#woso

Online, the fans were completely split into two teams. Half of them thought you had come solely to support Clara, your younger sister, while the other half suspected you were there for Alexia, your rumoured girlfriend. 

None of them knew you were there for both.

It was Clara's first time playing in a Champions League final, and since your parents were far too "busy" to make it to the game, you had made sure she would have someone cheering for her in the stands. At the same time, it was the first opportunity you had ever had to travel and watch Alexia play anywhere other than Barcelona.

Two birds, one stone.

When the final whistle blew, you were in the stands wearing a Guijarro shirt. The shirt had been a very strategic decision on your part.

Alexia and Clara had both suffered absolute meltdowns at the mere thought of you wearing the other's number and name. There was no chance you were subjecting yourself to the humiliation of a half-and-half shirt either, so you had ended the argument by picking up Alexia's phone, texting Patri yourself, and asking if she could sort you out a shirt with her name on it.

Clara had retaliated by making sure you could hear Traitor by Olivia Rodrigo playing from her room for three days straight. It was, indeed, torture.

Alexia, meanwhile, had pouted and declared that you were officially banned from kissing, hugging, or holding her hand until you came home with a shirt with her name and number eleven on it. 

You did not cave. 

She lasted four hours without kisses, hugs, or hand-holding. You didn't mention it when she finally folded. You just smiled into her hair as she pulled you in, both of you pretending the temporary ban had never happened.

Your plan had never been to go down onto the pitch for the celebrations. 

You didn't want fans spotting you and Alexia together, which you knew would happen the second you were within a few meters of each other. You had told both Ale and Clara that beforehand, and they had agreed, after, of course, being babies about it.

But then the fans began to leave the stadium, the medal ceremony things were dismantled piece by piece, and the red and blue ribbons settled in the turf.

That's when you saw it.

Across the pitch, Alexia was laughing with her mum and uncle, tucked between them as if she were a little kid. A little further, Cata was wrapped up with her girlfriend and parents. Pina was surrounded by her mum and cousins, all of them talking over each other.

And then there was Clara. 

She stood all by herself, a gold medal hanging around her neck, quietly watching everyone else. It was long past the moment when teammates were celebrating with each other; now they had all turned toward their own families. And Clara's family consisted entirely of you and your brother, who hadn't been able to take time off uni to come. 

You felt your heart crack right down the middle, pieces of it falling in the stands. Before you could think better of it, before you could remind yourself why you had promised to stay in the stands, you were already moving towards the barrier.

You showed your credentials to the security guards, and they let you through without a second glance.

Clara didn't see you coming.

You caught her by surprise, wrapping your arms around her shoulders from behind. She gasped when she saw it was you, and you knew it was a sound you were going to carry around with you for a long time. 

She was just so, so happy.

The expression on her face reminded you of when she was younger, doing dance recitals. Back then, she would search for you in the audience because your parents thought those performances weren't worth attending. As she spun around inside your embrace, her smile looked exactly the same as it had all those years ago. Except now, with fewer baby teeth. 

You pulled her into a tighter hug, burying your face into her shoulder because, of course, she was taller than you despite being the youngest. The edge of her medal dug painfully into your sternum, but you ignored it. 

"I'm so proud of you, Clarita," you whispered, "Te quiero, mana."

"Te quiero," she replied, kissing your cheek. "Thank you for being here."

Neither of you moved for a long time, and although there were plenty of people around, talking nonstop, it felt like this tiny space between the two of you was the quietest place on the entire pitch.

"You said you wouldn't come down," Clara murmured, squeezing you even tighter. "You said we would meet back in the locker room."

"I was being silly," you said, smiling up to her as the bear hug finally came to an end. 

Your ribs were hurting. When had Clara gotten so strong?

You pulled back just enough to take the medal in your hands, turning it carefully. "I needed to see this medal up close, no?" You smiled. "You deserved it, bebé."

Clara rolled her eyes. "Don't call me bebé. I'm nineteen."

You ignored her completely as you reached up and pinched her cheeks. "Mi bebezota!"

"Urgh!" Clara groaned, trying to escape your grip. "Stop! You are embarrassing me"

A grin tugged at your lips. That was exactly what you wanted.

"People are watching, you know," she added.

People were watching indeed. Including Alexia.

It hadn't taken long for her to find you.

You obviously spotted her before she saw you; she was standing several meters behind Clara.

The moment her hazel eyes landed on you, something in her whole posture softened; a beautiful smile spread across her face even as she held herself carefully still, stiff, almost rigid. 

Her shoulders were far too straight, the professional façace held tightly in place. She, as much as you, was entirely aware of how many broadcast cameras were following her every move.

It was almost as if she were waiting for you to make the decision. 

Seeing her standing there, her temples covered in sweat that slipped down her collarbones, her face flushed from the game and from being smothered in her mother's affection, the identical gold medal that also adorned her neck....

She was pretty, and yours and the distance suddenly felt far too ridiculous to be taken so seriously. 

You patted Clara on the back when Syd and Aicha called her to take some pictures. After watching her go, you turned and started walking towards Alexia.

She smiled at you the entire way.

When you stopped in front of her, you immediately pulled her into your side. You were hyper aware of your surroundings, so you kept the gesture simple, safe and casual. 

You slid your arm around her shoulder, nothing more. You leaned in close enough for only her to hear, whispering a "mi campeona" right into her ear. Then you pressed a quick kiss to her cheek.

You hear her breath hitched, the puff of air that came out of her mouth was slow and warm against your neck as she instinctively leaned into you. She squeezed your waist just a second too long, just a fraction harder than any friend normally would.

"I thought you weren't coming down?" she murmured the exact same word Clara had said only moments earlier. 

"Mhmm," you whispered, reluctantly stepping away from her, putting a more friendly distance between you. "I changed my mind."

Behind her, Eli and her uncle were watching the interaction with matching smiles.

You had met Alexia's family a few months ago, and along with the team, they were among the very few people who knew exactly what you meant to her. Something much, much more significant than her protegé's sister. 

"Hola, mi amor!" Eli exclaimed, stepping forward and pulling you into a motherly hug, completely unconcerned by the cameras around you. "I'm glad you came down! I told you, it's fun being on the pitch after they win."

"Hey, Eli," you said, smiling and kissing both her cheeks. "You were, once again, completely right." 

You turned in a slow circle, taking in the stadium, taking in everything.

"Everything feels far too big down here." You turned to Alexia. "How can you even play? I feel so tiny, like an ant."

Alexia shrugged, a soft look in her eyes. She always got those whenever you and her mom were together. 

"You get used to it and--Mama! I told you I'm not cold" she pouted.

Alexia twisted away, trying to dodge as Eli attempted to drape a heavy coat over her shoulder. 

"But you are shaking, bebé!" Eli insisted.

"I'm not shaking, mama," Alexia protested, already blushing. "I'm just–"

Before she could finish, you felt an arm suddenly land over your shoulder, dragging you slightly sideways. 

"Guapa! Hi! look who's decided to join us. Got tired of hiding in your cave?" 

Patri's voice was excited; she was always the sweetest on the team. She looked like she had been to war and back, maybe for them footballers, the Champions League final really was war.

"Hola!!!" 

Another voice came. Kika appeared beside Patri, vibrating with energy, her dark hair sticking out in every possible direction. You knew those two would party a lot tonight.

Patri's brown eyes dropped to your back, her grin widening as she noticed the name printed across the fabric.

She looked over at Alexia, raising one eyebrow with mischief. 

"Look at that, Ale," Patri teased, patting your shoulder proudly. "Your girl knows talent when she sees it."

Alexia's eyes narrowed playfully, her lips pressing into a tight, pouting line as she stared at the Guijarro shirt covering your torso. She looked at you, her eyes shining with that possessive spark you had come to adore. To expect.

Kika laughed, leaning into Patri's side. "Oh no... capi's a bit mad."

"I'm not mad," Alexia countered smoothly, though her eyes never left yours. "It's a nice shirt. It just happens to have the wrong number on it.

By the time you made it back to the hotel, Alexia had been grinning ear to ear for approximately forty minutes straight. She knew perfectly well what the two of you were going to do once you set foot into the hotel room.

The team bus wasn't leaving for the club for another hour and a half, but Alexia did not seem particularly invested in the public celebrations anymore. At the moment, she appeared to be significantly more excited about kissing your entire face.

The door had barely clicked shut behind you before her hands were on your waist.

"I'm so happy you are here, mi sol," she whispered against your lips, her voice raspy, probably from running so much and whatever singing had taken place in the locker room afterwards.

She kissed you gently at first, and then deeper, before resting her forehead against yours, breathing in slowly. Breathing you in. 

"You looked pretty in the stands," she murmured. "My favourite fangirl."

"I'm your favourite even while in Patri's shirt?" You teased softly.

"Shut up," she murmured with a breathless laugh, not allowing you to mutter another word as she captured your mouth again, sucking your tongue.

"You won't be wearing it much longer, so enjoy it while you can."

You were fairly sure you would.

Her hands settled on your hips as she slowly guided you backwards through the room. There was something confident in her steps; they were so deliberate and confident, for a moment, it was easy to forget you were in a hotel a few kilometres away from her actual home in Barcelona. 

The back of your knee bumped against the edge of the bed, and you let yourself fall onto it, with Alexia following right after.

You kissed her, tasting her champagne-tinged tongue, she felt weightless on top of you. 

Her captain's armband was still hugging her bicep tightly; of course, she hadn't taken it off. Once you had told her how much you loved it when she fucked you with it, she had started to keep it. Her heavy gold medal was still hanging around her neck, swaying between you like a pendulum.  

Alexia was exactly as good as she thought she was, completely dominant on and off the pitch. The way confidence seemed to be radiating off of her in a way that was equal parts dangerous and attractive.

Your hand travelled down to her lower back, your finger sliding beneath the waistband of her shorts to squeeze the firm flesh of her ass. You shifted under her, tilting your body just right to force her pelvis closer to yours.

"It was hot watching you play," you murmured against her mouth. 

You leaned up, caught her lower lip between your teeth, biting into it enough for you to hear a small whimper fall from her tongue. 

She pouted at you, her eyes hazy, unfocused. She was completely fixed on you, silently asking you to kiss it better.

You didn't make her wait, pulling her down once more. 

"Soy su campeona?" Alexia whispered into the narrow space between your mouth. Her voice sounded much smaller than usual, completely bewitched, and slightly tipsy. [Am I your champion?] 

"Si," you whispered, your hand clutching her ass. "Mine, only mine."

Alexia smiled and caught you in a kiss.

Her hot mouth trailed down the line of your jaw, dragging over the side of your throat. One hand guided your head gently aside as she found the hidden and sensitive spot right behind your ear, choosing to brand you there, sucking firmly until you knew it would leave a purplish mark.

A mix of a giggle and a gasp escaped you as your hand settled on her shoulders. "A hickey? Really? You teased. "How old are you? Sixteen?"

She huffed a laugh against your pulse point. "I deserved it, okay? I won the Champions League. I can do whatever I want today."

"Mhm," you hummed, tipping your head back a little further to give her entirely uninhibited access to do as she pleased. "I suppose you can do whatever you want with me, yes."

"Si?" She asked dangerously. 

Even without looking, you could feel the slow, coy smile pressing right against your jugular. 

"Uhum," you nodded as much as you could under her weight.

"Joder," she cursed, her breath hitching as the absolute submission in your voice sank in. Her hips shifted, rolling hard and against yours as she pinned you to the mattress. "Voy a correr si sigues diciendo eso." [I'm gonna cum if you keep saying that.]

She kept moving against you; it was clear that the confession made her turn absolutely relentless. She took off your shirt, leaving your torso bare. 

She pressed her body completely flush, the medal a cool contrast between your breasts, while the rough fabric of her armband brushed against your arm. Her mouth claimed yours once more, her tongue pushing deep, the taste of champagne still there. 

You could, somehow, feel her wetness through the fabric of her shorts, slick and hot.

Your fingers dug deeper into the meat of her ass, squeezing as you tilted your own body, forcing her pelvis to drag exactly where you needed. "You're so fucking hot, Alexia."

Alexia moaned low straight into the kiss, then broke it to trail her lips back to your neck, sucking another mark right beside the first.

"Mía," she murmured, voice dropping as her hips found a steady rhythm. [Mine]

Her clit was pressing and sliding against yours through layers of clothing. Her chest was absolutely perfect against yours. She nipped at your earlobe, her breath becoming faster and faster with every passing second. 

"Dilo otra vez," Alexia demanded, grinding harder. [say it again.]

You arched up to meet her, your hands roaming beneath her shirt to feel the sweat-slick skin of her back. She trembled when your fingers dug into the tense muscles there. 

"You can do whatever you want with me, baby," you breathed right into her ear. "Whatever you want, sí? I'm yours; you deserve it. I'm all yours tonight."

"Ah," she moaned, the medal clinked softly with every roll of her hips. "I want to fuck you nice and slow."

She was growing impatient with the barrier of clothes between you.

She shifted, yanking her shorts down just enough to bare herself before turning her attention to you, working at your clothes with impatient tugs until skin finally met skin. 

Finally, you were both completely naked.

When her bare pussy finally settled over yours, your folds parted wetly under the weight. She resumed the grind right away, clit to clit, moving in slow circles.

"Oh god, you feel so good," you gasped, eyes dropping to watch the way her slick coated you, it was so messy, so raw, so fucking delicious. Your eyes landed on her armband again and that only made you get wetter. "Damn, Alexia. You are fucking dripping baby."

"Joder, amor" She hissed again, her voice cracking as overstimulation hit her. "Tan mojada-" [you're so wet]

Still, she kept the pace even, riding the shared wetness, her body soft yet controlled as she chased the edge without rushing towards it. 

Her medal continues to swing between you, a constant reminder of the massive victory waiting just outside the hotel room.

Her hands slid up your arms before settling around your wrists, pinning them above your head.

"You get so bossy when you win," you manage to say, rolling your eyes. You loved it when she got more dominant.

Your head suddenly felt so heavy.

You weren't sure whether it was exhaustion, dehydration, or simply the overwhelming intensity of the day catching up with you. 

You were so overwhelmed with the way her body was touching every centimeter of your skin, how her kisses were getting sloppy and wet.

She was desperate, and you were, too. Your cunts were grinding, making a mess on both your bodies, the slickness dripping down her pussy right into yours, soaking you completely.

"I'm bossy and you fucking love it," Alexia shot back, moving her body carefully, trying not to crush you, but apply the right amount of pressure to your clit. "You are soaked, mi amor, all for me, huh"

She was, of course, right.

Keeping one wrist pinned above your head with one single hand, Alexia used the other to grip your thigh firmly, spreading it wider.

"Stay like that," she whispered while absolutely devouring your neck. "Don't you dare move."

Alexia shifted you as if you were a rag doll, moving your legs how she wanted until her cunt was aligned to her liking.

"Next time you wear my shirt, si?" she murmured, jealousy still thick in her voice as her cunt moved with yours.

She looked down at you, her eyes dark as she kept rutting against you. "Tengo mi coño pegado al tuyo, y todavía no llevas mi camiseta?" [My cunt is pressed against yours, and you're still not wearing my shirt?]

"Mhmm," you moaned. Fuck.

You were gonna cum.

"Tell me who is going to make you cum," she asked, as if reading your mind, her voice was low as she continued her movements.

The pleasure was becoming so intense, you were going to snap.

Alexia's dirty talk was way too good. Her pussy was pulsing over yours, all slick, dripping down to soak the white sheets between your thighs.

Alexia pinched your arm. "Ouch!" You gasped, caught between pain and pleasure.

"Who is rubbing your cunt? Me or Patri?"

"Y-you," you managed to say, breathless.

"Who marked your whole neck?" She asked again. "Who gets to have you naked in her hotel bed? Who, mi sol?"

The sensation pushed you over the edge right after, your body arching up into her as waves of pleasure took over you.

"F-fuck, Ale," your body was going limp, all warm as the orgasm took over. "You baby, you, always you."

Alexia, sensing your orgasm, rutted her cunt faster until she was climaxing all over you. "Oh, god–" she moaned in your ear.

She stayed exactly where she was afterwards, naked and beautiful on top of you.

Your pussies were still pressed together, warm and dripping. Alexia nuzzled lower until she found your breast, drawing the nipple into her mouth with slow and comforting pulls. 

Her tongue flicked lazily, her breath warm and even against your chest as she settled in, tasting the mix of sweat on your breast, while her fingers played with your other nipple. 

"You didn't answer my question," she mumbled from your breast after a minute.

"Ahn?" You asked, your mind far too dizzy. You hadn't even realised she was on your breast, when you did, pleasure began to grow again. "I did, no-?"

"You'll wear my shirt?" She asked, her words slightly slurred. "Next time? Please?"

"Oh," you said, nodding against the pillows, your voice still shaky from the climax, it was so… intense. You weren't sure you would ever regain all of your breath.  

"Yeah, of course. I mean…" A laugh escaped you. "After this, how can I not?"

Alexia made a pleased sound deep in her throat and kept her lips sealed around your nipple. Her body stayed relaxed on top of yours, her frame soft pressing down.

You realised it was probably the first time she felt at ease and relaxed since she woke up.

Her thumb continued to touch over your nipple, rubbing slow circles before giving it a gentle tug and roll between her fingers.

"We need to get ready for the club," you murmured eventually, your fingers threading through her now-brunette hair. "It's getting late."

She whined softly.

She sucked a little harder for a moment, refusing to lift her head. Her thumb kept playing, flicking and pinching the other nipple while her hips gave one lazy grind that made both of you shiver, your clits brushing.

"No..." she mumbled around the peak in her mouth. "Stay like this. Just a little longer."

"I can't be the reason you are late," you said with a chuckle, still combing your fingers through her hair. "It's not good for my reputation. I'm new to the Barcelona circle, the girls need to like me... they won't if I make their captain late."

"The girls will never think anything badly of you," Alexia said, her mouth finally unlatching. She rested her cheek against your chest, listening to your heart. "You are too sweet for that."

You chucked at that, staring at the beige hotel ceiling. Was it beige? Or had it once been white and simply not been cleaned properly in years. 

"Sweet? Me?" You chuckled. "Okay, maybe love really is blind."

Alexia looked up, frowning. "What? You are sweet, gentle, caring-"

You shook your head, a hint of a self-deprecating smile on your face. "I'm not bebé. I'm stressed all the time. I'm moody as soon as I wake up. I'm constantly worried about something or someone-"

"Because you care," Alexia interrupted instantly. 

She pushed herself up onto her elbows, no longer putting her full weight on you; she looked down at you with a very fierce expression. 

"You are worried all the time because you care about your patients, about your siblings…" Her voice softened slightly. "About me."

You looked at her with soft (and slightly sad) eyes. 

"I think you see me in a much better light than I actually deserve." 

"I see you just right, mi sol," Alexia said, leaning down to kiss your lips. 

"My sweet." Kiss. 

"Pretty." Kiss. 

"Gentle." Kiss. 

"Loving." Kiss. 

"Girlfriend. 

You were smiling second one. You didn't try to stop it. 

"You get too cheesy when you cum," you whispered, a sudden blush creeping up your cheeks. "It's adorable."

"I know, perdon," Alexia replied, pouting down at you without a single ounce of regret.

"I'm sorry I don't get cheesy," you murmured. "But I swear I love you just as much."

"It's okay," she chucked. "I know you love me. This is the first time you have actually taken time off for someone. That has to be true love."

You squinted your eyes, your cheeks heating up even more. "And who exactly told you that?"

Alexia chucked, leaning down to press a warm kiss on top of your blush. "Your sweetheart of a sister."

"Of course she did."

As it turned out, actually getting out of bed and preparing for the night was considerably less romantic than the books made it seem.

Once Alexia finally untangled herself from you, the two of you were forced to acknowledge the mess the sex left on the hotel sheets.

There was a large, damp stain stretched across the middle of the bed. The lingering scent of sex and slickness was mixed with the light breeze coming through the window. 

Alexia did not seem remotely concerned about the ruined sheets, instead, she just propped her head up on her hand and simply watched you with a big and proud grin on her face.

You, in response, blushed all over, immediately scrambling for the duvet, dragging it up to your chin to cover yourself.

"Stop watching me like that," you pouted, clutching the fabric tighter.

Alexia rolled her eyes and continued to smile. 

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, moving smoothly without a single hint of instability; you were certain you would be wobbling if you had been topping the way she just did. 

She walked across the room to fetch the two white hotel robes hanging by the wardrobe.

She slipped one on herself before returning to bed with the second. She gently tried to pry the duvet away from your tight grip so she could put the second one over your shoulders.

"We had sex less than twenty-four hours after we met for the first time," she teased, tugging playfully at the duvet. "Back then, you had absolutely no problem being naked around me… And now you are embarrassed?"

You rolled your eyes, holding it for dear life. 

"Back then, I was thinner. But you know what they say, happy relationships make you gain weight." Your gaze dripped over her athletic frame. "Bon… unless you are a very disciplined footballer, then apparently, you don't gain a single kilo."

Alexia's playful expression vanished instantly, replaced by genuine worry. 

"What!??" She blurted. "Are you having issues with your body? Like... body image issues?! Mi amor, you are the prettiest woman alive!"

You rolled your eyes at her dramatics. This was exactly why you hadn't said a single thing until now.

"No, I'm not having any issues," you said. "I know I'm... fine. I'm just different than when we started dating and–"

"You are, like, hotter now," Alexia interrupted, stating it so blankly and firmly as if she was merely speaking facts. 

"Huh?"

"You are hotter," she repeated. "Because you are my lovely, beautiful girlfriend now."

You smiled at her, your heart feeling warm. The poor thing was trying hard to reassure you.

Your sweet, sweet girl. "Gracias, Ale."

"No, baby, I mean it," Alexia insisted, her tone changing to something so incredibly tender and sincere it made your chest ache. "You are perfect. Your face is perfect, and your body-" 

Your grip around the duvet loosened, and Alexia took advantage, finally managing to wrap the robe around you. "And your thighs are perfect, and your tummy is perfect… and everything about you–"

"Okay, love, that's enough--"

"If I could, I would eat you whole."

You blinked at her. 

"Okay, that's literally cannibalism."

"Some cultures see cannibalism as an ultimate act of love and adoration," Alexia countered immediately.

She said it with the most profound, soft, tender and deadpan face. She was completely serious, looking at you like a proud cat that had just caught a dead bird and was offering it as a sign of love.

"Oh, okay," you said, as you reached up and patted both her cheeks. "Thanks, my love. I'm feeling much better now. I would absolutely let you eat me whole if it wouldn't result in the complete ceasing of my existence."

"Really?" Alexia asked happily, her eyes lighting up. "Would you do the same to me?"

What the hell kind of sweet talk even was that?

"Oh... yes," you said with fake enthusiasm. "Of course."

Alexia beamed, looking incredibly happy and touched that her (bizarre) feelings were being fully reciprocated. 

Relationships, however, and as sad as it seems,  were not built entirely on sex and body image conversations that somehow end up in discussions of cannibalism, you see. Most often, they were not; there were arguments. Petty and ridiculous arguments.

Like the shower.

"Okay… we really need to clean up and get dressed," you said, glancing towards the bathroom. "The bus is leaving soon."

Alexia wrapped her arms around your waist, resting her chin on your shoulder. "Let's take a shower together then," she murmured against your skin, her voice dropping to a seductive cadence.

You let out a dry laugh. "Nice try, Ale."

Alexia stepped in front of you, her face collapsing into a (guess what?) pout. 

"Mi sol, please?" she pleaded, yes, pleaded. "I love you and your body, and we love taking showers together, sí? Come on, please? Pretty please? You say I'm your champion, no? Don't I deserve to take a shower with mi amor?!"

You stared at her for two full seconds before you folded.

You always fold. It was entirely Eli's fault for creating a woman with the prettier, most stupidly devastating puppy face ever made in the world. Nobody could say no to those eyes.

"Ugh, fine," you sighed, letting her take your hand and lead you to the bathroom. "You do deserve it."

Slowly, the reality of what she had accomplished began to settle over you, a warm feeling took over your torso, a smile appeared on your face, and Alexia noticed it.

She grinned too, pushing you gently against her, one hand sliding to your robe as she backed you against the tiled wall.

She was all over you, kissing you until your knees felt weak.

You caught her jaw in your hand, and she leaned into the touch. "You really won, huh, bebé?" you whispered again, "yeah, yeah... you really do deserve it."

"Your girlfriend is a European champion," she whispered back.

She grinned again before she stole another kiss, her hips drifting a little to yours. 

"Ale, no," you gasped, pushing lightly on her shoulder. "We seriously cannot have sex again. We'll actually miss the bus, and I'm not taking an Uber to the club. That would be a proper walk of shame."

"No sex, no," she dismissed the concern with a wave of her hand. "Just a little kissing," she bargained, punctuating the statement by nipping at your chin.

"Okaaay," you said slowly. "Kissing, yes, but under the shower."

You both stepped into the shower stall. You reached over and turned the knob, settling the temperature to your preference. You waited a bit till the water completely heated up and then walked under the water, feeling it soak over you.

So warm. So perfect.

Alexia, still wearing that confident and romantic smile of hers, stepped directly behind you. Okay, maybe too could fit in a quickie and-

Alexia went completely silent behind you. Then… her eyes flew wide open. 

Before you could even register what was happening, a hand clamped around your waist, and she yanked you backwaters out of the stream of water.

"Joder! Estás loca?!!" She said, frantically wiping stray droplets of water from her face as though she had just been splashed with HCl. "The water is burning my skin! It's melting me!" [Fuck, are you crazy?!]

"That's the temperature I like to shower at!" You protested, completely bewildered by her reaction. "What is wr–"

"You are making a soup out of yourself!!" Alexia looked so genuinely horrified, you were starting to wonder if the water was really that hot. "You are a doctor, you, of all people, should know how bad this is for your skin! It's gonna fall off!"

You cautiously stuck a hand back under the stream. 

It felt oh so lovely… warm, comforting. Exactly how a shower should feel.

"You are being dramatic again, Alexia!"

"I'm not!" she said. "You want us to stand in boiling water!"

"You and Clara," you said, shaking your head. "Dramatic as hell. That's why you get along so well. Exactly the same personality."

Alexia opened her mouth to argue, and then snapped it shut. Apparently, she did not appreciate the comparison to her teenage protege, and got deeply wounded by it.

In the end, the romantic shared shower never happened. 

Alexia kept her robe on and sat on the closed toilet lid while you showered, her arm crossed, pout deep in her lips. She watched you through the steam the entire time, her eyes fixed on you, refusing to look away for even a second. 

When you finished, the two of you switched places.

Alexia then proceeded to shower at a temperature that, according to her, had been specifically designed for people who weren't actively trying to cook themselves alive.

Not everything is as romantic as it seems.

You were halfway through putting on your shirt when Alexia's voice drifted out from the bathroom, muffled by the glass door and the rushing water.

"You know I gained weight, too, right?"

You paused, confused, with your arms caught awkwardly in the fabric. "Uh?"

After a second, the sound of the shower cut off.

Alexia emerged wrapped in her hotel robe, her damp hair dripping down her shoulders and right onto the wooden floor. Unlike you, she actually had to wash her hair after being on the pitch for so long.

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

You silently counted every single drop that fell.

"You said disciplined athletes don't gain weight," she explained, pulling at the collar on her robe, which seemed too tight on her; her skin was red and irritated. "I gained two kilos this season."

You stared, still confused, but then the realisation finally set in. She was still thinking about what you had said earlier. 

"Bebé," you sighed, your arms dropping to your sides ."You don't need to do that."

"Do what?' She frowned.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about,' you said, turning away from her toward the small vanity to start doing your hair. "I'm fine, Ale. Really."

"Well," she began, stepping closer. "And you don't need to do that – saying you are fine just because you don't want to talk about something."

You rolled your eyes, focusing on the mirror and and how your hair was completely inconsiderate of the fact that you had places to be tonight.

Alexia didn't like to be ignored. 

Predictably, she appeared behind you a second later. For a brief moment, the angry dog in you wanted to snap her, tell her to back off because her wet hair was soaking through your dried clothes. 

But then she rested her chin on your shoulder. In the mirror, you noticed how her cheeks were still pink from the shower. She smelled overwhelmingly like generic hotel shampoo because she forgot to pack her own, and the lightning made her hazel eyes look somehow greener.

The anger completely dissipated. You let her stay.

"I love your body," she said quietly, her eyes on yours through the reflection.

You softened even more. "I know you do, Ale."

She pressed a soft kiss against your neck, and you continued. "I never worried about that. You have never given me a single reason to, okay?" you said.

It was the truth. Alexia had always looked at you like you were the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Always. From the very first day back at her house until now. 

"You always make a point of showing it, ale," you murmured, feeling a deep need to reassure her.

"Okay, good," she said, pleased with herself. 

For a moment, you genuinely thought the conversation was over, and you could go back to fighting with your hair. But then her expression shifted, turning serious again. "So… where is this coming from, then?"

You looked away from her reflection, or tried to. A million different reasons passed through your mind, but none of them seemed serious enough or logical enough to be the actual reason behind it. 

Maybe it was the junction of it all. Maybe it wasn't just one thing. Or maybe it was just you, fighting with that universal human flaw, that dangerous voice that made it hard to feel fully satisfied with yourself. 

You shrugged, choosing the simplest answer you could find. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Oh, but we are talking about it," she said, delivering with certainty as if a conversation didn't always need to be bidirectional. 

You rolled your eyes again. "Alexia, the bus–"

"The bus can wait."

"It literally cannot."

She pressed a firm kiss to your cheek, then finally released her hold on you. She let the robe fall carelessly to the floor, leaving her beautiful naked body entirely free for you to look at. 

She was really an unfairly pretty woman. Then, killing your fun, she grabbed a fresh towel to dry her body off. 

"Okay," she said, drying herself and then beginning to brush her wet hair. "We'll talk while we get ready, that way we wont miss the bus."

"Oh Jesus Christ," you groaned, letting your forehead rest against the glass of the mirror.

"The faster you talk," she sang out, completely cheerful. "The faster we leave."

"You are so annoying," you sighed. "And incredibly stubborn."

"And excellent at time management," she countered, clearly proud of herself. 

"And insistent," you mumbled, though you couldn't help but smile. "So annoyingly insistent."

"I prefer the word tenacious."

You rolled your eyes at that.

You were quiet for a moment, desperately hoping she would let the silence take over and drop it. But Of course, she didn't. She was tenacious, unfortunately for you.

"It' just…" You hesitated, thinking of ways to put it. "Everyone around you is so... fit. You know?"

Alexia paused her brushing, looking at you. "What? Everyone?"

"The girls on the team," you explained, your voice dropping a bit. "Their girlfriend, your other friends… Everyone in that circle is so into the gym and everyone is so athletic and they all look a certain way."

"And what does that have to do with you and your body, amor?" she asked softly. "They are them; you are you."

You opened your mouth to give a very sharp and pragmatic answer, but the words never came. You couldn't think of a single thing to say.

Yeah, what exactly did that have to do with you? 

For once in your life, you didn't have an answer, and you absolutely hated that. You were witty, rapid thinking, you always knew what to say, but right now, you were empty of logic and words.

Alexia instantly sensed your distress, as always, she saw right through the quiet. 

"Eres guapísima," she said tenderly, putting her brush aside and walking back over to you and gently cupping your face.

You felt your cheeks warm, but she didn't stop. She leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead and then your chin. 

"Hermosa, preciosa," she murmured against your skin. "Perfecta. Mía."

You laughed, weakly trying to push her shoulder to hide your face. "Okay, okay, got it. You are like, super, hopelessly in love with me."

Alexia just grinned. "Something like that, si."

She locked her arms around your waist, pulling you against her and bringing her mouth close to your ear. "You will always be the prettiest woman in every room – or pitch – that I ever walk in, okay? Don't forget that."

You rolled your eyes, trying your absolutely best to look unimpressed, but unfortunately, your smile completely gave away.

☆ A/n: I really really wanted to write something "realistic" and domestic about the final, so why not with our keeping score babies? Someone asked me once what shirt reader would wear to a game, so this is the answer hehe. I got an ask a few months ago about reader feeling a bit insecure because everyone around Alexia was so fit, so I decided to add it to this fic. I'm sorry if it was too random, but I feel that keeping score reader would be a bit upset and try to hide it and I didn't want to write a whole blurb around it.

You have to admit, the spot right by the balcony had the most perfect lighting. You hadn't really thought of it much when you bought the cosy apartment in Barcelona but it really was the perfect lighting.

The sun beams through the windows as you stare at your laptop screen with a fond smile. A few of your co-stars stare back at you along with an interviewer that you know just introduced themselves but for the life of you, you can't remember the name of.

It's the usual questions. The ones that you've been asked ever since season three ended. The usual 'how are you feeling about being renewed for a fourth and final season?' and 'what was your favourite thing to film?' and, of course, the age old 'how did it feel to eat your co-stars?'

You play along though, well practiced at these exact questions as you and your co-stars trade stories and flash each other secret smiles through the laptop screens.

"And, of course, y/n-"

Your eyes snap back to the screen, momentarily distracted by the way your dog wandered into the room, sniffed the dirty boots by the door and went straight back to her dog bed.

"-I heard you brought a soccer ball to set with you."

You laugh at that, a more genuine smile splitting open your face. "Yeah, I did." You shake your head softly at the memory. "Well, Jenna, who plays Melissa, also plays a bit so between takes we were having a bit of a kick about."

"Because, of course," The interviewer continues," You have history playing soccer, don't you?"

"You did your research," You compliment with a small laugh," I do, yeah. Except, where I'm from, we call it football." Your co-stars on the call all yell out various teasing taunts as you wink at the screen. "But, yeah, I...Hang on, I'll get it."

You duck out of screen very briefly.

Your whole apartment is a shrine to football and the trophy cabinet is no exception. You bypass both Ballon D'ors and the medals that sit there, reaching to the very bottom to the little box that sits alone.

You open the box on screen, fishing out a very old medal that you won what feels a lifetime ago.

"I won the under-twenties World Cup as a kid." You flash the medal at the screen with a grin. "So, you could say I have a bit of history with football." You flash another teasing grin at your screen. "I actually tried to convince the writers to let us have a few flashback scenes of us playing football but I was overruled. Apparently, they didn't want to have to arrange another practice session after someone, not naming names, turned up to our first one in heels."

There's more playful ribbing from your castmates that you take with a sharp grin and a long suffering roll of your eyes.

"I always say this but the only reason I even played well was because I had a crush on a girl on the Spanish team. It was so embarrassing. She probably thought I was so lame."

"I'm sure that's not true," The interviewer says softly.

You don't dispute them. You're actually not sure what your school girl crush thought of you back then. She probably didn't even know who you were until your match against Spain. You weren't the most outgoing teenager. It was a wonder how you even got into acting in the first place with an attitude like that.

You made a fool of yourself in the tunnel before that match, palms already hot and sweaty from the nerves of playing but also from the way your crush caught your eye as she lined up.

You waved like an absolute loser and then proceeded to collide with the wall when she gave you a pleasant smile in return. It was probably in your top ten most embarrassing moments of your life which said a lot considering you once ate shit on the red carpet.

Now though, you smile a little fondly at the memory as the topic moves on. You allow yourself to relax back in your seat, sucking in the last of the warm Barcelona sun as your castmate's voices overlap with stories.

You're kind of lucky, you decide, that you can even be home right now. Most of the time, you're not even in the country, too busy with filming schedules and press junkets but you'd been firm this year.

You had to be home at this time of year. It was your non-negotiable and you were glad that the showrunners were happy to accomodate you.

Your co-worker Sophie is in the middle of telling a story about a funny incident on set when your dog starts barking up a storm. You hope the mic doesn't pick up on it as you lean back in your chair and peer towards the door, where the telltale sound of a key scraping the lock fills your ears.

You roll your ears. Of course that's what set her off. You shake your head fondly and let your eyes drift back to your laptop screen.

The door creaks open and your dog's barking quietens as she runs around the apartment in excitement. You expect a familiar voice to be cooing at her but there's too much noise for that and a soft huff of amusement escapes you.

Sophie's still in the middle of her story and you mute yourself quickly.

"Pina!" You holler when you're sure no one on the screen can hear you," Get the hell out of my cabinets! None of those are for you!"

You hear Pina's familiar groan from all the way in your kitchen and a snicker from Cata, who you assumed was also in there. Those two were never far from each other.

"Kika!" You continue sternly," Stop winding up my dog! And for god's sake, Patri, if you leave your dirty socks in my hall again then I'm banning you from this house!"

You check your screen again. Sophie's still telling her story so you've got a bit more time.

"Vicky, Salma, if you're going to pull out all the dog toys then you better make sure to clear them up again! Clara...You're an angel and I'm happy you're here. There's biscuits in the cabinets for you."

"How's that fair?!" You hear Pina complain but you don't even bother responding to that.

A hand rests gently on your shoulder and you turn your head.

Alexia smiles down at you, the shy smile that she reserves only for you after a long day at training. "I told them to be quiet when we came in," She says in embarrassment, eyes flicking to your screen," But you know what they're like. I'm sorry."

"It's okay, baby," You reply," I take it they're staying for dinner?"

"We'll order in."

"From that sushi place we like?"

"Whatever you want."

Alexia presses a soft kiss to the top of your head and you glance back at your screen, unmuting your mic with a soft smile.

"Sorry about that," You say," My wife and her teammates just got home. It's very loud in here right now."

As if you tempted fate itself, someone shrieks from the lounge. You assume it's either Cata or Vicky and decide you don't want to check what happened. Especially, because you watch on the screen as another person fills the space to your other side.

Patri. Of course it is.

She beams at you in greeting before zeroing in on your laptop. "You're still working?"

"The life of an actress," You deadpan," It's so glamorous." You gesture vaguely to her. "My wife's teammate, Patri. We're hosting some kind of game night, I think, so I've got a full house."

"How exciting," The interviewer says," Remind me, your wife plays soccer professionally, doesn't she?"

"She does." You turn to give Alexia another soft smile. "For Spain and Barcelona. I think she's the greatest player in the world."

Alexia's cheeks grow red at your compliment. You'd been together for years but any kind of praise still made her blush. Patri points at her and nearly dies laughing, drawing the attention of everyone else in your apartment and soon your screen is filled with warring teammates trying to get their faces shown.

"She's working," Alexia hisses, trying to control the chaos," Go! All of you! Away!"

"No fair, Ale!" Vicky complains," We never get to see her work!"

"You've watched everything she's been in," Alexia mutters.

"It's not the same. That's a character. This is y/n. It's different."

"And she's still working," Your wife insists," Go. She'll be done soon. Decide what you want from the sushi place."

Vicky walks off with a grumble, pulling a complaining Cata and Pina with her. Patri smirks as she disappears, giving your call a lazy two finger salute, cuffing Salma around the back of the head to pull her away too. Kika beams at the camera and waves before disappearing into the apartment properly.

Clara's a little shyer with her goodbye, a soft wave and an awkward smile as Alexia gestures for her to disappear too.

Your wife sighs deeply, shaking her head fondly as the chaos disappears deeper into the apartment and the dog starts barking again.

"I won't be long," You promise her softly," Don't let Cata and Pina eat us out of house and home?"

"I'll be my best."

"Thank you, baby."

You kiss her hand gently and let her wander away to control her squabbling teammates.

You glance back at your screen with a smile.

"Y/n's very secretive when it comes to her family," Your castmate Courtney teases and you roll your eyes," We finish filming and she's on the first flight back to them."

A soft knock echoed through the apartment, followed by the unmistakable sound of the front door opening with the spare key Alexia had eventually found after loosing weeks ago.

"Y/N?" she called softly.

She knew the bedtime routine by now, knew that if she was too loud she'd be responsible for undoing forty five minutes of carefully negotiated sleep.

"We're here."

You smiled to yourself from inside the nursery, Olivia had finally settled, her favourite rabbit tucked beneath one arm.

You gently eased your hand away from where it had been resting on her back, waited a few seconds, then quietly stepped backwards, pulling the nursery door almost closed behind you.

The baby monitor rested in your hand as you walked into the living room, "She's just gone down"

You placed the monitor on the coffee table before finally looking up, Alexia was already watching you. Gone were the joggers and oversized hoodie she'd become so accustomed to seeing you in, instead you'd made an effort, nothing extravagant, just different.

A nice top and a short skirt showing off the legs, your hair done. The faintest hint of perfume, Alexia's eyes travelled over you before she could stop them, her throat bobbed. You were completely oblivious.

You smiled, "Well..." You folded your arms, "Don't you scrub up well."

Alexia blinked, it took her a second to recover, "You..." She cleared her throat, "You too." Her voice came out noticeably quieter than she'd intended.

You smiled, "Thank you."

Eli, who had been standing quietly beside the door, looked from Alexia to you, then back again, a knowing smile slowly appeared, she'd caught the way her daughter's eyes had lingered.

Alexia, meanwhile, was still looking at you, "You clean up alright yourself."

You laughed, "'Alright'?"

"I didn't want your ego getting too big."

"My ego?"

"You've been insufferable all week."

You gasped dramatically, "I've been lovely."

Eli couldn't help herself, she laughed and only then did you notice the two women standing just behind her, Alexia seemed to realise at the same time.

"Oh." She stepped aside, "I should probably introduce everyone." She pointed first to the older woman, "This is my Mami, Eli."

Eli smiled warmly, "So you're Y/N."

You stepped forward, offering your hand, "It's really nice to finally meet you."

Instead of shaking it, Eli gently took your hand in both of hers.

"It's lovely to meet you too" There was something immediately kind about her, comforting. You instantly understood where some of Alexia's softer moments came from.

Alexia turned to the younger woman beside her, "And this is my sister, Alba."

Alba grinned, "Hi."

"Hi."

"You know..." Alba looked you up and down before smiling, "I've heard quite a lot about you."

You looked towards Alexia, "You have?"

Alexia looked horrified, "Alba."

"What?"

Alba laughed, "I'm just saying."

"You two enjoy yourselves."

"We will." Alexia answered perhaps a little too quickly, Eli's smile only grew, Alexia noticed immediately, "Mami..."

"I didn't say anything."

"You don't have to."

"The point is..." She looked back at you, "...we're here to make sure Olivia is cared for if she wakes up."

You smiled gratefully, "Thank you, both of you. I really appreciate it."

Eli waved a hand dismissively, "We're very happy to help."

Alba nodded, "Besides..." She smiled towards the nursery door, "...I've been wanting to meet the famous Olivia."

Alexia immediately pointed a finger at her, "And no waking her up."

Alba looked offended, "I wasn't going to."

"You thought about it."

"I absolutely did."

You laughed, "I'm beginning to understand this family dynamic."

"Good luck." Alba said, "You'll need it being apart of the family now."

Alexia rolled her eyes, "Come on." Before either of them could embarrass her any further.

You picked up your keys and checked the monitor one last time, the steady sound of Olivia's breathing filled the speaker.

Satisfied, you slipped out the living room Alexia held the apartment door open for you, "After you."

You stepped into the hallway, as soon as the door closed behind you, Alba slowly turned towards her mother, "...They are so gone for each other."

Eli smiled knowingly, "I think they've both got a little way to go before they realise it themselves."

Inside the lift, blissfully unaware of the conversation one floor above, that her mother and sister had worked her out within thirty seconds of meeting you, you glanced sideways at Alexia, "So..."

"Hm?"

"You really don't look half bad."

Alexia smiled to herself, "Careful."

"Why?"

"You keep complimenting me like that..." She looked across at you, "...and I might start believing these famous moves of yours are real after all."

You laughed, shaking your head as the lift doors slid open, "You are impossible."

"And yet..." Alexia held the building door open for you, "...you still agreed to join me."

You couldn't argue with that, which judging by the smile Alexia wore all the way to the car, was victory enough for her.

🍼

The drive across Barcelona was surprisingly easy, you'd expected traffic, instead, you spent most of it listening to Alexia explain which teammates would be there.

"...and if Pina starts asking you embarrassing questions, don't answer."

You looked across at her, "Why?"

"Because she'll somehow make it everybody else's business within five minutes."

"So she's the gossip."

"The worst."

"Good to know."

Alexia smiled, "I've warned you."

You laughed, "I work in an emergency department, Alexia. I've dealt with far worse than footballers."

"Oh, she's worse."

"You say that like you're frightened of her."

"I am."

You snorted, "I don't believe that for a second."

"You should."

The dinner was being held in one of the city's waterfront hotels, the foyer buzzed with quiet conversation as club staff, coaches and players filtered inside.

Alexia barely stepped a foot into the reception before someone from the club greeted her immediately.

"Capitana." They smiled warmly, "It's lovely to see you."

"And you."

They glanced towards you, "You must be Y/N."

You smiled politely, "I am."

Alexia noticed your slight surprise, "I might have mentioned you."

"Might have?"

The staff member laughed, "We've heard wonderful things."

You shot Alexia a suspicious look, she very deliberately looked anywhere but at you, "I don't know what they're talking about." she mumbled.

"Hm."

The staff member gestured towards the dining room, "Your table's this way." You followed them through.

The room was elegant without being over the top, sound tables dressed in white linen, soft lighting, the low hum of conversation already filling the space.

Your guide stopped beside one of the tables, "There you are."

Alexia thanked them before pulling your chair out for you, you gave her an amused look, "Oh. You do have manners."

She looked mildly offended, "I always have manners."

"Mhmm."

"You'll see."

You sat down beside her and around the table already sat several familiar faces.

Patri looked up first, her grin was immediate, "Well" She looked between you and Alexia, "look who finally showed up."

Alexia sighed, "It has been approximately thirty seconds."

"I've been patiently waiting."

Patri smiled at you as she leaned back in her chair, "I've heard loads about you coming to this."

Alexia groaned quietly beside you, "Not you as well."

Pina looked up from across the table, "Wait" She pointed between the two of you, "This is the doctor?"

Alexia pinched the bridge of her nose, "Pina."

"What?" She smiled brightly at you, "Hi."

You couldn't help laughing, "Hi."

"Alexia said you were incredible in the hospital that day."

Your smile faltered slightly, "Oh."

Alexia noticed immediately, before you had chance to question, she smoothly changed the subject, "Pina. Food. Now."

Pina grinned, "Fine." She picked up the menu dramatically, "I wasn't going to interrogate her"

Patri snorted, "You absolutely were."

"I was going to ease into it."

You laughed quietly, Alexia leaned slightly closer, "I told you."

"You did."

"They're exhausting."

"I quite like them."

Alexia looked at you sideways, "Give it an hour."

Across the table, Mapi watched the exchange over the rim of her glass, she nudged Vicky with her elbow, "She's smiling."

Vicky followed her gaze, Alexia was and more than that she looked relaxed, comfortable, she looked different.

"You don't see that very often."

Mapi smiled knowingly, "No."

Meanwhile, completely oblivious to the quiet observations happening around the table, you picked up your menu. "So..." You looked at Alexia, "If Pina interrogates you..."

"Mhm?"

"am I allowed to interrogate you?"

Alexia smiled, "You can certainly try."

Patri looked up immediately, "Oh, this is going to be fun."

Alexia sighed dramatically, "I've made a terrible mistake bringing you."

"You absolutely have." You smiled, reaching for your glass, "And it's far too late to change your mind now."

Dinner settled into an easy rhythm, conversations crossed over one another around the table. Patri was halfway through telling some story to Mapi. Pina had somehow convinced Vicky to watch something on her phone. A coach at the other end of the table was discussing training plans.

Nobody was paying much attention to you or Alexia, which suited Alexia perfectly. She lifted her beer bottle to her lips, taking a slow sip before glancing sideways at you. "So..." She rested the bottle against her lower lip, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, "About your moves."

You looked at her over the rim of your own glass, "My moves?"

"The ones you apparently have." A slow smile spread across your face, "I'm still waiting."

You set your drink down, “I don't know..."

"You've been talking a very big game."

"I have."

"So?"

You tilted your head, "I don't think I should."

"Why not?"

"Because." You let your eyes settle on hers for a second longer than usual, "I don't think you're ready."

Alexia laughed quietly, "I'm not ready?"

"No."

She folded her arms, "Try me."

You held her gaze, then, very deliberately, let your expression soften. The teasing smile disappeared replaced by something quieter, more intent. Alexia's own smile faded almost immediately. You spoke more softly now, turned slightly in your chair until you were facing her properly.

"I suppose..." Your voice lowered just enough that it felt like the rest of the restaurant faded away. "...they're actually very simple."

Alexia rested her forearm on the table, "I'm listening."

"The first one..." You held her gaze, didn't rush it or look away. You simply watched her, long enough that she became acutely aware of being watched. "The eye contact." You smiled softly, "You don't break it."

Alexia realised she hadn't blinked in several seconds, "And?"

"And" You leaned in just a fraction, "The trick..." Your voice was calm, "You don't keep looking around the room." Your eyes never left hers, "You make them feel like, for a few minutes..." A tiny smile tugged at your lips. "...they're the only person in it."

Alexia swallowed, you noticed and she didn't realise you had, Alexia's throat tightened. It was ridiculous, nothing had happened, you hadn't touched her, hadn't even flirted that much and yet she suddenly couldn't hear anyone else. Couldn't remember what anyone else at the table was talking about, there was just you watching her, speaking quietly, like this conversation belonged only to the two of you.

"And then..." Your gaze dropped briefly only for a heartbeat, before returning to her eyes. "...you move a little closer."

Alexia hadn't realised she'd stopped hearing everyone else until the laughter around the table seemed impossibly far away.

"I even sometimes..." You lowered your voice another notch, "...touch."

Your fingertips drifted lightly across the table, barely brushing the inside of her wrist where her hand rested, just enough for her to feel the warmth of your skin.

Your finger tips traced the faintest line over the place where her pulse fluttered beneath the surface, "...sometimes."

Alexia's eyes immediately dropped to your hand, her pulse betrayed her completely, quickening beneath your fingertips. You felt it with quiet satisfaction before looking back up at her.

She watched your fingertips trace lazy patterns over the inside of her wrist, her heart was beating far harder than she was comfortable with.

"You'd be surprised..." You smiled gently, "...how much people say without saying a word.”

For a second neither of you moved, neither of you spoke. Alexia swallowed, hard, you heard it.

You smiled, "There." You withdrew your hand, "My moves."

For a moment Alexia simply stared at you speechless, then, very deliberately, she cleared her throat snapping back to reality, she reached for her napkin, unfolded it. Then, with far more concentration than a napkin had ever required, spread it carefully across her lap.

You watched her, one eyebrow lifting, "...Alexia?"

She still didn't look at you, "Hm?"

"Everything alright?"

Only then did she finally glance sideways, there was the faintest flush creeping across her cheeks. She gave a tiny shake of her head and let out a quiet, breathless laugh, "...You did that on purpose.”

You smiled innocently, "I thought you wanted proof."

Alexia held your gaze for a long second before laughing under her breath again, "I did."

She picked up her beer took an unnecessarily long drink, then looked back at you.

"...I'm beginning to think I may have underestimated you."

Your smile widened, "I did try to warn you."

"You really did."

For the rest of dinner, every now and then, Alexia caught herself absently rubbing the inside of her wrist, as though she could still feel where your fingertips had rested.

She hated how much she'd noticed something so small, she hated even more that you seemed to know exactly what you were doing.

You smiled to yourself before taking another sip of your drink, "So." You looked at her, "Your turn."

Alexia raised an eyebrow, "My turn?"

"You've criticised my technique enough."

"I didn't criticise it."

"No?"

"No." She smiled, "I admitted it was... effective."

You folded your arms, "So let's see these famous Alexia Putellas date moves then, i've been hearing so much about all these years."

Alexia laughed softly, "You want me to flirt with you?"

"I want to see if all that hype is actually warranted."

"It is."

"Prove it."

She looked at you for a long second, then, unlike you, she didn't lean closer. She leaned back, like she had all evening.

She let the silence sit, you found yourself waiting for her to speak. She knew you were, a slow smile spread across her face.

"You know..." She twirled her beer bottle idly between her fingers, "That's the first one."

You frowned, "What is?"

"Patience." She shrugged lightly, "Most people panic when there's silence." Her eyes never left yours, "They start talking."

You opened your mouth, then realised that's exactly what you'd almost done. She smiled wider and you laughed, "That doesn't count."

"It absolutely counts." She rested her elbow on the table, chin balancing against her knuckles, "You've been waiting for me to say something for nearly thirty seconds."

"I have not."

"You have."

"I was observing."

"Oh?"

"Mhm."

"What were you observing?"

You tilted your head, "Whether you actually had any moves."

Alexia chuckled, "You still sound unconvinced."

"I am."

She nodded slowly, "Okay." This time she leaned in, just enough that her perfume reached you, she lowered her voice, "My second one..."

Her eyes drifted over your face slowly to your eyes, your mouth, then back again.

"...is making people feel seen."

Your heartbeat stumbled slightly, Alexia noticed, of course she did.

"You've got this thing..." She spoke quietly. "...where every time you laugh properly..." Her eyes softened, "...your left eye squints just a little before the right one does."

You blinked, "I..."

"You also push your sleeves up whenever you're thinking."

You instinctively glanced down, your sleeves were halfway up your forearms.

Alexia smiled, "And..." She nodded towards your glass, "...when you're nervous, you always turn it a quarter turn before you take a drink."

You looked down again, your fingers were resting against the glass exactly as she'd described.

"I notice things." She said it simply like it wasn't intended to have any effect at all, but it did.

You looked back at her, "You've been watching me."

Alexia didn't even try to deny it, "A little."

"A little?"

She smiled, "Enough."

Something warm settled in your chest, Alexia reached for your hand, not taking it, just turning it over gently where it rested on the table.

Your brow lifted, "I thought touching wrists was my move."

"It is." She smiled, "I'm borrowing it."

Her fingertips brushed slowly across your palm instead barely there, not teasing, but intentional.

"You know what the difference is?"

"What?"

"You touched me to see my reaction." She looked into your eyes, "I'm touching you because I already know it."

Your breath caught, Alexia's thumb traced one slow line across your palm before letting go picking her beer back up as though nothing had happened.

You stared at her for a moment, "...That was cheating."

She laughed, "It wasn't."

"You psychoanalysed me."

"I observed you."

"You've been studying me."

"I have."

You couldn't help smiling, "That's unfair."

Alexia's grin turned almost unbearably smug, "What? You never heard of the concept of studying for tests before?" She took another sip of her beer, "So... Who wins?"

You looked at her for a long moment, then shook your head, "I don't know."

"No?"

"No." You leaned a little closer, "I think..." A smile tugged at your lips, "...we're both in a bit better at this than we thought."

Alexia had no clever reply, she simply smiled into her drink, hiding the blush that crept onto her cheeks.

You laughed quietly, shaking your head, "I'll admit..." Alexia looked pleased with herself, "...that was annoyingly good."

"I know."

"You've definitely done that before."

She feigned innocence, "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."

"Liar."

"Probably."

You smiled into your drink before setting it back on the table, "I'll be right back."

Alexia looked up, "Everything alright?"

"I just need the bathroom."

"Okay."

You pushed your chair back, standing, as you stepped behind Alexia's chair, your fingertips found the back of her hand where it rested on the edge of the table. You didn't stop, you let your hand glide slowly over hers, from the tips of her fingers across her knuckles your thumb brushing lightly over the back of her hand before your fingers slipped away completely.

Alexia felt every second of it, you continued around the back of her chair, your hand gliding up her arm before settling briefly on her shoulder with a gentle squeeze, it was intimate.

You leaned down just enough that only she would hear you, "Behave while I'm gone."

"I always behave."

You laughed under your breath, "That's the biggest lie you've told"

Alexia looked up at you, smiling, you took a few steps away, turning back over your shoulder, you caught her eyes immediately.

Exactly where you'd expected them to be, still on you, your smile grew, "And now..." You tilted your head ever so slightly, "...you're watching me walk away."

For a split second Alexia looked caught, then she recovered, realised then laughed, "You set me up."

"I absolutely did."

You winked, then turned and continued walking towards the restroom, Alexia watched you go, she didn't even try to stop herself this time.

She watched until you disappeared around the corner, only then did she let out a slow breath, "...Madre mía."

She rubbed a hand over her face, your hand she could still feel it against the back of hers, against her shoulder.

She looked down at the table, then quietly laughed to herself, "She has good moves." and had absolutely no idea what to do next.

🍼

Alexia was still smiling to herself when you returned. She spotted you before you'd even reached the table, you noticed immediately, "You are." Alexia looked up innocently, "Still watching."

"I happened to look up."

"Mhm."

"Coincidence."

You laughed as you slid back into your chair, "If that helps you sleep tonight."

Alexia shook her head, smiling into her beer, "It will."

You settled comfortably beside her again, "So" You picked up your glass, "...did you miss me?"

Alexia didn't even hesitate, "No."

"Do you want to think about that answer?"

"I enjoyed the peace."

"Ouch."

Alexia shrugged, trying and failing to hide her smile behind her beer bottle, "You asked."

"I was hoping for something a little more flattering."

"You should've lowered your expectations."

You nudged her knee lightly beneath the table, "I'll remember that."

"I'm sure you will."

A comfortable silence settled between youneither of you seemed in any rush to fill it. You found yourself smiling.

"What?" Alexia asked.

"I was just thinking."

"Dangerous."

"Very."

She smiled, "What about?"

You swirled the drink in your glass thoughtfully, "Olivia.. I miss her when I'm not with her now"

Alexia's expression softened immediately, "So do I."

You looked across at her, "You do?"

She smiled into her drink, "My life feels..." She searched for the right word. "...quiet when she's not there."

You laughed softly, "I know."

"I walked in yesterday after training and actually thought something was wrong."

"What?"

"There wasn't a tiny person trying to steal my shoelaces."

You smiled, "She does have quite the obsession lately she's also started doing this thing." Your smile grew without you even noticing. "When she's concentrating she sticks her tongue out."

Alexia immediately laughed, "I've noticed that."

You smiled, shaking your head as you looked down at your glass, "I think she's changing me."

Alexia's voice became quieter, "How?"

You took a moment before answering, "I've never been someone who wanted children."

She looked surprised, "You didn't?"

You shook your head, "I loved paediatrics. I loved Olivia, but..." You shrugged, "I liked giving them back."

Alexia laughed, "Fair."

"I always thought my life would be work because i wouldn't have time for anything else and i was ok with that as it was a career i chose."

"And now?"

You smiled to yourself, "Now I don't want to go back to work" Alexia listened quietly, "I'd spend half my shifts wondering what she's doing. If she's napped. If she's eaten. If she's learnt something new." You laughed under your breath, "I've become that person, the one who shows everyone photos."

Alexia smiled warmly, "You have."

"I showed one of the consultants twenty three photos the other day when I went in for a meeting."

"Twenty three?"

"They asked how she was."

"I don't think they needed a slideshow." Alexia laughed properly.

Another comfortable silence settled, Alexia traced a finger around the rim of her bottle, "I convinced myself I never wanted children either."

You looked at her, "You did?"

She nodded her head slowly, "Football was always..." She shrugged, "Everything. I never really let myself think beyond that and i thought maybe by the time my career ended that wouldn't be an option for me"

You frowned slightly, "And now?"

Alexia looked down at the table, "I don't know." She admitted it so quietly you almost missed it. "I didn't expect" She smiled faintly, "...any of this." Her eyes met yours again, "I didn't expect to look forward to bath time or reading the same book six nights in a row or finding tiny socks in my training bag."

You laughed, "She does put them everywhere."

"I found one in my boot."

"How?"

"I genuinely don't know."

You smiled, "I've stopped questioning it."

Alexia nodded, "Me too." Alexia slid the dessert she'd ordered for you both to share towards you, "So." You looked up, "I've been thinking. I don't think we've finished our experiment."

You rested your chin on your hand, "The experiment?"

"Mhm. Seeing whose moves are better."

You laughed, "Oh, we're still doing that?"

"We're absolutely still doing that."

You picked up your spoon, "I thought I'd already won."

Alexia looked offended, "Won?"

"I made you blush."

"I did not blush."

"You fiddled with your napkin like-"

"I was..." she interrupted, "...organising it."

"Mhm."

She narrowed her eyes, "You think you're funny."

"I know I'm funny."

Alexia smiled despite herself, "Fine." She leaned back in her chair, "Round two."

You mirrored her, "Go on then."

She didn't say anything straight away, instead, she reached across the table, not for your hand, for the dessert spoon in it.

She turned it over in her fingers, studying it thoughtfully. You frowned, "What are you doing?"

"You'll see." She scooped up the first spoonful, then held it out towards you.

You blinked, "...Seriously?"

She shrugged, "I've found sharing dessert works surprisingly well."

"You've found?"

"Mhm. It catches people off guard."

You looked at the spoon, then at her, "You feed all your dates?"

Alexia laughed, "No. Just the ones I like." The words slipped out before she could stop them. Her own eyebrows lifted slightly, you noticed, she noticed you noticing, neither of you acknowledged it.

Instead you leaned forward and accepted the spoonful.

"Well?" She asked.

You swallowed, "The dessert's good."

"I'm talking about the move."

You smiled, "It would've worked if you hadn't pre-warned me."

"It did work"

You raised an eyebrow, "Confident."

"I have reason to be."

You shook your head, laughing, "My turn."

"Oh?" You reached for her spoon, Alexia looked almost triumphant, "I knew you'd copy me."

"I'm not."

"No?"

"No."

You ignored the dessert completely, instead reaching across the table for the small dish of fresh strawberries that sat in the middle.

You picked one up by the stem. Alexia watched curiously, "What now?"

"You said your thing is catching people off guard."

"It is."

"So..." You held the strawberry out towards her, "...open up."

Alexia laughed, "You've literally just copied me."

"Have I?"

"Mhm."

"Then don't eat it." Without another word you brought the strawberry back towards yourself.

Alexia watched, still expecting some kind of trick, instead, your eyes stayed on hers, never wavering.

You smiled, the smallest, knowing smile, then, deliberately took a slow bite from the strawberry yourself, not breaking eye contact once.

Juice caught briefly at the corner of your mouth before your tongue swept it away almost absentmindedly.

You chewed, still watching her, still smiling, Alexia's brain seemed to short circuit, her eyes had followed the strawberry, then your mouth Then she realised she'd been staring, her heartbeat kicked unexpectedly hard against her ribs.

She cleared her throat, far too late, you'd already seen it.

You swallowed, "Hm." You nodded approvingly, "That's actually really good."

Alexia blinked, "What?"

You tilted your head innocently, "The strawberry."

She opened her mouth and closed it again, your smile grew just a fraction.

"Oh..." You rested your chin lightly against your hand, "...were you expecting something else?"

Alexia let out a short laugh, rubbing a hand across the back of her neck, "You..." She shook her head, "...that was deliberate."

"What was?"

"The eye contact."

You smiled, "I learnt from the best."

Alexia looked away for a second, laughing quietly to herself. When she looked back, there was a faint warmth across her cheeks she couldn't quite hide. "I think" She admitted, almost under her breath, "...that might actually have been your best one."

You raised an eyebrow, "Really?"

She nodded once, "Really."

There was a beat of silence, then she reached for her beer, taking a drink that was perhaps a little longer than necessary. You watched her over the rim of your own glass, "So..."

"Hm?"

"What do the women win..." You smiled into your drink, "...when you decide they've given you a good date?"

Alexia didn't even hesitate, "Sex, usually."

You let out a small, "Oh." She looked at you expectantly, you rested your elbow on the table, "So..." Your smile turned teasing, "...you put out on the first date, do you?"

Alexia laughed, "I wouldn't phrase it quite like that."

"But it's accurate."

She tipped her head from side to side, "...Sometimes."

You raised your eyebrows dramatically, "Alexia."

"What?"

"I thought you had standards."

"I do. They're just... flexible. I don't sleep with just anyone"

You laughed, "That's one word for it."

She nudged your knee lightly beneath the table, "Don't judge me."

"I'm trying very hard not to."

Alexia smiled into her drink, "I don't always."

"No?"

Alexia met your eyes, "No" A slow smile appeared, "and what about you?"

You looked up, "What about me?"

She mirrored your earlier question, "What does someone get if they've given you a good first date?"

You pretended to think about it, "Hm." You laughed quietly, "I don't know..." She waited, "I don't even really kiss on a first date."

Alexia looked genuinely surprised, "You don't?"

You shook your head, "No."

"Never?"

"I didn't say never." You smiled, "I just... don't usually."

"Why?"

You shrugged, thinking for a moment, "I suppose because if I'm kissing someone" Your expression softened "...it's because I actually want to."

Alexia smiled, "I'd hope so."

You laughed, "No, I mean..." You searched for the words, "I don't kiss people because it feels like it's expected, or because it's the end of the evening. If I'm kissing someone" You held her gaze, "it's because I can't quite convince myself not to."

Something about the way you said it made Alexia's smile falter into something quieter, "So" She rested her chin against her hand, "how many dates?"

"It depends."

"On?"

"The person."

She laughed, "That's a very diplomatic answer."

"It's an honest one."

"So there isn't a rule?"

"No." You smiled, you took another sip of your drink, "I just think..." You shrugged. I'd rather it just happen naturally but usually because I don't know them I'm not comfortable enough doing that."

Alexia looked at you for a long moment, "I get that."

"You do?"

She nodded as she twirled her beer bottle slowly between her hands, "I don't think I've ever looked at it like that."

"No?"

She shook her head, "I've always been..." She smiled to herself, "...quite impulsive."

"I'd noticed."

Alexia looked down at the table for a second before looking back up, "So, if tonight really was a date" She let the question hang. "and it ended in an hour" She smiled, just enough to tell you she was only half joking. "I'd have absolutely no chance of kissing you?"

You looked at her with an expression somewhere between amused and thoughtful, "I didn't say that."

Her eyebrows lifted, "You didn't?"

You slowly shook your head, "I said I don't really kiss on a first date."

"But?"

You smiled, "There are exceptions to every rule."

Alexia laughed under her breath, "I was wondering when the doctor was going to let loose... what makes someone an exception?"

You leaned back in your chair, "I couldn't possibly tell you."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't kiss and tell"

Alexia smiled, unable to look away from you. 🍼 The apartment was quiet when you unlocked the front door, you stepped inside first, immediately slipping your heels off with a grateful sigh.

"I've never been so happy to walk on flat ground."

Alexia laughed behind you as she locked the door, "You chose those shoes."

"I was lied to."

"By who?"

"The salesperson. They told me they'd be comfortable and they were, but only for the first six minutes."

Alexia smiled to herself, "You're dramatic."

"I work in A&E. I'm entitled to be."

Before either of you could continue, Eli appeared from the living room. She smiled the moment she saw you, "There you are."

You smiled back, "How was she?"

Eli's face softened immediately, "Not a peep. She slept the entire time."

Relief settled across your features, "Good." You bent down to pick your heels up, "Thank you for sitting with her."

"Oh, it was no bother." Eli waved a hand dismissively, "Honestly." Behind her, Alba wandered into the hallway carrying two empty mugs. "We've just been watching films."

She looked between you and Alexia with an expression that was entirely too curious, "So how was your evening?"

Alexia answered before you had chance, "It was nice."

"Nice?" Alba folded her arms. "That's all we're getting?"

Alexia shrugged, "The food was really good. And..." She glanced sideways at you, "it was just" Her smile was smaller now, "...nice."

Alba looked unconvinced, "Right."

You bit back a smile, Eli noticed. "So..." She asked gently, "You enjoyed yourselves?"

You nodded, "Yeah. I did. It was lovely."

Eli smiled knowingly, "I'm glad."

She picked up her handbag from the worktop, "Well. We'll get out of your hair."

You looked between her and Alba, "You don't have to rush off."

"It's getting late." Eli smiled warmly, "And you've both got an early start."

You nodded reluctantly, "Fair enough." As Eli reached the front door, you leaned back against the kitchen counter, "You'll have to come back sometime" Both women looked towards you, "when she's actually awake."

Eli's entire face lit up, "I'd love that."

"So would I." Alba grinned, "I've heard she's got everyone wrapped around her little finger."

You laughed, "That she has."

Alba smiled at you, "It was lovely meeting you."

"You too."

For just a second, Eli looked a little emotional, "Thank you, we'll arrange something soon" She stepped forward, giving your forearm a gentle squeeze, "Take care of yourselves."

"We will."

"And give Olivia a cuddle from us tomorrow."

"I will."

Eli smiled one last time before opening the apartment door, "Goodnight."

"Night."

"Goodnight."

The door clicked shut behind them and the apartment fell quiet again, you let out a slow breath, still leaning against the kitchen counter.

Alexia had wandered to the fridge for a glass of water, you watched her absently, she'd loosened the top button of her shirt at some point since she'd got back, rolled the sleeves up to her forearms.

She looked...it was a thought you didn't let yourself finished as she took a sip before setting the glass down.

When she turned, she found you already looking at her, "What?"

You smiled, "Nothing."

Alexia studied you for a second, then, instead of saying anything, she walked back across the kitchen stopping directly in front of you, close enough that you could see the tiny flecks of gold in her eyes.

Close enough that you caught the faint scent of her perfume mixed with the cool night air from outside.

You smiled first, "What? You've been standing there for a full minute."

"It hasn't been a minute."

"It feels like it."

Alexia smiled, "I was deciding something."

"And?"

She was smiling, but there was something nervous underneath it you'd never seen before, "I have a question."

"Okay."

"It might be a stupid one."

"I'll be the judge of that."

She laughed quietly, "I suppose you will."

You waited, Alexia looked at you for a long moment before speaking, "Theoretically..." Your eyebrows lifted, "If" She glanced down for the briefest second before meeting your eyes again, "...tonight had actually been a real date..." Your heartbeat immediately sped up, "...would you have kissed me?"

You didn't answer straight away not because you didn't know, because you wanted to be sure.

Your eyes searched hers, looking for the teasing smile, the joke, the easy escape. There wasn't one, she was genuinely asking.

You smiled softly, "I think" You admitted quietly, "I'd have wanted to." Alexia's breath caught, "But" You continued, "...I'd probably have spent the whole evening trying to work out whether you wanted me to."

A tiny laugh escaped her, "You really are a doctor."

"What does that mean?"

"You overthink everything."

"I do."

She smiled, "I've noticed."

You looked at her, "So" Your voice was barely above a whisper now, "...would you have wanted me to?"

Alexia didn't answer with words instead she took one small step closer, until there was barely any space left between you.

She lifted one hand slowly, giving you every opportunity to move away, her fingertips brushed lightly against your jaw, almost tentative.

"You know" She murmured, "for someone who says they don't kiss on a first date" Her thumb rested gently against your cheek, "you've been making it very difficult not to ask."

You smiled, "I did say there were exceptions."

"I remember." She searched your face one last time, "This is okay?"

You nodded immediately, "Very." You closed the last inch between you, not all at once. Slowly giving her time to change her mind, but she didn't, her eyes drifted shut only at the very last moment.

Your lips met so gently it almost wasn't a kiss at all, just a soft and warm press of lips, neither of you moved for a heartbeat, simply letting the reality of it settle.

Alexia was the first to respond, her fingers slipped carefully into your hair as her lips began to move as she kissed you, a little more confidently this time, still unhurried, still impossibly gentle.

You found your hand settling against her waist, feeling her breathe and feeling her smile against your lips, that it made you smile too.

When you finally drew back, it was only far enough to look at one another.

Neither of you seemed capable of saying anything, Alexia's forehead rested lightly against yours, "...Well."

You laughed quietly, "So..."

"I've definitely kissed you now."

"You have."

She smiled, "I was right."

"About what?"

"You don't kiss people because it's expected."

You shook your head, "No."

"What changed?"

You looked into her eyes, "I couldn't quite convince myself not to."

Alexia let out the smallest laugh, then, before either of you could lose your nerve she leaned in again.

This kiss was even softer than the first more about simply enjoying the fact that, somehow you had both ended up exactly where you wanted to be.

When she finally pulled away, she rested her forehead against yours once more.

"I think..." She whispered, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“I should go”

She groaned, a near silent sound, and pressed her palm sweetly to your jaw, her thumb drifting down, slow, deliberate, learning the shape of you. Her hair fell forward, grazing your cheek, and then you were kissing again, this time with the relief of having crossed some invisible line, the tension unspooling down your spine.

Everything about her was new and familiar all at once, the taste of her tongue, she was sturdy and soft at the same time, confident but uncertain, like she was calibrating each new sensation as it happened.

"Careful," you whispered, breathless, "if you keep that up, I might actually sleep with you on the first date."

She smiled against your mouth, "Promises, promises," she said, and you felt the vibration in her chest, a richness you wanted to bottle and keep next to your bed, to open each night before sleep.

For a while, you just stood together in the dim kitchen, her body a buffer between you and the rest of the world, her arms bracing you against the counter as if she couldn't let go. 

Nothing in your last thirty years had prepared you for the sensation of being kissed in your friends' apartment with their child in the next room and the taste of cheap wine still on your tongue, of being wanted so specifically, so precisely, not as an afterthought, but as the direct line between Alexia’s mind and her hands and her whispered, "I want you, but I don't want to mess this up, either."

You let yourself rest your forehead on her collarbone, drew in a breath. She was real, not a fantasy, not a theory, not some impossible future you watched from a safe, unpopulated distance. She was right here. It was both fantastic and terrifying.

"In case you couldn't tell," she went on, "I've never really done this before."

You laughed into her shirt, your lips brushing the place where her pulse beat. "Kissed someone?"

She pinched your waist, enough to make you yelp and grin, "No. Not like this." Her voice gentled, "Like it actually means something."

You felt the words settle under your skin, somewhere that hadn't been reached in years not since the last time you'd let anyone stay past midnight.

She must have sensed the shift, because she pulled back, hands braced on either side of you as if she was worried you might flee if she gave you any more room. “I need to hear you say it” Alexia held your eye contact, “I need to know what ever happens tonight, it doesn’t affect how we care for Olivia” Your fingers found the collar of her shirt without meaning to, turning it over slowly. "I'm nervous," you said. Alexia's arm came back around your waist, her forehead returning to yours. "I don't do this." Your hand stilled against her chest. "And there's Olivia to think about." You felt her waiting. "It's just" you exhaled, "it's been a long time since I've wanted someone the way I want you right now." Alexia let the silence sit for a moment, then quietly, "Shall we go to bed?"

You didn't answer right away. Just lifted your eyes to hers, and nodded.

She took your hand as if it was the most natural thing in the world, threading her fingers through yours and guiding you down the hallway with a confidence borrowed from floodlights and full stadiums. In private, she was still learning to be this brave, but there was a steadiness to her that buoyed you both. You could feel the heat of her palm all the way up your arm.

The bedroom was darker than the rest of the apartment, the slow orange glow of a city night creeping in through the slat of blinds. There were shadows everywhere; you barely had time to catalogue them before she pulled you in and kissed you again, deeper this time, her hand splayed flat at the small of your back. You pressed into her, feeling the hard line of her thigh between yours and the softness that belied the strength of her arms.

It was slow, almost ridiculous how slow, and you tried to make a joke about it "Is this one of your famous moves?" but the words died in your throat as she ran her hands up your sides, mapping the lines of your rib cage through your shirt.

Your hands found her collar, thumbs tracing the notch of her throat. You had never been so aware of the mechanics of a button before. Each one yielded to you, slowly, exposing more of her skin, the way her shoulders sloped, the scar under her right clavicle, the shimmer of her necklace in the light. You took your time, letting your fingers learn her, the way her breathing deepened, the way she smiled at you when you did something right.

When her shirt was off, she stood still for a moment, bare to the waist, letting you look. She didn't cover herself or turn away, and something about her confidence, no, her trust made you ache. You reached for her, hands following the curve of her ribs, up and over the delicate plane of her back. She felt solid, like a promise. You pressed your mouth to her shoulder, to the hollow of her neck, and she exhaled, her hands sliding up to cradle your jaw, tipping your face up to hers.

It was a slow dance, and you half expected her to take the lead, to pin you to the bed or flip you over, but she didn't. She let you set the pace, let you explore her body with the kind of awe you didn't know you were capable of. She sat on the edge of the bed, pulling you into her lap, her hands spreading over your thighs. You ran your fingers along the waistband of her jeans, unsure, but she guided you, her breath warm in your ear, "Whatever you want. I want you to touch me wherever you want"

So you did, tracing the curve of her hip, the heat blooming under her skin as you learned her, every inch, every freckle. Her hand found the back of your head, tangling in your hair as your tongue mapped the notch of her throat. There was nothing but the sound of your breathing, the hush of sheets, the creak of the mattress when you finally, finally let the rest of the world fall away.

At some point she tipped you back into the bed, half on top of you, her mouth at your ear, her body flush with yours. She kissed you until you had no idea where she ended and you began, until you forgot whose heart was pounding hardest, until the only words either of you could remember were please and yes and don't stop.

Even then, she moved with care, you knew she was strong enough to take you apart, but she never did, not even when your leg locked around her waist, not even when your hand trembled against her spine.

Alexia’s hand was a map sketched in the dark, each new inch of skin she discovered a place she wanted to memorise. She found the hem of your skirt, hesitated, and then her palm slipped beneath, resting warm and electric on your thigh. Her other hand followed, so careful, like she was worried you might vanish if she moved too fast. You felt the air shift as she drew your skirt upward, you lifted your hips to meet her, and for a heartbeat, the two of you hung there suspended, breath held, time odd and elastic.

She slid the skirt down your legs, and let it fall to the floor. You became hyper aware of every exposed inch, the coolness of the room on your skin, the way her gaze lingered not in the abstract but in the most literal sense, she watched you. She watched all of you.

You should have felt shy, maybe, or self conscious, but instead, you felt in a word devoured. Alexia looked at you like she’d been waiting for this her whole life, she ran her hands along your outer thigh, up to the waistband of your underwear, and paused again.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” she said, and her voice was low and rough, not a question but a promise of safety.

“I’ll tell you if I want to stop,” you managed, but what you wanted was for her to keep going. She lowered her mouth to your navel, pressing a slow, open mouthed kiss there, then another, just below the line of your underwear. You felt her smile when you arched toward her, and when she finally hooked her thumbs into the waistband and drew your underwear down, you had to close your eyes.

She kissed the inside of your knee, the apex of your thigh, the softest part of skin you’d never thought of as a place to be worshipped, and then she moved up and up.

She was patient, so patient, and when you finally felt her tongue, you almost sobbed. She found your rhythm quickly, of course she did, but she didn’t just memorise, she innovated. She drew you out, drew you open, and when you pressed your palm to her head, she moaned in response, as if the compliment was physical, as if your need was feeding hers. You didn’t recognise the sounds you were making, but Alexia seemed to know them already.

After, you dragged her up by her chin, kissing her hard, tasting yourself on her lips. Your hands fumbled with her jeans, but she was already helping, getting them off, her mouth, her hands, her everything. She shimmied them down and off, tossing them somewhere that neither of you would probably ever find again, and then she was bare, skin to skin, the heat between your bodies almost comical in its intensity.

You reached up, suddenly greedy, and Alexia let you run your hands up and over her, worshipping the lines of her shoulders, the soft dip of her lower back, the muscle beneath her stomach. Her breasts pressed against you, perfect, and you found yourself gasping, every nerve ending on high alert.

She kissed you again, and your hands fumbled for her, trying to get her underwear off, and she helped you, both of you laughing a little at how tangled and graceless it was until you were both finally, completely bare.

You pulled her to you again, legs locked around her hips, and this time she kissed you with an intensity that left you dizzy. Her hand found your breast, cupped it, thumb brushing over your nipple. You inhaled sharply, you’d forgotten how sensitive you could be when you let yourself go and her mouth followed, hot and wet, tongue circling, then teeth, and it was all you could do not to cry out.

“Fuck, look at you” she mumbled, mouth still busy with your breast, and you felt her smile when you arched into her. She switched sides, greedy, worshipful, and you let her, hands in her hair and nails digging deliciously into her back.

When she finally made her way down, her mouth mapped a line of heat over your ribs, your stomach, every inch accounted for, and then she was between your legs again, this time slower, more deliberate, as if she wanted to see how long she could keep you on the edge.

Her fingers were devastating, you’d had partners before who were eager, enthusiastic, but never, never someone who seemed to know what you wanted before you did. She was attentive, relentless, and when you bucked against her, she didn’t pull away, just held you steady, groaning into your mouth as if this was the only thing she ever wanted.

When you came, it was like a circuit closing, an inevitability, heat arcing up your spine and blooming out in every direction. Alexia didn’t stop, not right away, working you through it, letting you shudder against her fingers until she finally eased back.

You were still catching your breath when she kissed you, slow and deep, and you could taste yourself on her tongue.

She rolled you onto your back with more strength than you expected, and you let her, finding an odd comfort in the way she took control, the way she seemed to know exactly where to touch, when to slow and when to press harder. She kissed your jaw, your throat, the soft dip of your clavicle, both of you drifting through the half-light with nothing but the sound of your breathing, your moans, the urgent hush of the sheets twisting under you.

She kissed you again, this time with tongue, urgent, almost greedy, her thigh sliding between yours, pressing up, forcing your legs wider. She wanted all of you, and you wanted her back with almost violent intensity. When she ground her hips against you, you gasped, the heat at the apex of your thighs turning molten. You bucked against her, and she moaned, her mouth tracing frantic lines up your neck. Her hand curled around your thigh, moving you where she needed you, the heel of one of your feet moved to rest on her shoulder.

She shifted, bracing herself over you, and you felt her slick, feverish pussy pressed against your own, your hips aligning perfectly.

She smiled, wicked, and then she rocked into you, slow at first, then harder. You met her, thrust for thrust, moving together, not thinking about what you looked like or how it sounded, but only about how it felt. Every movement sent shockwaves through your belly, every grind a new jolt of pleasure.

Her hand slipped between your bodies, and the first brush of her fingers against your clit sent you wild. She kept working you, not stopping for a second, alternating between circling and pressing, her hips never losing their rhythm against you. You felt her muscles flex, her abs tight and trembling, the sweat pooling in the hollow above her sternum under your explorative fingertips.

She was lost in it too, completely gone, her voice raw as she whispered your name, once, twice, like a prayer.

Your hand gripped her arse cheek hard leaving marks, needing something to anchor you, because you were starting to come apart. She felt it, matched your urgency, grinding harder, her thigh slick with her own wetness. She was right there, and so were you, both of you straining, shaking, unable to stop.

When you came, you cried out, your whole body arched and slick with sweat. She didn’t stop, didn’t even slow, chasing her own finish with a focus that was almost terrifying. She shuddered, gasped, and then you felt her pulse against you, a wet, hot rush that only made you press closer. You carefully let your leg fall from her shoulder, as she eased her body down on top of yours.

You stayed like that for a long time, tangled together, neither willing to move, the sticky heat of your bodies sealing you in place. You could feel her heartbeat against yours, wild, then slowing. She kissed you, softer now, her whole weight splayed over you, and you ran your hands over her back up and down.

Eventually, she moved to your side, facing you in the dark, she laced her fingers with yours, the heat between your palms a quiet echo of everything you couldn't vocalise. She watched you, eyes soft, as if she wasn't sure if she was still allowed to be gentle with you.

It was a beautiful, hyper-passionate romance that everyone in your close-knit surgical department joked about because of how utterly, shamelessly clingy you were. Despite your high-stress career cutting into human skulls, the moment you stepped through the door of her villa in Pedralbes, you transformed. You were the girl who would wrap herself around Alexia’s back like a koala while she tried to cook dinner, the one who would crawl into her lap on the sofa and refuse to move for hours, burying your face in her neck until she laughed that rich, raspy laugh and held you against her chest like you were the only solid thing in her world. Alexia loved it. She matched your energy completely, her powerful athlete's arms locking you against her body with a fierce, possessive warmth that made you feel utterly invincible.

But that beautiful reality came with a shadow: it was completely, entirely secret.

Alexia was a global icon, her every movement tracked by the media, her private life an endless source of public speculation. At first, you didn't mind the shadows. You were a busy woman; you had a department to run, a residency program to oversee, and a never-ending rotation of complex craniotomies. You didn't need the flashing cameras. You didn't need the red carpets.

But hiding a three-year relationship required a heavy tax. It meant deleting your digital footprint, leaving her house through the service elevator, and sitting in the stadium stands three rows behind her family, pretending you were just an acquaintance from the medical consultant staff if anyone looked too closely.

You had tolerated the sacrifice because you believed the foundation was unbreakable. Until the night the structure gave way.

It was a late Friday evening, following a massive Champions League victory at the Estadi Olímpic Lluís Companys. Alexia had hosted a small, private gathering at her home for a few childhood friends from Mollet and a couple of influential sports executives who had helped manage her commercial image. Because you had just finished a grueling twelve-hour surgical shift removing a complex glioma, you had arrived late, slipping through the back entrance into the kitchen to grab a glass of water.

As you walked down the short, tiled corridor leading toward the auxiliary lounge, you heard voices through the partially open oak door.

"Come on, Ale, we saw the way that doctor looks at you," a prominent sports agent scoffed, his voice dripping with casual, elite cynicism. "She’s been at almost every private dinner this month. The media is starting to ask if she's more than just a medical advisor. Is she the reason you haven't been linked to anyone else? Are you actually dating her?"

You stopped in the shadow of the hallway, your hand freezing against the cold glass of water. A soft, hopeful flutter bloomed in your chest. You wondered, just for a fraction of a second, if after three years, Alexia was finally going to claim you out loud in front of her inner circle.

Then, Alexia’s laugh echoed through the room. It wasn't the warm, genuine sound that usually vibrated against your skin when you slept. It was sharp, cold, and laced with a defensive, dismissive armor.

"¿Qué dices? No, por favor," Alexia said, her tone carrying an air of total indifference that made your blood instantly run cold. "Y/N is just a neurosurgeon the club utilizes for head trauma consultations. She's great at her job, sure, but she's completely exhausting to be around outside the hospital. She's way too needy, constantly hovering around me like a lost puppy because her own life is just boring charts and operating theatres. She’s just convenient company when I need to decompress between training blocks, guys. It’s nothing real, I promise you. I wouldn't date someone that high-maintenance."

The world simply stopped spinning.

The air in the corridor felt like liquid nitrogen as it rushed into your lungs. Exhausting. Needy. Lost puppy. Convenient company. The words didn't just pierce your heart; they completely, surgically dismantled your entire reality. The very clinginess she had spent three years encouraging, the affection she claimed kept her grounded, was suddenly reduced to an embarrassing, high-maintenance nuisance she mocked to protect her precious privacy. To save herself from a moment of uncomfortable scrutiny from a sports agent, she had completely rewritten your entire love story into a pathetic joke.

You didn't cry. You didn't storm into the room to demand an apology. When a neurosurgeon encounters a catastrophic, uncontainable hemorrhage on the operating table, her emotions freeze into total absolute zero. Panic is a luxury for people who don't hold lives in their hands.

You quietly set the glass of water down on the console table, walked out of the back door, and drove your car back to your small, empty apartment near Vall d'Hebron without looking back a single time.

The silence began the next morning, and it was absolute.

When Alexia woke up, she sent her usual morning text: "Woke up and my koala wasn't here :( Did you have to go in for an emergency surgery, mi amor? Call me the second you're free, I miss you."

The message was marked as read. But no answer came.

By Monday, the silence had transformed into a terrifying, unyielding wall. Alexia had called you twenty times, each attempt dropping straight into the void of a standard corporate voicemail. She sent endless messages, watching the grey ticks turn blue instantly, but the screen remained entirely blank. The complete, sudden withdrawal of your presence felt like the sudden loss of oxygen in a room.

On Tuesday evening, completely beside herself with an uncontainable panic, Alexia drove straight to Vall d'Hebron. She knew your schedule by heart; she knew you were finishing a grand rounds presentation at 7:00 PM. She waited outside the secure glass doors of the neurosurgery administrative wing, her hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets, her heart hammering against her ribs.

When the doors finally slid open, you walked out, flanked by three senior residents and an attending physician. You were wearing your navy blue scrubs beneath a perfectly pressed white lab coat, your hair pulled back into a sharp, professional twist. You were explaining a complex ventricular shunt procedure, your voice carrying that effortless, funny, and brilliant spark that always made your students adore you.

"Y/N!" Alexia called out, her voice cracking slightly as she took a step forward, completely forgetting the hospital staff around you.

The residents stopped, their eyes widening as they recognized the legendary Barcelona captain standing in their hallway.

You stopped too. But your face didn't change. Your hazel eyes, which usually filled with an absolute, radiant joy whenever she appeared, were completely blank. Looking at you was like staring at an unyielding pane of surgical glass.

"Ah, Captain Putellas," you said, your voice entirely level, professional, and completely devoid of a single ounce of warmth. You turned to your residents with a calm, clinical smile. "Go ahead to the ICU and prepare the post-op orders for bed four. I will join you in five minutes."

The doctors nodded quickly, sensing the sudden, suffocating drop in atmospheric pressure, and hurried down the hall.

Once they were out of sight, Alexia took a desperate step closer, her hands reaching out to grab your arm. "Y/N, thank God. Why haven't you answered my texts? I’ve been going out of my mind for three days. I went to your apartment, but you changed the entry code—"

"Please do not touch me in a professional environment, Captain," you said smoothly, stepping back just enough to keep a definitive, unyielding physical distance between you. You didn't raise your voice; you didn't look angry. You looked like an attending physician speaking to a stranger who had lost their way in the corridor. "If the club requires an evaluation for a head injury or a neural consultation, please have your athletic department submit a formal request through the administrative portal. My schedule is currently entirely booked with actual medical emergencies."

Alexia felt the air leave her lungs as if she had been hit by a stray tackle. The coldness in your voice was a physical strike. "What... what are you doing? Why are you calling me that? Y/N, please, it's me. It's Alexia. What happened?"

"I am simply maintaining the boundaries you require," you replied, your gaze fixed somewhere just past her left ear, completely refusing to lock eyes with her. "Out of sight. In secret. Like an exhausting, high-maintenance puppy that doesn't actually exist in your real life. I wouldn't want to overextend my welcome as your 'convenient company,' Captain. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a craniotomy to perform."

Before she could form a single word, you turned on your heel, your white coat billowing slightly behind you as you walked through the secure double doors, the magnetic lock clicking shut with a heavy, definitive thud.

Alexia stood frozen in the middle of the sterile hospital hallway, the realization crashing down on her like a physical weight. The hallway. The auxiliary lounge. Her mind raced back to Friday night—the careless, defensive, arrogant words she had thrown out to a sports agent just to avoid a moment of personal vulnerability, to keep her world locked in its safe, sterile box. She had forgotten that you were in the house. She had completely forgotten that you were coming from a twelve-hour shift just to see her.

"No," Alexia whispered, her hands dropping to her sides as a sickening, suffocating wave of guilt flooded her stomach. She had built a fortress to protect her privacy, but she had accidentally crushed the only woman who made the fortress worth living in under the rubble.

The next two months were a brutal, agonizing descent into absolute hell for Alexia Putellas.

An elite athlete is trained to handle adversity. When a match is slipping away, Alexia knew how to double her efforts, increase the intensity, and force a victory through sheer strength of will. But you weren't a football match; you were a brilliant neurosurgeon who had completely erased her from the architecture of your life.

You blocked her personal phone. You blocked her on every digital platform. When she sent massive arrangements of lilies and white roses to your private office at Vall d'Hebron, you quietly told the nurse to distribute them to the pediatric oncology ward, never keeping a single petal. When she waited outside the hospital parking garage at 2:00 AM in the pouring rain, hoping to just see your face, you drove past her car without a single glance, your eyes fixed straight ahead on the road.

The complete, total absence of your warmth was destroying her.

Alexia couldn't sleep. Her performance on the pitch began to suffer; her passing was uncharacteristically sloppy, her presence in the midfield distracted and hollow. During a training session at Joan Gamper, Mapi León had finally grabbed her by the training bib after Alexia missed three consecutive tactical runs.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Ale?" Mapi demanded, her eyes full of genuine concern. "You look like a ghost. You've lost weight, your head isn't in the game, and you look like you’re about to collapse. Is this about Y/N? What happened?"

Alexia buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with a quiet, broken sob that shocked her teammate. "I broke it, Mapi. I said something horrible to protect the secret, and she heard me. She won't look at me. She won't speak to me. She looks right through me like I’m made of glass."

"Then you don't stop fighting," Mapi said softly, her hand resting heavily on Alexia’s shoulder. "A neurosurgeon spends her whole life fixing things people think are impossible. If you want her back, you have to show her that you're willing to throw away the whole damn box just to hold her hand in the light."

But while Alexia was dying of heartbreak in Pedralbes, you were dying of sheer, unadulterated exhaustion at Vall d'Hebron.

Burnout among surgical chiefs is a silent killer. To cope with the gaping, agonizing void in your chest where Alexia’s warmth used to be, you had thrown yourself into your work with a terrifying, self-destructive intensity. You took every on-call shift. You volunteered for every emergency trauma surgery. You spent forty-eight consecutive hours in the operating theatre, living on bitter hospital coffee and stale vending machine crackers, completely refusing to let your mind rest for even a second. If you stopped working, the memory of her laugh would find you. If you slept, you would dream of her arms around your waist. So, you simply refused to sleep.

Your colleagues noticed. Your chief resident, a close friend named Dr. Lucas Méndez, had tried to intervene multiple times. "Y/N, you look grey. Your hands are steady under the microscope, but you’re running on pure adrenaline and spite. You need to go home. You’ve done four craniotomies in thirty-six hours."

"I'm fine, Lucas," you had muttered, your voice raspy and thin as you stared at a set of MRI scans. "The department needs me."

The breaking point arrived on a rainy Thursday afternoon, precisely nine weeks after the night in the corridor.

You had just finished a grueling, five-hour emergency surgery to repair a ruptured aneurysm in an eight-year-old child. The procedure had been a complete success, but the physical and emotional toll was the final straw your system could bear. As you walked out of the scrub room, tearing your surgical mask from your face, a sudden, violent wave of dizziness hit you.

The sterile white walls of the corridor began to spin rapidly, turning into a blur of fluorescent light. A high-pitched ringing filled your ears, completely blocking out the sound of the hospital alarms. Your knees felt like water, your lungs refusing to expand as a cold, clammy sweat broke out across your forehead.

"Dr. Y/N?" a nurse called out, her voice sounding a million miles away. "Doctor, are you—"

Before she could finish the sentence, your vision went completely black. Your body collapsed like a deck of cards, your head narrowly missing the metal chart trolley as you hit the linoleum floor of the surgical ward, completely unconscious from sheer physical exhaustion, profound dehydration, and a heart that had simply run out of fuel to pump.

At the Ciutat Esportiva, the afternoon training session had just concluded. Alexia sat on the wooden bench in the locker room, her head bowed, staring blankly at the floor tiles while her teammates showered around her. She felt a heavy, suffocating dread in her chest all day, an unexplainable weight that made it hard to breathe.

Suddenly, her phone, resting on the bench beside her, began to vibrate violently.

An unknown, corporate landline number flashed across the screen. Normally, Alexia ignored unsaved numbers during training, but an instinct older than her career made her slide the screen open instantly.

"¿Sí?" she said, her voice raspy.

"Is this Alexia Putellas?" a sharp, authoritative voice asked. The background noise was a chaotic symphony of rhythmic bleeps, rushing footsteps, and overhead pages. A hospital.

Alexia’s blood turned to ice instantly. She stood up from the bench, her hand gripping the phone so hard the plastic creaked. "Yes. Who is this?"

"This is Dr. Anna Torres from the Emergency Department at Hospital Vall d'Hebron," the voice said, urgent but professional. "We have Dr. Y/N here. She collapsed outside the surgical theatres twenty minutes ago due to severe physical exhaustion, acute dehydration, and a critically low blood pressure spike. She’s stable now, but she's completely unresponsive to standard discharge protocols and is currently on an IV drip in ER Bay Three. Before she lost consciousness completely, she had her phone open to your contact info from an old chat archive. We need an immediate family member or designated contact to come down here, sign her medical leave forms, and take her home. She cannot be left alone in this state."

The locker room completely vanished from Alexia’s field of vision.

"I'm coming," Alexia choked out, a cold, violent wave of terror gripping her throat. "I’m ten minutes away. Please... please take care of her. I’m coming right now."

She didn't change out of her training kit. She didn't grab her bag. She threw her car keys into her pocket, ran out of the facility in her slides, and tore down the highway toward Vall d'Hebron like a woman running out of a burning building. The speed limit didn't exist. The traffic didn't exist. The only thing that existed in her universe was the terrifying image of your brilliant, funny, beautiful face lying pale under a harsh hospital sheet.

When she arrived at Vall d'Hebron, she didn't care about the people recognizing her in the lobby. She sprinted through the sliding glass doors of the Emergency Department, her chest heaving, her eyes wild as she scanned the signs until she found the high-security entrance to the treatment bays.

"Emergency Bay Three!" Alexia gasped to the triage nurse, slamming her palms down against the desk. "Dr. Y/N. I’m Alexia Putellas. They called me."

The nurse looked up, her expression softening with a mixture of recognition and gravity. She pointed down the long, chaotic corridor. "Bay Three is on the left, Captain. The attending doctor is waiting for you."

Alexia threw the curtain aside, her breath catching in her throat as she stepped into the small, sterile cubicle.

The sight broke something fundamental inside her soul.

You were lying on the narrow hospital bed, looking incredibly small beneath the coarse white blanket. Your face was almost translucent, your lips dry and chapped, with deep, purple-grey hollows beneath your closed eyes. A clear plastic oxygen cannula sat beneath your nose, and a thick IV line was taped to the back of your pale hand, pumping fluids into your exhausted system. The brilliant, sharp, hilarious Chief of Neurosurgery looked entirely deflated—broken by the very world she had tried so hard to cure.

Dr. Anna Torres, an older physician with a stern, no-nonsense expression, stood at the foot of the bed, reviewing a chart. She looked up as Alexia entered, her eyes dropping to Alexia’s sweaty training gear.

"You're the emergency contact?" Dr. Torres asked, her voice clipped.

"Yes," Alexia whispered, her eyes never leaving your face as she walked slowly to the side of your bed, her knees trembling so badly she had to grip the metal guardrail to stay upright. "What... what happened to her? She’s a doctor here. How did nobody see this coming?"

"Doctors are the worst patients, Miss. Putellas," Dr. Torres said with a heavy, tired sigh. "Your girlfriend has performed fourteen complex neurosurgical operations in the last three weeks alone. She has taken every night shift, skipped every administrative break, and according to her department’s cafeteria logs, she hasn't eaten a proper meal in days. Her body simply ran out of glucose and fluid. She didn't faint; her nervous system literally shut itself down to prevent a cardiac arrest from sheer stress and fatigue."

Alexia closed her eyes, a hot, agonizing tear sliding down her cheek, burning her skin. She did this because of me. I drove her to this.

"She needs absolute rest," Dr. Torres continued, handing Alexia a clipboard of medical leave documents. "I have signed her off from the surgical department for the next three weeks, effective immediately. Her keys are in that plastic basin. If you are going to take her home, you need to ensure she drinks fluids, eats solid food, and does absolutely nothing but sleep. If she stands up before tomorrow morning, her blood pressure will drop again. Can you handle that, or should I admit her to the observation ward?"

"No," Alexia said fiercely, her voice thick with emotion as she signed her name across the bottom of the forms with a shaking hand. "She’s coming home with me. I will take care of her. I swear to you, she won't lift a finger."

The drive back to the villa in Pedralbes was conducted in a heavy, fragile silence. You had partially regained consciousness when the nurses moved you to a wheelchair, but your mind was entirely hazy, your body feeling like it was encased in lead. You hadn't even had the strength to protest when you saw Alexia lifting you carefully into the passenger seat of her SUV, wrapping a thick fleece blanket around your shivering shoulders.

When she pulled into her private garage, she didn't let you try to walk. She reached into the car, sliding one powerful arm beneath your knees and the other securely behind your back, lifting your slight frame against her chest in one smooth, protective motion.

Your head automatically rolled into the crook of her neck, an ancient, instinctual habit your body refused to forget even through the fog of your exhaustion. You inhaled the familiar scent of her skin—laundry detergent, sweat, and that deep, intoxicating warmth that had always meant safety to your tired brain.

"Alexia..." you mumbled, your voice a tiny, dry scratch against her skin. "Let me down. I can walk. I have to go back to the ICU..."

"Cállate, mi vida," Alexia whispered fiercely, her voice breaking as she carried you through the private elevator straight into her massive, sunlit master bedroom. "You are not going back to any hospital. You are staying right here."

She laid you down on the giant, king-sized bed with an tenderness that felt almost holy. She carefully stripped off your stiff hospital scrubs, leaving you in a soft, oversized cotton t-shirt, and pulled the heavy, down comforter up to your chin.

For the next two hours, you slipped back into a deep, dreamless sleep. When you finally opened your eyes again, the harsh glare of the afternoon sun had softened into a warm, amber twilight, casting long, lazy shadows across the white walls of the room. The room smelled of fresh lavender and hot chicken broth.

You shifted your head slightly on the plush pillow, and your breath instantly caught in your throat.

Alexia hadn't left. She was sitting directly on the hardwood floor right beside your bed, her back resting against the mattress, her knees pulled up to her chest. She had finally changed out of her training kit into a pair of worn grey sweatpants, but she looked completely shattered. Her face was buried in her palms, her broad shoulders shaking with quiet, rhythmic sobs that she was desperately trying to muffle so she wouldn't wake you.

The sight of the formidable, unshakeable captain of Barcelona weeping on the floor like a heartbroken child completely dissolved the last lingering remnants of your defensive wall. You were a doctor; you knew when a wound had been cleaned, and you knew when it was time to let the tissue heal.

Slowly, with an immense effort, you slid your hand out from beneath the heavy comforter, your pale fingers reaching out until they gently brushed against the soft hair at the nape of her neck.

Alexia bolted upright instantly, her head snapping around, her hazel eyes wild and completely drenched in tears. When she saw that you were awake, your eyes clear and focused on her, a sharp, choked gasp escaped her lips.

"Hey," you whispered, a tiny, fragile smile touching your dry lips. "Why are you crying on the floor? You look like you're the one who survived a twelve-hour shift."

"Y/N," Alexia breathed, her voice a total wreck. She didn't hesitate. She scrambled up onto the mattress, moving with a desperate, frantic energy, but she stopped just an inch away from you, her hands hovering over your face, trembling violently, completely terrified to touch you without your permission. "Are you okay? Does your head hurt? Do you need water? The doctor said you needed to drink this broth, I have it right here—"

"Alexia," you said softly, interrupting her frantic rambling. You reached up, your hand catching her wrist, your fingers sliding down until they interlocked with hers, your grip surprisingly warm despite your weakness. "Come here."

A loud, broken sob escaped her lips at the simple invitation. The two months of agony, the walls of silence, the terrifying image of you on that ER bed—it all collapsed in a single second. She slid down onto the bed beside you, her powerful arms wrapping around your waist with a desperate, terrifyingly tight grip, burying her face into the crook of your neck as she wept openly, her entire body shaking against yours.

"Lo siento, lo siento, lo siento," Alexia cried into your skin, her voice thick and raw with an unbearable weight of guilt. "I am so sorry, Y/N. I am so sorry for the horrible, disgusting, cowardly things I said to those people in the lounge. I was terrified of the media, I was caught off guard, and I used the worst words in the world to protect a secret because I was a coward. I didn't mean a single word of it. I swear on my life, I swear on everything I am... you are not exhausting. You are not a puppy. You are my entire world."

She pulled back just enough to look down into your eyes, her hands framing your face, her thumbs desperately wiping away the stray tears that were beginning to pool in your eyes.

"I loved every single second you wrapped yourself around my back," Alexia wept, her hazel eyes burning with an intensity that left no room for doubt. "I loved the way you would sit in my lap for hours. I missed it so much, Y/N. I spent two months living in an empty house that felt like a tomb because my koala wasn't here. When the hospital called me today... when they told me you collapsed because you were working yourself to death to avoid me... I felt like my heart was being torn out of my chest. Don't do this to me again. Please. Punch me, scream at me, hate me if you have to... but don't run away into the dark where I can't protect you."

You stared up at her, your chest heaving as the sheer volume of her devotion completely filled the empty space in your soul. You saw the raw, bloodshot truth in her eyes. You saw the physical toll the separation had taken on her own body. She had spent two months fighting a war against the very walls she had built, and she had completely demolished them just to get to your bedside.

"Your apology is structurally sound, Putellas," you choked out through a tearful, wet laugh, your hands rising to grip her forearms. "But your tactical execution during that dinner was absolutely atrocious."

Alexia let out a loud, breathless laugh through her tears, her face lighting up with a radiant, emotional joy that made her look like herself again. "I know. I'm an idiot. A complete, total idiot. But I fixed it, Y/N. I swear I fixed it."

She reached into her sweatpants pocket, pulling out her phone and sliding the screen open with a shaking thumb. She turned the screen toward you.

It was a live post on her official Instagram account—the one with over three million followers. It was a beautiful, candid photograph you didn't even know she had taken months ago, showing you sitting on her terrace in the evening light, your hair loose, laughing at something she had said, looking absolutely breathtakingly beautiful.

The caption beneath the photo was written in large, bold letters in both Catalan and Spanish:

“The most brilliant mind in the world, the finest surgeon at Vall d'Hebron, and the only woman I will ever love.”

The comments section was already a chaotic, exploding waterfall of millions of likes, red hearts, and messages of support from fans, teammates, and the entire sporting community. She hadn't just thrown away the box; she had exploded it in front of the entire world.

Your breath completely caught in your throat, a fresh wave of hot, ecstatic tears blurring your vision as you looked from the screen back up to her face. "Alexia... your sponsors... the club executives..."

"Let them talk," Alexia whispered fiercely, tossing the phone onto the nightstand, completely dismissing the entire global media landscape with a wave of her hand. She leaned down, her face stopping just centimeters from yours, her breath warm against your lips. "Let the whole world write the stories. Out there, I am the player. But in this room, on this bed, I am just a woman who is completely, desperately in love with her girlfriend. I don't care about the cameras anymore, Y/N. I just need you. I need my clingy, beautiful doctor back. Please."

The final wall of doubt inside your soul completely turned to dust.

"Okay," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "But I told you... I am incredibly high-maintenance when I'm sick."

"Sé lo que me espera," Alexia murmured with a breathless, beautiful smile, and then she closed the final distance.

The kiss was entirely different from the cold, professional distance of the last nine weeks. It was deep, possessive, and filled with a profound, overwhelming warmth that completely healed every single broken circuit in your exhausted brain. Alexia’s lips parted yours with a smooth, intoxicating hunger, her tongue tracing your lower lip with a reverent sweetness that made your soul vibrate. Her powerful arms slid beneath your back, lifting your upper body off the mattress to pull you completely flush against her chest, holding you so tightly it felt like she was trying to fuse your ribs together.

You let out a soft, satisfied sigh into her mouth, your arms instantly locking around her neck, your fingers tangling into the short blonde hair at the base of her skull, pulling her closer, tasting the salt of her tears and the rich sweetness of the broth she had prepared.

When she finally pulled back, just an inch, she didn't let you move. She shifted her body until she was lying completely flat on the mattress beside you, her long legs tangling with yours beneath the heavy comforter, her arm sliding beneath your head to act as a permanent pillow.

The moment she was settled, the high-key, shameless clinginess that defined your relationship returned with a violent, roaring vengeance.

Now that the angst was gone, your body completely demanded the comfort it had been starved of for months. You shifted your hips, crawling across the sheets until your entire front was pressed tightly against her side. You threw your right leg completely over her powerful thighs, pinning her down, and buried your face directly into the warm crook of her neck, your fingers digging into the fabric of her t-shirt as if you were trying to burrow inside her skin.

Alexia let out a rich, deep laugh—that beautiful, raspy sound you had missed so much—and her arms locked around your waist instantly, pulling your hips even closer until there wasn't a single millimeter of space left between your bodies. She began pressing sweet, lingering kisses into your hair, your temple, and the soft skin behind your ear, her hand rubbing slow, soothing circles across your back.

"Madre mía, te extrañaba tanto," Alexia murmured against your skin, her voice full of a warm, sleepy contentment that vibrated straight into your chest. "My little koala is back."

"Shut up," you mumbled into her collarbone, your voice drowsy but full of an absolute, unbreakable happiness as the warmth of her body finally allowed your nervous system to fully cool down. "You said I was a lost puppy. Now you have to deal with the consequences."

"I will deal with them for the next fifty years," Alexia whispered softly, tightening her grip around you, her nose nudging your jawline affectionately. "Drink your broth first, and then you can sleep for three weeks. I’m not letting you go to the bathroom alone, understood?"

"Understood, Captain," you sighed, your eyelids growing heavy as the absolute safety of her presence finally allowed your brain to drift toward a deep, natural sleep.

The apartment was quiet except for the low murmur of cartoons coming from the living room and the soft sound of Eli’s voice.

“Careful, mi amor. The dinosaur cannot fly from the sofa.”

“Yes he can,” her son argued immediately.

Y/N smiled despite herself.

It was the first real smile she’d managed in twelve hours.

Her shift at the hospital had been brutal from the second she clocked in. Two car accidents, one elderly patient with chest pain who reminded her painfully of her grandfather, one drunk tourist who kept trying to leave before the stitches in his eyebrow were finished, and then, because the universe had a cruel sense of humor, a trauma came in thirty minutes before she was supposed to go home.

So now she stood in the hallway, still in navy scrubs, hair falling out of its bun, smelling faintly of antiseptic and coffee, with dried pen marks on the side of her hand and exhaustion sitting heavy in her bones.

“Mama!”

Her son spotted her from the living room and immediately abandoned the plastic dinosaur in his hand.

Y/N barely had time to drop her bag before he launched himself at her legs.

“Oh, there’s my boy,” she whispered, bending down and scooping him up.

He wrapped his arms around her neck so tightly that her chest ached.

Not from the pressure.

From the feeling.

“Did you have fun with Eli?”

He nodded dramatically, his messy hair brushing her cheek.

“Eli made pasta.”

Y/N looked over his shoulder.

Eli was sitting on the living room floor among a battlefield of toys, looking elegant even in casual clothes, which Y/N found deeply unfair. Alexia’s mother smiled warmly at her, but there was concern behind it.

“Long day?”

Y/N let out a tired laugh.

“You have no idea.”

Eli pushed herself up from the floor. “Sit down. I saved you some food.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.” Eli walked into the kitchen like it was her own, which, at this point, it nearly was. “That is why it is called being kind.”

Y/N smiled again and kissed her son’s cheek before setting him down. “Go clean up five toys for me.”

“Five?”

“Yes. Five.”

He sighed like she’d asked him to move furniture. Eli laughed softly as she pulled a covered plate from the fridge. These moments were the ones that confused Y/N the most. The domestic ones. The painfully normal ones. Because inside these walls, she wasn’t a secret.

Inside these walls, Eli knew exactly where the extra mugs were kept. She knew Y/N liked her tea stronger than most Spanish people could tolerate. She knew Y/N’s son hated peas but would eat broccoli if someone pretended it was a tiny tree. She knew where the plasters were, which blanket lived on the back of the sofa, and that Alexia always pretended she didn’t like cartoons but somehow knew the theme songs by heart.

Inside these walls, Y/N had a life.

A real one.

A family, almost.

Outside of them, she barely existed.

Y/N sat at the kitchen island as Eli warmed her food. Her son dragged toys across the living room floor, very clearly cleaning by moving the mess from one side of the room to the other.

“Alexia texted earlier,” Eli said. “They arrived at the concert.”

Y/N nodded, picking at a loose thread near her sleeve. “Good.”

Eli looked at her carefully.

Y/N felt the look before she met it.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That was not a nothing face.”

Eli leaned against the counter. “I only wondered if you were sad you could not go.”

Y/N shrugged. “A bit, maybe. Bad Bunny would’ve been fun.”

“You work too much.”

“I’m an ER nurse. That’s sort of the job description.”

“Yes, but still.” Eli placed the plate in front of her. “You need rest.”

Y/N hummed, already taking a bite.

The food was warm, simple, and exactly what she needed. For a moment she let herself sink into it. The apartment. Her son. Eli washing a pan in the sink even though Y/N told her not to. The muffled sound of cartoons. The distant city noise outside.

Alexia was out with the team.

Y/N was home.

It should have felt fine.

It almost did.

“She deserves tonight,” Y/N said after a moment.

Eli turned slightly. “Alexia?”

Y/N nodded. “Last season at Barça. That’s huge. Emotional. Complicated. She should be out celebrating.”

And she meant it.

That was the worst part.

Y/N wasn’t angry that Alexia had gone out. She wasn’t angry that Alexia had friends, teammates, a life outside of her. She had never wanted to be the girlfriend who demanded every second, every text, every location.

She loved Alexia’s passion.

Loved the way her eyes lit up when she talked about football, even when the conversation shifted into tactical details Y/N only understood half of. Loved watching her be adored by people who had followed her career for years.

Y/N loved Alexia’s life.

She just wished she was allowed to be part of it.

Her phone buzzed on the counter.

She glanced at it without thinking.

Instagram.

Kika Nazareth added to her story.

Y/N stared at the notification for a second longer than she should have.

She followed most of the Barça girls on Instagram, though she doubted half of them knew who she was. To them, she was probably just another random account in the sea of fans and friends and strangers who watched their lives through a screen.

She hesitated.

Then tapped.

The first story was harmless. A shaky clip of the stage, lights flashing purple and blue while the crowd screamed along to the music. The second was a selfie of Kika and a couple of the girls, laughing with drinks in their hands. The third was the one that made the apartment go strangely quiet around her. It was only a few seconds long. A video of the group dancing in the middle of the concert. Mapi was there. Irene. Patri. A few others Y/N recognized from Alexia’s stories and matches and post-game photos.

Then the camera swung.

Alexia.

Laughing.

Dancing.

Her head tipped back, her body leaning into Kika’s, completely relaxed. Kika’s left arm was wrapped across Alexia’s chest. Not briefly. Not accidentally. Comfortably. Possessively, even if Y/N hated herself for thinking the word. Alexia was singing, eyes bright, smiling like she didn’t have a care in the world. Kika was behind her, close enough that there was barely space between them, grinning as the lights flickered over both of them.

The clip ended.

Y/N’s thumb froze over the screen.

Her heart didn’t drop all at once. It sank slowly. Painfully. Like her body needed time to understand what her mind had already seen.

Eli must have noticed the change, because she stopped washing the pan.

“Y/N?”

Y/N didn’t answer.

She replayed the story.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Each time, she tried to find a different version of it. One where Alexia looked uncomfortable. One where she moved away. One where Kika’s arm was just passing by, just caught in a bad angle, just one of those things that looked worse than it was. But no. Alexia was comfortable. That was what hurt. Not because Y/N thought Alexia was cheating. She didn’t. Not really. But comfort could still cut. Because Y/N had spent nine months learning the shape of Alexia’s caution. The way Alexia let go of her hand the second they stepped out of the car anywhere too public. The way dinner reservations were always made in quiet places, private corners, back rooms, or only when Mapi came along to make it look less like a date. The way Alexia never posted anything that even hinted at Y/N’s existence. The way she said, “It’s safer like this,” so many times that Y/N had started to wonder who exactly they were protecting.

And now here she was.

Public.

Open.

Careless.

With Kika’s arm around her like it belonged there.

Eli stepped closer.

“What happened?”

Y/N swallowed and shook her head.

“Nothing.”

Eli’s expression made it clear she didn’t believe her. Y/N looked down at her plate. The food suddenly felt impossible to eat. Her phone buzzed again. This time it was a message from Alexia.

Ale ❤️: Concert is amazing. Wish you were here.

Y/N stared at the words.

Wish you were here.

She wondered if Alexia really did. If Y/N had been there, would she have been allowed to stand beside her? Would Alexia have danced with her like that? Would she have wrapped her arms around Y/N in front of the team? Would she have kissed her cheek beneath the flashing lights? Or would Y/N have stood three people away while Alexia smiled at her like a friend? She set the phone face down.

Eli watched her carefully.

“Do you want me to stay until Alexia gets home?”

Y/N almost said no.

Pride rose up first. Automatic. Defensive.

Then she glanced toward the living room, where her son was now lining up toy cars across the rug, completely unaware that his mother’s chest felt like it was cracking open.

“Yes,” Y/N whispered.

Eli’s face softened.

“Of course.”

Neither of them said anything else for a while.

Y/N finished three more bites because Eli was watching and because she knew she needed food after a twelve-hour shift, even if her stomach had twisted itself into something tight and ugly.

Afterward, she showered quickly.

The hot water did nothing to settle her.

She changed into an old oversized shirt and shorts, then tucked her son into bed. He demanded two stories, then one more because “Ale does three,” which nearly broke her on the spot.

“She does, does she?”

He nodded sleepily. “Ale does voices.”

Y/N brushed his hair back from his forehead.

“Of course she does.”

“Is Ale coming home?”

Y/N stared down at him.

“Yes, baby,” she said softly. “She’ll be home later.”

He smiled, already half asleep. “Tell her I saved blue car.”

Y/N kissed his forehead.

“I’ll tell her.”

When she returned to the living room, Eli had turned the television down.

The apartment felt too calm.

Too normal.

Y/N picked up her phone again.

The story was still there.

Of course it was.

She watched it one more time, even though she knew she shouldn’t.

This time she noticed Mapi in the background, dancing with Miriam, her arms wrapped around her from behind for a second before both of them burst out laughing and separated.

Y/N almost laughed too.

Because she could already hear Alexia’s argument. Everyone was dancing. It didn’t mean anything. Mapi was doing it too. The difference was that Y/N knew Mapi. Mapi had been in their home. Mapi had eaten breakfast at their table. Mapi had let Y/N’s son draw a terrible picture of Bagheera and stuck it on her fridge like it was priceless art. Y/N knew Mapi. She knew her humor, her loyalty, her boundaries. Kika was a stranger. Not because Y/N hadn’t tried. Because Alexia had made sure the Barcelona part of her life stayed behind a locked door.

Y/N sat on the sofa and waited.

The minutes passed slowly.

Eli didn’t ask questions, and Y/N loved her for that. She simply sat nearby, knitting something small and soft in pale blue yarn, as if her presence alone could keep the night from falling apart.

It couldn’t.

A little after one in the morning, keys turned in the front door.

Y/N’s entire body went still.

Alexia stepped inside quietly, one hand braced against the door as she slipped off her shoes. Her cheeks were flushed from the night air, her hair slightly messy, her eyes still bright with the leftover energy of music and celebration.

She looked happy.

That made it worse.

Then she saw Eli.

“Mama?” Alexia whispered, surprised.

Eli stood slowly.

“I stayed with Y/N.”

Alexia looked from her mother to Y/N on the sofa.

Her smile faded.

“What happened?”

Y/N stood.

For one second, she looked at Alexia and forgot every word she had spent the last hour preparing. Because she loved her. That was the problem. She loved the woman standing in front of her, tired and beautiful and confused, in a jacket Y/N had helped her pick out weeks ago. She loved her enough to move countries. Loved her enough to trust her with her son. Loved her enough to build a life in a language that still felt unfamiliar on her tongue some days. But she was so tired of loving someone who only seemed brave enough to love her in private.

Y/N lifted her phone.

Alexia’s eyes flickered down.

Y/N opened Kika’s story and pressed play.

The music filled the room for five seconds.

Then stopped.

Alexia’s face changed.

Not guilt exactly.

Recognition.

Y/N hated that more.

Because it meant Alexia knew.

She knew what Y/N had seen before Y/N even had to say it.

Eli looked between them, the sadness in her expression quiet but unmistakable.

“I will check on him,” Eli said softly, giving them the room.

Neither of them answered.

Alexia waited until her mother disappeared down the hallway before she spoke.

“Y/N”

“No.”

Alexia stopped.

Y/N’s hand tightened around her phone.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Say my name like I’m already being unreasonable.”

Alexia exhaled slowly.

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

The apartment fell silent.

Then Alexia glanced toward the phone again.

“It was just dancing.”

Y/N laughed once.

It came out sharp and empty.

“Of course it was.”

“Cariño”

“No.” Y/N shook her head. “Not tonight.”

Alexia’s shoulders dropped, the concert glow fading from her completely.

“Can we talk about this calmly?”

Y/N looked at her.

“I have been calm for months.”

Alexia didn’t answer.

And that was when Y/N knew this fight wasn’t going to be small. It wasn’t going to be fixed with a kiss on the forehead, an apology whispered into her hair, and Alexia promising again that she’d handle it. This was the moment all the smaller moments had been waiting for. The story was still paused on her phone. Alexia frozen in the frame. Kika’s arm around her chest. Y/N turned the screen toward Alexia one more time.

“I asked you to deal with this.”

Alexia swallowed.

“I know.”

“No,” Y/N said quietly. “You don’t.”

And for the first time all night, Alexia looked afraid.

Alexia looked afraid. Y/N hated that. Not because she wanted to hurt her. Because fear meant Alexia still thought this was about the video. It wasn't. The video was simply evidence. The latest exhibit in a case Y/N had been building for months.

Alexia stepped forward carefully.

"Cariño"

"Stop calling me that."

The words came out before Y/N could stop them. Alexia flinched. Immediately. Y/N felt guilty. Immediately. Neither feeling was enough to stop what was coming. The apartment felt too small. Too quiet. Too familiar. Y/Ns son's coloring books were still on the coffee table. Alexia's jacket was still hanging by the door. The blanket they always fought over during movie nights was folded neatly over the sofa.

A life.

Their life.

And somehow Y/N had never felt further away from it.

"It was one video."

Alexia's voice was softer now.

"There it is."

"What?"

"The part where you pretend this is about one video."

Alexia opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Y/N nodded.

"Exactly."

She walked away from the sofa before she could start crying. The last thing she wanted was to cry this early. She needed Alexia to hear her first.

"For months," Y/N continued, "I've told you she's too touchy."

"I know."

"I've told you it bothers me."

"I know."

"I've asked you to say something."

"I did."

Y/N stopped walking.

Slowly turned around.

"You did?"

"I did."

"When?"

Alexia hesitated.

Y/N's stomach dropped.

"When Alexia?"

"I mentioned it."

"Mentioned it?"

Alexia sighed.

"It wasn't a formal conversation."

"Clearly."

The silence stretched.

Alexia rubbed a hand over her face.

"I don't know what you want from me."

The words hit harder than they should have.

Because Y/N knew Alexia wasn't trying to be cruel.

She genuinely didn't know.

That was the problem.

"I want to feel like your girlfriend."

The room went still.

Alexia blinked.

"What?"

Y/N swallowed.

Hard.

"I want to feel like your girlfriend."

"You are my girlfriend."

"No."

The word came out sharp.

Painfully sharp.

"Not here."

Alexia stared at her.

"What does that even mean?"

Y/N laughed.

Again.

She was starting to hate the sound.

"It means the only place I get to be your girlfriend is inside this apartment."

Alexia's jaw tightened.

"You know why."

"No."

"You do."

"No, Alexia."

Y/N stepped closer.

"I understand why you don't post me online."

"Then, "

"I'm not finished."

Alexia fell silent.

"I understand why you don't put my face on Instagram."

Another step.

"I understand why you don't want paparazzi following my son."

Another.

"I understand why you value privacy."

Alexia nodded.

"But privacy and secrecy are not the same thing."

That landed.

Y/N saw it.

Saw the exact second the words reached her.

Alexia's expression shifted.

Only slightly.

Not enough.

Still not enough.

"You think I'm hiding you."

The hurt in Alexia's voice nearly made Y/N cave.

Nearly.

"Alexia..."

She shook her head.

"I don't think it."

Silence.

"I know it."

The words hung between them.

Heavy.

Unavoidable.

Alexia looked devastated.

"I have never been ashamed of you."

"I know."

"Then how can you say that?"

"Because being hidden feels exactly the same."

Alexia looked away.

That hurt too.

Because Alexia always looked away when she didn't have an answer.

Y/N had learned that months ago.

"Tell me something."

Alexia didn't respond.

"When was the last time we went to dinner?"

"We always"

Y/N cut in "Just us."

Silence.

Y/N nodded.

"Right."

"That's not fair."

"No?"

"No."

Alexia crossed her arms.

"We go out."

"With who?"

Silence.

"With who, Alexia."

"...Mapi."

Y/N smiled sadly.

"Exactly."

"Mapi knows."

"That's not the point."

"She helps."

"That's not the point."

Alexia's frustration started to show.

"Then what is the point?"

Y/N stared at her.

For a moment she couldn't believe she still had to explain this.

"The point is that we've been together for nine months and you've never once taken me somewhere publicly as your girlfriend."

The words echoed through the room.

Alexia looked like she'd been slapped.

Y/N kept going.

Because once she started she couldn't stop.

"You've introduced me to sponsors, You've introduced me to neighbors, You've introduced me to restaurant staff, But never your teammates."

Alexia opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

"They don't need to know."

Y/N actually laughed.

A real laugh this time.

Small.

Broken.

"There it is."

Alexia frowned.

"What?"

"They don't need to know."

Y/N repeated the words back to her.

Slowly.

Like she was tasting poison.

"They don't need to know."

Alexia's face fell. Because she finally heard it. The implication. The dismissal. The years of meaning packed into one careless sentence.

Y/N took a shaky breath.

"You know what hurts the most?"

Alexia didn't answer.

"I don't know Kika."

The room went quiet.

Alexia frowned.

"What?"

"I don't know her."

Y/N gestured toward the phone.

"I've never met her, I've never spoken to her, I don't know what she's like, I don't know if she's kind, I don't know if she's funny, I don't know if she respects boundaries, I don't know anything about her."

Alexia's face softened.

"Y/N"

"No."

Tears were starting now.

She couldn't stop them.

Not anymore.

"That's my point, Alexia."

Her voice cracked.

"I know Mapi."

Silence.

"I've had dinner with Mapi."

Silence.

"My son knows Mapi."

Silence.

"Mapi knows me."

Another silence.

"I don't know Kika because you won't let me anywhere near your life at Barcelona."

Alexia looked stunned. Like she'd never considered it from that angle before. Like she'd never once thought about how strange it was that her girlfriend of nine months had never met most of the people she spent every day with.

The realization hit her visibly.

Too late.

Far too late.

Y/N wiped at her face.

"I'm tired."

Alexia took a step forward.

"I can fix this."

The words came instantly. Desperate. Instinctive. Y/N closed her eyes. Because she'd heard them before. After every conversation. Every argument. Every uncomfortable discussion. I can fix this. I will handle it. I'll talk to her. I'll make it better.

When Y/N opened her eyes again, something inside her had settled.

Not healed.

Not forgiven.

Settled.

Like a decision.

"I'm going to stay somewhere else for a while."

The color drained from Alexia's face.

"What?"

"I'm leaving."

"No."

The response came immediately.

Firm.

Panicked.

"No."

"Alexia"

"No."

Alexia shook her head.

"No, we're not doing that."

Y/N stared at her.

"We're not doing what?"

"Leaving."

Alexia's voice cracked.

"You don't leave."

The irony almost knocked the breath from Y/N's lungs.

You don't leave.

As if Y/N hadn't left everything already. London. Friends. Family. Her support system. Her entire life. All for this. For them.

"I'm not asking permission."

Alexia looked shattered. Y/N hated herself for it. But not enough to stay. She walked toward the bedroom. Behind her she heard Alexia follow.

"Please."

One word.

Barely a whisper.

It almost worked.

Almost.

Then Y/N opened the wardrobe and pulled down a duffel bag.

And Alexia finally understood she was serious. Really serious. Not a fight. Not a threat. Not a dramatic exit. Leaving. Actually leaving. The silence that followed was deafening.

Because for the first time all night...

Neither of them knew how to fix this.

And somewhere down the hallway, completely unaware that both of their worlds were collapsing, a little blue toy car sat waiting on a bedside table for Alexia to come home.

Y/N grabs the duffel and walks to her sons room, Eli sitting in a chair in the corner of the room stands when the door opens, seeing Y/N tear stains and glassy eyes and Alexia behind her. Y/N walks over to her sons dresser, puts some of his clothes in the duffel, walks over to slowly pick him up and walks towards the front door.

Alexia is right on their heel.

Y/N reaches the door, opens it and starts to walk out. Before she closes the door, she turns around to face Alexia

"When you figure out that Kika is not your girlfriend... Come find me"

You hate football.

You hate the sound of a ball striking a boot, that sharp crack that seems to follow you everywhere no matter how many years you spend trying to distance yourself from it. You hate the smell of freshly cut grass because it instantly transports you back to training grounds and stadium tunnels and endless afternoons spent waiting around while other people obsessed over a game you never cared about. You hate the sight of floodlights illuminating a pitch at dusk, hate the television commentators who speak about football as though it is the most important thing in the world, hate the way complete strangers seem to believe they know your family simply because they know your surname.

Most of all, you hate the way football consumed your childhood.

Your papa’s playing career had already ended when you were still young enough to think adults knew everything, but by then his managerial career was ascending so quickly that it felt as though football had just found a new way to claim him. Success turned into reputation, reputation turned into influence, and influence eventually became something larger than any individual person. It became legacy.

People spoke about him with a reverence that sometimes bordered on worship. Journalists dissected every decision he made as though it were a matter of national importance. Fans crossed streets just for the chance to shake his hand. Other managers studied his teams, copied his tactics, and spent entire press conferences discussing his ideas. Everywhere you went, there were reminders that your father was not simply a man anymore.

He was a symbol.

Maybe, at twenty-eight, you should appreciate that more than you do.

Maybe you should be grateful for the opportunities his career created for your family, for the doors that opened before you ever had to knock, for the experiences that most people only dream about. Maybe you should feel proud every time somebody recognizes your surname and their eyes widen in admiration.

You try. You really do. But it is difficult to feel grateful for a legacy that demanded so much from the people who loved him.

It is difficult to celebrate football when football stole countless evenings that should have belonged to your family. Difficult to romanticize success when it meant birthdays spent waiting for him to return from away matches, school performances where an empty seat sat beside your mother, and holidays interrupted by phone calls that inevitably dragged his attention back to training sessions, injuries, transfers, and tactics.

Football never stopped asking for more.

And because football never stopped asking, neither did life.

One day you were running barefoot across the warm sand of Barcelona’s beaches, speaking Catalan with your friends, convinced that the Mediterranean sun would shine forever. The next, your entire life had been packed into boxes because your father had accepted a new challenge in Munich.

You still remember how cold it felt.

The language sounded harsh and unfamiliar, all sharp consonants and impossible grammar, and no matter how hard you studied, you never felt as though you truly belonged there. The city was beautiful, people always insisted that when you complained, but beauty means very little when you are eleven and homesick. What you remember is the grey sky, the endless winter, and the feeling that everyone around you understood a world that remained stubbornly closed to you.

Before you could fully settle, football moved your family again.

Manchester was somehow worse.

The rain seemed endless. The sky existed in varying shades of grey. Entire weeks passed without seeing proper sunlight, and you became convinced that British food was an elaborate punishment disguised as a national cuisine. Every conversation somehow circled back to football. Every newspaper featured football. Every radio station discussed football.

You could never escape it. Not even in your own home.

And yet, despite everything, despite your resentment and frustration and the years spent insisting that you wanted absolutely nothing to do with the sport that had dictated so much of your life, you never stopped loving your father.

Because your papa never brought football through the front door with him.

The moment he stepped inside, he became simply Papa. 

The father who woke you up early on weekends for bike rides along the coast whenever the family was back in Spain. The father who spent hours researching restaurants because he wanted to surprise you with somewhere new. The father who never missed an opportunity to take you to the cinema, even if it meant staying out far later than he probably should have before training the next morning.

When you graduated from law school, he celebrated with more enthusiasm than he had ever shown after winning a trophy. When you secured your first prestigious internship, he called every member of the family before you even had the chance to tell them yourself. When you received the offer for your dream position back in Catalonia, he looked prouder than any photograph you had ever seen of him lifting silverware.

Football trophies decorated museums and boardrooms. Your achievements decorated conversations. And there was never any doubt which mattered more to him.

You were the apple of his eye and everyone knew it.

Your brothers teased him about it relentlessly, your mother rolled her eyes whenever he tried to deny it, and even he occasionally admitted it with a sheepish smile when he thought nobody important was listening.

You were his little girl - always.

So when you finally came home, part of you wondered if something in him had quietly settled too.

After nearly two decades of living abroad, after years spent building a life around airports and moving trucks and temporary addresses, you returned to Barcelona for good. You found an apartment overlooking streets you actually recognized. You reconnected with old friends. You started the career you had worked so hard to build.

For the first time in years, home felt like home again.

And not long after you settled back in Catalonia, he announced he would be leaving Manchester. Maybe it was coincidence or maybe he was simply ready to rest and enjoy everything he had spent decades building instead of always chasing the next challenge. But regardless, the football world reacted with the kind of dramatic disbelief usually reserved for royal abdications.

Television channels dedicated entire evenings to discussing his decision. Former players gave emotional interviews. Journalists wrote lengthy retrospectives examining every trophy, every tactical innovation, every rivalry, and every triumph. Fans treated it like the end of an era.

Your father just seemed relieved.

While the rest of the world searched for hidden meanings and secret plans, he spent his days taking long walks with your mother, drinking coffee on terraces overlooking the sea, and rediscovering hobbies that football had stolen from him years ago. For the first time in your life, he looked like a man who wasn’t carrying the weight of an entire club on his shoulders.

He was sometimes a little too relaxed though, in your opinion.

You arrive at your parents’ new house on a warm afternoon, letting yourself in through the front door without bothering to knock. The house sits along the coast, tucked away from the attention that had followed your family for most of your life, and it already feels more like home than any of the temporary houses you had occupied in Munich or Manchester. Sunlight pours through enormous windows overlooking the water, filling every room with a warm golden glow. The distant sound of waves drifts through the open terrace doors and mixes with the faint commentary coming from a television somewhere deeper inside the house.

Following the noise into the living room, you find your parents exactly where you expected them to be.

Curled together on the sofa, practically intertwined, your mother’s legs stretched across your father’s lap while his arm rests comfortably around her shoulders. Some football match plays quietly in the background. The local women’s side, you think after sparing the screen barely a second of attention before immediately losing interest.

The sight would probably make most people smile. It mostly makes you roll your eyes.

Thirty years of marriage and somehow they are still disgustingly in love.

The moment they notice you, their faces brighten in perfect unison. They exchange identical smiles before rising from the couch together, both already reaching for you before you’ve even crossed the room. Your father gets there first, wrapping his arms around you with enough enthusiasm to make it clear that retirement has done absolutely nothing to reduce his affection. You lean into the embrace for a brief moment before your mother steals you away for one of her own.

They have become unbearable since you moved home.

Years of complaining that you lived too far away have apparently convinced them that physical affection must now compensate for every lunch, celebratory dinner, and ordinary afternoon they missed while you were building your career elsewhere.

You allow it because, despite your complaints, you’ve missed them too.

The three of you settle into the living room and fall easily into conversation. Your mother disappears briefly to bring coffee and pastries while your father asks about work, genuinely interested in the answer despite understanding almost nothing about corporate law. He listens anyway, nodding thoughtfully while you complain about difficult clients and impossible deadlines, asking questions with the same focus he once reserved for post-match tactical analysis.

The conversation drifts naturally between subjects until you notice a look pass between your parents.

The tiny exchange lasts less than a second, but after twenty-eight years of being their daughter, you recognize it as something immediately.

Your father suddenly becomes very interested in his coffee while your mother struggles to hide an amused smile behind her hands.

You narrow your eyes. “What?”

Your mother’s smile widens. Your father sighs. And suddenly you know with complete certainty that whatever is about to happen is going to inconvenience you.

“Carinyo…” your father begins, setting his drink down on the table with a level of caution that makes you suspicious. “I have a favor to ask you.”

You narrow your eyes at him.

Across the sofa, your mother seems very interested in stirring her coffee despite the fact that she hasn’t added anything to it.

That alone tells you everything you need to know.

“What kind of favor?”

Your father shifts slightly in his seat.

“Your mother has that baby shower tomorrow. You know, for your cousin.”

A very distant cousin, but yes, you know exactly which baby shower he means. Your mother has been talking about it for weeks despite the fact that neither of you could confidently identify the woman in a lineup.

You wait patiently for him to continue.

“Well,” he says, drawing the word out slightly, “Barça is hosting a gala tomorrow night for the foundation. They’ve asked me to speak because apparently they think seeing your old man back in blaugrana colours will encourage people to donate more money.”

He rolls his eyes as though the idea is completely ridiculous, which is particularly rich coming from a man who could probably convince half of Catalonia to buy bottled tap water if he attached his name to it.

You continue staring at him. The favor still hasn’t arrived. Your father notices your blank look and suddenly looks far less confident.

The sheepish expression that crosses his face is answer enough.

“Oh no.”

His shoulders sag, “Listen-”

“No!”

“I haven’t even asked yet.”

“You don’t need to.”

A laugh escapes your mother before she quickly hides it behind her coffee cup. Your father points at her accusingly before turning back toward you.

“I was wondering…” He hesitates for a moment, clearly aware that this conversation is not heading in his favor. “Well, since your mother can’t come…”

You already know where this is going. You know it before he even finishes the sentence. You know it so certainly that your eyes close in defeat.

“Maybe you could come with me?”

There it is. The disaster. A football gala.

An entire evening surrounded by former players, club executives, sponsors, journalists, donors, and every other category of person you have spent your entire adult life trying to avoid.

“Be my date?"

“Papa,” you groan, dropping your head back against the couch cushions and staring up at the ceiling as though divine intervention might still save you.

“It won’t be that bad.”

It will undoubtedly be that bad.

Your father, unfortunately, mistakes your silence for uncertainty and quickly launches into his defense.

“You can pretend it’s some lawyer event! There’ll be loads of lawyers from the club there.”

Wonderful, your favorite.

An entire room filled with wealthy old men who would spend the first few minutes of every conversation staring at your chest and the remainder trying to impress you with stories about their glory days. At least until they realized who your father was, at which point they would inevitably begin treating you like some extension of him rather than an accomplished lawyer in your own right.

The more you think about it, the worse it becomes.

Unfortunately, Papa is looking at you with the same hopeful expression he has worn your entire life whenever he wants something from you, and that expression has always been your weakness.

He rarely asks for anything at all so when he does you’re basically a goner.

The sigh that leaves your mouth is long and dramatic enough to make your mother smile.

“Okay. Fine… I’ll go.”

The relief that floods your father’s face is so genuine that it almost makes the sacrifice feel worthwhile. Almost.

You hold up a finger before he can thank you.

“But I expect to buy a beautiful new dress on your dime.”

His grin arrives instantly. He doesn’t seem remotely surprised or concerned about the expense.

“Done.”

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. That agreement had come far too quickly.

Your father only looks more pleased with himself, leaning back into the sofa with the satisfied expression of a man who had anticipated every step of the negotiation before it even began.

And perhaps he had.

After all, his daughter might be a lawyer and a professional negotiator, but he had spent twenty-eight years studying her habits, weaknesses, and bargaining tactics.

In many ways, he was the only person in the world who negotiated with you better than you negotiated with everyone else.

------

The following evening, a sleek black town car waits outside your apartment building, its polished exterior reflecting the golden glow of the streetlights as the driver stands patiently beside it. The entire scene feels unnecessarily dramatic, which is exactly what you would expect from an event connected to football. Somewhere along the way, the sport had apparently decided that everything needed to feel larger than life.

The chauffeur moves toward the rear door the moment you emerge from the building, but he barely has time to reach for the handle before the opposite door swings open.

Your father steps out. You can’t help smiling.

For all the wealth and status and prestige that surround him, he has never quite mastered the art of letting other people do things for him.

His face brightens when he sees you and for a moment, he just stares.

The expression is familiar. It’s the same expression he wore at your university graduation. The same expression he wore when you passed the bar exam. The same expression he wore whenever you accomplished something that made him proud.

Only tonight you’re fairly certain he’s just admiring his beautiful daughter.

The black gown hugs your frame perfectly before flowing elegantly toward the floor, simple enough to be sophisticated and expensive enough to make your father wince slightly when the credit card bill eventually arrives.

“You look stunning, darling.”

A warmth spreads through your chest despite yourself.

“Gràcies, Papa.”

You step closer, reaching up automatically to straighten his bow tie. It has shifted slightly to the left, something no one else in the world would probably notice. Your father remains perfectly still while you adjust it, smiling softly the entire time.

“There,” you murmur. “Now you look presentable.”

He laughs. “Thank you for coming.”

The words are simple, but there is a sincerity behind them that softens whatever complaints you had prepared.

“I really am happy you’ll be by my side tonight.”

"Me too." You squeeze his arm affectionately. “And when you inevitably get kidnapped by hundreds of middle-aged fanboys who want to tell you where they were when Barça won some trophy fifteen years ago, you can find me at the open bar.”

His laughter echoes across the quiet street. The look he gives you says he knows you’re absolutely right.

Unfortunately, you are.

The moment the two of you arrive at the gala and step into the ballroom arm in arm, it feels as though half the room suddenly remembers your father exists.

People begin approaching from every direction almost immediately.

Former players, executives, sponsors, club officials. Men who have apparently spent the last decade waiting for an opportunity to tell your father the exact same stories he has heard three dozen times before.

Hands are shaken. Introductions are made.

Your father proudly introduces you at every opportunity, his arm occasionally settling around your shoulders as though he cannot resist reminding people that you are his golden child. For a few brief moments the conversations remain balanced, the guests politely asking about your work and your life before inevitably gravitating back toward football.

They always gravitate back toward football. Every single time.

You stand there smiling politely while listening to conversations about matches, transfers, tactical systems, club politics, and moments from seasons that happened so long ago they should probably be considered historical events.

The muscles in your face practically ache from resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

Eventually your father catches your expression.

His mouth twitches and a small apologetic grimace flashes across his features as another group begins steering him toward a gathering of board members and club leadership waiting across the room.

You simply gesture toward the bar. He nods in understanding.

You have performed this dance together your entire life. He gets absorbed into football. You escape. Everyone wins.

The bar occupies one corner of the ballroom beneath a cascade of crystal chandeliers, and you settle onto one of the empty stools before ordering a glass of wine. The bartender delivers it moments later and you take a long sip, grateful for both the drink and the temporary solitude.

From your seat, you can observe the entire room.

The gala is fully alive now. Clusters of elegantly dressed guests fill every corner of the space. Women in designer gowns drift between conversations while men in tailored tuxedos cradle glasses of expensive liquor. Laughter rises above the soft music playing in the background. Waiters weave effortlessly through the crowd carrying silver trays piled high with champagne flutes.

The amount of wealth concentrated inside the ballroom is honestly staggering.

You suspect there are enough questionable offshore accounts in attendance tonight to single-handedly support several Mediterranean economies. The thought makes you smirk into your wine.

Unfortunately, your solitude doesn’t last long. It never does.

You notice the older man approaching several seconds before he reaches you.

Expensive watch, expensive suit, and the particular confidence of someone who has spent decades assuming that women will be delighted by his attention.

You suppress a sigh. What exactly about sitting alone at the end of a bar while staring into a glass of wine suggests that you are hoping to be interrupted?

You brace yourself for whatever painfully rehearsed line he is about to deliver.

Thankfully, he never gets the chance.

Another figure appears seemingly out of nowhere, slipping smoothly into the space between the two of you before the man can even open his mouth. The movement is so natural and effortless that it takes you a moment to realize what has happened.

The woman leans casually against the bar beside you, one arm resting lightly on the polished countertop as she lifts a hand to catch the bartender’s attention.

“Sparkling water, please.” Her voice is warm and confident.

Then she glances toward you. “And another…”

The sentence trails off as she gestures politely for you to finish the order yourself.

“White wine,” you tell the bartender. “Please.”

Only then do you risk looking past her shoulder.

The older man has stopped several feet away, apparently receiving the message loud and clear. After a brief moment of hesitation, he turns and heads toward another bar on the opposite side of the ballroom.

Your shoulders relax immediately.

The stranger notices, a faint smile touches her lips.

Moments later, the bartender returns with both drinks. She thanks him before carefully taking your wine glass and handing it to you.

For the first time, you properly look at the woman who has just rescued you. And for the first time all evening, something about the gala becomes interesting.

“Thanks,” you say as your fingers wrap around the stem of the glass.

The woman offers a small shrug, as though stepping in to save complete strangers from uncomfortable conversations is something she does every day.

“No problem. I saw him making a beeline toward you and you didn’t seem particularly interested.”

You let out a quiet laugh at that.

“Yeah,” you admit. “Definitely not.”

Her smile widens slightly, seemingly pleased that her assessment had been accurate. For a moment neither of you says anything, the comfortable silence settling naturally between you as the noise of the gala swells around the bar. Conversations overlap across the ballroom, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional clink of crystal, while somewhere near the stage a photographer calls for attention from a cluster of former players posing together.

The woman lifts her sparkling water in a small gesture of farewell and begins to turn away.

For reasons you can’t entirely explain, you find yourself stopping her.

“I didn’t catch your name.”

She pauses and glances back over her shoulder.

“Alexia.”

Just Alexia. No surname or explanation or attempt whatsoever to clarify who she is.

You find yourself studying her more openly now that you have an excuse to do so. 

She is undeniably beautiful, though not in the polished, manufactured way so many people at events like this seem determined to be. Her beauty feels effortless. 

Her dark hair falls loosely over one shoulder, framing striking hazel eyes that seem to miss absolutely nothing, while the understated elegance of her dress somehow draws more attention than the far more extravagant gowns scattered throughout the ballroom.

There is a quiet confidence about her, the sort that cannot be purchased or practiced in front of a mirror. She carries herself like someone completely comfortable being noticed, yet entirely uninterested in demanding attention.

Perhaps she notices your prolonged inspection or perhaps you’re just less subtle than you think. Because when your eyes meet hers again, there is unmistakable amusement dancing there.

“Alexia no last name?” you ask lightly, attempting to recover some dignity by shifting the attention back onto her.

The knowing smile that follows is immediate. The sort of smile that suggests she understands exactly what game you’re trying to play.

She merely nods.

You can’t stop your own smile from appearing.

“Fair enough.”

Extending your hand, you introduce yourself exactly the same way she had, offering only your first name and nothing else. If she wanted to play mysterious, you were more than capable of meeting her on equal footing.

The look in her eyes brightens instantly. The challenge has been accepted.

When she takes your hand, you’re struck by how confident the gesture feels. Her grip is firm without being aggressive, practiced without feeling rehearsed, and accompanied by steady eye contact that somehow manages to feel both professional and deeply personal at the same time. It reminds you vaguely of networking seminars during law school, where entire lectures had been dedicated to first impressions and the psychology of handshakes.

Yet nothing else about her suggests lawyer.

She carries herself differently, more comfortably and naturally. She is far too sun-kissed to spend every day trapped inside offices, conference rooms, and court buildings. And there is none of the carefully managed tension that seems to plague everyone in your profession. 

Instead, she appears completely at ease within herself, as though she has long since stopped worrying about how others perceive her.

Your curiosity grows.

“So what brings you to the gala?” you ask, hoping to fill in at least some of the increasingly obvious gaps in her story.

Alexia takes a slow sip of her water before answering.

“I’m affiliated with the club.”

The response is so vague that it borders on parody. The smile she gives you is suspiciously innocent.

You stare at her. She stares right back, completely serious. Your head tilts slightly and her smile widens. 

Before you can press for clarification, she smoothly redirects the conversation back toward you.

“And you?”

The challenge is obvious.

You laugh softly despite yourself. “My father is affiliated with the club.”

For the first time, genuine amusement flashes across her face. The corners of her eyes crinkle slightly. Touché.

The conversation continues from there with surprising ease.

What begins as polite small talk somehow stretches into something far more engaging, neither of you appearing particularly interested in discussing the things that should logically dominate a conversation between two strangers at a gala. Instead of careers or accomplishments or the carefully curated biographies that people usually exchange at events like this, the discussion drifts effortlessly toward entirely different subjects, as though both of you have silently agreed that those details can wait.

You compare childhood neighborhoods and debate which corners of Catalonia are still worth visiting before tourists inevitably discover them. You argue over the best cafés in Barcelona, exchange stories about terrible landlords and nightmare neighbors, laugh about absurd encounters with overly entitled strangers, and commiserate over the strange experience of returning to a city that once felt like home only to discover that it has somehow changed while remaining exactly the same.

One topic melts into the next so naturally that you eventually lose track of how the conversation keeps evolving. There are no awkward pauses, no desperate searches for something new to discuss, no moments where either of you scans the room for an escape route. Every answer seems to create three new questions, every story sparks another memory, and before long the noise of the gala has faded into little more than background static.

At some point you find yourself telling her about growing up in Barcelona before moving away, about how strange it felt watching your childhood disappear through the rear window of a moving car while every adult around you insisted that the next city would be an exciting adventure. You tell her about Germany and the endless struggle of learning a language that always seemed to have twice as many rules as necessary, about England and its relentless grey skies that somehow managed to make even summer feel overcast, and about the peculiar loneliness that comes from constantly arriving somewhere new only to know that eventually you’ll be expected to leave again.

Most people hear stories like that and immediately begin searching for opportunities to tell stories of their own. They wait just long enough for you to finish speaking before redirecting the conversation back toward themselves, eager to compare experiences or share an anecdote that proves they understand exactly how you feel.

Alexia doesn’t. Instead, she listens. Actually listens.

Her attention never seems to wander despite the chaos unfolding around you. She doesn’t glance over your shoulder searching for someone more important. She doesn’t check her phone. She doesn’t interrupt with stories designed to redirect the spotlight back onto herself. She just watches you with genuine interest, occasionally asking a question that reveals she has been paying far closer attention than most people ever do. 

It is unexpectedly disarming.

You have always been a gifted storyteller. Long before law school taught you how to construct arguments and command a room, you possessed an instinctive understanding of narrative, timing, and audience. You know how to hold someone’s attention. You know how to make people laugh at exactly the right moment. You know how to guide a conversation wherever you want it to go and leave people feeling as though they arrived there naturally.

Yet with Alexia, you find yourself becoming unusually aware of that instinct.

You’re not even consciously trying to impress her, if anything, the realization sneaks up on you slowly. Somewhere between discussing childhood memories and trading stories about cities that never quite felt like home, you discover that you care whether she finds your stories interesting. You care whether she laughs. You care whether that attentive look remains in her eyes.

Every time her expression softens with interest, you find yourself elaborating slightly more than necessary. Every time she laughs, warmth spreads through your chest with surprising ease. Every thoughtful question encourages another story, another memory, another piece of yourself that you wouldn’t normally volunteer to someone you’ve known for less than an hour. 

Gradually the rest of the gala begins to fade into the background.

The donors and executives become little more than moving shapes beyond the bar. Conversations that had once seemed annoyingly loud blur into an indistinct hum. Bursts of laughter rise and fall somewhere across the ballroom without ever fully registering. Even Papa, who had been the entire reason for your attendance tonight, slips from your thoughts entirely as the world narrows down to the space occupied by two bar stools and a woman with hazel eyes.

For nearly an hour, the woman who introduced herself only as Alexia somehow becomes the most interesting person in a room filled with football legends, celebrities, politicians, and people wealthy enough to purchase entire islands if the mood ever struck them.

And judging by the way she continues looking at you, as though every story is worth hearing and every answer only creates a dozen new questions, you begin to suspect she is finding you equally difficult to walk away from.

The announcement comes far too soon.

A man’s voice echoes through the ballroom speakers, warm and polished in the way that only people who spend their lives hosting charity galas seem capable of sounding, thanking everyone for their generosity before informing the room that dinner would be served shortly and asking guests to begin finding their assigned tables.

Around you, conversations begin dissolving. Clusters of people separate with reluctant smiles and promises to continue discussions later, while waiters appear as if summoned from nowhere and begin directing guests toward the dining area.

Beside you, Alexia huffs softly in irritation. The sound pulls a smile from you because it mirrors your own disappointment almost perfectly.

You hadn’t realized how much time had passed until now. Somewhere between discussing childhood friends and comparing favorite vacation destinations, an hour had disappeared without either of you seeming to notice.

Apparently neither of you had wanted the conversation to end.

Alexia rises from her stool with obvious reluctance, smoothing a hand along her dress as she glances toward the dining area where guests are already beginning to find their seats. For a moment she just stands there, as though considering whether there might be some socially acceptable way to ignore the announcement altogether and remain exactly where she is.

Then her eyes find yours again and without a word, she extends her hand. 

The gesture is simple and effortless. Yet something about it makes your stomach do an embarrassing little flip.

You are perfectly capable of standing on your own. In fact, you have spent most of your life being fiercely independent, stubbornly refusing help even when you probably should have accepted it. Yet the offered hand feels less like assistance and more like an invitation, and you find yourself taking it before you’ve fully thought through why.

Her fingers close around yours warmly.

The contact is brief, lasting only long enough for her to help you from the stool despite the fact that neither of you actually needed the assistance, yet you become acutely aware of it anyway. The softness of her hand. The quiet confidence in the gesture. The way her thumb brushes lightly against your knuckles as she releases you.

By the time your feet are firmly beneath you, the moment has already passed. Still, the sensation lingers.

You hesitate for a second, caught between caution and curiosity, between the instinct to protect yourself and the increasingly powerful desire to see where this might lead. Normally you would overthink it and spend ten minutes analyzing every possible outcome before saying anything at all.

Instead, before your better judgment can intervene, you decide that being brave for once might actually be worth it.

“Come find me after the auction?”

The question leaves your mouth before you have the opportunity to reconsider it.

For the briefest moment, uncertainty flickers through you. Maybe she was simply being polite. Maybe she had enjoyed the conversation in the pleasant, fleeting way people often enjoy conversations at events like this, with no expectation of ever continuing them. Maybe you had mistaken friendliness for interest, curiosity for chemistry. Maybe the easy rhythm that had developed between the two of you existed only in your imagination.

The doubts barely have time to form before Alexia’s face brightens. The reaction is so immediate and so genuine that it erases every one of them at once.

“Yes,” she says, the answer arriving almost before you’ve finished speaking, as though there was never any possibility of a different response. “I’d like that.”

Something warm unfurls inside your chest.

It is an embarrassingly satisfying reaction, made worse by the fact that you cannot seem to stop the smile spreading across your face. For someone who prides herself on being composed, on remaining rational and measured and entirely unaffected by attractive strangers, you are suddenly doing a remarkably poor job.

Alexia notices. The amused softness that settles into her expression suggests she is having far too much fun watching you try and fail to appear unaffected.

Still smiling, you give her hand one final squeeze before finally letting go.

For a few lingering seconds, the two of you remain exactly where you are, standing beside the bar as though neither is particularly eager to be the first one to leave.

Eventually reality reasserts itself. Dinner, tables, responsibilities. The endless procession of speeches and fundraising and networking that accompanies every event of this kind. The evening begins pulling you in opposite directions, demanding your attention whether you are ready to give it or not.

Reluctantly, the two of you separate.

You take several steps toward the dining area before glancing back over your shoulder.

Alexia is already looking. The discovery sends an entirely unreasonable amount of satisfaction rushing through you. 

For a brief moment your eyes meet across the growing crowd, both of you caught in the act, and neither bothering to pretend otherwise. Then she laughs softly and shakes her head before turning toward her own table.

You continue walking with a smile that refuses to leave your face.

The ballroom has transformed while you were distracted. The lights have been dimmed slightly, softening the vast room into something warmer and more intimate, while the enormous chandeliers overhead cast everything in a golden glow that reflects off crystal glasses and polished silverware. Elaborate floral arrangements sit at the center of every table, their carefully arranged blooms competing for attention with the designer gowns, tailored tuxedos, and enough expensive jewelry to fund a small nation. Around you, VIPs, politicians, former players, sponsors, and donors settle into their seats, conversations gradually quieting as the evening shifts from cocktails and mingling into the more formal portion of the program.

Your own table appears to contain precisely the sort of people you had spent the first half of the evening trying to avoid.

The executives are already deep into discussions about sponsorship agreements and broadcasting rights. A politician whose face you vaguely recognize from television is attempting to charm everyone within earshot. Two former directors are comparing stories from decades ago as though they personally built the club brick by brick.

You slide into the empty seat beside your father, offering the polite smile expected of you before settling comfortably into your chair.

As soon as you settle in, your father leans slightly in your direction.

“Having a nice time?”

The question itself is perfectly innocent, his expression, unfortunately, is not.

You know that look. The faint curve threatening at the corner of his mouth. The glimmer of amusement dancing behind his eyes. The unmistakable expression of a man who has noticed something and is enjoying the fact that you haven’t caught up yet.

Your own eyes narrow instantly.

“Yes,” you answer honestly, because there is little point pretending otherwise. “It’s actually been better than I expected.”

The smile grows enough to send alarm bells ringing somewhere deep inside your head.

“I thought you always said no footballers.”

You blink. “What?”

The single word leaves your mouth before you can stop it.

For a moment your father appears as though he might elaborate. His smile widens further, clearly delighted by your confusion, and you can practically see the response forming behind his eyes.

Unfortunately, before he can say another word, the foundation president steps onto the stage.

The ballroom gradually falls silent - conversations fade and heads turn. Attention shifts toward the podium as the evening’s official program begins. Your father is forced to abandon whatever explanation he had been preparing and straighten in his chair, his focus returning to the stage.

The moment passes, at least for him. For you, however, the damage has already been done.

You barely hear a single word of the speech. The president could be announcing the discovery of extraterrestrial life and you aren’t entirely sure you would notice, your brain is too busy replaying that sentence.

For as long as you can remember, those two words had been one of the few constants in your life.

No footballers.

The rule had first emerged when you were a teenager, born out of years spent watching football dictate nearly every aspect of your family’s existence. You remembered crying to your mother after another school performance where your father’s seat remained empty despite his best intentions. You remembered holidays interrupted by transfer negotiations and urgent phone calls. You remembered constantly packing boxes and saying goodbye to friends because football had decided your family belonged in a different country. You remembered loving your father fiercely while simultaneously resenting the profession that always seemed to claim the largest share of him, no matter how desperately he tried to shield you from that reality.

Football had given him everything. Football had taken a great deal too. And somewhere amidst all those years of airports, moving vans, and missed moments, a rule had quietly taken shape.

No footballers.

The rule had only strengthened with age. 

When friends attempted to set you up with players, the answer had been no. When athletes approached you in bars and restaurants, the answer had been no. When people insisted you were being unfair, that you might be surprised if you actually gave one a chance, the answer had remained exactly what it had always been: no.

The specifics had never mattered - tall or short, blonde or brunette, funny or serious. None of it had ever been relevant.

The only requirement had always been painfully simple.

No footballers.

Which was precisely why your father’s comment now felt so suspicious. Because it hadn’t been random. Your father never said things randomly.

Not after decades spent navigating dressing rooms filled with enormous personalities, boardrooms filled with competing agendas, and press conferences where every word was analyzed from a dozen different angles. He observed everything. He noticed everything. Entire careers had been built on underestimating how much information he absorbed simply by paying attention.

If he had said it, there was a reason.

Slowly, your eyes drift across the ballroom. Toward the tables positioned near the stage. Toward the section where Alexia had disappeared after leaving the bar.

The realization begins forming before you consciously reach it.

Too tan to be a lawyer. Too young to be an executive. Far too comfortable in this environment to just be some donor or guest.

You had spent the better part of an hour trying to place her without ever quite succeeding. At various points you had convinced yourself she might be a doctor, something about her attentiveness and the way she listened fitting neatly into that image. Other times you had wondered if she was an entrepreneur, a foundation director, or perhaps someone involved with one of the club’s charitable projects. Her calm confidence, thoughtful questions, and complete lack of pretension had pointed your imagination in a hundred different directions.

Just not the correct one.

Because of course the answer had been staring you directly in the face the entire time. This was a Barça gala. A Barça foundation event. A room filled almost exclusively with people connected to football in one way or another.

Your stomach drops. The feeling is immediate and absolute.

Oh. Oh, shit.

Across the room, Alexia laughs at something someone says beside her, her head tilting back slightly as the warm light catches the features you had spent the last hour trying not to admire too openly.

And suddenly everything clicks into place.

The woman who had rescued you at the bar. The woman who had somehow made this entire evening enjoyable. The woman you had been looking forward to seeing again after dinner. Had to be a footballer.

The realization makes you close your eyes briefly and resist the urge to bang your forehead against the table.

Because after twenty-eight years of maintaining exactly one dating rule, after a lifetime spent insisting that footballers were categorically off limits, the first person to genuinely capture your attention in over a year had turned out to be the one thing you had always sworn you would never touch.

And the truly infuriating part was that the knowledge changed absolutely nothing about how excited you still were to see her again after the auction.

The eruption of applause around the ballroom drags your attention back to the present before you can disappear completely into your own thoughts.

You blink and straighten slightly in your chair as your father rises beside you, earning another standing ovation simply for existing. 

The reaction is almost comical at this point. Years have passed since he last stood on the touchline at Camp Nou, decades since he wore the club’s colors professionally, yet the affection people feel toward him remains almost untouched by time. Executives applaud enthusiastically. Former players beam at him from neighboring tables. Wealthy donors who probably couldn’t explain a single tactical system clap like devoted disciples greeting a prophet.

Your father, meanwhile, looks mildly embarrassed by all of it.

The sight makes you smile despite yourself as he buttons his jacket and begins making his way toward the stage. For all the attention football has forced upon him throughout his life, he has never quite become comfortable being the center of it. The trophies and documentaries and statues and endless praise have somehow failed to cure him of the instinctive discomfort that always appears whenever people celebrate him too loudly.

As he climbs the steps toward the podium, your attention begins drifting around the room again. Toward the hundreds of guests seated beneath glittering chandeliers. Toward a woman whose charming smile has managed to completely derail your evening.

Your father reaches the microphone and immediately attempts to begin speaking over the applause.

“Thank you. Thank you.”

Eventually the room settles enough for him to continue.

“I’m so honored to be invited to speak tonight and to be welcomed back with such open arms. This truly is the club of my life, and I know I strayed away for a little while.”

Laughter ripples throughout the ballroom at the understatement. Even your father smiles.

“But Barça always has been and always will be my home. No matter where football took me, no matter what challenges came next, this club and the people connected to it remained part of who I am. I owe so much to everyone in this room, and I owe even more to the supporters who believed in me long before I deserved it.”

The applause returns briefly before fading once more.

You have heard variations of this speech your entire life. Different clubs, different trophies, different cities. Yet the sincerity always remains the same.

Your father was never particularly good at pretending to care about things he didn’t actually care about, which is probably why people trusted him so much. When he spoke about football, about family, about loyalty, there was never any doubt that he meant every word.

His gaze sweeps across the ballroom before eventually landing on your table.

Instantly, a familiar feeling of dread settles into your stomach. You’ve known that look since childhood. The look that always appears right before he embarrasses you in public.

“And I cannot thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me and for my family. My beautiful wife unfortunately couldn’t be here tonight because of a prior commitment.”

A chorus of sympathetic murmurs rises from the crowd.

“But thankfully my wonderful daughter agreed to accompany me.”

There it is. You close your eyes briefly. The smile in his voice is practically audible now.

“You all know I’d be completely lost without her.”

The spotlight finds you immediately and the entire ballroom seems to turn as one. Hundreds of faces. Hundreds of eyes. Hundreds of people looking directly at you.

Years of practice save you and the panic never reaches your expression.

Instead, you straighten your shoulders, lift your chin slightly, and produce the polished smile that has been perfected through decades of public appearances, family photographs, charity events, and championship celebrations.

The crowd reacts exactly as expected. Applause breaks out throughout the room. Several people whistle. A few call your name.

The beloved daughter of their beloved manager.

You smile graciously while internally considering whether it is possible to legally disown a parent at twenty-eight.

Eventually the spotlight drifts away.

The sudden darkness leaves dancing spots across your vision and you blink repeatedly, waiting for your eyes to adjust while your father continues speaking somewhere above you. The words barely register. Something about community. Something about the foundation. Something about giving back.

Your attention is elsewhere.

As the dark spots finally begin fading, your gaze drifts instinctively across the room and immediately collides with Alexia’s. For a moment neither of you looks away.

The expression on her face is almost enough to make you laugh. 

It's shock - pure, unmistakable shock.

The easy confidence that had defined every second of your conversation disappears completely as her gaze flickers from you to the man standing at the podium and then back again, her brows drawing together as she tries to process what she’s seeing. You can practically watch the pieces falling into place in real time. 

The woman she’d spent the last hour talking to wasn’t simply attending with someone connected to the club. She was attending with the greatest manager to ever live. Who just so happened to be her father.

The realization unfolds across her features one detail at a time. First recognition, then disbelief, then understanding.

Suddenly every vague answer you’d given her begins snapping into focus. Every time you’d referred to your father as merely “affiliated with the club.” Every carefully sidestepped question. Every missing detail and intentionally incomplete explanation that had seemed amusing at the time.

You can almost hear the conversation replaying in her head as she reconstructs it with this new information.

And then, rather uncomfortably, you realize you’re doing exactly the same thing.

Because if she hadn’t recognized you, it means she hadn’t known who your father was when you were sitting together at the bar. Which means she hadn’t approached you because of him or stayed because of him or spent nearly an hour laughing at your stories because of him.

The realization sends unexpected butterflies through your gut.

Unfortunately, it also forces another realization to the surface. One that is significantly less comforting.

Because now that Alexia knows exactly who your father is, there is no longer any plausible explanation for how comfortably she had navigated this room, how effortlessly she had moved through a gala filled with football royalty, or why your father had immediately known who she was without needing an introduction.

Slowly, painfully, the final pieces click into place.

The confidence. The athletic build hidden beneath the elegant dress. The non-answers to your probing questions. The fact that she had introduced herself as simply Alexia and somehow expected that to be enough.

At the time, you had assumed it was part of the game the two of you were playing. A harmless attempt at mystery. A way of teasing each other while carefully avoiding the details that usually dominate conversations between strangers.

Now you realize it was something else entirely. Because even in a room like this, she didn’t need a surname. Everyone already knew it.

Your stomach drops.

The woman who had spent the last hour completely captivating you isn’t some reserve player or academy coach or random club employee.

She is important.

The kind of important that transcends introductions. The kind of important that allows a person to identify themselves with a single name and expect recognition. The kind of footballer whose face appears on billboards, whose jersey hangs in children’s bedrooms, whose name is spoken with familiarity by people who have never met her.

And judging by the slow, increasingly amused smile beginning to spread across her face from across the ballroom, she has reached exactly the same conclusion about you.

The two of you had spent an entire hour carefully concealing your identities from one another while unknowingly discussing everything except the one thing that connected you both.

Now, across a crowded ballroom filled with some of the most influential people in European football, you watch recognition fully settle into her beautiful hazel eyes.

And the worst part is that, instead of making her any less interesting, it somehow makes her even more so.

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