It was never you - Ferran Torres
summary:Â you've spent months politely rejecting eric garcĂa, only for him to turn your kindness into rumours about being "hard to get." one party, one conversation with ferran torres, and suddenly everything eric thought he knew about you starts falling apart. turns out, maybe you were never difficult... maybe you were just waiting for the right person.
warnings:Â smut (18+), explicit sexual content, alcohol consumption, bruised male ego, jealousy.
wc:Â 6.7k a/n: i acc love this one downnnn
main masterlist | football masterlist
The Ciutat Esportiva was a world of routines.
Every corridor had its own rhythm, every department its own schedule, and after two years working as one of the club's physiotherapists, you had become another piece of the machine that kept it all moving. Mornings began before the first players even arrived, treatment rooms were prepared with almost automatic precision, recovery plans were discussed over hurried coffees, and by the time training officially started, everyone already knew where they were supposed to be.
It was impossible to work in an environment like that without becoming familiar with the people around you.
Not necessarily close to them, but familiar.
You learnt who always arrived ten minutes early and who sprinted through the entrance with their bag hanging off one shoulder after inevitably oversleeping. You learnt who never stopped talking during treatment, who preferred complete silence, who insisted they were fit enough to train despite clearly limping, and who apologised every single time they needed help, as though an injury was somehow an inconvenience to you rather than the entire reason your job existed.
Some players became regulars in your treatment room.
Others rarely needed anything more than a quick check-up.
With a squad as large as Barcelona's, and a medical department made up of dozens of professionals working across different recovery programmes, it wasn't unusual to spend months working alongside someone without ever actually treating them yourself.
Which explained why, despite seeing Ferran Torres around the training ground more times than you could count, the two of you had somehow never exchanged more than the occasional polite nod in passing.
It had almost become an inside joke among some of your colleagues.
"You've still never met Ferran?"
"How is that even possible?"
Different rehabilitation groups.
Every near encounter somehow ended the same way: one of you disappearing around a corner just as the other arrived.
It was almost ridiculous.
Eric GarcĂa, however, had never suffered from that particular problem.
If anything, he had made it his personal mission to ensure your paths crossed as often as possible.
At first, you hadn't thought much of it.
He was charming in the effortless way many professional footballers learned to be. Confident, outgoing, endlessly talkative. The first time he asked whether you'd let him buy you a coffee after work, you declined with a smile, assuming that would be the end of it.
The invitations kept coming.
Coffee turned into dinner.
Dinner turned into drinks.
Drinks became casual suggestions to spend time together whenever your shifts aligned.
Each invitation was met with the same answer.
A quiet but unmistakable no.
Never embarrassed him in front of anyone.
There simply wasn't a version of reality where your answer became yes.
At first, Eric had taken your rejections almost as a game, laughing them off with the confidence of someone who had rarely been told no.
The confidence slowly gave way to frustration, and frustration had a habit of reshaping itself into something uglier.
Somewhere along the way, his compliments disappeared.
Instead of telling people you were beautiful, he started describing you as difficult.
Instead of admitting you weren't interested, he convinced himself you were simply playing hard to get.
And when even that explanation stopped protecting his pride, the stories changed again.
"Honestly, I think she enjoys making people chase her."
"Bit of a prude, if you ask me."
Not because people necessarily believed him, but because football dressing rooms had always thrived on repeated conversations. Someone heard it during lunch, repeated it after training, and before long, your name had become attached to a reputation you had never earned.
The irony, of course, was that none of those people actually knew you.
Outside of work, your life remained exactly as it always had. You laughed easily, stayed late to help colleagues whenever someone needed an extra pair of hands, remembered birthdays without reminders, and somehow always found yourself comforting injured academy players who looked as though their careers had ended after every twisted ankle.
You simply understood that not being interested in someone didn't require an explanation beyond a respectful no.
Unfortunately, not everyone possessed the maturity to accept one.
It was that same reputation that found its way to Ferran before you ever did.
One afternoon, after training had finished, a handful of players remained in the recovery area while waiting for ice baths and massage appointments. Conversations drifted lazily between the previous weekend's match, plans for the evening, and the usual teasing that filled the room whenever training was over.
Ferran barely followed any of it.
His attention had wandered towards the corridor outside.
You crossed it with a clipboard tucked beneath one arm, listening intently as another physiotherapist explained something that had apparently left you trying and failing not to laugh. The sound never reached him through the glass separating the recovery room from the hallway, but your smile did.
It lingered just long enough for him to notice.
"Who's that?" he asked absentmindedly, still watching as you disappeared into another treatment room.
The conversation around him paused for only a second.
Eric glanced towards the now-empty corridor before looking back at Ferran, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"I don't think we've ever actually met."
A brief silence settled between them.
Then, with complete honesty and without a hint of embarrassment, Ferran shrugged.
His gaze returned to the corridor for a fleeting moment.
Not because the comment was particularly funny, but because he had heard enough of them to know where they usually led.
Ferran looked back at him.
There was something strangely definitive about the way Eric said it.
Ferran frowned almost imperceptibly.
"I've been trying for months," Eric continued. "She turns everyone down."
He let out a dry chuckle before leaning back against his chair.
"Trust me. She's impossible."
The words lingered in the room for a moment.
He thought back to every brief glimpse he'd caught of you over the past few months, the way you smiled at the staff in reception every morning, how you'd once stopped to help one of the groundskeepers carry equipment without anyone asking, the patience you seemed to have with everyone around you.
Nothing about the woman he'd observed from afar matched the picture Eric was painting.
But experience had taught him one thing long before football ever had.
Stories told by wounded pride were rarely reliable.
Barcelona's end-of-season gatherings had always existed in that strange space between obligation and celebration.
Nobody was ever required to attend, yet somehow almost everyone did.
Players brought partners, members of staff arrived in small groups after finishing late shifts, coaches lingered longer than they usually admitted they would, and by the end of the evening, football had become the least interesting thing anyone was talking about.
A twelve-hour shift had left your shoulders aching, and changing out of your work clothes had required more motivation than you cared to admit. Had one of your colleagues not spent the better part of the afternoon insisting that you needed a night away from treatment rooms and rehabilitation plans, you would have been curled up on your sofa with takeaway and a film instead.
Instead, you found yourself standing in the corner of a softly lit rooftop terrace, nursing the same drink for nearly twenty minutes while conversations drifted around you.
The city stretched endlessly beyond the glass railings, bathed in the warm glow of Barcelona's summer evening, while music hummed quietly enough to allow dozens of conversations to coexist without competing against one another.
Until you noticed someone making his way towards you.
Your first instinct was almost comically automatic.
The relief that settled in your chest when you realised it wasn't almost made you laugh.
Ferran stopped a respectful distance away, one hand tucked casually into the pocket of his trousers, a drink balanced in the other.
"I feel like we've spent months almost meeting."
You looked at him for a second before a smile tugged at the corners of your mouth.
"I was beginning to think one of us was doing it on purpose."
"I'm disappointed to say no."
There was an ease to him that immediately caught you off guard.
No exaggerated confidence.
No attempt to impress you before he'd even learnt your surname.
He simply stood there as though starting a conversation with you was the most natural decision he'd made all evening.
"I was hoping you'd say that."
"I've also heard you're the only player who's managed to avoid my treatment room."
"I've been trying very hard."
"I hear physios are terrifying."
The conversation should have ended there.
One topic became another.
Football drifted into travel.
Travel became favourite cities.
Favourite cities somehow turned into childhood stories, terrible cooking attempts, siblings, music, films, embarrassing memories neither of you had planned on admitting to someone you'd only just met properly.
At some point, without either of you suggesting it aloud, you'd moved away from the growing crowd and settled into one of the quieter lounge areas overlooking the city.
The sofa tucked into the corner became your own little world.
Every time the conversation threatened to reach that awkward point where strangers usually smiled politely and drifted off in opposite directions, one of you would mention something else.
"So," Ferran said, leaning back into the corner of the sofa, "be honest."
You narrowed your eyes playfully.
"That's usually a dangerous sentence."
"What made you want to become a physio?"
It wasn't the question you expected.
Most people asked whether it was strange working around professional footballers every day.
Whether you'd met anyone famous.
Whether the job was glamorous.
You looked down at your glass for a moment before smiling to yourself.
His expression softened immediately.
"He tore his ACL when he was sixteen."
"He thought football was over for him."
You absentmindedly traced your finger around the rim of your glass.
"I remember watching his physio convince him that recovery wasn't just possible... it was worth fighting for."
"I don't think he ever realised how much she changed his life."
A small shrug escaped your shoulders.
"So you became that person for someone else."
For a moment, Ferran didn't answer.
Not in the way you had grown used to over the past few months.
Not as though he was trying to impress you.
Or imagine what you'd look like beside him.
He looked at you as though every answer only made him want to ask another question.
A laugh escaped before you could stop it.
"That's your big conclusion after three hours?"
"You've known me for one evening."
"And you're making very confident statements."
"Because nice people never do."
You rolled your eyes, laughing as you reached over to nudge his arm.
A few metres away, Eric hadn't intended to look in your direction again.
The first time had been enough.
Yet somehow, every few minutes, his eyes wandered back across the terrace.
Each glance irritated him a little more.
Not because you were sitting beside Ferran.
Because you looked... comfortable.
There was no polite distance between you.
No careful smile you wore at work.
No expression that suggested you were waiting for the conversation to end.
You were leaning in without even noticing.
Laughing with your whole body.
Listening to Ferran as though every word deserved your attention.
One of the players standing beside Eric followed his gaze.
"I thought she'd have gone home by now."
Then, almost absentmindedly, the teammate said,
"Doesn't really look like someone who's hard to get."
The words landed harder than Eric expected.
He let out a short laugh.
The other player kept watching the two of you for another second.
"I don't think that's it."
Eric didn't ask what he meant.
Because, for the first time since he'd met you, he wasn't watching another rejection.
He was watching what happened when you actually liked someone.
And there was a difference he could no longer explain away.
Back on the sofa, neither of you had noticed the terrace beginning to empty.
Staff members were collecting empty glasses.
Someone called goodbye from across the room.
Music that had once filled the space had softened into little more than background noise.
You finally glanced around, blinking in surprise.
"Have we really been here that long?"
Ferran followed your gaze before checking the time on his phone.
A quiet laugh escaped him.
"I think we've accidentally outlasted half the party."
"I just didn't want to interrupt you."
Your heart did something unexpectedly inconvenient.
You looked down, smiling into your drink in an attempt to hide it.
For the first time that evening, a comfortable silence settled between you.
Ferran turned towards you after a moment, his voice softer than it had been all night.
"Do you actually want this conversation to end?"
At the easy smile that hadn't disappeared once all evening.
At the patience in his eyes.
At the fact that, unlike every conversation you'd had with Eric over the past few months, not once had you felt like you needed to escape.
The answer came frighteningly easily.
His smile widened, small but genuine.
"I was hoping you'd say that."
He hesitated for only a second.
As though he'd be perfectly happy if you said no.
You held his gaze for a heartbeat longer before smiling.
And somehow, as you stood beside him and quietly slipped your hand into his while the two of you made your way towards the exit, you couldn't shake the feeling that this evening had changed something.
The drive across Barcelona passed in comfortable silence.
Not the kind born from running out of things to say, but the sort that only settled between two people who had already discovered conversation came easily. Every now and then, Ferran would point out somewhere through the windscreen a restaurant he insisted made the best paella in the city, a tiny record shop he'd wandered into by accident one rainy afternoon, a viewpoint overlooking the sea that he swore looked even better at sunrise.
You found yourself smiling more than speaking.
There was something strangely endearing about the way he talked.
He never sounded as though he was trying to impress you.
He simply... shared pieces of his life, offering them freely, as though he hoped you might do the same.
By the time his car rolled into the underground garage of his apartment building, the knot of nervousness you'd expected to feel simply wasn't there.
Instead, curiosity took its place.
His apartment was exactly what you'd expected.
And somehow, nothing like you'd imagined.
There were no marble sculptures, no designer furniture arranged for photographs rather than comfort.
Football boots sat neatly beside the entrance.
A hoodie had been carelessly abandoned over the arm of the sofa.
Books were stacked unevenly on one shelf, interrupted by framed photographs of family holidays and celebrations that had clearly been added one at a time rather than carefully curated.
Ferran noticed you looking around and laughed quietly.
"I'm suddenly very aware I forgot to tidy."
You glanced towards the hoodie before looking back at him.
"I was just thinking the opposite."
"It actually looks like someone lives here."
You smiled as you wandered a little further inside.
"I was expecting something a bit..."
"I wasn't going to say ridiculous."
He laughed, shaking his head as he disappeared towards the kitchen.
He returned a minute later with two glasses.
Neither of you sat immediately.
Instead, you drifted naturally towards the balcony, where the warm summer air carried the distant sound of the city below.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Barcelona glittered beneath you, stretching endlessly towards the sea.
"It still doesn't feel real sometimes," Ferran admitted quietly.
You turned to look at him.
He rested his forearms against the railing.
"When I was a kid, this was all I'd ever wanted."
"Then one day it just... became normal."
"I think that's how dreams work."
"You spend years chasing them."
"And once you've caught them, you have to remember to appreciate them before they become routine."
For a moment, he simply watched you.
"I like the way your brain works."
Heat crept into your cheeks despite yourself.
"You've said that a few times tonight."
"That's because I keep finding new reasons to."
The silence that followed was quieter than the ones before.
He wasn't flirting for the sake of it.
Eventually, the conversation wandered elsewhere.
The topic changed so naturally that you almost didn't notice when Ferran spoke again.
"Can I ask you something?"
His expression shifted, becoming more thoughtful.
Your smile faded slightly.
"I hope this doesn't come across the wrong way..."
"...but has he always been like that?"
For the first time that evening, the lightness between you dimmed.
"I kept hoping he'd get bored."
"It wasn't even personal."
You stared into your wine for a moment.
A humourless smile tugged at your lips.
"And then it just... kept happening."
"I always tried to be kind."
"I just wasn't interested."
Your shoulders lifted in a small, helpless shrug.
"I didn't realise that was apparently such a difficult answer to accept."
You continued before you could stop yourself.
"I honestly thought he'd moved on."
"I had no idea he'd been saying things behind my back."
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"Why are you apologising?"
"Because I heard some of it."
He looked away briefly, almost disappointed in himself.
"I should've said something."
You offered him a reassuring smile.
"You didn't owe me anything."
His voice was gentle but unwavering.
"But you still deserved better."
That sentence settled somewhere deep inside you.
Not because it was dramatic.
Not because it was romantic.
But because he said it as though it were the most obvious truth in the world.
Not once had he suggested you should have given Eric a chance.
Not once had he implied you had been too harsh.
Not once had he questioned your reasons.
He had simply accepted that your "no" had been enough.
That simple respect meant more than you knew how to explain.
You looked at him for a long moment.
The city continued to hum below the balcony.
The wine remained forgotten in your hands.
Yet the silence between you no longer felt empty.
Like something was quietly changing between the two of you.
The air on the balcony had shifted. The conversation about Eric, while heavy, had stripped away the last remaining layers of polite distance between you. As the silence stretched, it wasn't just expectant, it was electric. The wine had blurred the edges of your inhibitions, leaving a warm, pulsing heat centered low in your belly, mirrored by the way Ferran was looking at you.
He wasn't looking at you as a colleague or a curiosity anymore. He was looking at you with a raw, starving intensity that made your breath hitch.
"I can't stop thinking about it," he whispered, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a vibration you felt in your chest.
"Thinking about what?" you breathed, though you already knew.
"How much I want to touch you. How much Iâve wanted to since the moment I actually saw you tonight."
He didn't wait for an answer. He stepped forward, closing the final inch of space, and cupped your jaw with one hand. His palm was warm, his thumb grazing your lower lip with a slow, deliberate pressure that sent a jolt of lightning straight to your thighs. When he kissed you, it wasn't a tentative first kiss; it was a collision. It was passionate, hungry, and tasted of red wine and longing.
You groaned into his mouth, your hands flying up to grip the front of his shirt, pulling him closer until there was no air left between you. The tension that had been building for hours snapped violently.
Ferran let out a low, guttural sound, his hands sliding down your back to grip your hips, hoisting you up. You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, your back pressing against the cool glass of the balcony railing as he pinned you there. The contrast of the night breeze on your skin and the searing heat of his body was intoxicating.
"You are so beautiful," he murmured against your neck, his lips trailing fire down to your collarbone. "So fucking beautiful."
His hand slid under your dress, the fabric bunching up around your waist as his fingers found the damp silk of your underwear. When he touched you sliding two fingers deep inside your soaking heat you let out a loud, unrestrained cry that echoed into the Barcelona night.
"You're so wet for me," he groaned, his voice thick with lust. He began to move his fingers in a rhythmic, demanding pace, his thumb circling your clitoris with a precision that had you arching your back, grinding your pelvis against his hard length. He was relentless, driving you toward a peak that felt like it would shatter you. As you came, shaking in his arms with a series of high, breathless moans, he kissed you deeply, swallowing your cries.
But the release only fueled the fire. Neither of you wanted to stop you wanted more.
He carried you inside, your legs still locked around him, and deposited you onto the living room sofa. He didn't let you go for a second, stripping his clothes off with frantic movements before diving back between your legs.
As he lowered his head, the first touch of his tongue against your folds made you gasp, your fingers digging into the upholstery of the couch. Ferran was devoted, treating your pleasure like a mission. He licked you slowly, then with a sudden, sharp suction that had you sobbing his name.
"I've got you," he whispered, looking up at you with dark, blown-out pupils, his chin glistening. "I've got you, baby."
He spent an eternity there, using his tongue and fingers to bring you to a second, more violent climax that left you trembling and breathless. You reached for him, pulling him up, needing to feel the weight of him.
The hunger shifted. You wanted him inside you, and you wanted it now.
As you both stumbled toward the kitchen, the urgency became a fever. He pushed you against the cold granite countertop, the chill of the stone a sharp contrast to the heat of his skin. He turned you around, forcing you to bend over the counter, your chest pressed against the marble.
From behind, Ferran paused for a second, his breath hot against your ear.
"Eric was such a fucking idiot," he hissed, his voice raw. "Calling you difficult... calling you a prude... when you're this."
âThis is only for you Ferran⊠fuck get inside me please.â
He entered you in one deep, powerful thrust that filled you completely. You screamed, a loud, echoing sound of pure pleasure, your fingers clawing at the granite. He began to pump into you, his hips slamming against yours with a rhythmic, primal force. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the kitchen, wet and heavy.
"You're not hard to get, carino" he groaned, his voice breaking as he gripped your hips, bruisingly tight, pulling you back onto him with every stroke. "You're just... you're a treasure. And I'm the only one who gets to see this. The only one who knows how sweet you feel."
Every thrust felt like it was hitting a spot you didn't know existed. He was driving into you with a passion that felt almost possessive, his words a constant stream of praise.
"So sweet... so perfect... God, I can't get enough of you."
The friction was unbearable, the pleasure peaking until you both hit the ledge together. Ferran let out a loud, guttural roar, his body stiffening as he spilled himself deep inside you, his forehead resting against your shoulder as you both gasped for air in the sudden silence of the room.
Exhausted but still craving the intimacy of him, you let him lead you to the bedroom. The lighting was dim, the atmosphere soft and heavy with the scent of sex and wine.
He laid you back on the sheets, pulling you into a slow, tender missionary position. This time, it wasn't about the hunger; it was about the connection. He moved inside you slowly, his eyes locked onto yours, searching every expression.
He braced himself on his elbows, showering your face with tiny, soft kisses.
"I feel like I'm meeting one of the nicest people in the world," he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. "I can tell... just by the way you look at me. You're so genuine."
He began to move again, a slow, grinding rhythm that felt like it was weaving your souls together. He watched the way your eyes fluttered, the way your lips parted to let out soft, needy whimpers.
"You could never be a harsh person," he murmured, leaning down to kiss the tip of your nose. "You're not prude. You're special Nena. And I'm going to spend as much time as you'll let me proving how much I appreciate every single part of you."
The intimacy of his words brought tears to your eyes. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss that tasted of devotion. The pace increased naturally, the tenderness evolving back into passion as the friction built once more.
You arched your hips, meeting every thrust, your voices mingling in a chorus of moans and whispers. When the final climax hit, it wasn't a crash, it was a wave, slow and overwhelming, pulling you both under.
As you lay there in the aftermath, tangled in the sheets and each other's limbs, Ferran held you tight, kissing your temple as your breathing slowly returned to normal.
The first thing you became aware of was warmth.
Not the distant hum of Barcelona waking beyond the apartment windows.
The kind that lingered long after sleep had begun to loosen its hold, wrapping itself around you in the scent of clean sheets and the familiar traces of someone else's cologne still clinging to the pillow beside you.
The space next to you was empty.
For a brief, sleepy second, disappointment settled in your chest before another sound drifted through the apartment.
The unmistakable rhythm of someone trying very hard not to make any noise.
You smiled before you even opened your eyes.
Pulling the duvet a little higher over your shoulder, you listened to his quiet footsteps moving between the bedroom and the kitchen until they stopped altogether.
A moment later, the mattress dipped gently beneath his weight.
You blinked sleepily as Ferran leaned over you, one hand brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face.
His voice was barely above a whisper.
You groaned dramatically.
He laughed under his breath.
"I thought you worked in football."
"Doesn't mean I have to like mornings."
The smile that spread across his face was effortless.
God, he looked unfairly awake.
Hair still slightly damp from the shower.
Car keys turning absentmindedly around one finger while he looked at you as though this finding you tangled in his duvet first thing in the morning was somehow the best part of his day.
"You can go back to sleep."
You reached blindly for his wrist before he could stand.
"So you're just leaving me?"
You pretended to consider it.
"I suppose I'll allow it."
He bent down, pressing an unhurried kiss against your forehead.
His thumb brushed lightly across your cheek.
"There's actual food in there?"
"I'll have you know I went shopping."
"I'll believe it when I see it."
He shook his head with an amused smile before standing again.
"If you need anything, text me."
"I just don't want you feeling like you have to leave."
You watched him for a moment before smiling.
"I wasn't planning on it."
For reasons he couldn't quite explain, those four words stayed with him all the way to the training ground.
Training usually had a way of emptying his mind.
Whatever happened beyond the gates of the Ciutat Esportiva stayed there until the final whistle of the session.
Every now and then, completely without warning, he'd remember waking up beside you.
The sleepy smile you'd given him.
The way you'd reached for his wrist without thinking.
The quiet promise that you'd still be there when he got back.
It was enough to leave a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth throughout warm-ups.
Eric was already talking before the session had properly begun.
"...told you she'd crack eventually."
Ferran barely paid attention at first.
He assumed the conversation had nothing to do with him.
Then your name reached him.
"I mean, come on," Eric scoffed, pulling on his training top. "Months acting like she was too good for everyone."
Someone chuckled uncertainly.
"And then one night with Ferran?"
"Guess she finally realised footballers with bigger contracts are worth making an exception for."
A few uncomfortable glances were exchanged around the dressing room.
Nobody laughed this time.
Ferran remained exactly where he was.
He let the silence stretch just long enough for Eric to believe no one was going to challenge him.
Ferran met his gaze without the slightest hint of anger.
"You've spent months telling everyone she was impossible."
Ferran took another step forward.
"She just wasn't interested in you."
The words landed like a stone dropped into still water.
Eric laughed, though it sounded forced.
"Mate, don't flatter yourself."
Ferran's expression didn't change.
He glanced briefly around the room before looking back at Eric.
"You called her hard to get because you couldn't accept hearing no."
"You called her a prude because she wouldn't sleep with you."
"You told everyone she thought she was better than them because she didn't choose you."
Every sentence chipped away at Eric's confidence.
Ferran didn't raise his voice once.
"You know what I found out?"
A faint smile crossed Ferran's face.
"She cares about everyone around her."
His eyes hardened ever so slightly.
"And she shouldn't have had to deal with someone trying to punish her reputation because she rejected him."
Then Ferran delivered the final blow.
"You kept saying she was waiting for someone worth saying yes to."
"You accidentally got one thing right."
Not because they didn't know what to say.
Because there was nothing left to argue.
Eric opened his mouth once.
For the first time in months...
His version of the story had finally fallen apart.
The sound of keys turning in the front door pulled your attention away from the book resting open across your lap.
You hadn't realised how long you'd been reading.
The apartment had remained almost unnervingly quiet after Ferran left for training, and somewhere between making yourself coffee, stealing one of his hoodies from the back of the sofa, and wandering around his apartment with the familiarity of someone who'd lived there far longer than a single morning, you'd found yourself waiting.
A second later, the front door swung open.
His voice carried through the apartment before he did.
You couldn't stop the smile that spread across your face.
Ferran rounded the corner into the living room, dropping his training bag by the entrance before his eyes immediately found you.
The one that had become so familiar in less than twenty-four hours.
"I wasn't sure you'd actually listen."
"I like proving people wrong."
He walked towards you without another word.
You barely had time to set the book aside before his hands settled gently on your waist, drawing you closer until there was hardly any space left between you.
"I don't remember agreeing to that."
"You also told me to make myself at home."
His eyes drifted over you for a second before an amused smile tugged at his lips.
You rolled your eyes, though you couldn't stop yourself from smiling as your hands found the back of his neck.
He leaned down, brushing a slow kiss against your forehead before another found your cheek.
Then the corner of your mouth.
As though he had all the time in the world.
"You're very affectionate."
"I've been away from you for nearly four hours."
He finally kissed you properly then, gentle enough to make you melt into him without thinking. Your fingers slid into the hair at the nape of his neck as his thumb traced slow circles against your waist, neither of you in any hurry to move.
When you finally pulled back, it wasn't because either of you wanted to.
It was because you noticed it.
Not enough for anyone else to see.
His smile was still there.
His arms were still around you.
Yet there was a thoughtful look in his eyes that hadn't been there when he walked through the door.
"What makes you think something happened?"
"I work with footballers."
"I've become very good at reading faces."
A quiet laugh escaped him.
"I had a conversation with Eric."
You stayed quiet, letting him continue.
"He was saying some things before training."
His jaw tightened briefly.
"The same things he's apparently been saying for months."
You looked down for a second, letting out a slow breath.
"I told him he had it all wrong."
"I told him you weren't hard to get."
A small smile touched the corner of his mouth.
"You just weren't interested in him."
You closed your eyes for a brief moment, letting out something between a sigh and a laugh.
"You shouldn't have done that."
"Because he's not worth it."
"That's not what I mean."
You rested your hand against his chest.
You searched for the right words.
"They don't like being told no."
"They'll always find someone else to blame."
His eyes never left yours.
"So why waste your energy?"
He was quiet for a moment.
Then his hand found yours where it rested against his chest, gently intertwining your fingers.
"Because he wasn't just talking about himself anymore."
"He was talking about you."
"I can handle someone taking the piss out of me."
"But listening to someone tear apart your character because you rejected him?"
"I wasn't going to stand there and let him convince everyone that somehow you were the problem."
Emotion caught unexpectedly in your throat.
Silence settled between you.
The kind that wasn't uncomfortable.
He lifted your joined hands, pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles before looking back at you.
"You know what the funny part is?"
You smiled through the emotion gathering behind your eyes.
"He kept saying you were impossible."
A tiny laugh escaped you.
"So imagine his face when he realised... he just wasnât worth it."
You searched his face for a long moment.
Then, unable to find a single reason not to, you leaned forward and kissed him.
Eric had spent months trying to convince everyone you were too difficult.
Ferran had never once tried to convince you of anything at all.
