#pg6

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

Your seventh anniversary.

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

You believed him anyway.

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

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

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

But your phone stays quiet.

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

It isn’t fine, and you know it.

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

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

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

Now he leaves all the time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Training. Always training.

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

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

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

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

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

“How old?” he’d said, grinning.

“Like... twenty.”

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

“It is when you’re fourteen.”

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

You wonder if he even remembers saying that.

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t notice you’re awake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Happy anniversary, guapa.”

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

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

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

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

“I know you will.”

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

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

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

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

You’d snorted. “That’s dramatic.”

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

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

“I don’t think,” he’d said. “I know.”

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

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

“What?”

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

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

“Then it’s yours too.”

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

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

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

You don’t answer.

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

Still nothing.

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I’m fine.”

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

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

Of course he does.

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

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

“Sure.”

He pauses. “You sure you’re okay?”

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

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

The door clicks shut behind him.

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

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

But maybe that’s what hurts the most.

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

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

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

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

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

That’s when the FaceTime ringtone starts.

Aurora.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Almost enough to forget.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod quickly. “I’ll remind him.”

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

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

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

“Love you too.”

The call ends.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why is your girlfriend upset?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And just like that, the spark ignites.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Know what?” he bites back.

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

“You forgot our anniversary.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then what do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

His voice hardens. “You’re overreacting.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes!”

“You really want me to?”

“Yes, I do!”

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

“Marry me.”

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

His jaw clenches. “You heard me.”

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

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

You stare, frozen. “No way.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He frowns. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s a yes,” you whisper.

His eyes widen. “Yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⪼ summary: Caught in the heat of the moment, you and Gavi can’t be bothered with undressing—just tugging clothes aside, desperate to feel each other, and giving in to the kind of quick release before his game that leaves you both breathless.

⪼ genre: smut

⪼ warning: explicit smut (p in v) • quickie sex • clothes pulled aside • rough/urgent pace • public risk element (hallway), • desperation • messy kisses • swearing.

⪼ wc / cc: 476 words / 2,797 char.

-

It was supposed to be a quick good luck kiss before his match. Just a moment in the quiet, abandoned corridor beneath the stadium, far from the locker room, far from curious eyes.

But the second your lips touched, Pablo lost all restraint.

His hands gripped your waist, dragging you back against the cold concrete wall, his body pressed hard against yours. The sounds of the crowd were faint, muffled through the thick walls, but here it was just the two of you—and the rapid thud of his heartbeat hammering against your chest.

“Pablo—” you gasped, as his mouth trailed from your lips to your jaw, teeth scraping your skin. “You have a game—”

“Que se joda el juego,” he muttered, his breath hot against your neck. His hips ground into you, and you felt how hard he already was, straining against his shorts. “I need you. Right now.”

You barely had time to respond before his hands shoved your skirt up, underwear tugged to the side with frantic urgency. His own game shorts were yanked down just far enough, cock springing free, red and leaking. The sight made your pulse race.

“Here,” you whispered, wrapping an arm around his neck, guiding him forward.

Pablo groaned low, lining himself up and pushing in with one desperate thrust. The stretch was sharp, overwhelming, and your cry echoed faintly against the empty walls. He swallowed the sound with a messy kiss, already setting a frantic rhythm.

Clothes still clung to your bodies, bunched around hips and thighs, every movement harsh and hurried. His hands dug into your skin—one clamped on your thigh to hold you open, the other braced against the wall beside your head as he fucked into you.

“God—you feel so good,” he gasped, forehead pressed against yours. “So tight—I can’t—fuck, I’m not gonna last—Mierda”

The roughness, the urgency, the sheer wrongness of doing this minutes before his match—it all made your body burn hotter. You clung to him, nails raking down his back through his jersey, muffling your moans against his shoulder as your climax rushed over you.

Your release triggered his own—Pablo shuddered, hips jerking hard as he spilled deep inside you, moaning your name like a prayer.

For a moment, the only sound was your mingled gasps, echoing faintly in the forgotten hall. His forehead stayed pressed to yours, lips brushing yours in quick, shaky kisses as he tried to catch his breath.

Then, reluctantly, he pulled out, tucking himself back into his shorts, his cheeks flushed and lips swollen. You adjusted your skirt with trembling fingers, still trying to process what had just happened.

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