the inside of your cheek. “You don’t even like coffee.”

“I like cafés.”

You squint at him. “You like me.”

A beat.

He smiles. “Yeah.”

You let out a breath, short and soft. Then you shake your head, smiling without meaning to.

“God, I was so oblivious in high school.”

“I noticed.”

“You really brought me drinks before class for months.”

“I remember.”

“And you never said anything.”

“You weren’t ready to hear it.”

You pause again. That one hits.

Pedri just waits. No pressure. No charming line. No performance. Just a quiet ask, out in the open, finally.

And maybe it’s the way the light hits the floor between you. Or the fact that he didn’t bring a book because today wasn’t about pretending. Or maybe it’s the hot chocolate still sitting in your memory like a bookmark.

But you nod.

“Okay.”

His eyebrows lift, surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, laughing lightly. “Let’s get coffee.”

Pedri lets out the smallest breath of relief. Then he nods, smiling like something’s finally clicked into place.

“Cool. Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow works.”

He taps the counter once with his fingers, like a quiet thank-you, and starts backing toward the door.

“I’ll pick you up,” he adds.

You blink. “You don’t even know where I live.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You still in the same place as school?”

“…Yeah.”

He grins. “I remember.”

And then he’s gone. Just like that.

The bell jingles behind him, and you’re left standing behind the counter, hands warm against the wood, heart a little too loud in your chest.

You think about all the times you missed it. The glances. The drinks. The way he always remembered what you liked without needing reminders.

And now, finally, he’s asked.

And you said yes.

You almost text him to cancel.

Not because you don’t want to go - you do. God, you do. But part of you still can’t quite believe this is happening. Like maybe you imagined the whole thing. The books. The hot chocolate. The quiet way he looked at you yesterday like you already knew how he felt.

You don’t cancel though.

You wait outside your building at 10:58, chewing the inside of your lip, hands tucked into your jacket sleeves. He said “morning” like it wasn’t a big deal, like he wasn’t completely aware that mornings are his thing, his whole memory pressed into that time of day. The way he always used to show up with something warm in his hands, before your first class, before you even knew to look for him.

So when his car pulls up and he leans across the seat to wave, you don’t hesitate.

You climb in, buckle your seatbelt, and say, “Hi.”

He grins at you. “Hi.”

He takes you to a little café by the water. Not the one where he gets the hot chocolate, not a chain, just something in between quiet, local, wood tables and scratched-up floors and a chalkboard menu that’s more vibe than function. It smells like cinnamon and espresso and something buttery coming out of the kitchen.

You find a table in the corner by the window. He lets you sit first.

Neither of you says much at first.

You order something simple - tea, a pastry you can pick at if things get awkward. He orders a drink and then doesn’t touch it for the first ten minutes. You don’t either.

It’s not uncomfortable.

It’s just careful.

There’s something about sitting across from someone who knew you at seventeen. Not just in passing, not as a classmate, but someone who knew your schedule, your moods, the way you used to scribble notes in the margins of your planner with colored pens. You used to sit next to him every weekday morning, completely unaware he was in love with you.

And now you’re here.

You reach for your tea. “So. You want me to pretend this is a normal first date?”

Pedri laughs softly. “Is it not?”

“No. Not even close.”

He raises a brow. “What makes it different?”

“Do you want the list alphabetically or chronologically?”

“Surprise me.”

You take a bite of your pastry. “Okay. A) You’ve been stalking my TBR list for two weeks. B) You brought me a drink from some café I couldn’t find for four years. And C) You remembered my old address without asking.”

Pedri sips his drink, clearly unbothered. “None of that’s weird.”

You lean back in your chair. “Okay. So what is weird?”

He looks at you for a moment. Thoughtfully. “We’ve known each other forever. But I feel like this is the first time I’m really getting to talk to you.”

You pause.

He’s not wrong.

It was different back then. You were busy trying to get through school. He was already playing for Las Palmas, already half-out-the-door. You knew he had early training, late matches, extra hours on the pitch that kept him from weekend parties. You never really thought about how tired he must’ve been showing up with that drink in his hand before first period.

You just drank it.

You stir your tea. “Why didn’t you ever say anything back then?”

Pedri rests his arms on the table, his voice quiet. “I didn’t want to ruin anything.”

You glance up at him.

“I liked you,” he says. “A lot. But you had no idea. And I think part of me liked it that way. I could just… show up. Be there.”

You exhale, staring at your cup.

“I think I knew,” you admit. “But not really. You know?”

He nods. “Yeah. You didn’t owe me anything.”

You chew the inside of your cheek.

“I kind of hate that I didn’t notice more.”

He smiles gently. “I don’t.”

You meet his eyes.

“If I had said something then,” he adds, “we might’ve dated, yeah. But maybe we would’ve broken up after school, when I moved. Or drifted. Or lost touch.”

You blink. “That’s… optimistic.”

“It’s realistic,” he says. “And I didn’t want to lose you completely.”

You sit with that for a second.

Then you look down at your hands. “So why now?”

Pedri doesn’t look away.

“Because you’re here,” he says. “And I am too. And for once, there’s no reason not to try.”

Your chest tightens.

There’s no pressure in his voice. No panic. Just a quiet steadiness, like this isn’t a line, just a fact. He wants to know you now. On purpose. No more half-hinting. No more warm drinks dropped off like favors.

He wants this.

And suddenly you do too.

You reach for your tea again. “Okay. So now what?”

Pedri tilts his head. “Now we drink. We eat. I try not to do anything embarrassing. You pretend I’m cool.”

You smile. “That sounds fair.”

“And maybe after,” he adds, “we go for a walk. Or talk more. Or make plans again.”

“Like a second date?”

He grins. “Like a second date.”

You look out the window. The sky is clear, and the breeze is moving through the palms across the street. And for the first time in a while, you feel still.

No guessing. No overthinking.

Just here.

With him.

2 years later - in Barcelona.

The light comes in slow.

It creeps through the gaps in the curtains, soft and golden, brushing over the white sheets tangled around your legs. The room is still. Quiet. The kind of quiet you don’t notice until you really stop moving. The kind that makes you stay exactly where you are.

Pedri’s arm is draped across your waist. Warm. Heavy. Familiar.

His breath is steady against the back of your neck, slow and even, mouth slightly parted where his face is pressed into your shoulder. You can feel the way his chest rises and falls behind you, bare skin against bare skin, like his whole body is relaxed in that way it only gets when he knows he doesn’t have to be anywhere else.

You shift slightly, just to get a better look at him.

He’s still completely asleep. Eyelashes soft against his cheeks, lips a little chapped from the sun, curls a mess against the pillow. You smile to yourself. Two years in, and he still sleeps like a boy with nothing to prove. Peaceful. Trusting.

You press your nose into the side of his arm, breathing him in. He smells like sleep and sunscreen and that lemony soap you both pretend not to steal from each other in the shower. It’s too early to think about breakfast. Too early to move. You’re not even sure what day it is.

You don’t care.

You just lie there, warm and tucked in beside him, his leg slotted between yours like he’s still making sure you’re close enough, even in his sleep.

This morning isn’t special. There’s no holiday. No plan.

Just him.

Just you.

And the way it all feels so easy now.

You look up at the ceiling for a long moment, listening to the city outside the window - faint noise, a car horn, someone laughing on the street - but it feels far away. Like nothing could really touch this.

You glance back at him.

He twitches once, like he’s on the edge of waking up. You press your hand to his chest gently, and he settles again. His skin is warm under your palm, heartbeat slow and steady beneath it.

You let your fingers trace soft circles there, careful not to wake him. Not yet.

You want to stay like this a little longer.

You’re not thinking about how you got here, not replaying old moments or comparing who you used to be. You just feel it. Right now. This morning. This boy. This love.

You turn your head and press the smallest kiss to his shoulder, just a whisper against his skin.

Pedri stirs, but doesn’t wake.

You smile.

And close your eyes again.

Just for a little while.

Just to hold onto this feeling a bit longer.

You must drift for a while, somewhere between asleep and not, because when you open your eyes again, the light has changed. Brighter now, warmer, stretching across the hardwood floors in thick golden lines. The corner of the sheet has slipped off your shoulder, and you shiver just slightly before tucking it back up.

Pedri’s breath stirs at the base of your neck.

You can feel it - the moment he starts waking. It’s subtle. His fingers twitch lightly against your stomach, then settle again. His head shifts, nuzzling closer into the curve of your shoulder blade. He hums softly under his breath, too low for words, more instinct than anything else.

You don’t say anything. You just reach down and brush your fingertips across the back of his hand where it rests on you, slow and soft, until you feel him squeeze gently in response.

“Mmm,” he mumbles.

You smile without turning around. “Good morning.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just presses a sleepy kiss to your shoulder. Barely there. A habit more than anything. He always does that first, before opening his eyes, before even saying your name. Like his way of checking you’re still real.

“Too early,” he says eventually, voice thick with sleep.

“It’s not,” you say, still smiling. “You’ve already slept in.”

“How much?”

You glance at the clock on the dresser. “Past nine.”

He groans into your back. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Sabes que no me gusta eso,” he mutters. His Spanish comes out more when he’s sleepy, words lazy and unfiltered.

“You love it,” you murmur, shifting slightly so you can roll onto your back. His arm stays wrapped around your waist, and now you’re facing him, his head half-buried in the pillow.

His eyes are still barely open. Warm brown, soft at the corners. Sleepy and familiar.

“You love this,” you add. “Lying in. No alarms. No travel. Just… this.”

He huffs a breath out through his nose, but there’s no argument. He shifts closer instead, tucking his face into the crook of your neck now, hand slipping under the fabric of your shirt to rest against your bare skin.

You let him.

You always do.

He sighs again, this time more content.

It’s been two years, and he still holds you like this every chance he gets. Like he wants to memorize the weight of you against him. Like this is the part of his day that matters most - not the goals, not the interviews, not even the training. Just this. You. Him. Morning light and messy sheets, and no need to speak unless you want to.

You slip your fingers into his hair and gently rake through the curls. They’re soft today, still damp from last night’s shower, flattened weirdly on one side where he slept too hard.

He doesn’t complain.

He just melts.

“Do we have to get up?” he asks eventually, voice muffled against your throat.

“Not yet.”

“How long can we stay like this before it’s irresponsible?”

You smile. “Let’s find out.”

He laughs quietly, breath warm on your skin.

You shift again so you can look at him properly. His face is relaxed, pillow-creased, the last traces of sleep still softening his features. You brush your thumb along his jaw. He catches your hand in his and kisses your knuckles.

“I like waking up next to you,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious truth in the world.

You don’t answer right away.

You just look at him, really look, and try to wrap your head around how something can feel so normal and so unbelievable at the same time.

Then you say, just as quietly, “I like waking up next to you too.”

Pedri grins. Eyes crinkled, warm and slow. “Yeah?”

You lean in. Press your forehead against his. “Yeah.”

He kisses you then, properly this time. No hesitation. Just the kind of kiss that says good morning and I love you and I don’t care what time it is, as long as you’re right here.

When you pull apart, neither of you says anything for a while.

You just breathe in the same rhythm. Hands tucked against each other. Legs tangled under the covers. The sun pouring in like it was made for this room and this morning and this version of you two.

You close your eyes again.

Not to sleep.

Just to be here.

With him.

You both fall continue resting.

It starts with the smallest shift, his leg sliding against yours under the blanket, a soft groan into the pillow, and then the weight of his arm dragging you closer, like you could somehow still drift away if he doesn’t keep you there.

Then comes the breath.

Long. Deep. The kind that says okay, I’m awake now, but I don’t want to be.

You smile before you even open your eyes.

“You’re awake,” you murmur, voice still raspy with sleep.

Pedri hums, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “Barely.”

“You slept in.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

You shift slightly so you can see his face. His eyes are still half-closed, lashes tangled, lips puffy with sleep. He looks good like this, warm and soft and completely real.

“Not a bad thing,” you say, brushing a hand through his curls. “Just rare.”

He cracks one eye open. “Means I’m relaxed.”

You kiss his temple. “You’re getting soft.”

“Yeah, well,” he mumbles into your skin, “I live with someone who tucks me in like a kid and lets me sleep on top of them half the night. What do you expect?”

“Dignity?”

He laughs, low and warm, and then finally pulls back enough to stretch. His arm reaches behind him, and he lets out another long groan, face scrunching up like he’s trying to wrestle the sleep from his bones.

“Hungry?” you ask.

His head flops dramatically back into the pillow. “Starving.”

You smile. “Let’s go then.”

“I don’t wanna get up.”

“Well, if you want breakfast, you have to.”

He groans like a child.

You roll your eyes and shove at his shoulder until he finally, finally, gets up. He’s still shirtless, hair a disaster, underwear sitting low on his hips as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and yawns.

You get up too, dragging the sheet with you until you find your sweatshirt from the night before, slipping it over your head. Pedri watches you from the bed, still half-asleep and clearly trying to pretend he’s not checking you out.

“Stop staring,” you say.

“I’m not,” he lies, stretching again. “You just look good in my clothes.”

You ignore him and leave the bedroom barefoot, and he follows a few seconds later, trailing after you like a puppy, yawning every ten steps.

The kitchen’s bright. Morning light bounces off the tiled counters and hits the pale cabinets in a way that makes everything feel cleaner than it is. There’s a mug on the counter from last night, and you shove it aside to make space.

Pedri leans against the fridge, watching you as you rummage through the cupboards.

“Eggs?”

“Sure.”

“Toast?”

“Obviously.”

“Are you gonna help?”

“I’m moral support.”

You throw a kitchen towel at him. “Chop something or I swear.”

He laughs and finally moves, grabbing a cutting board and pulling out the tomatoes. You grab the eggs, crack them into a bowl, and start whisking lazily while he slices - a little too slow, a little too uneven - but you don’t care. It’s not about speed. It’s not even really about food. It’s just this.

Being here.

Doing this.

The eggs go into the pan, and the tomatoes hit the skillet next to them. Pedri stands behind you at one point, arms slipping around your waist while you stir. He rests his chin on your shoulder and just stays there for a minute.

“Smells good,” he says softly.

You glance back at him. “You did nothing.”

“I did emotional labor.”

You laugh and bump him with your hip. He presses a kiss to your jaw and grabs two plates, setting them out on the counter.

When the food’s done, you both sit at the bar stools in front of the window. The city outside is alive now - cars moving, people walking, the occasional bark from a dog passing. But it still feels quiet in here. Like the noise can’t really reach you.

Pedri eats slowly, like he’s in no rush. He reaches out with his foot every so often, nudging yours under the counter just to feel you close.

“You’re domestic now,” you tease.

He chews dramatically. “You love it.”

You smile down at your toast. “Maybe I do.”

He grins. That sleepy, happy, I-know-I-have-you kind of grin. You let the moment stretch between bites, between lazy glances and shared silences that don’t need to be filled.

Two years in.

Still the best part of your day.

Still him.

Still this.

The shower’s already running by the time you step in, steam curling at the edges of the glass. Pedri’s standing under the spray, head tilted back, water streaming through his curls as he blindly reaches for the bottle of shampoo.

You step up behind him and take it from his hand.

“I got it,” you say.

He glances over his shoulder, grinning lazily. “Service with a smile.”

“Shut up and turn around.”

He does. You squeeze shampoo into your palm and reach up, lathering it slowly into his hair, fingers massaging through the soft curls. He hums under his breath, eyes fluttering shut, leaning into your touch without hesitation.

“You’re spoiled,” you mutter.

“Keep doing that and I won’t deny it.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you rinse him off, fingers gentle as the water runs clear. He blinks down at you, water dripping from his lashes, lips parted slightly like he’s going to say something - but instead, he just leans forward and kisses the tip of your nose.

“Your turn,” he says, and before you can protest, he’s nudging you to face away.

You hear him pop open your bottle of shampoo - the one he always pretends not to use even though he loves the smell - and then his fingers are in your hair. Careful, thorough, slower than necessary. He takes his time, thumbs pressing little circles into your scalp while you close your eyes and let your shoulders relax.

“You’re good at this,” you murmur.

“Should’ve gone to cosmetology school.”

You laugh, and he leans in to kiss the back of your shoulder.

Rinsing off turns into another excuse to stay close. He wraps his arms around your waist from behind while you both stand under the spray, and you lean back into him, warm water running down your skin. Neither of you talks for a bit. There’s no need.

It’s just comfort.

Closeness.

Hands in hair. Skin on skin. Routines turned into rituals without even meaning to.

You turn around, water splashing between you, and kiss him once - slow, wet, and sleepy.

“Best part of the morning,” he mumbles.

You grin. “Told you you’re soft now.”

He shrugs. “Only for you.”

The music is still thumping in your ears even after you step out of the crowded house. The night air is cool, a welcome relief after hours of noise, laughter, and too many drinks you can barely remember agreeing to. You sit down on the porch steps, pressing your palms against your cheeks. The world tilts just slightly, not enough to scare you, but enough to remind you that you’re definitely not sober.

Then the door creaks open behind you. Pedri walks out, hands in his pockets, the kind of casual look he wears when he’s pretending not to think about something too much. His dark hair is a little messy from the night, and his eyes glint under the dim streetlights. He spots you and makes his way over, sitting down beside you without a word.

You’ve known him for a long time. Close enough to notice the way his smile changes when he’s genuinely happy, close enough to recognize when something’s eating at him, close enough to know you shouldn’t let yourself feel the way you do about him. But alcohol has a way of quieting the voice of reason.

“You good?” he asks, his voice low and careful.

You laugh, though it sounds tired. “Define good.”

He smiles at that, but it’s faint. “Yeah. Same.”

For a few moments, the silence settles between you, broken only by distant bass from the party. You can feel the warmth radiating off his arm where it brushes yours, and suddenly it’s unbearable, the weight of everything you’ve never said.

“You ever…” you start, then stop. You chew on your lip, staring at the cracked pavement.

“What?” he presses, leaning just slightly closer.

You force yourself to look at him. His eyes are soft, curious. The alcohol in your veins makes you reckless. “You ever think we’re pretending?”

“Pretending what?”

“That we don’t want something more.”

The words hang heavy in the night air, and for a moment you wish you could grab them back and shove them down your throat. But Pedri doesn’t laugh or make a joke to defuse the tension. He just stares at you, expression unreadable.

“You think about that?” he asks finally, voice rougher than before.

“Sometimes,” you whisper. “Too much.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath, and then he leans forward, his hand brushing against yours. “I thought I was the only one.”

Your heart pounds so hard you’re certain he can hear it. The confession lingers between you, shaky and fragile, but real. His thumb grazes your knuckles, slow and hesitant, like he’s testing the ground before he dares to take a step.

“I shouldn’t say this,” he murmurs. “But I’ve wanted you for a long time.”

The truth breaks something open inside you, a dam you didn’t even realize you’d built. The alcohol makes it easier to let the flood spill out. “Me too. God, me too.”

And then you’re kissing him. It’s messy, clumsy, the kind of kiss that comes from holding something back for too long. His hands cradle your face, desperate and warm, and you cling to him like the ground might give way beneath you. The world feels sharp and bright in that moment, your heart beating fast, your thoughts tangled with his touch.

When you finally pull apart, breathless and dizzy, Pedri rests his forehead against yours. “We’re going to regret this in the morning, aren’t we?”

“Probably,” you say. And yet you kiss him again anyway.

isthmus

The morning is brutal.

You wake up with sunlight in your eyes and a pounding in your skull. It takes a few seconds to remember where you are, and then everything hits at once. Pedri. The porch. The kiss. The whispered confessions that felt too big to be real.

You roll over and see him on the other side of the bed, one arm draped across his stomach, hair sticking out in every direction. He’s awake, staring at the ceiling.

The silence is deafening.

“Hi,” you say, your voice small.

He turns his head toward you, and for the first time you see the nervousness flickering behind his eyes. “Hi.”

Neither of you moves. The weight of last night sits between you, awkward and heavy, and you wish desperately for the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

“So,” you start, though you have no idea where to go from there.

“So,” he echoes, biting his lip. His usual confidence is gone, replaced with something rawer.

You sit up, clutching the blanket around you like armor. “We were drunk. We said things we didn’t mean.”

“Didn’t mean?” His voice sharpens slightly, though it’s more hurt than anger.

You hesitate, your throat dry. The easy way out is to nod, to laugh it off, to blame the tequila for every word that slipped out. But when you look at him, you see the hope buried in his expression, fragile but real. And suddenly lying feels impossible.

“I meant it,” you admit softly. “I just don’t know what it means for us now.”

His shoulders relax a little, though his eyes still search yours. “I meant it too. Every word.”

The room goes still again, though it’s a different kind of silence this time. Less suffocating, more delicate. You let out a shaky breath.

“I’m scared,” you whisper. “If we mess this up, we lose everything. I don’t want to lose you.”

Pedri sits up beside you, his knee brushing against yours. He takes your hand, slow and deliberate. “We don’t have to rush. We don’t have to label it today. But I can’t pretend anymore. Not after last night.”

You stare at your intertwined hands, your heart twisting in your chest. His thumb rubs gentle circles against your skin, grounding you.

“You think we can really do this?” you ask.

His answer is quiet but firm. “I think we already are.”

Your chest aches in the best possible way. The fear doesn’t vanish, but it feels lighter, easier to carry when he’s looking at you like that.

When he leans in again, this time it’s softer. No alcohol to blur the edges, no desperation. Just him, steady and sure, kissing you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You are not on TikTok. You don’t even have the app, which is probably why you’ve gone a full two days without knowing you’re the star of a clip that’s racked up nearly two million views.

Unfortunately for you, the entire FC Barcelona Gen Z boyband has TikTok. And they are on it. Constantly.

“Tío. Is this your girl?” Ferran’s voice is loud enough to carry through the halls of Ciutat Esportiva, even from across the gym. Pedri, who was mid-stretch, lifts his head and gives Ferran a confused look.

“Qué?”

Ferran spins his phone around. The whole screen is a paused video of you, in a white kit and tall socks, pulling off a disgusting roulette past some poor, unsuspecting guy, then finessing the ball clean into the top corner like it’s light work. Gavi leans over the phone from behind, jaw dropped.

“No way that’s her,” says Pau Cubarsí. “She plays like that?”

“She moves like she knows what she’s doing,” Lamine mutters, eyebrows practically in his hairline.

Pedri sits up properly now. “Wait. Lemme see it.”

They restart the clip. It’s set to some audio with a beat drop, one of those “my girlfriend vs your girlfriend” edits. There are a couple of seconds of you laughing on the bench, then it transitions to the goal. You don’t even celebrate when you score. You jog away, half-smiling, and high-five a teammate like you’ve done it a hundred times.

“Oh my god.” Pedri’s hand flies to his mouth. “That’s you. That’s literally you.”

“Hermano!” Gavi shoves him. “Why didn’t you tell us she used to ball like that?”

“Because I didn’t know!” Pedri’s eyes are wide. “She told me she used to play, like, at school, but I thought she meant, like... lunchtime vibes.”

“She’s got tekkers,” Lamine says, deeply impressed.

“Clean strike too,” adds Pau, nodding like a scout.

“Tío,” Ferran says again, laughing. “You better propose now. She’s already got the shooting technique for a wedding penalty challenge.”

By the time you get home that night, Pedri’s acting weird. You know him. You know him. He opens the door normally, kisses your cheek, takes your bag from you like always... but he’s side-eyeing you. Big time.

You glance at him suspiciously. “What’s your problem?”

“Me? Nothing. No problem.” His voice goes suspiciously high.

You raise your brows. “You’re looking at me like I grew a second head.”

He tries to fight the smile tugging at his mouth. Fails. “You got anything you wanna tell me?”

You blink. “Like what?”

He holds up his phone. “This.”

You squint. Then your jaw drops.

“Oh my god, no way that got posted.”

Pedri’s grinning now, fully entertained. “So it is you?”

“Yes,” you groan, covering your face. “It was just some charity thing for a friend’s company. One of the girls recorded it. I didn’t even know she posted it.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” He pulls your hands from your face. “You’re telling me you played like that and never mentioned it?”

“I did mention it. You just assumed I was bad!”

He laughs, pulling you toward the couch. “Okay, first of all, you let me assume. Second of all, how am I supposed to handle all my teammates being in love with you now?”

You give him a look. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m serious. Ferran was two seconds away from posting ‘she’s not just a pretty face’ with heart eyes.”

You’re laughing now, cheeks warm. “What did you think when you saw it?”

“I thought I needed to start doing one-on-one drills with you.” He grins. “Baby, you look hot when you play.”

“You’re so dumb,” you mumble, pushing his shoulder.

“No, listen,” he says, tugging you onto his lap. “I already loved you. Now you’re my favorite player. Number one. No one else even comes close.”

You roll your eyes, smiling in spite of yourself. “You’re so embarrassing.”

“But you scored top bins,” he says, poking your side. “With a roulette. You embarrassed that guy. It was cold.”

You shrug, smug. “He shouldn’t have stepped so early.”

Pedri throws his head back and cackles. “Nah. You know ball. That’s terrifying.”

“Scared?”

“Definitely.”

He pulls you in closer, resting his chin on your shoulder as he plays the video again. “We’re gonna watch this every day.”

You kiss his temple. “You’re such a simp.”

He nods, totally unashamed. “Simping for my striker.”

The next day, you tag along to training to drop off Pedri’s lunch. He has meetings after practice and asked if you’d mind swinging by. You figured you’d just wave at the boys and be on your way.

Yeah. No.

You’re not even two steps onto the pitch before Ferran spots you.

“She’s here!” he calls. “Barça’s new number 9!”

You look at Pedri, who’s barely holding back laughter. “You told them I was coming?”

“Nope,” he says. “But this is gonna be good.”

Lamine jogs over first. “Hey, I’m just saying, if you want to come train with us sometime…”

“Leave her alone,” Pedri warns.

Pau gives you a little salute. “Respect for the footwork, by the way.”

Gavi’s just staring at you like you betrayed him personally. “I’ve known you for how long and you never told me you had that in you?”

You sigh. “I didn’t know it would be a whole thing!”

“It is a thing!” Ferran says, handing you a training bib with a smirk. “You’re starting next weekend.”

Pedri slides an arm around your waist and pulls you against his side. “Back off. She’s mine.”

“I just wanna play one match,” Gavi says. “Just one. I gotta see this live.”

You give Pedri a look. “What do you think?”

He leans down to kiss you, smiling. “I think I’ll regret saying this, but… yeah. Let’s see what you got, striker.”

And just like that, you’re pulling on a bib, surrounded by some of the best young players in the world, all hyped to see you in action.

Honestly? You don’t blame them.

The calendar date had been circled for weeks. Not because you were counting the days like a fan tracking a record, but because this was Pedri’s day. Five years since he first pulled on the blaugrana shirt, five years since a quiet boy from Tenerife became one of the brightest stars at Camp Nou. You knew he would never want a fuss made about it. That was exactly why you had to make a fuss.

Your plan wasn’t anything extravagant. No stadium, no banners stretched across a city block. Just something simple, something that whispered instead of shouted, something that said I’m proud of you in the way Pedri understood best.

By mid-afternoon, the house smelled of cake and fresh flowers. A few balloons were tied to the kitchen chairs, and you had laid out a table with tapas, tortilla, and his favorite croquetas, all homemade. Nilo had been “helping” by sneaking under your feet, tail wagging as he waited for dropped crumbs.

You glanced at the clock and straightened a plate for the fifth time. Any moment now his parents and Fer would arrive, and you felt a little rush of nerves. Not because you doubted them, they adored you, but because you wanted everything perfect. This wasn’t just about Pedri’s career. It was about how far he had come as a person, as a son, as a brother, as the boy who still blushed when you told him he looked handsome.

The doorbell rang.

“Hola!” Rosy’s warm voice filled the doorway as she stepped in with her arms wide open. She pulled you into a hug before you could even greet her properly, her perfume familiar and comforting. Behind her, Fernando Sr. carried a bottle of wine, and Fer had a mischievous grin on his face like he was in on a secret.

“You really did all this?” Rosy gasped as she saw the decorations, her hand flying to her mouth. “He’s going to die of embarrassment.”

You laughed softly. “That’s the idea. But in a good way.”

Nilo bounded over, tail wagging furiously, and Fer crouched to scratch behind his ears. “At least Nilo approves.”

With the house buzzing, you felt your nerves settle. Together, you lit the candles and set out glasses. Rosy placed her gift neatly on the side table, and Fernando poured wine while muttering something about his son never drinking enough of it to appreciate it.

Then came the moment you’d been waiting for.

The click of keys at the front door.

You mouthed a quick “shh” to the family, and they ducked into the kitchen with badly hidden grins. You stood waiting in the living room as the door opened.

Pedri stepped inside, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his hair a little messy from training. He looked tired, the kind of tired that wasn’t just physical but carried the weight of weeks of matches, interviews, and obligations.

“Cariño?” he called softly. His brow furrowed when he noticed the faint glow of candles. “What’s going on?”

You smiled, heart hammering, and held out your hand. “Surprise.”

Before he could ask, Rosy, Fernando, and Fer all spilled out of the kitchen with a cheer. “Feliz aniversario, Pedrito!”

His face turned crimson so fast you couldn’t help but laugh. He set his bag down slowly, his eyes darting from the balloons to the food to you, his mouth opening and closing like he didn’t know which thought to say first.

“Mamá…” he groaned softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You didn’t have to-”

“I didn’t,” Rosy cut him off with a smile. “She did.” She nodded toward you, her pride glowing brighter than the candles.

Pedri’s wide eyes landed on you, stunned. You felt heat rise in your cheeks under his gaze, but you lifted your chin and gestured at the table. “It’s nothing huge. Just… five years is a long time. And you deserve to celebrate it.”

He swallowed, still flustered, and muttered something under his breath in Spanish that you couldn’t quite catch. Then he stepped closer, his hand brushing against yours, grounding himself in your presence like he always did. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

“Unbelievably supportive?” you teased.

“Unbelievably… mine.” His voice was soft, shy, but there was pride in it too.

Before you could reply, Fer clapped him on the back. “Come on, little brother, stop being cheesy. Let’s eat before Papá finishes all the croquetas.”

The evening unfolded with easy warmth. Pedri sat between you and Rosy, his hand tucked under the table to hold yours. He was quiet, letting everyone else talk, but you noticed how often his eyes found you, as though anchoring himself to the moment.

At one point, Rosy leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Five years, Pedrito. Your father and I are so proud of you.”

He ducked his head, embarrassed, but the corners of his mouth curved up. “Gracias, mamá.”

Later, when the food was nearly gone and laughter filled the room, you slipped away for a moment. In the kitchen, you lit the small cake you had made, its frosting uneven but decorated with little Barça colors. Carrying it back in, you started to sing softly, and the others joined in.

Pedri’s eyes widened as he saw the cake. His face glowed in the candlelight, shy but happy, his hand pressed to his chest as though he couldn’t quite believe it. When you set it down in front of him, he shook his head in disbelief.

“You didn’t,” he whispered.

“I did,” you replied, smiling. “Now make a wish.”

For a moment he just stared, his lashes low as though protecting whatever thought he was holding. Then he blew out the candles, and the room erupted in cheers.

Later, when the plates were stacked and his family had left, Pedri found you in the living room. Nilo was curled up by your feet, already asleep.

Pedri pulled you close, resting his forehead against yours. His voice was barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you. I never thought I’d have someone who loved me like this.”

You cupped his face gently. “You deserve all of it. Every balloon, every cake, every cheer. Because you’re not just Pedri the footballer. You’re Pedri, the boy who works harder than anyone, who loves quietly but so deeply. And I’ll always be your biggest fan.”

His eyes softened, the shyness melting into something more certain. He kissed you then, slow and grateful, his arms wrapping around you like he never wanted to let go.