WosoMikaela

She's never been. Not for pleasure, that is, though missions have forced her to go a few times in the past. It just never appealed to her in that way. She doesn't see the purpose of sitting still for god knows how long, unable to touch, only allowed to look. Hooking up with someone always made more sense to her. But the pushier everyone becomes, the more she starts to consider it.

She could use an opportunity to wind down. Destress a little, just lean back with a drink and watch. It's no commitment, after all. She'll be back home in a couple hours.

"You're so uptight", Tony tells her. He's holding up a small mirror and cleaning the cut on his cheek. A minor injury he sustained in an accidental collision with a building. "Never been to a bachelorette party?"

"What do you think?", Natasha says, cocking her eyebrows.

"How sad. You haven't lived 'til you've tugged at a g-string."

"Guys, stop pressuring her", Steve says. "Not everyone is comfortable with objectifying young women. They're people too, you know."

"Snoozefest", Tony mutters. He glances at Natasha and wiggles his eyebrows. "You going? It'll make your little heart happy, I swear. Almost saw the gates of heaven the first time I went."

She tilts her head at him. The mission was hard — she can feel every muscle in her body ache. It'd be nice to think about something else for a while.

"They have alcohol?", she asks him to clarify.

"As much as your heart desires."

Natasha rolls her shoulders, her hands smoothing down her thighs. She's still wearing her suit, and she's all beaten up from the mission. Her head is pounding, her reluctance is clear, but she's tired in every sense. Finally, she sighs.

"I look rough", she says, getting up. "I'll have to, you know-"

"You don't need to look presentable", Tony says, glancing at Steve. "What about you, golden boy? You coming? Last time, you were blushing like a schoolboy."

They pull up in front of the strip club half an hour later. From the outside, the club is unassuming — a black building with a low-lit neon sign, complete with a bouncer out front and cigarette smoke in the air. Ubers stop on the side of the road to let groups of people, mostly men, out.

Natasha doesn't know what to expect. Despite having been to a strip club and even getting a full lap dance in the past, she doesn't know what it's like when the strippers themselves are the distraction. During her missions, she never focused on the dancers or the woman grinding on her lap. She was always too busy trying not to die. There's an obvious difference.

Inside the club, a bass thrums and alcohol flows. There are dollar bills everywhere — on the floor, the stage, wedged into bras. Perfume lingers in the air, not fully masking the smell of sweat. She keeps her hands in her pockets and her eyes on the ground. This is out of her comfort zone.

"VIP?", Tony yells. She glances at him and frowns. "You know. Extra one-on-one time."

She shrugs, then shakes her head. He nods and immediately leads them to the main stage. Behind her, Steve sighs. He's dying on the inside.

Beaded curtains, lights dimmed everywhere except for onstage, plush couches and armchairs. Glossy black stages scattered across the room, each complete with a chrome pole in the middle. Spotlights follow the dancers. Someone's pouring them drinks already — whiskey on the rocks, as far as Natasha can tell. Her instinct is to hightail it out of there.

"You look so tense", Tony says, snipping his fingers and plopping down into one of the armchairs. "Relax. Nothing you haven't seen before."

"You do this a lot?", she asks, sitting down as well. She runs her palms down her thighs, this time almost self-consciously. Black jeans, a leather jacket and a simple shirt. She wasn't sure how formal she wanted to be, so she tried to hit that golden mean.

The look he gives her says everything she needs to know. After ending things with Pepper, he's been here almost every weekend. Unlike Steve, who's shifting in his chair and scratching his neck. This might be his biggest nightmare come true.

Natasha tries to focus on the dancers, but her instincts run deep. She analyzes her surroundings instead — a bar in the back, a DJ booth in the corner. Bartenders in skimpy outfits run around, serving drinks and snacks. Everything is either neon red or black. She doesn't pay attention to the stage at all. Only when the DJ announces a dancer with the stage name Ruby does she snap out of it.

The bass drops. She looks at the stage, which is right in front of her this time. The dancer that's now gripping the pole is the first one who managed to catch her eye.

It's everything about you. The deep red lingerie set — bra, thongs, garters. The glitter body oil. The way your eyes find Natasha's.

You don't pause for her, but you stare right back. The stranger is intriguing. Never have you seen someone so desperate not to look while also staring like it's the last time they'll get the chance to.

Natasha grips the armrests of her chair and averts her gaze. You raise your eyebrows in response — is she chickening out already? — and twirl around the pole. You try to ignore her and instead climb a little. Hooking one leg around the pole, you let yourself drop.

For a split second, it looks like you're about to hit the ground. Natasha's breath hitches for some reason. Before she can jump up, though, you catch yourself just inches from the floor.

It took less than a minute. Natasha's hooked. She doesn't even hear the whistles and cheers around her. She watches you crawl across the stage, hips swaying, her focus never wavering.

At some point, you look up again. The light catches your eyes, and — maybe accidentally, maybe not — you look at her.

The moment passes way too quickly. You go back to the pole, lean against it with your thighs spread, slowly slide down it. One hand drags down your own body and your chest arches. Natasha swallows hard.

Right as your hand is about to dip between your inner thighs, an elbow knocks the air out of her. Natasha flinches and her head whips around. Spotting Tony, she shoots him a glare.

"Enjoying yourself?", he asks innocently.

Her cheeks flush slightly. An assassin, trained to keep a straight face even during the most intense situations. She's lied and tricked her way out of the hands of some of the most dangerous people on the planet. Yet, she's sitting here and blushing.

She shifts in her seat. "What's your issue, Stark?"

"I swear, I've never seen you this happy. Just wait 'til you get your first lap dance, you'll combust with euphoria."

She bites her tongue and keeps quiet. Her eyes flicker to the stage again — people are tossing dollar bills now. Some are even tucking them into your garters. One guy, hair oily and suit fitted, stares way too long. She pretends not to care.

Natasha doesn't know what's so intriguing. You're no different from any of the other dancers. She can acknowledge a pretty face, yes, and a nice body as well. She can see you continue to find her eyes in the middle of the room.

It's your job, however. You tease the audience, make them want more. Even lap dances are nothing else but controlled edging. Nothing about it is real, and she's spent too many years entertaining the things that are fake. She's not real, and neither are you. It's all business, all a strategy to make money.

Tony leans over and nudges her side. She briefly closes her eyes to compose herself.

"Jealous?", he asks, his voice sarcastic. "She's not up for purchase. Those times are past, I think."

Next to them, Steve nearly jumps off his chair backwards when a stripper walks up to him. Without his knowledge, he got ordered a full lap dance — and so did Natasha. Tony grins as two women come walking up to them, but neither of them is Ruby.

There's no telling what she would've done if it had been you approaching her. Maybe she'd have gotten the lap dance. Maybe she'd have stayed. But she's not interested in what's about to go down, so she grabs her whiskey, tosses it back and then gets up.

Outside, the air is cold. It contrasts with the heat of her skin. Natasha closes her leather jacket and stops by the trash cans to fumble for a cigarette. She rarely smokes, but tonight is calling for some nicotine.

Just as she's lit the cigarette between her fingers, a door closes nearby. Without thinking, she looks to her side — and nearly freezes. It's you, still in your lingerie set but with a coat thrown over your shoulders. Before you can spot her, she ducks behind a trash can.

When she looks up again, you're gone.

. . .

'The red one' — that's what Tony keeps calling you.

It's been days. Natasha's been keeping herself busy with her standard tasks. Training, debriefs, meetings, missions. It's life as usual. Still, something stays in the back of her mind. It smells like whiskey and cigarette smoke, thrums lowly like a bass.

She's trying not to think about what happened at the strip club. Nothing did happen, to be fair; it seemed like a regular night. All that happened is that she locked eyes with you once, and that somehow, her brain managed to interpret way too much into that one, way too brief moment.

It wasn't even an interaction. It was eye contact of the least intimate kind. But something about it made her believe you stared back. She's not dumb, however, and she knows you'll likely stare at anyone who pays you some extra attention. She can imagine it'd get you better tips, after all.

In the end, Natasha's nothing special. She's well aware of that, and trying to convince herself that this woman — Ruby — maybe did see something special is just delusion at its finest. So instead of listening to her instincts and going back to the strip club, she puts on her protective hand wraps and walks over to the punching bag.

The gym is empty for once. It's early in the evening, and everyone's either scattered around the building or out and about in the city. Natasha throws a few jabs at the punching bag before following with a cross. Twenty minutes later, she's sweaty and out of breath. Red baby hairs stick to her damp temples.

She doesn't stop. She's convinced she'll be able to stop herself from going back to the strip club. Deep down, she knows it's just a matter of time before she heads out again. She's always been obsessive, even if she'd never outright admit it.

So, at 6:47pm, Natasha makes her way to her car. She's wearing the same attire as the first time she went.

The moment she pulls out of the driveway, you step into the backstage area of the strip club.

You shrug off your coat and put it on one of the hooks right next to the door, simultaneously toeing off your boots. Elle, a coworker, walks in right after you and takes off her clothes as well.

"Hey", she says, to which you shoot her a brief smile. "Looking tired. You good?"

"I'm fine", you brush it off. "Midterms are next week. You know the drill. Haven't been sleeping enough."

"I can tell", she comments. You both make your way over to the racks of costumes, where you look at the different sets of lingerie to find what you'll wear tonight. "Bad for you, good for me. If you're slacking, the tips will end up in my wallet tonight."

You let out a short, forced laugh. You grab one of the red sets — a sparkly one this time — and decide on matching fishnets as well.

"You don't need those. Not with that one rich regular that keeps booking you. When's the wedding?"

Elle smirks and cocks her eyebrows. "You know the rules. No inappropriate relationships with customers."

"Well aware." You put some body oil on, rub it all over yourself to coat every inch of visible skin, then get into a pair of stilettos. Right on time — your boss comes in to call you up.

The club is more crowded than usual, thanks to it being a Friday night. Music is thrumming, people are getting lap dances. At the bar in the back, a woman orders a vodka sour. Her red hair is braided and stands out against the black leather jacket she's wearing.

It's familiar. She's familiar.

You try to ignore her. Your set is about to start, after all, and distractions usually end up affecting your performance. You can't risk your tips — you've got more than enough bills to pay.

Her eyes, however, stay glued to you. She sips on her drink, drums her fingers against the surface of the bar. Whenever you look, she averts her eyes. You notice it happening, even as the crowd of people surrounding the stage start tossing tips at you.

You force yourself to focus on your performance. Elle said it best — when you slack, it affects your tips. You can't risk that, not at the moment, not with the amount of responsibility you have. You hook your knee around the pole, lean back and arch. Dragging your body down the pole, you sprawl out on your back.

People whoop. Natasha clenches her jaw and quickly orders another drink. You're lifting your hips with the beat, one hand trailing up your stomach. She's cursing herself for ever showing up here again.

When she looks at you again, you're on your back with your knees folded beneath you. You get up in one, fluid motion, and your eyes immediately catch on the redhead at the bar. You stare one, two seconds too long, then turn back to the audience. Your lips part like you're about to smile, and Natasha's heart thumps against her ribs.

The performance ends. You get up, collect yourself, and blow a quick kiss before disappearing backstage. In total, you were onstage for about four minutes. To Natasha, it felt like forever. It still wasn't enough.

She stays rooted in place for a moment, clutching her empty drink and sweating. Finally, she jumps up and pushes past crowds of people. Some ignore her. Others complain or tease her loudly. She doesn't pay attention to either, as all she can focus on is the regret pooling in the depths of her stomach.

There's no reason for her to have returned to this place. Nothing about it should pull her in. It smells like alcohol and old sweat, mixed with the expensive perfumes of a specific group of people she'd rather not encounter unless absolutely necessary. Not even you, no matter your looks or performance, no matter how enticing or subtly flirty — not even you should make her seek out this place actively.

As Natasha leaves, she tells herself that this will find an end. She's staying away from the club from now on. Deep down, though, she knows it's only a matter of time.

. . .

It's no use. Natasha returns, and she keeps returning. Once, twice, until people start noticing. Soon enough, the bartender knows her order. The bouncer out front greets her by the fake name stated on her fake ID. She has her own little seat at the bar, her own armchair she occupies every now and then.

You notice, too. You lock eyes with her more often than you thought you would. Your curiosity grows each time you spot her in the crowd. You learn her habits — where she sits, what she orders, when she leaves. The moment your performance ends, she's ready to storm out. You never consider stopping her.

At some point, you're not the only one who notices her. Your boss thinks she's a stalker, but you brush that idea aside immediately. Elle, on the other hand, finds it amusing.

"It was about time", she tells you one night. You're outside, walking down the sidewalk towards the bus stop. Your car broke down two days ago, and you haven't managed to save up for the necessary repairs. "I'm telling you, it's like a rite of passage. You're not really one of us until you've gotten your own stalker."

"She's not a stalker", you correct her. You then hesitate. "Is she?"

Elle shrugs and glances at you. There's still some of that shimmering lipgloss on her mouth. "I don't know. You ever see her anywhere outside the club? Like, around your neighborhood?"

You shake your head. You've never seen her anywhere else — it's club only. Despite not needing it, you find reassurance in that fact.

"I feel like she avoids me, actually", you add. "She storms out early each time. She stays, like, five minutes total. It's odd."

"She leaves right after your performance", Elle says. "I noticed that as well. Wonder why she doesn't approach you."

There's an unofficial rule in the club — no going out with clients, no sexual favors, nothing exceeding the boundaries set by your boss. If it's not part of one of the bookable packages, you're not allowed to do it. You doubt the redhead is aware of that, though. Not many customers seem to be, at least judging by how often you and your coworkers have been hit on by greasy men.

You reach the bus stop. Shrugging, you reach for your phone and open the MTA app.

"Maybe she knows."

Elle snorts and gives you a pointed look. You roll your eyes and take a step forward when you see your bus in the near distance.

"You know she doesn't", she says. "None of them do. You think they care 'bout rules? Or boundaries? Hell, they're letting strangers ride them half naked."

"We don't 'ride' them", you interject. The bus stops, its doors slide open, and you get on. Luckily, your favorite seats — all the way in the front, close to both the driver and the door, are free. "It's a lap dance."

"You know what it looks like in their heads, though. They start coming by every weekend, then almost every day. You think they're aware of the difference?" She shakes her head. "Hell no. That's why they turn into stalkers."

"Again", you say, irritated, "she's not a stalker."

"You just say that 'cause she's a woman."

An unfair double standard to point out, but at the same time, it's a rational one. You roll your eyes and nudge her.

"You've seen the statistics", you point out. You quickly decide to change the subject — being reminded of stalkers and crazy customers never ends well for you. The nightmare-induced sleepless nights afterwards aren't something you can afford right now. "How are things going with Chris?"

Your plan works. The moment you mention her situationship slash boyfriend, her entire attitude changes, and she forgets all about the woman at the club.

You, however, don't. Elle keeps rambling, and you drift off. Only when the bus makes a halt at the stop in front of your apartment do you force yourself to snap out of it and get off. There's someone waiting for you at home, after all.

. . .

They notice. Natasha isn't sure how they manage that, but they do.

Maybe she should've been more careful. At the same time, she's not sure how — she's mastered stealth. She keeps everything private and locked down. She knows how to appear like everything is the same, even when it definitely isn't. Yet, the team figures it out.

"Told you you'd like it", Tony says, not bothering to be quiet about it. She doesn't react. "It's a treat, isn't it?"

"No idea what you're talking about", she says smoothly, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

"Strip club", he says. "You love it. That's why you keep coming back. What, you thought I wouldn't find out?"

Everyone else — Clint, Bruce, Steve — being in the same room as them only makes matters worse. Steve looks disappointed in her, like he just caught his daughter sneaking booze into her room. Clint just stares, unsure what to make of this. Bruce has gotten up to leave.

Natasha exhales, her fingers drumming against the countertop. Her eyes flicker over to him. "You're tracking me now?"

"No", he says, eyes lighting up. "That's not a bad idea. But no, I'm not tracking you. The owner told me. Nice lady, I think I made a friend."

"You don't have friends", she says flatly. She grabs her coffee and turns around. He raises his eyebrows.

"How sweet." Leaning back against the counter, he takes a sip of coffee and watches her sit down. "What's her name? Candy, Cherry? Or wait, is it the red one?"

It's like a trigger word. Suddenly, the only thing on Natasha's mind is you — red lingerie, garters, body shimmering and a little smirk on your lips. She clenches her jaw and leans back, dragging one hand down the side of her face.

"Shut the fuck up", she finally says. "You dragged me there. This is on you."

"You wanting a stripper is on you, though", he points out. "You could be less creepy about it, you know. At least book a lap dance instead of just staring like a horny idiot."

"Bad idea", Steve interrupts him. "It's their job. Don't let yourself engage with this...fantasy you have. It'll only make matters worse for you."

The word 'fantasy' probably describes this best. Natasha still doesn't know what she wants, or why she's this drawn to you. She could have anyone, so why fixate on this random woman?

"You're ruining the fun, Rodgers", Tony scoffs. He leans over the table and gives her a look. "At least give it a shot. Maybe it'll help you cool off."

"Oh, stop it."

"You know it's true. Get it out of your system, Romanoff. She'll get you all worked up, maybe you get to cop a feel or two-"

She shoots him a warning look. He grins, not bothered in the slightest.

"You're just scared", he finishes, tossing an apple into the air. "Big, bad Black Widow. Can't even get a fucking lap dance anymore."

She shakes her head. Footsteps can be heard as he walks around her. His hand clamps over her shoulder, and her grip on her cup tightens.

"It's just one lap dance", he says, almost like a threat. "I know you'll go back. You've been going back all this time. It'll happen anyway, so why fight it?"

Even years later, Natasha wouldn't be sure why he was so adamant about this. Maybe just to be a dick — as he tended to be —, or because of some unknown conspiracy.

Unfortunately, he ends up being right. Nobody likes being proven wrong by Tony Stark, especially not Natasha. She still ends up at the club, though, and it's just a few days later.

Her plan is to do exactly what he said — get it out of her system. That's what she usually does when she sees a woman she's attracted to. Have her in any way she can, whether that's a one night stand or a quick hookup behind a bar. This time, she's booking a VIP room to get it done.

The bouncer greets her by the fake name she gave him. The bartender nods at her and already holds up an empty glass to show he'll make her a drink. Elle, just about to leave the stage, spots her come in through the door.

"Redhead", Elle says, panting when she reaches the backstage area. You look up. "Redhead's back. Your stalker-"

"Not a stalker", you cut her off. Your friend waves a dismissive hand.

"Whatever. She's back. For you, I'm betting."

You don't argue. Instead, you grab your lipgloss and try to stay as composed as possible. You're called up next, so you check your appearance in the mirror one more time before stepping out.

It's the same as always. You perform and give it your all. You pretend to pay attention to the audience — reacting at the right moments is key, just like staying focused on the actual show is. Not looking at the woman in the back is a challenge. You can feel her eyes on you, though.

The song comes to an end. People whoop as you crawl towards the edge of the stage, dollar bills ready in their hands. They're tucked into your garters, thrown on the ground, stuffed into your bra. You give everyone a quick smile, nose scrunching, before turning around. All the redhead gets is a brief glance.

Backstage, it's bustling. Other girls run around as they get ready to be called up. Your boss is bawling someone out in the corner. Elle, about to go to one of the private rooms, salutes you.

"Good luck", she says, getting up. You give her a confused look. Before you can ask what she means, she's slipped into the dim hallway.

In the end, you don't have to ask. The floor manager, Katrina, comes running over, blonde locks bouncing, and pats your shoulder as she guides you to a less busy corner of the room.

"You just started your shift, right?", she asks. The moment you nod, she keeps talking. "A woman in VIP 2 booked you for one session. Said her name was confidential. It's all up to you, but-"

Your curiosity is immediate. You straighten up a little, head tilted and arms crossing in front of your chest. It's not the first time someone's booked you for a lap dance, but you have a feeling this one's a little different.

"VIP room?", you say. Her head dips in confirmation. "What does she look like?"

"Red hair", she says. "Black jacket. She's been a regular for a couple weeks now, maybe you've seen her before."

You have, obviously, but you don't feel the need to reveal that. Instead, you turn around and walk over to the rack of costumes. Lingerie and bodysuits in all colors of the rainbow, some sparkling, some adorned with lace. You stare at the fabric, contemplating silently.

Stalker, is what Elle keeps calling her. Whether that's true or not you can't tell. You've seen her around too many times, watched her leave right after your performance, noticed her avoid you. It's odd, and it's intriguing.

"Any specifics?"

Katrina taps one of the lingerie sets. "The red one", she says, taking a step back. "You have ten minutes."

It's the same lingerie sets you wore when you first saw her. Red, sparkling, leaving little to the imagination. The bra pushes your cleavage up, the body oil makes your skin smooth all over. Hair open and falling over your shoulders, you push open the door and step out.

Natasha's in the VIP room. It's dimmed, sensual, a bit quieter than the main area. Bead curtains separate the space. The lighting is red and low. She feels like she's dying, but at least the plush loveseat is comfortable.

Both of you consider cutting this short, though for very different reasons. You don't know what to expect from this woman who's been coming to the club to watch your performance specifically. Natasha fears that being this close to you, and alone with you, might just pull her deeper into this lust-fueled mess she's gotten herself into.

But then, it's too late. The curtain is pushed aside and you step in, making Natasha look up. Your eyes meet, and you immediately switch back to the professional side of yourself.

"Hey, pretty", you drawl, closing the curtain behind you without looking. "You look like someone I should take it easy on."

She stares at you, her arms crossed over her chest. She tries convincing herself that this is for the better — that it'll be over soon, and from that moment on, she'll be able to stop fixating on you like this. Just a quick lap dance. Get it out of her system, wind down, leave the club once and for all. Maybe she'll hook up with someone who's actually attainable.

"Very considerate", she says, shifting slightly. "What do I get if I survive?"

You hum, circling the loveseat. Your fingers trace the backrest, barely grazing the back of her neck. Natasha stiffens. She tries not to let it show, but her skin is aflame and heat is shooting through her like a 9mm shotgun. It's desire, lust. It expires easily. Or so she thinks.

"I'm sure you have something in mind", you say. Your fingers run down her arm as you step in front of her again, and she exhales quietly. "What's your name, gorgeous?"

Natasha hesitates. She's been using a fake name ever since coming here the first time. Logically, she should also do that with you.

"Natasha", she says. You give her a wicked little smile at that, but your heart is pounding.

"Very fitting", you mumble, slowly moving to straddle her lap. Music has started playing, the lights seem to be pulsating. She uncrosses her arms and puts her hands down next to her thighs. "I'm Ruby. Pleasure to meet you."

You keep some weight in your legs, just so you're not fully sitting on her thighs. Instead, it's a slight grinding motion, with your hands resting on her shoulders. It's enough to drive her insane. Every scenario she can imagine where a girl would sit on her lap like this, she'd buck her hips a few times.

No touching, she reminds herself when her fingers twitch. There's music — muffled, playing in the main area of the club — but it's quiet enough for her to hear every breath, every slight shift of your knees on the couch.

"You look so tense", you mumble, noticing her stiff posture. "What's the matter?"

Your hips shift, and her thighs flex. You smile and trail your fingers down her chest, tapping gently. She's putting on a soldier front — eyes locked, jaw clenched, trying her best to look unaffected. You haven't seen this look in many customers before. You don't mind it.

"I don't usually do this", she finally says, hands balling into fists. She's still trying not to put her hands on your waist.

"I don't mind, baby", you say. You lean in, almost like you're going to kiss her, and trail one hand down to the waistband of her jeans. Her hand twitches. "Touching's extra, pretty girl."

Her mouth opens, but the music dips, and so your grinding slows down. Natasha feels hot all over. When you cup her jaw to make her look you in the eyes, she starts losing ground.

"...fuck", she mutters, throat bobbing and an exhale slipping through her nose.

"Don't hold your breath", you say, pulling away just when it gets heated. You turn around to straddle her knee backwards. "I want to hear you. It's a bit of a reward."

At this point, Natasha's thoughts are running wild. She's starting to understand why people enjoy this — it's like slow, controlled edging. Everything feels dialed up. She can feel your heat through her clothes, smell the body oil you put on, the subtle scent of vanilla. Her whole nervous system has lit up. Blood is rushing, her muscles twitch, and there's this urge to touch you she can't give into.

She can't even see your face now. Instead, it's the curve of your back, your hair spilling, your ass grinding into her thigh. Humiliation and desperation roll into one when her eyes flicker downwards. You feel her staring, and it only makes your pulse spike even more.

"Eyes on me", you say when she looks away. You glance at her over your shoulder, watching her bite the insides of her cheeks. "Don't get shy now. You asked for this, didn't you?"

Natasha almost combusts. This time, her hands actually leave the plush fabric of the loveseat — her thumb nearly grazes your thigh — before she remembers the rules. Only the stripper is allowed to touch.

"You like testing people, huh?", she mutters, fingers curling into the seat of the couch.

"It's my job, pretty." You get up and turn around, putting your hands on her shoulders again. You drag your chest down her front, making her go face to face with it. She nearly groans. "You're not doing too bad. This is your first time?"

"How'd you guess?", she replies, shifting. A half lie — it isn't her first time, but it's the first time she booked it for pleasure instead of business.

"There's something special about you", you coo, tipping up her chin. You're close enough to kiss, but you pull away last second. You go back to straddling her lap instead, immediately rolling your hips. "Don't know what it is."

Natasha forces a dry smile. "How many people have you said this to?"

Way too many. You tilt your head but don't say anything. Your hips press down harder against her, and she almost lets a moan slip.

Everything you do is part of your stripper-persona. You know that, and so does Natasha. She lets herself believe otherwise, anyway, even if it's just for a brief moment. Lust battles rationality, and unfortunately, it's winning at the moment.

She looks at you, her mouth dry and her blood rushing through her body. You're gorgeous — she doesn't know which part of you to look at first. Before she can decide on one, though, the session ends. You finish with your lips ghosting her jaw, then you slowly pull away. She's left behind stunned and no less aroused than she was earlier.

"You're very professional", she manages to say. You glance at her and smile faintly.

"Is that a good thing?", you tease, one hand already pushing aside the curtain. She shrugs. "Don't answer. I think I can guess."

"Don't know about that", Natasha mutters. You wink at her and leave, the curtain swinging behind you. Your scent — vanilla, body oil — lingers all over her.

Her plan was to get it out of her system. Unwind. Nothing more, nothing less. Instead, you've managed to imprint yourself into her brain like you just hot branded her.

Natasha shouldn't think this, and she tries not to. It's not like she's proud of it, after all. But as she steps out of the club and into the colder night air, she knows she'll be back.

. . .

Two days. That's how long she lasts before in your chair again. And from that moment on, it happens time after time.

It's never the same. The more often you see her, the more you start switching up your costumes and performances. The only things that stay the same are your perfume, the body oil you use, and you. And as her visits become more frequent, the more you'll be able to predict when she'll show up again.

Four times. That's how often she's booked you for a lap dance so far — you specifically. You start subtly asking your colleagues about her, but none of them seem to know about her. Only Elle does, but you avoid talking to her about Natasha.

The fifth time happens on a Friday night. Natasha returns from a mission and goes straight to the club. She doesn't acknowledge the looks exchanged by the team at all — she has one goal, one thought stuck in her one track mind, and the judgmental glance directed at her by Steve doesn't faze her at all anymore.

She's a regular now. To you she is, at least. The moment Katrina taps your shoulder, you know what's going on.

"Natasha?", you ask, already grabbing your favorite lingerie set. Her favorite, too. You've noticed the way she stares at it.

"VIP room 6 today." Katrina raises her eyebrows, the look on her face almost wary. "Been seeing quite a lot of her lately, haven't you?"

You shrug, but silently, you pray she won't keep pushing. Clubs reserve the right to deny people service for whatever reason. If Katrina gets a bad feeling about Natasha — even if it's unjustified —, she might be asked to not return.

"It's stress relief", you lie. "Did she request anything?"

"Only you", she says, taking a step back. "Be careful, alright?"

"I know what I'm doing", you mutter, reaching for your usual perfume. You get changed, apply everything as usual, and then make your way to the VIP room.

When Natasha looks up, she pauses. Something's different. You look more tired than usual, so much so that you can't even conceal it with makeup. You raise your eyebrows at her and try to hide it, anyway. Not everyone needs to now you were kept up all night.

"Look at that", you hum, stepping closer. "My favorite customer."

She tilts her head. At this point, you've both found a rhythm, and it shows. But Natasha is worried even though she doesn't want to be, so by the time you get off her lap again, she hesitates.

"You alright?", she finally asks. You're already on your way out. Usually, you wouldn't pause for a customer, but for some reason, you do this time.

"I'm good", you lie. "Don't worry."

"I'm not worried", she quickly retorts. You freeze, and she finds herself regretting her way too sharp reply. "I don't know. You seem off."

You bristle at her words. She's tiptoeing that line between professional and personal, and you're being tugged along. You've dealt with this kind of behavior before — handsy customers, overly confident men, flirty remarks that definitely went too far. But you don't mind her going too far for some reason, and that only makes you push her away more.

"Oh, I'm sorry", you bite back, pulling the curtain aside. Beats clack quietly. "Hope it didn't affect my performance. Have a nice night, Natasha."

"No", she says, getting up right as you leave. "I didn't..."

You don't turn around. There's this little voice in her head telling her to follow you, but she knows all about the club's — and the dancers' — boundaries. She won't overstep them. Not any more than she already has. Instead, she grabs her wallet and makes her way outside.

It's a mistake on your part. Your shift has ended, it's late, and you need to get back home before you get a phone call from your sister again. You tighten the coat around your body and step out through the side door, unknowing that Natasha is right across from you.

You stop and stare. She's leaning against her car, arms crossed and staring at nothing in particular. You wait for too long. By the time you even start questioning whether you should leave or approach her, she's already spotted you. It takes her a minute to say something, though.

"I crossed a line", Natasha says. "I'm sorry."

"You did", you say, not bothering to sugarcoat it. You feel bad about it, anyway. "It's nice you asked. I guess."

She gives you a brief smile. "You're sure you're okay, though? You seem tired."

You hesitate. How much can you tell her? How much do you want to tell her? She's a customer, after all. Boundaries exist for a reason. You've started to question those, though, especially when you consider how often you see her at this point.

"I'm just busy", you say. "Really busy. I feel like I can't catch a break right now. Should get better soon, I hope."

"Let me know if I can do anything."

"Tips help", you tease, trying to distract her from how the mood shifted. It'd always been easy between you — heated, flirty in a not quite professional sense. But the closer she's getting to you, the more anxious you get. You're not in a place in your life where you can deal with this.

"I feel like I've contributed quite a bit of those", she replies, smirking faintly. You raise your eyebrows at her. "Come on. You see me all the time. I bet I'm the one who got you that coat. Looks new, too."

Despite everything, you laugh. It's a sound that cuts through Natasha's skin in the best way. She shuts up immediately, her eyes fixated solely on you.

"If you like me that much, why not book a private session?", you say, tilting your head at her. She scoffs, cheeks flushing. "Hey, if you can cross lines, then so can I."

Natasha rubs the back of her neck, green eyes darting down. She stares at a cigarette butt to try and hide the look on her face. She's suppressing a smile.

"I apologized", she says. "Whether I meant it is a different story."

"Alright, hotshot."

"Only for you."

That makes you both pause and, to your disappointment, snap you back into reality. You're outside in near freezing weather, with only fishnets covering your legs. You're standing there, laughing (and flirting) with someone you should ignore outside the club. And the worst part is that you're liking it a lot more than you should.

You shift and exhale, your breath visible in the cold weather. It's getting late as well. You need to go home.

"Thank you", you say, then gesture awkwardly. "For this, I mean. It's nice you checked in."

Natasha nods, already turning around to open the car door. "Least I can do."

You smile and step away, but you watch her for a beat longer than you should. You can't help it.

"Goodnight", you say. The next words follow without thinking. "See you."

You wait until she's pulled out of the parking lot. Once she's gone, you take a bus home. Not much happens, which is a relief — the streets of New York City are always unpredictable, but especially at night. But you make it to your apartment safe and sound, and when you open the door, you can hear the tv play.

Sighing, you walk into the living room. The tv is on, cartoons are playing and your daughter is wrapped into a blanket. Next to her, your sister is dozing.

"Grace", you whisper. Her head whips around and she gasps. "Why are you still awake?"

"Mommy", she just squeals, scrambling off the couch and running straight into your arms. You pick her up and kiss her cheek. "You're cold."

"Yeah, I'm cold. It's freezing outside, bub."

On the couch, your sister stirs. She rubs her eyes, looks up, and then almost shrinks with guilt. Grace's bedtime is 7:30. Considering it's past midnight now, she definitely messed up here.

"Why is she awake?", you question her next. "She has daycare tomorrow!"

"I'm sick", your daughter promptly says. She makes grabby hands and you give her your hand, which she presses to her forehead. "See?"

"You are warm", you admit. "Mel, why is she not in bed?"

Melanie shrugs and gets up. "She was in bed. Must've slipped out when I nodded off."

"I'm sick", Grace insists. "I want tea, mommy."

You look at her and soften. You know she's probably just looking for an excuse to stay up — but you've been seeing so little of her you can't even blame her. Sighing, you kiss her cheek and carry her into the kitchen.

A cup of tea and a few saltines later, you tuck her into bed. She gives you a defiant little look, but you cup her face and kiss her forehead.

"All comfy?", you ask, patting the blanket down to straighten it. She nods her head.

"Yes. I'm comfy. Do I have to sleep?"

"You do", you insist. "It's way too late, honey. You're sleepy, I can tell by your yawning."

Grace pouts, but ultimately surrenders. Curling into her blankets, she closes her eyes.

Turning to stripping wasn't a choice. Not fully. You are working towards a future by being a college student — but to support your present, you needed to find something else.

It doesn't pay great. The tips are mainly what keep your ship from sinking. But your shifts are doable, there's not much thinking happening, and on good nights, you earn more than you would in any of the other jobs you considered.

Does it fulfill you? Not really. It's only a means to an end. Something meant to get you to a point in life where things get easier. But now you met Natasha, and you have the feeling that quite the opposite is about to occur.

. . .

"You never told me what you do", you say, getting off her lap and tucking your hair behind your ears. She smooths her hands down her thighs. "I mean, unless that's confidential too, Fanny."

Natasha flushes slightly, her eyebrows raised in silent warning. "Who told you about that?"

"What, you thought I wouldn't find out about your fake name?" You grin and lean over the back of the loveseat, tilting your head to look at her. She rolls her eyes. "You know, I could get you kicked out for that."

"I highly doubt that."

"Yeah, I probably couldn't." You pause and study her. "But seriously. What do you do?"

Natasha doesn't understand why you're suddenly so interested in her. She has no idea that this interest isn't sudden, though — it's been building up from that very first night she entered the strip club, from that very moment your eyes met hers from the main stage.

"Guess", she finally says. You frown and pinch her arm. "I can't just tell you."

"You know what my job is, though."

The look you get makes you grin. It's rare that you get along this easily with a customer, or that you stay a few minutes extra after just to chat. Honestly, you don't remember ever doing that. She's the only one.

Unfortunately, your smile lowers her defenses. She clenches her jaw and picks at her jeans. Despite her pretty public persona, not everyone knows who she is. She likes it this way. She's revealing it to you piece by piece.

"Security", she mutters, looking at you. "Contract work. That kind of stuff."

You scoff, and she can tell you don't believe her. Not fully, anyway. Her answer wasn't a lie, but it was vague enough to make you skeptical.

"Like, a security guard?" You squeeze her bicep and she falters. "Oh wow, I had no idea you're ripped."

Natasha gives you a deadpan look, not saying anything. You laugh, your face way too close to hers, but quickly stop when someone pushes the curtain aside. You look up to see Katrina, who's staring like she just witnessed a warcrime.

"Hey", you say, dumbfounded, and straighten up. "I'm sorry, we were just- I mean, I was finishing up. We're done here."

"The session ended ten minutes ago", she tells you. You exhale quietly. "The next customer is waiting. Do you mind?"

"Sorry", you apologize, stepping around her. Natasha jumps up to follow you out of there. "Won't happen again, Kat."

"It better not", she calls after you. With a shake of her head, she starts freshening up the room for the next session.

You slip through the hallway, making your way past coworkers and customers. Natasha is still behind you, her eyes fixated on you like you're a moving target. Before you can walk into the backstage area, though, you stop. She looks up and flushes.

"Restricted access", you tease. She glares at you. "You know, looking where you're going helps."

"I was distracted."

"Oh, I know. You always are." You tilt your head and smile. "See you Friday?"

Natasha narrows her eyes at you. Not waiting for a reply, you shoot her a smile and let the door fall shut after you.

Friday. She doesn't want to wait until Friday. She doesn't want to keep this up — this whole thing of pretending that she can keep this professional. It isn't working.

She hesitates for a good moment, then she storms out of the club and makes her way around the building, spotting the back door. The area is barely lit, but she can still see you exit a couple minutes later.

You look more like yourself again. A coat, knee high boots, hair loosely clipped back. You look up and spot her. Suddenly, she's less convinced she can do this.

"Hey", she says. You raise your eyebrows at her.

"Everything alright?"

"Yeah", she says, tucking her hands into her pockets. She's sweating already, and judging by the way she's floundering, she might chicken out after all. "I just think...what's your schedule again next week?"

"The same as always", you say, digging through your purse. Natasha spots a small picture book for kids and frowns, but you quickly push it back inside. "You know my schedule doesn't change."

"Right", she says, dumbfounded. She rubs her temple. "Alright, uhm..."

Natasha doesn't remember the last time she asked someone out. In addition, she's never asked out a stripper — and she has no idea how to go about that. You give her a look that's both confused and amused.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for tonight", she finally says. "I enjoyed it."

You nod, stepping closer. She stays rooted in place, her heart beating faster the closer you come. For a moment, you just stare at each other, then you exhale softly and step aside. She has to force herself from deflating visibly.

It's a defense mechanism. You can tell you've been getting too close, and if you don't draw a line, you'll end up cracking. You can't allow yourself to let someone into your life like this — not when so much depends on this job. You can't afford to let Natasha disrupt your precarious balance of a life. And yet, she already has.

"Good night", you say. This time, it's final, and you turn around and leave.

. . .

There are three different layers to a strip club. They're similar in some ways, and drastically different in others.

The main floor is where fantasies exist, but always stay out of reach. It's merely a performance, public and untouchable, but it lays the groundwork for everything else.

The VIP rooms are more intimate, but still operate with fantasies — nothing more, nothing less. Lines blur, things start to feel real, and you're tricked into believing there might be more. Natasha hasn't dared to go further than this yet.

Then, there are the private rooms. They're hidden all the way in the back, with actual doors instead of beaded curtains separating them from the rest of the space. People who book these rooms want the kind of fake intimacy that feels raw. They're not interested in letting a fantasy stay a fantasy.

In the end, it all depends on the dancer. The customer doesn't have much of a say at all. There are security cameras, of course, as well as a concealed second entrance to make sure someone can intervene at all times. And usually, what's fake stays fake — but when you hear Natasha booked you for a private room, you can feel the line between professionalism and real intimacy blur more and more.

Your thighs cage in her hips. Cupping her face, you push yourself off her lap and roll your hips down against hers. You're both out of breath at this point, sweat dripping down your neck. What you're doing isn't even physically demanding, it's just that you're constantly holding back from wiping away that blurred line entirely.

There's more weight to the dance this time. It feels less like a performance. Noticing that makes your head spin.

"Not so different from the VIP rooms, huh?", you mumble. Her fingers brush your thighs. "You can almost pretend it's real."

"'Pretend'?", she replies. You raise your eyebrows at her. "Maybe I don't have to do that."

You let out a quiet laugh, pretending her words didn't faze you. Your thumb brushes along her jaw, from one ear to the other, until it eventually stops at her chin. You glance at her lips and exhale, then push your thumb against them.

It's highly unprofessional. You both know it. But your heart is beating way too fast, and the way you've been leaning against her with your full body weight almost crosses that line as well, so your inhibitions are lowered.

You lean in, press your lips against hers, and let her taste the lipgloss on your mouth. It's flavored. For the first time, she lifts her hands and grabs your thighs. Your hands move down her chest and start toying with the buttons of her blouse. Your hips roll down against hers.

Natasha feels your tongue slip between her lips. When she stills, you finally realize that you've fucked up badly.

"Shit", you whisper, pulling away. She's trying to catch her breath. "You actually kissed me back."

The panic you're feeling is evident. Up until now, you had control. You knew what you were doing. You were staying professional despite the cracks appearing in your polished reputation. But now, you've done the one thing that could get you fired and make you lose everything. In addition, you're making her believe there could ever be more — which isn't the case.

There are two ways that you could go about this. Either you tell her that it's all a mistake, or you make her believe it's all part of the performance. Part of a test too, maybe. You picked the latter.

Natasha frowns and sits up. She puts her hand on your back — just a light touch, meant to ground herself in reality.

"What?", she asks, taken aback. You give her a teasing smile, but your heart is racing in your chest.

"Didn't think you'd go through with it, champ. Are you that easy?"

It's all damage control. You're trying to save that last bit of professionalism left in you from evaporating completely. If you let her see that, despite the rules and ethics of this place, you've still developed feelings that definitely cross a line, you'll never live it down.

She blinks at you. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"It's part of the performance, dummy." You pat her cheek and slide off her lap. She scoffs. "Who do you think I am? A prostitute? I'm not going to fuck you just because you paid for the private room."

"You're insane", she says, forcing her face to stay neutral. You tilt your head at her. "Why in the world would I think of you like that?"

You shrug and grab your high heels, which you slipped off while climbing onto her lap. Your heart feels like it's about to jump out of your chest.

"There's one rule, Natasha", you say, putting on one of the heels. "One that's important for you. It's not touching the dancer. So either you see me as something you can buy, or you're starting to actually like me. Guess what? Both are unacceptable."

Natasha Romanoff, one of the more well known gang leaders in New York city, understandably has a stressful life. She can deal with it, has become so well adjusted to it she barely takes much notice anymore.

But on certain days tension will not leave her body, her mind refusing to quiet. On those days, Natasah becomes more snappy than usual, her tolerance for mistakes nowhere to be found. It made her own life harder, along with the lives of anyone who’d be brave enough to be in her presence.

To combat this, Natasha’s right hand man, Clint, had suggested she and her gang have a weekly “destress outing”. His pitch was that it would improve work relations and morale. A happy worker is a productive worker, he’d said with a smirk. Really, he could just see how tightly wound up his friend was and wanted to help. That and he also thought it would be fun. Two birds, one stone.

Usually they would go to Natasha’s favourite spot, the wandering widow. Tonight however, when the group of thugs arrived at the well frequented venue, they found it closed. Natasha did her best to contain her frustration, finding the thought of missing her one time in a week to actually destress, quite distressing. Funny, she thinks to herself, but finding no murmur in it at all.

Tilting her head back she lets out a groan, prompting her right hand man to whip out his phone for a quick google search. Thankfully he found a five star strip club, no less than a ten minute walk away. No one wants to be dealing with a cranky Natasha for the next week. They begin the journey with little to no complaints, seeing as this particular club, the bittersuite, comes with the promise of added services if only the right price is paid.

Natasha enters the building ahead of the group, leading them inside with practiced confidence. In one quick moment she takes in everything in her surroundings, the bar, the stage, the booths pressed against the back walls, the music to fit the atmosphere. Everything seemed perfect for the night they all had in mind.

As she scans the room her dark green eyes land on you, scantily clad in black lace lingeries, the bra fitting perfectly around your breast, covering you enough to keep you just under the line of modesty but still having it be revealing and alluring. Your matching panties leave little to the imagination, shaping your ass heavily, black heels to complement the look.

Natasha feels her mouth water, letting her eyes drift over you and swallows hard. Clint nudges her shoulder and nods towards a booth in the back, close enough to the stage they can see, far enough away they won’t be bothered. She nods her approval and follows the man to the booth, temporarily losing track of you.

It isn’t hard to find you again in the packed room, your charming smile and laugh paired with your sparkling eyes drawing Natasha in more than she thought she would be. She watches you as you move throughout the room working the crowd as you go. She orders herself a drink, sipping away as she follows you with her eyes, readily ignoring anyone else around her.

You seem genuinely interested in the people you’re talking to. Friendly, open posture, polite smiles, even a hint of genuine laughter.

It’s the way you squeeze a person's forearm every so often that lets Natasha know most of it is an act, a facade all in the effort of getting more tips while performing. She has to applaud you on your efforts, seeing for herself, even across the room, that you’re very good at what you do.

The music for your intro starts and Natasha watches with keen interest as you bid your goodbyes to the people you’re speaking with and make your way up to the stage.

You move confidently to the beat of the music, with the skill and beauty to back it up. Each and every pair of eyes in the room is glued to you, the way your body sways and grinds to the music.

About half way through the song you make it down on your hands and knees on the stage, pausing for a second to flash a smile at the audience before dipping your chest towards the stage, revealing more of your cleavage to them.

An audible groan sounds around the room, your eyes snapping up when you hear it. Coincidentally, or fated by the gods, your eyes lock with those of a red haired gang leader sitting in the back booth.

She’s stunning, possibly the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen. Her wavy red hair rests hotly around her shoulders, a stark contrast to the plane white shirt left all but half open covering her body. Your eyes trail to her pants clad legs before moving to her face, revealing green eyes swimming in lust.

She notices the look of pure awe on your face and smirks, lifting her whisky glass to you.

You keep your eyes on hers as you drop your chest slowly toward the stage, lifting your ass teasingly in the air before sliding the whole way down and kick rolling yourself into a standing position to finish out the performance.

The song ends and Natasha watches as you make your way off the stage, a cute blush adorning your face as cheers and wolf whistles are heard throughout the whole room. She watches as you make your way towards a blond woman, her arms open and waiting for you to step into. You hug her and take a step back, keeping yourself at a respectful distance.

Her eyes stay fixed to you as the woman flirts with you, as you act all shy and affected by her words. Natasha can tell it’s all fake, just more of you trying to earn your money, working for it, so she allows it, until the blond woman leans in the whisper in your ear and gestures towards the back room.

Now that Natasha can’t have, not after you made her as hard as you did. No one else would be touching you tonight but her, she’d be making sure of that.

She stands, downing the rest of her drink in one go and making her way swiftly toward you. You don’t flinch when you feel her hand on your back, nor do you pull away, you simply flick your eyes toward her, an easy, sultry smile sliding onto your face when you see her.

You keep your body angled toward the blond woman and you can see that clearly pisses her off. But Carol is one of your highest paying clients and you’re not about to fuck that up for this woman, no matter how hot the red head is.

She slides her arm around you, leaning in close enough for you to hear her mumble hotly against your ear. “That was quite the performance, sweetheart.” Natasha takes note of your body language and smirks, finding your self assurance amusing, she knows you’re still playing the game, still working the room.

“How about an encore, just the two of us.” She suggests boldly, not caring who hears her, or for the blond woman who seems to be annoyed by her words.

“Actually.” The blond buts in, Natasha’s jaw clenching at the interruption.. “Y/n and I were just about to-“

“Y/n.” Natasha cuts her off, her eyes never leaving you. “Would make more money with me in an hour than she would with you in months.”

This catches your attention, your body turning slightly toward Natasha as you level her with a look of pure curiosity.

“How would you even know what I pay her?” Carol interjects, annoyance and indignity clear in her voice.

Without hesitating Natasha pulls a cool million out of her pocket, flashing it to not just Carol but to you too. You see the large amount of money and feel your knees go weak. That could set you up for months.

“Well? What do you say, sweetheart?” Natasha asks, keeping the wad of cash clear in your view, a teasing smirk on her face.

You turn to Carol, your eyes pleading for understanding. “I’m sorry.” You say, a hint of shock in your voice. “I can’t pass this up.”

Carol scoffs and walks away angrily, knowing she can’t compete with Natasha financially.

Natasha smirks and wraps her arms around your waist, pulling your body flush with hers, a lustful look in her eyes. “Smart choice, sweetheart.”

You smile up at her, your eyes narrowed slightly at her cocky confidence. She may have the money to get your attention but that doesn’t mean she’ll be any good with your time.

Feeling the sudden need to knock her down a few pegs you gently lean up to press a kiss to her cheek and trail your lips across to her ear, missing the way her eyes flutter shut for a second as you whisper.

“See that body guard over there?” Natasha nods, her eyes now locked on the body builder of a man standing next to the exit door. “If you stiff me he’ll break your legs, he won’t care that you’re a woman.”

Natasha swallows, the idea of broken legs not a pleasant one, but still, she wouldn’t never take what you’re offering and leave without paying.

You pull away from her then, a teasing glint in your eyes. “He’s a real feminist like that.”

Natasha takes a deep breath, trying to quickly regain composure as she smirks. “If you feel even half as good as you look then I say money well spent, sweetheart.”

You smile, skeptically, at the older woman and blush. She really has a way with words. You just hope she’s got the skill to go with it. That, and you really hope you didn’t just ditch one of your best paying clients for someone who won’t pay their debts.

Carol was a mediocre fuck at best, but at least she always payed well. You take the red heads hand in your own and turn towards the back rooms, pulling her along behind you as you go.

You nod to the bouncer guarding the door, his eyes scanning Natasha and looking to you for another nod of approval before opening the doors for you both. Once inside your designated room you lead Natasha inside and lock the door.

You turn back to the red head, already sitting on the bed with a tent in her pants and smile. “Come here baby.” She gently commands, patting her lap.

You make your way over to her slowly, an intentional but subtle sway in your hips as you go. Your eyes glance down at the bulge in her pants, bigger than you’ve seen in a while. Your mouth waters. Maybe tonight you won’t have to fake an organism.

Your eyes move up to her green ones, the smirk on her face doubled in size as she clocks where your eyes had been.

She pats her lap again, this time reaching a hang out for you to take as she guides you onto her lap.

Her mouth waters at the weight of you on top of her concealed bulge. Her hands fall to your hips and her head to your shoulder as she guides your hips over her hard on, her hips ever so slightly lifting to meet yours as she groans.

You fight the urge to laugh, a poor attempt you realise she stills lifting her gaze to meet yours with a quizzical look.

“I’m sorry.” You say, somewhat sincerely. “I just- I didn’t think you’d want to use our time in here like this… with you coming in your pants.”

Natasha releases a breath, one of her hands coming up to move a stray piece of hair from your face. “Oh baby.” She whispers. “I’m going to have you in every way imaginable. This is just the start.”

Your breath catches in your throat. Usually when clients asked for your time in a private room they just wanted to cum. Once, maybe twice, rarely ever a third time. It hadn’t occurred to you that she might have any better stamina than the other people you took back here. But apparently you were wrong because judging by the way she’s looking at you right now she’s going to be fucking you till the sun comes up.

“Plus.” She adds, quietly. “I have no shame about how badly I want you. You make me feel desperate.” She says, her eyes drinking in your half naked body as her hands run over your warm skin. “Unravelled.”

Her hips start to pick up their movements beneath you again and you can’t help but rock against her on your own this time. She smirks. Her hands return possessively to their place on your hips, guiding you. “Hmm, that’s it baby.” Natasha groans, her fingers digging into your skin as your arms wrap around her shoulders. “Just like that. Take what you need. Good girl.”

Your own moans and whimpers fill the air as you chase your release. You can’t remember the last time you’ve been this close to an orgasm, the realization makes you desperate, your movements picking up on the older woman's lap. Natasha gives one harsh thrust up and comes in her underwear, the sight of her coming undone beneath you triggering your owe release. You come, hard, on her lap, the outline of her cock pressing deliciously into your pussy as you grind down.

The sound of laboured breaths fill the room, your body slumped over Natasha’s as she tightens her arms around you, pulling you closer. She waits until she feels your breath even out before lifting you off of her, urgency clear in her strength as she maneuvers you onto the bed, your back pressed against the sheets and her muscular body between your legs.

Her mouth latches onto the delicate skin of your neck, a gasp leaving your lips as she bites down. “No marks.” You whine, feeling her growl against your pulse. Her mouth moves down your body, taking each of your nipples in her mouth and delighting in the feeling of you squirming beneath her, the sounds you make music to her ears.

She slides your panties off gently, as if revealing a gormet meal. Her lips wrap around your clit, sucking gently. Your body reacts instinctively, without your permission. A pitiful whine passes your lips, your back arching off the bed, hips rising toward her mouth for more. Your thighs threaten to close around her head, but her strong arms pull them apart. “Be a good girl, y/n.” She says between licking and sucking your clit. “Just lie there and take it for me.”

Your orgasm sneaks up on you much faster than the first, your body still alight with fire from the first time you came in the night. Natasha purposefully neglects your entrance, only teasing the dripping hole a few times before refocusing her efforts on your bundle of nerves. “Please.” You gasp as she teases you again, her tongue flattening over your entrance, tasting you from the source but refusing to dip inside. “Oh, god. Please.”

Natasha chuckles, her mouth parting from you long enough to tease. The sight of her, between your legs, pupils blown wide and lower face glistening with your arousal is enough to have your breath catching in her lungs. But then she opens her mouth and you're not sure you’ll ever breathe right again. “Daddy wants to see you cum just like this, baby. All desperate and aching to have your hole filled. You can do that for me right?”

“Yes.” You pant, with little thought to the word or what it means. Natasha’s hand slides up your body, slow and deliberate, her eyes dilating further as she watches you arch into her feather light touch, only for you to whimper as she takes your nipple between her fingers and pinches roughly. “Yes, who?”

You squirm beneath her touch, the pain moulding with pleasure in a way that has your brain short circuiting. “Yes, daddy. I’ll be good for you.”

Natasha only hums her approval before dropping her mouth back to your clit, one arm holding you against the mattress while the other plays with your tits. You come with her mouth on you, moans of “daddy” crashing with curses and pleas.

Natasha doesn’t allow you a moment of peace before you feel two of her fingers dive into you. Her body is hovering over you, eyes locked on the way your face screws up with overstimulated pleasure. You cry out, hands flying to her shoulders in an attempt to stay grounded. “Jesus- fuck!” You scream, her maddening pace meaning your barley over one organism as another builds.

“I thought this is what you wanted, baby?” Natasha teases, voice filled with faux innocence. Her fingers curl inside you, finding that specific spot as her palm drags messily over your clit. “Don’t you want to cum on daddy's fingers?”

Your thighs shake on either side of Natasha's body, your muscles tensing as you gasp for air. “I do!” You sob, pulling Natasha down to your lips, hers hovering just above you. Just enough to feel them graze over your own. “Please daddy. I want to cum for you.”

Natasha smiles, a chuckle passing her lips as she drags them over your neck, barely touching the skin there. “I can feel you shaking.” She laughs. “Is it that good?”

“Yes!”

Natasha’s teeth clamp down on your shoulder, the harshness of it sending a jolt straight to your core. “Yes daddy! It feels so good. You feel so good!”

Natasha moans against your skin and you watch as she hastily fumbles with the belt on her pants pulling it and her trousers down skillfully with one hand and grinding her hard on against your ass. The sight of her, desperate and grinding just under where she needs to be while she has so much power over you pushes you over the edge, your vision blurring as you let out a guttural moan, nails digging into the woman’s back.

Natasha takes time to look over you, flat on your back for her, panting and spent. Your hair is a mess, your body covered in sweat, your pupils blown wide as you watch her rub herself against you. It’s all of ten seconds later before she’s lunging at you, covering your body completely with her own as she lines herself up with your pussy.

“Fuck I’m going to take you for myself. No one will have you once I’m done with you. You’ll be mine. Only mine.”

Natasha pushes herself inside and you cry out, not used to such a delicious feeling. “Wait-“

A firm hand is placed over your mouth, stopping you from speaking and all but cutting off your air supply as your eyes widen in shock and arousal.

“If the next words to come out of your mouth aren’t “Daddy please” I’m going to spank you so hard you won’t be able to sit for a week.” She growls.

You moan against her hand and nod, tears filling your eyes as she removes the offending limb and places it on your hips using is as an anchor to push into you deeper.

“Please, Daddy.” You beg, unsure of what you're asking for but you're so certain it feels good to beg for whatever it is regardless.

Natasha slides herself fully inside of you, letting out a sigh of relief and kissing your temple. The gentle act surprises you, considering how rough she’d been only seconds ago. “You feel like heaven baby. Are you okay?” She asks, her eyes meeting your own as she waits for an honest answer before doing anything else.

You nod, your own voice failing you. “No, baby.” Natasha says, thumb tracing over your bottom lip. “Daddy wants to hear you say it.”

You whine, words seeming so far out of your grasp. “Please.” You beg, lifting your hips to hers and fighting against yourself to do it again when Natasha buckles above you, a load moan falling past her lips and her head falling into the crook of your neck. “Good girl.” She grunts, moving her hips to slide out of you, leaving only the tip inside before sliding back in and bottoming out in one thrust.

“Daddy.” You whimper, nails digging into her shoulders. Natasha sighs, the warmth of you surrounding her pulling her into a state of bliss she’s not used to. “My good girl.” She growls, feeling something altogether feral take over her. “Only mine.” Her pace picks up, her dick sliding into you in a way that draws out both her pleasure and her own, ensuring you feel every inch, every twitch, every possessive pump of her inside you.

“When I’m done with you, you’ll belong to me do you understand.” She growls, one hand sneaking between your bodies to rub circles around your clit. You cry out, back arching off the bed, every sensation becoming too much.

“Ngh- daddy plea-“

“Shhh. Baby just let daddy use you. Let me have it. All of you.” The noise that passes your lips is altogether foreign to you. You sound broken. Desperate for reprieve and so much more all at once. It’s shattering. It’s beautiful.

Natasha moans, her hand moving from your clit to your throat, holding you down. “Just take it sweet girl.” She grunts, feeling her climax closing in. “God- I’m gonna cum in you. No one will ever touch you again. You’re mine.”

You nod along to yer words, mindlessly agreeing to anything she wants, everything, so long as she doesn’t stop. “Daddy I’m gonna come.” You whine out, feeling yourself clench around her.

“Go on baby.” She pants above you, her grip on your throat tightening, her eyes locked on the way your own roll to the back of your head. “Cum around your daddy’s cock like a good little slut.”

You do, you cum with her cock buried inside of you, feeling her spill into you, her thrusts not slowing, drawing out the pleasure. It’s not until you whimper and try to push her away that she stops.

Natasha pulls out of you slowly, mindful of your oversensative pussy. You whimper at the empty feeling it leaves you with and Natasha is on you in seconds. She rolls you to be lying down on top of her, your face pressed against the soft of her chest, her arms holding you close as she whispers to you.

“You such a good girl, baby.” “You did such a good job for me.” “Shh I’ve got you, your okay.”

You lie in her arms for a while, feeling your body get heavier and your eyes begin to close as she runs her hands over your back soothingly. “Sleep, sweet girl.” Natasha mumbles, placing a kiss to the top of your head.

“We have all the time in the world.”

ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ <3 ⴵ

Heartbreak is different for everyone.

Some people remember it as the moment their first love let them go. Others trace it back to a friendship turned sour, a betrayal they never saw coming. But you… yours came earlier, quieter, and crueler in a way only family could manage.

Your first heartbreak came the day you realized your sister—your hero, your first best friend—was slipping out of your life.

Alexia Putellas, your older sister, your protector, the person you used to believe had hands strong enough to hold the sky up for you—stopped looking at you the same way.

You had always adored her. Idolized her. From the day the adoption papers were finalized and you walked into that house clutching Jaume’s hand and wearing shoes two sizes too big, Alexia had taken one look at you—quiet, wide-eyed, scared—and declared you hers. Her sister. Her shadow. Her reason.

She used to take you everywhere. Practices, matches, gala dinners, even press conferences. She’d beam every time someone asked who you were. “My little sister. My little bear,” she’d say, with a proud hand on your shoulder like you were some priceless gem. You clung to her like a lifeline. Back then, you didn’t speak much, barely at all, but Alexia always understood. She didn’t need your words to know how you felt. She could tell from your breathing, your posture, the way your hand would grip hers just a little tighter when the world got too loud.

You were always in her camera rolls. On her mind. In her heart. She would tell you stories about your father—how he loved you, protected you, how he would be proud of all three of you. Every night, she made sure you fell asleep to that certainty. You believed her. You trusted her. You believed she would always be in your corner.

But something changed.

It wasn’t sudden, but it was steady. And unlike most tragedies, this one had a timestamp. You could track the moment everything cracked and never quite healed.

You were ten when you told her. “I think I like snowboarding more than football.”

It had taken everything in you to say it. You knew what football meant to her. You knew what it symbolized in your house. Football was not just a game—it was legacy, pride, identity.

Her silence afterward was deafening. She didn’t say she was disappointed. She didn’t have to. The look in her eyes said it all: something had died in her.

From there, the decline was slow but sharp. She stopped waiting for you after school. Stopped inviting you to her games. Stopped asking if you wanted to train together, or offering to watch your videos, or posting about you on her story.

When you quit football altogether at eleven, it was like you’d ripped out her heart and stomped on it.

And she made you pay for it.

Not in overt cruelty, Alexia was too proud for that, but in distance. Cold, cutting distance.

The house changed. Dinners were quieter. She spoke to you like you were a stranger. And when she did talk to you, it was usually to correct you, dismiss you, argue.

But nothing compared to that night at the dinner table. You were twelve and freshly selected for the Youth Olympic Games. The youngest athlete in your division. You should’ve been celebrated. You should’ve been hugged, held, supported. Instead, you were scolded.

“What do you mean? Mami, she’s 11 years old.” Alexia’s tone was full of disbelief. Not the good kind. Not the “I’m so proud I could burst” kind. No—hers was sharp, judgmental, disapproving.

You tightened your grip on your fork. “I’m 12,” you muttered. The words dropped like lead. The fact that she didn’t even remember your age? That stung worse than anything.

She waved it off. “11, 12—no difference. Mami, she’s a child. Why is she going to Switzerland alone?”

You could feel Eli’s worry rising. You didn’t need to look at her to know her eyes were scanning your body for signs of collapse. Your leg was already trembling under the table. Rage was a fire you’d learned to contain like second nature.

“Alexia, amor, calm down. It’s for snowboarding and—”

“Please.” Alexia scoffed. Dismissed you like a tantrum.

That was it. That was your final straw. You stood so suddenly the chair legs scraped violently against the tile.

You met her eyes. The eyes that once used to protect you. Now they just pierced through you like daggers. “I am going to compete in the Youth Olympics, Alexia,” you said, voice calm and final. “This is a huge opportunity for me and I will not allow you to take it away from me.”

Alexia stood too, her body stiff with disbelief and something crueler. “I’m looking out for you, Bear,” she snapped. “There’s no substance in snowboarding like there is in football. This is a waste of time and money—”

“Okay, La Reina,” you spat. The title hit the air like poison. You didn’t cry. Not then. You saved your tears for the quiet of your room, where you curled up in a ball with your boarding gloves pressed to your chest like armor. You didn’t cry because she broke your dreams. You cried because she made you feel replaceable.

Seven years later and it still haunts you. You barely talk now. When you do, it’s formal. Stilted. She still sends birthday texts. Still posts the occasional “Feliç aniversari a la meva germana” on her story. But you know it’s for show. You know she misses the idea of you, not the you that exists now.

She’s never watched one of your competitions. Never reposted a podium photo. She didn’t even come to your Olympics qualifier, even when you sent her a VIP pass.

And you… you pretend it doesn’t bother you. You tell the press you’re close. You wear a smile so well they call you gràcia viva, living grace. But your mom sees the truth. Eli always sees the truth. Poor Alba, caught in the middle.

You don’t hate your sister. That’s the part that hurts most. You love her. You still love her. But maybe heartbreak isn’t always a person walking away. Sometimes it’s them standing right in front of you—cold, distant, unreachable—while you’re screaming on the inside, “Why wasn’t I enough?”

The 2022 Winter Olympics were supposed to be the moment everything made sense.

You were seventeen. Young, yes, but a veteran in your own way. You had grown up on freezing slopes, in and out of physio, bruised ribs and broken collarbones, frostbitten fingers wrapped in tape. You’d missed birthdays, school dances, holidays. You gave up comfort, gave up home.

But you got here. To Beijing. And not just as a participant, no, you came as one of Spain’s youngest medal hopefuls. The snowboarding world knew your name. “The kid with the velvet landing.” “The girl who dances in the air.” “Putellas’ younger sister.”

You had always hated that one. Still, for once, you let yourself hold onto the hope that maybe she would be proud of you.

You hadn’t asked Alexia for anything in years. Not really. After everything—after the Switzerland fight, after she stopped replying to your training updates, after she missed your junior world debut, you had learned to stop expecting.

But this was different. It was the Olympics. Your Olympics. You asked her a month before, when she had dropped by for dinner. She was already halfway out the door when you said her name, your voice barely above a whisper. “Will you come?”

She blinked, brows lifting. “To what, Bear?”

“My… final. In Beijing. They qualified me.” You swallowed, looked at your hands. “I mean. You don’t have to. But. I’d like it.”

She hesitated. Her phone buzzed in her hand. You could tell she was weighing the question like a burden. You almost told her never mind. Almost spared yourself the ache.

“Of course,” she said with a small smile. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

You nodded fast, pretending you weren’t holding your breath. Pretending you didn’t care as much as you did. You waited until she left before curling up on the couch and sobbing silently into a pillow.

For the first time in years, she was going to see you. Not as her sister. Not as a mistake. As an athlete. As someone who made it.

You bought her a pass. You reserved the second-row seat—dead center, right behind the glass barrier where she could see the entire pipe.

You even got her a lanyard with her name on it—Alexia Putellas, gold letters on red, with a little heart drawn in black marker. You didn’t tell anyone about the heart.

You told your coach she was coming. Your teammates. You were practically glowing all week. You woke up early for training. Landed every trick like your bones were made of fire and ice and every breath felt like flight. You were ready.

The day of the final arrived, and Beijing was frigid and unforgiving—but you didn’t feel the cold. Not with your nerves humming like static beneath your skin.

You checked your phone again. Nothing.

She must be flying in today, you told yourself. Or sleeping. Or offline.

Alba wrapped you in a hug before you took off for the start platform. Eli whispered, “Whatever happens, we’re proud of you.”

But you only looked at the seat. The second-row, dead center. Still empty.

You forced a smile. They called your name. The announcers said it slowly—drawn out, reverent “Representing Spain… the youngest finalist in the competition!”

The crowd roared. You dropped in and everything disappeared. You soared, spun, flipped through the air with a grace that made people gasp. Back-to-back 1080s.

You stuck the landing so hard it felt like the ice cracked beneath your board.

The stadium erupted. The commentators lost their minds. One of them shouted, “We are witnessing history!”

You looked up. At the second-row seat. Still. Empty.

You didn’t cry right away. You waved, you smiled, you stood on the podium as Spain’s anthem played and the gold medal was placed around your neck. The announcer called the trick “The Putellas 1080”—your name immortalized in sport.

And still… her seat was empty. You got off the podium and disappeared into the locker room. Alone. You collapsed on a bench and stared at the lanyard still clutched in your pocket like a fool. That’s when you cried.

Not because of the win. Not because of exhaustion. Because you felt like a little kid again, hoping for someone who never shows.

You opened your phone. No texts. No calls. Nothing. You opened Instagram. Her story was at the top. A boomerang. Brunch. Mimosas. Her teammates. Laughter. Sunglasses. Barcelona.

Not even a caption. Not even a “Good luck.” Not even your name.

Alba tried to call her, three times. Eli texted: “She just won gold. Where are you?”

You didn’t text her. You just stared at your blinking cursor, then locked your phone and put it face down.

She didn’t forget. She just didn’t care.

So you stood there, with a gold medal around your neck and tears in your eyes, wondering how a person could fly so high and still feel like they’d fallen all the way down.

Because your sister—the one who once tucked you in, who once promised you the world—didn’t show up for the moment that was supposed to prove you were worth something too.

And that seat stayed empty.

Just like her promises.

You chose USC for a lot of reasons. The scholarship was good—full ride, top-tier training facilities, a snowboarding coach who’d been following your career since you were fifteen. But it wasn’t just about athletics. It was about starting over. A new coast. A new country. A new version of yourself.

Spain had started to feel like a closed room. Every street corner felt like a memory, every look a reminder of who you were supposed to be. Here in LA, you could finally breathe. You could walk onto campus and just be you. Not Putellas’ sister. Not the girl who quit football. Not the disappointment.

Just… a kid with a dream and a couple of gold medals in a box under their bed.

You moved in late August, when the sun was brutal and the air felt like it was trying to melt the sidewalks. You were sweating before you even stepped out of the cab. Alba came with you, of course—Eli too. Eli cried three times before you even got your keys. Alexia? Nowhere. She said she’d come.

She said it weeks ago, back when you finally built up the courage to tell her over video call. You had been bracing yourself for the sigh, the eye roll, the dismissive “Why not stay closer to home?” But instead, she smiled. A real one, you thought. “USC,” she’d said. “That’s amazing. I’m proud of you.”

You almost believed it. She promised she’d fly in for the move. She even asked what kind of bedsheets you liked. You didn’t think she’d show up with a care package and balloons or anything, but… you thought she’d be there.

At least long enough to help you carry your snowboard bag. At least long enough to say goodbye. You waited. All morning.

You held off unpacking your posters, your photo frames, your books. You checked your phone. You kept it on loud even though it buzzed with welcome emails and suitemates messages and boring orientation reminders.

You texted her. “Where are you?” No reply.

Alba watched you spiral quietly. She didn’t say anything until after lunch. That’s when she touched your shoulder, voice careful. “Cariño… I think she’s not coming.”

You didn’t answer. You opened Instagram again. There it was. Her story. A new post. A brand launch. She was in Madrid—posing in a silk suit, glass of wine in hand, tagged in a hotel you couldn’t pronounce.

The caption read: “Surround yourself with people who show up.”

You stared at it until your eyes blurred. Until the words started to feel like a personal attack.

“Surround yourself with people who show up.” You couldn’t make that up if you tried.

Alba nearly dropped her phone when she saw it. Eli muttered something in Catalan under her breath and left the room, too furious to stay.

You didn’t cry. Not right away. Not when your suite mate introduced herself. Not when you put your shirts in the tiny wooden drawers. Not even when Alba hugged you goodbye and whispered, “I’m so proud of you. Be great.”

No, you waited. You waited until the door shut and your new roommate left for dinner, and the quiet of your new life settled over you like a weight.

You sat on your bed, knees pulled to your chest, and finally—finally—let yourself cry.

You weren’t asking for much. You weren’t asking her to be your coach. You weren’t asking her to make you a jersey or fly your flag. You just wanted her to be there. Just once. For you.

But again—again—Alexia Putellas found something more important. Again, she chose to miss it. Again, she disappointed you.

And this time, you had no choice but to unpack without her. You hung the photo of you on the podium by your desk. Right next to your calendar. Right above the lanyard from Beijing you still kept in your backpack.

And in your head, you rewrote her caption,

“Surround yourself with people who don’t lie when they say they’ll show up.”

Because you were done holding your breath for someone who never came.

You’re nineteen now.

You’ve learned how to wear medals like armor and let applause drown out the ache. You’ve learned to accept silence from the one person who used to promise the world. And you’ve learned how to be alone, even when surrounded by cameras and podiums and screaming fans.

You’ve never lost before. Not like this.

The crash happens during a training run for the World Championships. You’re in the best shape of your life. You’ve won gold at every X Games since 17. People are calling you unstoppable. A phenomenon. A machine.

You go up for a switch backside 900. A trick you’ve done a thousand times. A trick you could land in your sleep. But snowboarding doesn’t care about confidence. Gravity doesn’t care about your reputation.

You rotate a little too far. Land a little too flat. Your board catches on the lip, your body folds in half, and something snaps—loud and unforgiving. Then everything goes black.

You wake up in the hospital. Lights too bright. Pain everywhere. Your knee is bandaged to hell. Tubes and IVs. Ice packs. Morphine drip. The doctor says the words like they’re reading the news. Torn ACL. Partial meniscus tear. Ligament damage. Out for the season. Multiple surgeries. Long recovery.

You nod. You say thank you. You feel nothing, just numb. Until Eli bursts into the room and grabs your hand like she’s anchoring herself. Until Alba shows up hours later, eyes swollen from crying, holding your favorite hoodie and a bag of cut fruit like it’s going to fix your bones.

You let yourself cry then. Not because you’re scared. Not even because it hurts. But because you were asking for her. You didn’t ask for much. Not a parade. Not a plane full of roses. Just a visit. A text. A FaceTime call. A sign.

You knew Alba would come. She always does. She took off work without hesitation. Was at the airport before your coach finished calling her. Eli packed everything she could think of—chargers, your favorite chocolate, that stupid necklace you always wear when you’re nervous.

But Alexia? Nothing.

Eli texted her. Multiple times. Alba sent the X-ray. The hospital name. The room number. Even added, “She’s asking for you.”

And still—no call. No reply. No anything. Later that night, drugged up and sore and barely holding yourself together, you open Instagram.

Her story’s at the top. She’s at the Barcelona v Real Madrid Champions League match. VIP box. Grinning. Waving to the camera. Arm around a player you don’t recognize.

Not even a “Get well soon.” Not even a mention.

You stare at the screen until your eyes blur. You delete her contact. You don’t hesitate this time.

The press gets wind of your injury quickly. The next day, they’re asking about rehab plans, timelines, and of course—the question you knew was coming.

“Has your sister reached out?”

You smile. Clean, robotic, and controlled.

“She’s busy,” you say. “I don’t need her.”

They print that quote in bold. Everyone thinks it’s about strength. They don’t realize it’s about grief.

But that night, while the meds fog your brain and your leg throbs with every heartbeat, you whisper into the dark, voice cracking like glass, “Why am I never enough for her?”

There’s no answer. But then you turn to the side, and Alba’s still sitting in the corner chair, curled up with a book, glasses perched low on her nose.

You reach for her hand. “Thank you for coming. For always coming.”

She puts the book down and takes your hand without hesitation. Her lip trembles.

“Cariño,” she whispers, leaning in. “I will always be there for you. No matter what. I don’t care if you’re snowboarding or dancing or doing nothing at all. I love you because you’re you.”

She kisses your forehead like you’re five again. Like you haven’t spent the last decade learning how to pretend you don’t need that. You cry quietly. And she stays right there.

Rehab is brutal. Your leg hates you. Your body feels foreign. There are days you can’t even sit up without feeling like something’s tearing inside you. You stop checking your phone. Stop responding to people. You live in sweatshirts and oversized joggers.

But then, there’s her.

You meet her in physical therapy. JuJu Watkins. Women’s basketball. Same school. Same injury.

You’re both limping around on crutches when you first cross paths—both pissed off, both exhausted, both trying not to show how much it hurts.

You don’t talk much at first. You nod at each other across the room. Commiserate in silence. Trade glances during the ice bath when neither of you are brave enough to scream.

Then one day she tosses a stress ball at your head. “You look like you’re one bad playlist away from throwing your crutches at someone.”

You laugh. For real. After that, things shift.

She starts waiting for you after sessions. You eat protein bars together on the curb. She makes you playlists. You make her snowboarding memes. You watch old competition tapes together and she actually asks questions. Not about Alexia. Not about your gold medals. Just you.

There’s something unspoken between you. You don’t kiss. You don’t hold hands. But sometimes she rests her hand over yours when your knee is shaking too hard. And sometimes she lets you lean into her when you’re too tired to stand.

And in the quiet, you realize—this is the first time in a long time someone’s shown up without being asked.

Someone who doesn’t owe you anything. Someone who sees you. All of you. Broken and bitter and trying anyway.

You don’t say it. She doesn’t either. But some nights, when the pain won’t let you sleep and the silence starts clawing at your chest, you text her.

And she always replies. Always.

Alba calls you three times before you pick up. The first time, you let it ring. The second, you stare at the screen, thumb hovering over “Decline.” By the third, you’re sitting on the edge of your bed, phone pressed to your ear, your voice flat when you say, “Hola.”

There’s silence on the other end for a second. Then the sound of Alba’s breath—shaky, like she ran to find a private place to call. Like she’s been crying.

“Mi amor,” she says softly, like her heart is breaking. “Did you see it?”

Alexia had done an interview with a local magazine, basically telling the whole world you don’t talk much and have gone your separate ways.

You don’t answer. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “I don’t know what’s wrong with her. I don’t understand why she keeps doing this. Why she—why she said it like that.”

You clench your jaw. You can feel JuJu moving around the kitchen in your dorm apartment, pretending she’s not listening but staying close. Just in case.

You press your palm to your forehead, digging your fingers into your temple, like maybe you can press the ache away. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” Alba says. Her voice cracks. “It’s not fine. You don’t deserve that. You don’t deserve her saying that about you, not after everything you’ve done, not after everything she’s missed.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, the one that’s been building since you read the quote the fourth, fifth, sixth time, just to make sure you weren’t imagining it. "She's doing her own thing. We're in very different worlds. I don't really follow snowboarding."

“She didn’t even try,” you murmur.

“What?” Alba asks, but you’re not even talking to her anymore. You’re staring at your reflection in the dark laptop screen, hollow-eyed and motionless.

“She could’ve said something. Anything. She could’ve lied,” you say. Your voice is quiet, but it’s full of something hot and bitter and rotting. “She could’ve said she was proud. That we’re close. That she believes in me. But she didn’t even pretend.”

Alba doesn’t interrupt. You hear the sound of her sniffling quietly, trying to keep it together.

“I always told myself she was just… bad at showing it,” you go on. “That maybe she was proud and just didn’t know how to say it. That she still loved me even if she didn’t show up. I believed that. For years.”

A pause. And then, with a voice so small it doesn’t feel like yours, “I don’t think she’s my sister anymore.”

It’s the truth. The ugliest, rawest truth you’ve ever said out loud. The moment you say it, it shatters something in you.

You hear Alba gasp softly—like the words physically hit her.

“I think—” you stop. Take a breath. Try again. “I think she decided a long time ago that I wasn’t worth it. That I ruined her dream of having a little sister in football. And she’s been punishing me ever since.”

Alba doesn’t speak for a long time. You think maybe she’s crying again, and it makes you feel sick. You didn’t want to hurt her. She’s the only one who’s always been there. She didn’t deserve the fallout of Alexia’s silence.

“I don’t know what to say,” Alba whispers eventually. “But she’s wrong. She is so wrong. You are the bravest, strongest, most brilliant girl I know, and if she can’t see that, then she’s not just a bad sister—she’s a fool.”

You nod slowly, tears finally prickling at your lashes. Not from grief this time, but from exhaustion. From being so tired of trying.

“You don’t have to prove anything to her anymore, cariño,” Alba says. “You never did.”

You don’t answer.

Instead, you say, “I should go. My knee’s starting to throb.”

“Okay,” Alba says, soft and warm. “But promise me you’ll eat something.”

“I will,” you lie.

“Promise me you’ll let JuJu take care of you a little.”

“I’ll try.”

Alba laughs a little, watery and heartbroken. “I love you. No matter what you choose do, okay.”

“I love you too.” You hang up.

You don’t move for a while after the call. You just sit there, breathing through the tightness in your chest. The space around you feels sharp. Like every corner is pressing in.

JuJu comes into the room without asking. She hands you a hot water bottle and a protein bar and sits down next to you, close but not crowding.

“She’s never going to be who you need her to be,” JuJu says after a while, voice low. “You know that, right?”

You stare at the wall. “I know.”

“And it sucks.”

You nod.

Then she says the first words that feel like a wound getting dressed, “But it’s not your fault.”

You break then. Not loud. Not dramatic. But your shoulders tremble and your fingers curl tight around the blanket and the first tears fall without warning.

JuJu doesn’t say anything. Just wraps an arm around you and holds you like she knows exactly what it feels like to grieve someone who’s still alive. Because that’s what this is. It’s not a sister anymore. It’s just a memory of one.

It’s been one of those days. You’ve just finished your second rehab session of the day, your leg screaming after two straight hours of pool resistance work, hamstring bridges, and endless banded squats. Your quad is on fire. Your hip clicks when you walk. Your knee is stiff, swollen, irritated—just like your mood.

You didn’t sleep last night. You’d had another nightmare: the one where you’re mid-air, about to land the trick, but your knee gives out before you touch ground. You wake up just as your body slams into ice.

Your usual ride flaked, your Lyft app refused to work, and JuJu had a Nike shoot, so you dragged yourself to rehab on a campus bus, limping through the rain. Your hoodie is soaked. Your brace itches under your joggers. You didn’t eat breakfast because you were too nauseous from the pain meds and the lingering ghost of the dream.

Now you sit in the USC sports medicine lounge, earbuds in, your phone dead, your soul heavier than your gear bag. You’re trying to summon the will to get up and walk the fifteen minutes back to your place.

You close your eyes. You count to ten. You fail to move. And then, your Apple Watch buzzes.

Olga Ríos:

“I’m outside. Come down.”

You blink, frown, then stare. You haven’t seen Olga in over a year. Not since Christmas in Mollet. Not since that long, painful dinner where Alexia barely looked at you, and Olga was the only one who asked about your season. “Tell me about Aspen,” she’d said, smiling, genuinely curious. “I saw your run. That second 900? Insane.”

You shuffle to your feet. You grab your backpack and limp toward the entrance of the building, wondering if this is a prank. Some twisted hallucination conjured up by pain and regret and too many electrolyte tablets.

But no. There she is.

Standing in the rain, hood up, drenched in a designer coat and sneakers that don’t deserve puddles, holding two steaming coffee cups like it’s nothing. Like flying thirteen hours across the world just to check on you is a regular thing.

You stare at her. She smiles. “You gonna open the door, or should I stand here and slowly drown?”

You push the door open, dazed. “What… what are you doing here?”

She shrugs, stepping forward to wrap you in a hug so gentle it nearly breaks you. One arm low, careful not to touch your brace. The kind of hug that says, I see you. I know you hurt. I came anyway.

“I had a break in work,” she says. “And I missed you.”

She pulls back and hands you a cup. “It’s your favorite. Oat milk, extra shot, sugar on the bottom.”

You stare at the cup like it might dissolve in your hands.

“I’ve been following your recovery,” Olga adds quietly. “Alba told me everything. The surgery. The pain. The nightmares.”

Your throat tightens. Your eyes sting. You haven’t said those words aloud to anyone—not even JuJu. You just nod.

“I wanted to come sooner,” she says. “But I didn’t want to push you.”

“You’re not pushing,” you whisper.

She smiles, brushing your damp hair behind your ear. “Good. Now let’s go get lunch. You look like you haven’t eaten anything that wasn’t blended into a smoothie in weeks.”

That actually makes you laugh. The first real laugh in days.

You find a small cafe near campus, half-empty and playing old Spanish ballads over the speakers. You sit across from Olga in a booth by the window, your knee up on a chair, brace still wrapped tight, and for the first time in weeks, you don’t feel like a burden.

She asks about your rehab, your strength progressions, your PT goals. Not just, “How’s it going?” but real questions. She doesn’t flinch when you talk about the pain. She listens. She holds space. She’s not there to be impressed, she’s there because she cares.

Halfway through your salad, you set your fork down. And then, very quietly, you ask, “Does she ever talk about me?”

Olga’s smile falters.

“Sometimes,” she says carefully. “But never the way you deserve.”

You stare down at the wilted arugula on your plate.

“She says she’s proud,” Olga continues, “but she never tells you. She says you’re dramatic. But I think she just… doesn’t know how to love someone who didn’t follow her path.”

You nod, slow and tired. You don’t have the energy to pretend it doesn’t matter.

“She’s not a bad person,” Olga says gently. “But she’s a bad sister right now. And you deserve better than silence.”

You whisper, “I just wanted her to come to the award ceremony. Or say something. Anything.”

“I know.”

“She didn’t even text me on my birthday.”

“I know.”

You pause.

“I didn’t even want a present,” you whisper. “I just wanted her to remember.”

Olga reaches across the table and takes your hand. Her grip is soft, but steady. Unshakable.

“Well, I remembered,” she says. “And next year? I’m making you a cake. A huge one. With gold icing and little fondant snowboards and one of those stupid edible trophies. Deal?”

You sniff. A tear escapes. You laugh. “Deal.”

Then, Olga leans back, eyes sharp now, teasing. “Now tell me about this mystery girlfriend you’ve been pretending isn’t your girlfriend.”

You nearly choke on your drink.

“I—she’s not—what?”

“JuJu,” Olga says, smirking. “Come on. You’ve posted her like five times and you never post anyone. You blush every time she texts. I’m not blind.”

You bury your face in your hands. “Oh my god.”

“She’s cute,” Olga says. “I approve.”

You groan. “Fine. We’re… we’re dating. Kinda. I think.”

Olga grins like a cat. “Well, I want to meet her.”

You blink. “Now?”

“She’s done with the shoot, right?”

You stare at her. “You planned this.”

She winks. “A little.”

Fifteen minutes later, JuJu walks into the cafe, wearing grey USC sweats, curls pulled back, sneakers soaked from the rain. Her eyes go wide when she sees you and Olga sitting together.

“Oh, damn,” she says. “You weren’t kidding.”

You stand and hug her, your brace squeaking against the seat. “This is Olga. Alexia’s girlfriend.”

JuJu offers her hand. “Nice to meet you. I’ve heard… not a lot, actually.”

Olga laughs. “That’s probably wise.”

They talk. Easily. Effortlessly. JuJu is respectful and calm. She doesn’t try to impress. She just is. And somehow, that’s enough. Olga likes her. You can tell.

And as you sit there, watching the two of them talk over shared churros and coffee, your chest feels lighter.

Because someone showed up for you. Because people love you in real time. Because you’re not alone.

And maybe your sister never asks how you are. But her girlfriend does. And for the first time in a long time, that feels like enough.

The barbecue is held at your grandmother’s house in Mollet. Long tables covered in bright cloth, kids running around with juice boxes, cousins you haven’t seen in years hugging you and saying things like, “Look at you! Olympian!” or “I saw you in El País, you were amazing.”

You smile. You’re polite. You take pictures. You let your aunts kiss both cheeks. You help Eli carry trays from the kitchen even though your knee still stiffens after sitting too long. But you’re walking now, no crutches. Just the brace. And that’s enough to make you feel like maybe, finally, you’re okay.

You’re okay because you’re back. You’re in talks with Nike for your own snow gear line. You just finalized a Gatorade deal—your own custom flavor on shelves by in a month, Persimmon Rush. You and JuJu are something soft and steady and unspoken. You’re healing.

For a moment, you even forget to worry about her. Until you hear her voice. Alexia.

She shows up late. Walks in with sunglasses on, one arm slung around Olga. She greets everyone like a queen, smiling, laughing, tossing her hair back like it’s nothing.

You try to keep your distance. You’ve had enough battles.

But of course, the moment you start talking with your uncle about the Nike line, you feel her standing behind you.

“So,” she says, cutting into the conversation with a smirk. “Nike, huh? They’re making snow goggles now?”

You blink. Slowly turn. “They’re launching a women’s snow line. I’m consulting on the design.”

She shrugs. “Well, I guess they’ll sell at least one pair.”

It’s a joke. Probably meant to be harmless. But it hits you like a freight train. You feel it in your chest, in your jaw, in the old bruises she’s left behind for years without even touching you.

You smile, tight-lipped. “Right. Because snowboarding isn’t a real sport.”

“I didn’t say that, Bear,” she counters quickly, sipping from a glass of wine. “But come on. Even you know you could’ve gone far in football.”

Your hands freeze around your plate. Everyone else starts drifting away. They know that tone. Eli pulls a chair for someone. Your uncle suddenly remembers he has to check the grill. Only Alba stays close, watching you with wide, worried eyes.

“I did go far,” you say, steady. “Just in a different sport.”

Alexia shrugs. “You were a great footballer. You had everything. And then you threw it away for a mountain and a board.”

You feel like you’re 12 again, standing at that dinner table with your fork clenched in your hand.

“I didn’t throw anything away,” you snap. “You just couldn’t stand that I didn’t want to be you.”

“Being me wouldn’t have been so bad.”

“No?” You laugh, cold and sharp. “Then why did it feel like dying every time you looked at me like I disappointed you?”

Her eyebrows rise. “Don’t be dramatic, Bear.”

And that’s it.

You step forward. Voice rising. “You weren’t there when I moved into college. You weren’t there when I won gold. You didn’t even text me after I got won the ESPY’s”

“I had games,” she says, arms folding.

“You weren’t there when I tore my ACL, Alexia.”

That makes her pause. “You what?”

“You didn’t know,” you whisper, eyes burning. “You didn’t even know.”

“I—no one told me—”

“Everyone told you. Alba called. Mami texted. I’m positive Olga told you. They sent you the scans. You were too busy at a men’s match posting selfies to notice.”

Alexia’s jaw clenches. “That’s not fair.”

“No, what’s not fair is being a teenager crying in a hospital bed wondering why her sister doesn’t love her anymore.”

Olga moves to say something, but Alexia snaps, “You’re twisting everything. I’ve supported you.”

“You posted Lucía for the award I won. You literally chose a teammate over your own sister.” Your voice cracks, rage and hurt bleeding through now. “How many medals do I have to win before you give a damn? Fifty? A hundred? Or does it not matter unless I’m in cleats?”

“You’re wasting your potential,” Alexia says, almost yelling now. “You could’ve been one of us. You had the talent. You had the name. And you threw it all away.”

And that—that—is the last straw.

Your voice drops. Dead calm. “I’m the most decorated snowboarder in Spanish history. Soon to be the most decorated in the world, I have eleven gold medals, two world records, and the goddamn Olympic Committee named a trick after me before I turned 20. And all I ever wanted was for my big sister to say ‘I’m proud of you.’”

Alexia’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

“Instead, you gave me silence,” you say. “Or worse—indifference. I spent half of my life waiting for you to care. I am done.”

Alba steps in, wraps an arm around your waist. She’s already crying. “Let’s go, mi amor. Let’s call JuJu.”

You let her guide you away. You’re shaking, heart pounding, eyes glassy. Your hands tremble so hard you nearly drop your phone.

Meanwhile, Olga pulls Alexia into the side yard, away from the rest of the family. Her jaw is tight. She’s fuming.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Olga demands. Her voice is low, lethal. “You want to talk about wasted potential? Look at yourself.”

Alexia blinks, still stunned. “She—she blew up. She’s acting like a brat—”

“Stop.” Olga’s eyes narrow. “When’s the last time you even talked to her? Do you know how old she is?”

“She’s… nineteen?”

“She turned twenty last month.”

Alexia’s stomach drops.

“Did you text her? Call her? Post about it?”

“I didn’t—she didn’t say anything—”

“She didn’t say anything because you’ve trained her not to expect anything from you!” Olga shouts now, voice cracking. “Do you even know how many medals she’s won? Do you know what that award meant to her? That injury almost ruined her. She couldn’t walk, Alexia.”

Alexia’s breath hitches.

“She cried over you. She begged for you to show up. And you couldn’t even say her name in an interview.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Exactly,” Olga cuts in. “You didn’t mean anything. That’s the problem. She’s your sister, Alexia. Not a failed version of you.”

There’s silence. Cold, stinging silence.

And then, finally, Alexia whispers, “I didn’t know she was hurting that bad.”

“You didn’t want to know.”

And for the first time in years, something shifts behind Alexia’s eyes. Not defensiveness. Not pride.

Regret. Real, bone-deep regret.

Olga sighs and looks away, her voice soft and bitter. “You should’ve fought for her.”

And Alexia—La Reina, unshakable, untouchable Alexia—doesn’t say a word.

Olga barrels through the hospital’s automatic doors, breathless, her duffel bag still slung over her shoulder from the airport. Her eyes are wide with panic as she spots the group slumped together in the waiting room Alexia sitting forward with her elbows on her knees, Alba pacing back and forth, Eli quiet and pale beside her, and Patri… a wreck, tear-stained and motionless, like she hasn’t breathed since the ambulance doors closed.

“Is she okay? What happened?” Olga blurts, her voice sharp with fear as she drops her bag with a loud thud.

Four pairs of eyes lift to her, but no one answers right away. Alba is the first to find her voice, raw and clipped. “We don’t know.”

Olga’s face falls, her chest rising and falling faster. “What do you mean you don’t—?”

Alexia cuts in, quiet but with an edge of exhaustion that speaks volumes. “She stopped breathing. Our medical team got her back, barely. Then… her heart stopped again in the ambulance on the way here”

“They had to resuscitate her twice,” Eli murmurs. Her voice is small. “They won’t tell us anything else yet.”

Patri stays silent, eyes locked on the floor, hands clenched in her lap like she’s holding herself together by threads. Olga looks at her, then back at the others, swallowing hard. “So we’re just… waiting?”

Alexia nods. “We’re just waiting.” She leans back in the chair, blinking quickly. “She was fine. She was fine last night.”

Olga sinks slowly into the seat across from her, shaking her head in disbelief. “She hides it when she’s not okay.”

Alba kicks the chair leg in frustration. “Why does she do that?”

No one has an answer.

Only the ticking of the clock on the wall and the occasional call over the hospital intercom fill the air now. Each second drags like an hour. Every time a nurse walks by, four heads snap up in desperate hope but no one comes for them yet.

A nurse steps in finally, clipboard in hand, scanning the room. “Is there an Olga Ríos here?”

Everyone turns. Olga jerks upright like she’s been shocked, her voice caught in her throat. “Yes yeah. I’m Olga.”

The nurse offers a small, reassuring smile. “She’s fine. She’s asking for you.”

Olga stares for a second, like she’s not sure she heard right. Patri’s breath audibly catches, Alexia slumps forward in visible relief, and Alba covers her face with both hands as her knees buckle slightly. Eli lets out a shaky laugh that’s more of a sob.

“She’s ok?” Olga repeats, already crossing the room.

The nurse nods. “She’s a little disoriented, and very tired, but stable. The doctor will speak to you all soon. Right now, she just wants to see Olga.”

Olga glances back at the group, stunned but steady now. She gives a slight nod, a promise to come back with more then follows the nurse down the hallway, her pace quickening with every step.

The room is dim, quiet but for the soft beeping of the heart monitor beside your bed. You look pale, lips cracked, skin clammy, but your eyes flicker open the moment Olga steps in. Relief softens her face instantly.

She crosses the room quickly, gently brushing a hand across your forehead. “You gave us quite the scare there.”

Your voice is hoarse, almost too quiet to catch. “I’m never going to have sex again.”

Olga freezes, blinks. “What?”

You sigh, eyes closed again. “I finally sleep with Patri and I fucking die twice. She’s never going to touch me again.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence, then Olga makes an incredulous sound part groan, part laugh. “That’s your biggest concern right now?”

You slowly turn your head to look at her, managing the faintest smirk. “It was so good.”

That does it Olga lets out a laugh, covering her mouth with one hand as tears prick her eyes again, this time from sheer emotional whiplash. “Jesus Christ, you are unbelievable.”

You smile faintly, a little smug despite the IV in your arm and the oxygen tube across your face. “I know.”

She sits on the edge of the bed, brushing your hair back again. “You’re insane, but I’m so glad you’re still here to be insane.”

You blink up at her, voice softer now, stripped of sarcasm. “I’ve missed you.”

Olga’s expression shifts gentler, warmer and she exhales like she’s been holding her breath for weeks. Her hand finds yours on the blanket, squeezing it. “I’ve missed you too,” she says, her voice thick with feeling. “And clearly…” she gives a pointed look, half amused, half exasperated, “…there’s a lot to catch up on.”

You give a weak chuckle, trying not to wince. “Yeah… turns out nearly dying twice in one night adds a few bullet points to the agenda.”

Olga rolls her eyes with affection. “Starting with ‘sex nearly kills me’ at the top of the list?”

You grin. “Right above ‘Olga’s dramatic hospital entrance’.”

She shakes her head with a smile, but her thumb gently brushes over your knuckles. “I really thought we lost you,” she says quietly. “Don’t do that again.”

Your eyes meet hers, and for once, you don’t deflect. “I’ll try not to.”

Olga tucks your blanket a little higher, more out of instinct than necessity. Her voice is soft but steady. “You want to know who’s here?”

You nod faintly, eyes heavy but curious.

She sits back slightly. “Alexia hasn’t left the waiting room since you were brought in. Alba’s pacing like she’s trying to wear a hole in the floor. Patri looks like she hasn’t taken a full breath since the ambulance came. And Eli landed back in Barca got Alexia’s voicemail and come back the second she heard.”

You bite your lip, overwhelmed. “Can you… Can you get them? Just… not all the chaos, I can’t do the noise right now.”

Olga rises, smoothing her hands down her thighs. “Got it.” She leans down, pressing her hand once more gently to your shoulder. “Let me do the talking first.”

She steps out into the hallway, and within seconds, the low buzz of anxious voices hits the air. You can’t hear the words, but Olga’s tone is calm, measured.

“She’s fine,” she announces, “But listen to me she’s exhausted. She’s not ready for tears and drama and shouting, okay?” Her gaze flicks between them. “So if you can’t keep it calm, stay out here. She asked for you, but she needs peace.”

There’s a collective nod, a shared breath of relief, and then the door creaks open softly, and one by one Alexia, Alba, Eli, and Patri slip inside. They move quietly, careful not to disturb you. You lie there, eyes closed, looking peaceful but fragile, as if you’ve drifted back to sleep.

Alexia steps closer first, her usual fierce energy softened by worry. Alba lingers near the doorway, glancing nervously between you and the others. Eli stands beside Patri, who is already holding back tears, her gaze fixed on you with a mixture of relief and fear.

None of them say a word at first they just watch you, as if afraid that even a whisper might shatter the fragile calm in the room.

Your eyes flutter open, still heavy with exhaustion, but you manage a weak smile as you see Alba sitting beside you. Her soft grin is the first thing you focus on, and the relief in her expression is impossible to miss.

She lets out a quiet breath of disbelief, then says with a playful edge, “All this… just because I wouldn’t watch Shrek with you?”

Your smile pulls a little wider, voice raspy but laced with teasing as you murmur, “Hi, Ogre.”

Alba groans, tipping her head back, but she doesn’t argue. “You died, so I’m letting that one go,” she mutters, pretending to be annoyed but you can see the glimmer of affection in her eyes. “One time pass. One.”

Alexia stifles a chuckle nearby. Patri presses her fingers to her lips to stop herself from crying again. Even Eli wipes her eyes, mouthing, Ogre? to Alexia with a confused smile, but for a moment, it’s not about what happened it’s just the quiet joy of seeing you awake.

Alba gently brushes your hair back from your forehead. “You look like shit,” she says softly, but her voice cracks, betraying how close she is to crying again. You give her a tired smirk, and she leans in to press a kiss to your temple. “Next time just text me Shrek and I’ll come running, okay?”

You nod, your throat tight.

Eli is next, holding your hand carefully like you might break again. “I was so scared,” she whispers, her eyes glassy. “You’re not allowed to do that again, alright?” You squeeze her fingers as best you can, and she smiles through her worry, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before stepping aside for Alexia.

Alexia leans over you, her brows furrowed in a mixture of concern and relief. “You’re tougher than I give you credit for,” she says, trying to keep it light, but her eyes are red from crying. “But please… don’t make me say goodbye to you like that again.”

You manage a whisper. “Did I at least look dramatic?”

Alexia huffs a shaky laugh, wiping her eyes. “You were always the main character.”

Then it’s Patri’s turn. She doesn’t say anything. She just walks up to your bedside and sits, leaning down pulling you gently into a quiet, trembling hug. Her arms wrap around you like she needs to make sure you’re real.

You feel her tears wet your neck before you hear the soft sound of her breath hitching.

“I’m sorry if I scared you,” you murmur into her shoulder, your voice the most fragile it’s been yet.

She pulls back slightly, her hand brushing your cheek, eyes red and filled with so much emotion it almost knocks the air from your lungs again. She gives a watery laugh, shaking her head as she wipes her face. “Shut up and rest,” she whispers, and kisses your forehead.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

Inside the room, it's quiet just the low hum of machines. You're propped up slightly in bed, your hair messy, skin pale, but your eyes full of warmth as you look at Patri, who’s seated beside you with one leg tucked under her, her fingers idly tracing soft patterns along the back of your hand.

You're smiling at something she just said a rare, genuine smile that even through the glass looks like it could bring the sun up.

Outside, Alba stands at the window, arms loosely folded, watching the two of you with a kind of wonder. There’s a gentle smile tugging at her lips. “Are they back together?” Eli asks from beside her, quiet, not wanting to disturb the moment even from here.

Olga glances at her mother-in-law, then back at the two of you. “Erm… not sure,” she says, brow furrowed in thought. “She hasn’t really said anything.”

Alba, still watching, murmurs, “She didn’t stay in our room last night.” Eli raises a brow, glancing her way. “She, um… had her episode in Patri’s room,” Alba explains softly, looking a bit uneasy remembering the panic of it. “So I assumed she stayed with her. So maybe…”

Inside the room, Patri brushes your hair behind your ear with a tenderness that makes Eli’s chest tighten, and you reach for her hand again, holding it like it’s your anchor. She leans closer, murmuring something that makes you chuckle breathless, but real.

“I don’t think they ever really stopped being together,” Olga says finally, quietly and no one disagrees.

Patri’s fingers tighten slightly around yours as she looks at you, a soft kind of nervousness in her eyes not the panicked kind from hours before, but something far gentler. Her smile lingers, quiet and shy, the kind you rarely see from her.

“I have a question,” she says, voice hushed like it’s a secret between just the two of you.

You match her smile, head tilting just a little. “Okay.”

She hesitates not out of fear, but out of the weight of wanting to get it right. “When you’re better,” she says slowly, carefully, “can we try again… properly? No second-guessing, no half in, half out… just us?”

Your smile softens further, your tired eyes holding hers, and your thumb brushes against her hand as you nod once. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I’d like that.”

The tension Patri carried for weeks finally loosens in her shoulders. She leans forward, resting her forehead lightly against yours again, the same way she did the night before. “No dying this time,” she whispers with a playful nudge of her nose against yours.

You grin faintly. “No promises.”

Patri laughs gently, pressing her lips to yours. “Am I that good in bed that I made your heart stop?”

Your reaction is instant a full-on belly laugh that bursts out of you with no control. It shakes your body, catching you so off guard that it turns into a coughing fit.

Patri’s smile drops in an instant, panic flashing across her face. “Hey—hey, no, no—breathe, cariño—”

Your hand flails weakly in protest as you try to calm the coughs, still half-laughing. “I’m fine—just—oh my god—you—” you manage between gasps.

The door slams open and suddenly Alexia, Alba, Olga, and Eli come rushing in like a SWAT team. “What happened?!”

Alba’s eyes dart from you to Patri. “What did you do to her?!”

Still coughing, still laughing, you wave a hand again. “No, no, stop, I’m fine, I swear—Patri just—made a joke.”

Alexia narrows her eyes, hands on her hips. “What kind of joke makes someone nearly die again?”

You wipe your watering eyes, trying to breathe through the last cough. “A very confident one,” you mutter, grinning toward Patri.

Patri, blushing and flustered now, just holds her hands up. “I didn’t mean to kill her, okay?”

Olga presses a hand over her face to hide her smirk. “She’s definitely feeling better…”

You make steady eye contact with Patri, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “The first half was true,” you say quietly, voice low and honest. “Second half… not so much.”

Patri raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing on her lips. “Oh really?” she teases, her voice dropping into that flirty tone that makes your cheeks warm. “Guess I’ll just have to change your mind about the second half.”

Before you can respond, Alba lets out a dramatic groan from where she’s leaning against the windowsill. “Okay, ew. Can you flirt when I’m not in the room?”

You both glance over at her. You’re trying not to laugh, and Patri just grins even wider, entirely unbothered. “No promises,” Patri says without breaking eye contact with you.

Alba throws her hands up. “I almost preferred when she was unconscious.”

You giggle, wincing slightly at the lingering tightness in your chest. “Be nice. I technically died, you know.”

Alba crosses her arms with a sigh. “And came back just to gross me out with your romantic drama. Amazing.”

“Admit it,” you tease her gently. “You missed me.”

She huffs. “Yeah, well. Maybe a little.”

Patri leans in with a soft smile and whispers, “For the record, I missed you a lot.”

You glance at the clock on the wall, frowning slightly. “You’re going to be late for your flight,” you say quietly, eyes finding Patri’s.

She falters, her expression clouding instantly. “I’m not going,” she says almost too quickly.

You reach for her hand, squeezing it gently. “Go. I’ll be fine. You’ve been excited for this trip with Cata and Pina for months.”

“That was before—”

You cut her off softly. “Please go on the holiday. You’re only gone a few days, and I’m stuck in here anyway. I’m fine. I promise. Please go.”

Patri searches your face, visibly torn. She leans in and kisses you, slow and searching. “You’re sure?”

“Yes,” you whisper against her lips.

She kisses you again, longer this time and that’s when Alba grabs her arm with a theatrical sigh. “Okay, kissy, she said go and she’s sure. Off you go. I don’t need to see you macking on my little sister like that.”

Patri pulls back, laughing. “I always thought it would be Ale who’d hate that.”

Alexia is standing nearby, arms crossed, giving Patri a hard stare. “I do. I just have to show restraint. I’m your captain, not just your friend.”

You smile weakly as Patri grabs her bag and gives you one last look, before she finally walks out the door but as it clicks shut behind her, the silence settles, heavier than expected. Your smile fades a little.

Olga takes the seat beside you, watching the door, then looking at you closely. “This isn’t you testing her, is it?” she asks gently.

You turn your head to her, surprised. “No,” you say, voice steady but soft. “I’ve done that already. She should go. She’s paid for it, been looking forward to it… no point in her sitting here with me, watching me nap and complain about hospital food.”

Olga places a hand over yours. “Still. It’s okay to admit you didn’t want to let her go.”

You lean your head back against the pillow, blinking slowly. “I didn’t but it’s selfish to make her just sit here”

Olga squeezes your hand gently, her eyes soft. “You’re braver than you think, you know.”

Eli leans against the doorframe of your hospital room, arms crossed but her expression soft. “We need to check out of the hotel,” she says gently. “Alexia booked new rooms for us closer to here, so we’re moving over.”

Alba, who’s been perched at the end of your bed flicking through her phone, looks up. “I’m going with her. We’ll grab everyone’s bags and check out.”

You nod slowly, swallowing the lump rising in your throat. “You don’t have to do all this,” you murmur, your voice slightly hoarse. “Really. I’m okay. You’ve all done so much already. You should go home, get back to normal. Don’t put your lives on hold for me.”

Eli’s expression shifts, firm and maternal in a second. She walks further into the room, stopping at your bedside. “We are not going home without you, cariño.”

Alba stands and crosses her arms, echoing the same stubborn look Alexia wears sometimes. “Yeah, shut up. We’re not leaving you, I've already told work I need to take some time off this week.”

You let out a soft, tired laugh. “You’re all impossible, you know that?”

Eli smiles, brushing her hand over your blanket like a mother smoothing down a child’s covers. “We’re family. That means when one of us goes down, the rest of us pitch a tent and wait it out.”

Alba adds, with a grin, “And if you think I’m missing the moment you finally spill all to Olga about Patri, you're crazy, again, all very dramatic so you didn't have to tell me on the drive home.”

You throw a crumpled tissue at her, laughing even though your chest aches a little. “Go get the bags, Ogre.”

Alba’s face scrunches, but she lets the nickname slide again. “You nearly died, I’ll allow it.”

Eli leans in and kisses your forehead before heading toward the door. “We’ll be back soon. Rest. No escaping.”

As they leave, you stare up at the ceiling for a moment, overwhelmed by both guilt and gratitude. You hate being the reason they’re all rerouting their lives but you also know now that no one here is leaving you behind.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You’re sitting up in bed, tray balanced awkwardly in front of you. The hospital food some unidentifiable chicken with overcooked rice and a side of something pretending to be carrots sits mostly untouched. You try to force yourself to eat, poking at it with the fork like that’ll make it more appetising, but even the smell is making your stomach churn.

Olga’s lounging in the chair by the window, scrolling on her phone, but you can feel her eyes flicking over to you every few seconds.

“Eat something,” she says finally, not looking up.

“I’m trying,” you mutter, forcing a bite and immediately regretting it. You push the tray away slightly and rest your head back on the pillow. “Ugh. That’s enough. I’d rather die again than eat another fork of that.”

Olga snorts softly, putting her phone down. She looks at you, more serious now. “You scared the hell out of us, you know.”

You nod slowly, eyes closed. “I know.”

There’s a long pause. Then, carefully, she asks, “What’s going on with you and Patri?”

Your eyes open again, and you look over at her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… I walk into this room and the first thing you say to me is about sex with her,” she says, a small smirk playing on her lips. “Then I see the way she looks at you and the way you look at her when you think no one’s watching.”

You sigh, your head tipping slightly to the side on the pillow. “It’s… complicated.”

Olga lifts an eyebrow. “Doesn’t look complicated. Looks like two people who love each other and don’t know what to do with it.”

“She was so scared,” you say quietly. “I saw it in her face. I did that to her.”

“She chose to love you,” Olga replies. “You don’t get to decide whether or not she can handle the worst parts of you. You just let her be there.”

You blink a few times, the sting in your eyes familiar now. “She went on her holiday. I told her to go.”

“And she didn’t want to leave you,” Olga says gently. “That’s not nothing.”

You nod slowly, fiddling with the edge of the blanket. “I love her, O. So much it scares me.”

Olga gets up and sits on the edge of the bed beside you, her hand brushing over your hair. “Then don’t push her away just because you’re scared. That girl looked like she’d fight death itself to bring you back.”

You smile weakly, eyes glossy. “She kind of did.”

Olga smiles back. “Then don’t make her fight alone next time.”

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You’re standing in your hospital room, slightly hunched, one hand gripping the IV pole while the other clutches the three sizes too big of joggers Alexia brought you to keep them up and some semblance of modesty. Electrodes are stuck across your chest and sides, wires snaking out in every direction, some looping to machines behind you, others being adjusted by your consultant who’s murmuring quietly to a nurse. A blood pressure cuff inflates on your arm as another device beeps steadily.

Olga’s sat in the corner chair, brow furrowed, arms folded tightly across her chest as she watches the scene unfold. “You look like a cyborg,” she mutters under her breath, half concerned, half amazed. “Are you sure they’re not trying to turn you into a machine?”

You give her a tired smile. “If they are, it’s not working. Still very much falling apart.”

Just then, the door swings open and Alexia walks in, holding a drink tray with Alba trailing behind her carrying snacks and Eli following with a clean hoodie folded in her arms after you were sick on it this morning and it was your favourite that you definitely hadn't stollen from Patri.

They freeze in place. The silence stretches as their eyes move slowly over your body, landing on the scars that cross your chest and stomach, harsh lines of pale tissue evidence of too many surgeries. Alba’s jaw tightens. Eli’s face softens with a kind of quiet grief. Alexia looks stunned, guilt immediately washing over her features.

“I—” Alexia starts, but then falters. “Sorry. We didn’t mean to walk in on, this. We’ll come back.”

You shake your head immediately, voice hoarse but sure. “It’s fine. Honestly. I lost all my dignity the second they made me pee in a cardboard bowl while someone charted the colour.”

Alba lets out an awkward half-laugh as she steps further into the room. “That’s…gross, thank you for sharing.”

“I aim to overshare,” you say dryly, nodding to the consultant who gives you a small smile and continues scribbling on his clipboard.

You ease yourself to sit on the edge of the bed, the wires shifting with you. “You can stay. I’d rather you did.”

Alexia gently places the tray on the windowsill, her eyes not leaving yours. “You didn’t tell us it was like this.”

You shrug, fiddling with one of the wires. “Didn’t want to scare anyone.”

Eli steps forward, placing the hoodie down at the foot of your bed. “You didn’t scare us,” she says softly. “We just didn’t know.”

“I know,” you reply, quietly. “But now you do. So… no going easy on me later.”

Alba sits down beside Olga and exhales slowly. “You’re kind of a badass, huh?”

You smirk faintly, pulling the oxygen mask slightly straighter from your nose. “Took you this long to figure that out?”

The doctor glances up from the monitor and gestures toward you gently. “Alright, Y/N, I need you to stand again.”

You nod, already bracing yourself, hand clutching the IV pole as you ease off the bed. Every movement feels heavier than it should, your legs weak, your chest tight but you do it without complaint.

You wince as you feel the familiar cold burn of contrast dye being pushed through your IV. It snakes through your arm with a pressure that makes your eyes wet, your jaw clenched against the sting. You don’t cry, but it’s close.

“You know the drill,” the doctor says quietly, like it’s routine for both of you now.

You nod again, stepping slowly onto the treadmill positioned near the machines. Wires are draped from your chest, taped down in places, the beeping from the monitor already louder as your heart reacts to just standing.

The consultant turns slightly to address the others in the room Alexia, Alba, Eli, and Olga his tone calm, clinical, but not cold.

“She’s had this test before, but we’re doing it again now that we’ve had a second cardiac event,” he explains. “The dye we just administered helps us track the blood flow through her heart in real time. What I’m looking for now is whether there's a disruption, a narrowing, or a delay anywhere in the cardiac pathways that could’ve caused her heart to stop this morning.”

Alba’s face tightens at the word stop, and Alexia's arms are crossed over her chest, jaw clenched.

“She’s being monitored very closely,” the doctor continues, gesturing toward the large screen nearby with a scrolling display of your heartbeats, sharp peaks and valleys, erratic but functioning. “This part doesn’t last long. She just needs to raise her heart rate slowly enough to simulate stress. We watch how the blood moves. Any interruption or stutter, and we’ll see it.”

You look up at them from the treadmill, pale but focused.

“We’re ready whenever you are,” the doctor says gently.

You nod once, tighten your grip on the bars, and start walking. Your feet hit the treadmill in a steady rhythm, arms gripping the side rails loosely as you focus on your breathing, your heart thudding in your ears. The machine ticks up gradually, pushing your pace gently, nothing too fast just enough to mimic the stress of daily movement, but within minutes, you feel it.

The tightness in your chest creeps in without warning, sharp and familiar. Your breath shortens, it’s like your lungs have shrunk to half their size. You blink rapidly, trying to clear the sudden wave of heat washing over your body, your legs falter.

The nurse monitoring you stiffens, eyes jumping to the numbers on the screen. “Stopping the treadmill,” she says quickly.

The whirring halts and the belt slows. Before you can even take a step down, your knees nearly buckle.

“Doctor—” the nurse calls sharply.

He’s already moving, in two strides, he’s at your side, helping the nurse ease you into the nearby chair. You slump into it, hunched slightly forward, one hand clutching your chest, the other gripping the armrest like it might ground you. Your face is pale, your lips losing color.

“Is this what happened this morning?” he asks, kneeling to your level.

You try to speak, but your breath is coming in shallow gasps, and your eyes are wide and terrified and are answer enough.

The doctor doesn’t hesitate. He gently lifts the oxygen mask, placing it firmly over your nose and mouth. “It’s fine,” he says steadily, his voice calm in contrast to the rising panic you’re feeling. “Take a minute, Y/N. Don’t fight it. Just breathe.”

You nod weakly, tears pricking at your eyes not from pain, but from fear. You can see Alba in your periphery, frozen, hand to her mouth. Alexia’s fists are clenched so tightly at her sides her knuckles are white. Eli is whispering something rapid and low in Spanish to Olga, but you can’t look at any of them now. You close your eyes behind the mask, focus only on the slow, cool hiss of the oxygen, and try to hold on to the sound of the doctor’s voice.

“You’re okay,” he says again, gently. “Just breathe.”

You're trying to catch your breath, the oxygen mask pressed tightly to your face, when a sudden jolt punches through your chest. It’s not pain exactly it’s deeper than that. It's a loss, a flicker, a switch being flipped.

The heart monitor beeps once, high-pitched, then silence.

Alba is the first to notice. “She’s not—she’s not breathing.”

The doctor snaps his head toward the monitor, eyes narrowing.

“She’s in arrest! Code blue!” he shouts. “Get the crash cart!”

The room explodes into action. “Everyone out, now!” a nurse orders, already pulling gloves on, voice sharp with urgency, Alexia doesn't move no one does frozen in place, “I said out!”

Eli grabs her daughter’s arm and pulls her back as more staff rush in, the crash cart squealing against the linoleum. Alba’s face is frozen, tears spilling over. Olga stares, unblinking, before the nurse physically ushers her out too.

The door slams shut behind them, through the tiny window, they can only watch. You're motionless in the chair, your head tilted back slightly, mask dangling. Two nurses pull you onto the floor.

“Starting CPR!” someone yells inside.

The doctor begins chest compressions, fast and firm, counting under his breath as another nurse preps the defibrillator. The machine charges with a rising whine. Gel pads are applied.

“Clear!”

Your body jerks violently with the shock. Outside, Alexia slams her fist into the wall. Alba buries her head into Eli’s shoulder. Olga is pacing, eyes wild, whispering a prayer under her breath.

Inside, the team works tirelessly, determined. “Still no rhythm,” a nurse calls out.

“Again. Charging! clear!”

Another shock, the family can’t hear what’s being said, but they know. They’ve done this before, they know what it means when everything goes quiet again and they’re praying this time ends differently.

Olga’s hands tremble as she scrolls through her phone, her thumb hovering over Patri’s contact. The hallway is thick with silence, broken only by the hum of the fluorescent lights and the quiet, erratic pacing of Alexia. Alba is curled in a chair, her knees drawn to her chest, Eli gently rubbing her back in a way that’s more about keeping herself grounded than comfort.

Olga finally taps the screen.

The phone rings once. Twice. Three times.

“Hola?” Patri answers, her voice light and muffled by background noise, waves, wind, laughter far away.

Olga swallows the lump in her throat. “Patri, you need to come back.”

There’s a pause. “What? Why? Is she okay?”

Olga’s voice cracks. “No. No, she’s not. She had another cardiac arrest. It doesn't look good.”

The sound on Patri’s end goes silent instantly. Then, in a whisper, “I’m on my way.” She hangs up before Olga can say more.

Almost immediately, the door swings open, the doctor steps out, his scrubs streaked and damp with effort. His face is taut, his eyes grim.

“We’re taking her for emergency surgery,” he announces, looking around at the gathered family. “There’s been further complications with blood flow around her heart. We’ll know more soon but right now, it’s critical.”

Alexia stiffens. Alba covers her mouth.

“She’s being prepped now. As soon as we know anything, we’ll update you.”

Then motion the doors burst open again and nurses wheel you past quickly, monitors buzzing, IV bags swinging. You look... lifeless. Your skin pale and waxy under the bright hospital lights, tubes snaking from your arms and mouth. Your chest rises only slightly with the mechanical ventilation.

Alba turns away, unable to look. Eli gently touches Alexia’s shoulder, and for once, she doesn’t shrug it off. Olga’s hand grips herself like it’s the only thing keeping her from sinking into the floor and falling apart.

Patri is thousands of miles away and you’re disappearing down a hallway none of them can follow.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

Your eyelids flutter open to sterile white light and the quiet beeping of machines. There’s a weight in your chest tight, foreign. Your throat burns, dry and raw, and as your eyes adjust, panic flickers through you when you realise you can’t speak. The breathing tube is there, steady and intrusive.

You try to move, but your limbs feel heavy, your head woozy.

Then you see her Patri, sitting right beside you, eyes glassy with unshed tears, a soft smile trembling on her lips. She leans forward the moment she sees your eyes are open, taking your hand gently, her thumb running slowly over your knuckles.

You blink at her, overwhelmed, confused then a flicker of guilt hits you hard. She’s here. You remember her holiday, her excitement, the way she’d lit up when she talked about it.

Tears prick your eyes, a muted frustration swelling as you weakly shake your head, your brows furrowed in a silent apology.

She squeezes your hand quickly, gently. “Hey, hey,” she whispers, voice low, calming. “None of that. It’s okay. I’m here.” She shakes her head immediately. “I didn’t miss anything. You’ve just… been sleeping, princesa. Three days.” She smiles like it’s no big deal. “You gave everyone a scare, but you’re doing better now, okay?”

Her other hand brushes your hair gently back from your damp forehead.

“Rest, mi vida. Just rest.”

The room is dim, the soft rhythmic beeping of the monitor grounding you in the moment. Your body feels like lead, but your eyes stay locked on Patri who sits curled in the chair beside your bed, her hand never leaving yours.

She shifts slightly, brushing your hair back again with gentle fingers. Her touch is soft, delicate, like she’s scared you’ll break under too much pressure. You can’t speak, but your eyes track her every movement, trying to say the things your mouth can’t.

“They’ve gone to the hotel,” she says quietly, glancing to the door like she half expects one of them to reappear. “Eli looked exhausted. Alexia and Alba took her to rest. They’ll be back soon, though. Everyone’s just… waiting. Hoping.”

She turns back to you and sees the way you’re watching her, the way your eyes haven’t left her face for even a second, her expression softens even more.

“I can keep talking,” she offers gently, a smile just barely curving the corners of her mouth. “Not sure I’ve ever done so much of it without being interrupted.”

You try to smile but it’s weak, your mouth barely cooperating, still, she sees it.

Patri leans closer, pressing her forehead gently to your temple for a long, grounding moment. “You scared the shit out of me,” she whispers against your skin. “But I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.”

Her thumb traces slow, reassuring circles over your hand again as she sits back, her gaze steady. You watch her like she’s your lifeline because right now, she kind of is.

She speaks again, quiet but steady. “I'll never leave you Y/N, I've got you, we'll get you through this” as she strokes your hair, her fingers threading gently through the strands like she’s memorising the feel of you, you blink slowly not from tiredness, but from how overwhelmed you are, with love, with gratitude and she knows. She doesn’t need you to say it, she just keeps holding your hand, keeps talking softly, keeps being here.

The door clicks open softly and in walks your doctor, clipboard in hand, a warm but professional smile on his face. Patri straightens in her chair, her hand slipping gently from yours as she moves aside to give him room. You watch him carefully, your body still heavy, throat sore, and chest aching in a dull, distant kind of way.

“Good to see you awake,” he says, voice low but clear as he steps up beside your bed. “We’re going to do a few checks, alright?”

You nod weakly, eyes flickering between him and Patri, whose fingers hover just beside your arm like she’s not sure if she should touch you or stay out of the way. You want her to stay close, she always seems to know how to ground you.

The doctor lifts your gown with careful hands, checking the keyhole incisions along your chest and torso. The antiseptic stings slightly, but not nearly as much as the raw tenderness surrounding each site.

“Minimal bleeding. No signs of infection. Healing well,” he murmurs mostly to himself before glancing up at you. “Now for the breathing tube, you’re strong enough to come off it now.”

Your heart beats a little faster not in fear exactly, but with the anxiety of what’s coming Patri leans in, brushing your hair back again as the nurse helps prepare.

“You’ll feel some discomfort,” the doctor warns kindly. “Try not to fight it.”

He gives a nod to the nurse, and with gentle but firm precision, he starts to remove the tube. It scrapes your throat on the way out, making you gag hard. Your eyes water instantly, chest spasming in response Patri is there immediately, holding your hand again, whispering soothing words you can’t quite hear over the wheezing, coughing, and your own pulse rushing in your ears.

You gasp, your first full breath without the aid of the machine and it feels awful and amazing all at once.

“There we go,” the doctor says calmly. “Breathe slowly. Deep, steady breaths. You’re doing great.”

Your throat burns, your eyes sting, but you’re breathing on your own now.

And when your vision steadies, the first thing you see is Patri, eyes wide and glistening, a shaky smile pulling at her lips as she whispers, “You’re incredible.”

The room is quieter now. The doctor and nurse exchange a few more notes in hushed tones, then offer a quick smile before stepping out, the soft click of the door closing behind them leaving just you and Patri alone again.

You’re still adjusting to breathing fully on your own, your throat raw, chest aching from both the trauma and the surgery. But Patri stays with you through it all her fingers laced with yours, thumb brushing soft lines against your palm like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

She leans in a little, her other hand finding your cheek, gently cupping it. You turn into her touch like instinct, like oxygen.

“You scared me,” she whispers, voice thick. “You really scared me.”

You nod faintly, trying to swallow. “Scared myself,” you rasp, voice like gravel and smoke.

Patri lets out a quiet, shaky laugh and leans closer, her forehead brushing yours and then, without warning, her lips find yours soft, slow, careful, but filled with all the panic, relief, and love she’s been holding back.

The kiss isn’t perfect it’s clumsy and tentative with the breathing tube just gone, but it’s real. She pulls back just enough to look you in the eye.

And then she says it.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The phone rings only once before Patri picks up like she was already holding it, like maybe she still keeps you the only person set to ignore the do not disturb she always has on, even now.

Her voice is cautious but soft, immediately alert. “Y/N?”

You don’t speak at first. You try, but your throat is too tight, your voice caught somewhere between panic and exhaustion. All that comes out is a shaky breath.

That’s enough Patri’s voice lowers, gentle but steady like the ground beneath you just got a little more solid. “Hey. It’s okay. I’ve got you. What do you need?”

You still can’t explain it. Can’t bring yourself to shape it into words you don’t even know what you need, but your voice finally cracks through the pressure. “…Can you come over?”

There’s no hesitation, not even a beat. “Yeah. I’m already grabbing my keys.” You hear the clink in the background keys, door, a muttered “Vicky, I’ll be back later” then her voice returns, quieter now, but somehow more certain. “I’m on my way. Don’t worry, okay?”

You manage a whisper. “I’m scared.”

That silence holds for half a breath not because she doesn’t know what to say, but because she wants to say it right. “I know, but I’m coming. I’ve got you, cariño. Just hang on a little longer.”

She doesn’t ask for details, she doesn’t push, she doesn’t need to. She heard it in your voice something broke loose inside you and started flooding out, and all she cares about now is getting to you.

You hang up without saying goodbye, knowing she’ll be there.

And she will be, because no matter how messy or distant things have gotten, she’s always shown up when it counted and tonight, you didn’t need her to fix anything. You just needed her.

The knock comes quicker than expected sharp and urgent. You barely got the chance to sit down again after your panic call.

You call out, voice low but steady now, “It’s open.”

The door swings open with more force than necessary, and Patri storms in like she was ready to fight off an intruder keys still clenched in her hand like a makeshift weapon, eyes wild and scanning.

“Y/N?” she says quickly, stepping fully inside, breath just a little uneven. “What happened? Are you okay? Where are you?”

You step out from around the corner, a little sheepish, and point toward the ceiling near the window. “There’s a spider.”

Patri stares at you for a long, stunned second jaw slack, chest still heaving slightly from sprinting up the stairs like her life depended on it. She blinks. “A… spider.”

You nod slowly. “A big one.”

There’s a pause where you swear you can actually see the tension in her body trying to process whether to be furious, relieved, or amused. Patri exhales through her nose, visibly trying to remain composed but the twitch at the corner of her mouth gives her away, “You sounded like someone had broken in.”

“Well technically, the spider did,” you say weakly. “It certainly wasn’t invited.”

She closes her eyes for a moment, shaking her head, and when she opens them again, the panic is gone, replaced with dry amusement. “I left Vicky mid-sentence and ran four red lights.”

You bite your lip to stop the laugh bubbling up. “Sorry?”

She gives you a long look, then slowly, dramatically pulls off her jacket and tosses it on the back of a chair. “Where is it?” she asks, squinting toward where you pointed.

“Ceiling. Top right corner. It moved once.”

“I’m risking my life for this, you know.”

“You’re very brave.”

Patri grabs a magazine off your table with unnecessary determination and marches toward the window.

You stand behind her at a safe distance like the coward you are.

“You owe me so hard for this,” she mutters but she’s smiling now, and despite everything, it’s the softest she’s looked at you in days.

Even though you’ve clearly ruined her night and interrupted whatever plans she had, she handles the spider without complaint, because she always shows up even when it’s just for a spider and a scared voice on the phone.

Patri lifts the magazine gently, the spider inching along its edge like it has no idea it’s just narrowly avoided a death sentence.

You flinch instinctively, keeping a solid few feet of distance between you and her. “Kill it.”

She glances back at you, eyebrows raised. “No. I’m not killing it.” She starts toward the balcony.

“It’s just going to come back in,” you protest.

“It won’t.” Her voice is firm, like she’s the spokesperson for all spider-kind. “It’s more scared of you than you are of it.”

You scoff. “I doubt it.”

She shoots you a look over her shoulder, opening the sliding glass door. “Oh it is,” she says. “It’s seen how crazy you are.”

Your jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

She carefully taps the magazine so the spider drops down onto the balcony floor and scurries away. She straightens and turns to you with a smug smile. “Honestly, if I was that spider, I’d need therapy after this stunt.”

You narrow your eyes, arms crossing. “You didn’t have to come, you know.”

She shrugs, stepping back inside, letting the door slide closed. “But I did.” Then, softer, “You sounded scared.”

You pause, caught off guard again by how easily she shifts from teasing to gentle.

She sets the magazine down and walks past you toward the kitchen. “You got anything to drink that isn’t poison, I can take for the road that was such thirsty work” she reappears with one of your cold diet cokes from the fridge.

You watch her for a second, then finally exhale, the tension in your shoulders loosening as her presence settles the apartment back into something that feels like safety, even if she just called you crazy.

You follow Patri to the door, your hands fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve, nerves still humming slightly not from the spider anymore, but from her.

She moves slowly, like she’s waiting for you to say something. At the door, she turns halfway, her body angled toward you. “Thanks… for coming,” you say, voice quieter than you mean it to be. “I know it’s stupid.”

Patri shakes her head gently, her expression soft. “It wasn’t stupid. You called, I came. That’s it.”

You offer a small, lopsided smile. “Still. Thank you.”

For a second, neither of you move. The distance between you is small, but the silence makes it feel bigger. Then she meets your eyes fully, really looks at you, and something shifts.

Patri leans in slowly, giving you time to move, to stop her, but you don’t. You stay right where you are as her lips press against yours soft, steady, familiar in a way that makes your chest ache. It’s not long. Just enough.

When she pulls back, you see the flicker of panic in her eyes regret, maybe, or restraint. Her brows knit slightly, and she whispers, “I’m sorry.”

You swallow, your heart beating in your throat. “It’s okay.”

She nods slowly, holding your gaze one last second before turning and stepping out the door. You watch it close behind her, the quiet settling in her absence but the feel of her kiss lingers, like a warmth on your skin you’re not ready to brush away.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The sky is bright blue and clear when you pull up, the engine humming low as you double-check the playlist and the coffee in your cup holder. The streets are mostly empty, the city not quite awake yet a perfect quiet before three hours of Alba. You were driving Alba and yourself to Huesca for the Copa del Reina final

She appears in the doorway dragging a small suitcase and a very large iced coffee, dressed like she’s about to be snapped by paparazzi, sunglasses too big, hoodie too low, leggings and a tiny, perfectly curated frown.

You roll down the window. “Wow,” you call, grinning. “You really went full celebrity on me.”

She gives a mock bow, then gestures to the back of the car. “Pop it. I’m not lifting with one hand. This coffee is more important than life right now.”

You laugh and hit the release. She throws her suitcase in, then climbs in the passenger seat without a word.

For a minute, there’s only the sound of your playlist starting up soft, low, safe. Then, after taking a long sip of her drink, she speaks, “So… this is weird, huh?”

You smile without turning to her. “Extremely.”

“Good,” she nods. “As long as we agree.”

20 minutes in.

The tension eases the further you get from the city. Alba has her feet on your dashboard, despite your protests, and she's already made three comments about your music taste being 'worryingly moody.'

You countered by switching to a girl group ballad from 2008 that made her grimace, but she didn’t skip it.

Somewhere past Terrassa, she glances at you and says, “You nervous?”

You blink. “About what?”

“Spending this long alone with me. Talking. Potentially sharing snacks.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh no, I’ve emotionally prepared myself. I even packed backup snacks in case you start gatekeeping the good ones.”

She snorts, nodding slowly. “Smart. Very little sister of you.” There’s a beat. Then she adds, a little quieter, “Feels weird, doesn't it? Like… we missed the whole part where we were supposed to fight over clothes and annoy each other during puberty.”

You glance at her, then back at the road. “You say that like you’re not incredibly annoying.”

She grins but there’s something else in her voice when she adds, “I just… I’m glad we’re doing this.”

You let the silence sit for a moment before replying. “Yeah. Me too.”

An hour in.

The mood shifts again. She’s leaned her seat back, one leg tucked up beneath her, scrolling through your music and making quiet commentary.

“Patri text you yet?” she asks, eyes still on your phone screen.

You glance at her, caught off guard. “You have my phone you tell me.”

Alba nods slowly, like she knew the answer already. “Have you spoken to her at all?.”

“Little bit,” you reply, carefully, eyes on the road, "Nothings changed"

“You sure?,” she murmurs.

You shoot her a look. “Why do I get the feeling everyone’s been having secret conversations about my love life?”

She gives you a slow, too-innocent smile. “Because they have.” You groan. “But don’t worry,” she says, patting your arm. “On this trip, we talk about us. Not your tragic dating life.”

You snort. “Fine, but I’m gonna need another coffee if I’m gonna survive your version of sibling bonding.”

“Done,” she says, already pointing ahead. “Next town, we'll stop for food. You get coffee, but if you come back with fruit, I will abandon you on the side of the road.”

You grin, despite yourself and as the kilometres slip by, so does the awkwardness.

2 hours in

The sunlight’s turning gold, casting long shadows across the dashboard as you pull into a parking space just off the main road. You both have greasy paper bags of Burger King in your laps, the car filled with the comforting smell of fries and warm bread. Alba already has mayo on her hoodie and no shame about it.

You unwrap your burger slowly, watching a few birds circle lazily overhead through the windshield.

Alba takes a big bite, chews, swallows, then looks at you. “You miss her?”

You pause your fingers still holding half the bun mid-air.

She doesn’t push, just watches you with that too-serious look she gets sometimes, the one that reminds you she’s seen more than she says.

You sigh, set the burger back on the wrapper in your lap, and lean your head against the headrest. “Yeah,” you say, finally. “I do.”

Alba doesn’t say anything for a moment, just crunches on a fry and nods like she expected the answer but wanted to hear it from you.

“Is it the sex thing?” she asks casually, and you turn to glare at her. “Because Ale said—”

“Oh my God,” you groan. “Do you all have like a group chat or something? Y/Ns sex watch party 2025?”

Alba laughs, nearly choking on her drink. “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s more like Drama Monitoring Services.”

You shake your head but you’re smiling now, even as your stomach tugs at the topic. After a moment, you say, quietly, “I think she wanted me, but she didn’t know how to want me in the way I needed.”

Alba leans back, sipping her drink. “And did you ever tell her how you needed to be wanted?” You’re quiet. “Yeah,” she says, shrugging. “That’s what I thought.”

You look over at her, frowning. “What, are you a relationship expert now?”

“Nope,” she grins. “I just don’t want you to keep pretending she broke your heart when you handed it to her with the manual missing. I reckon the first chance you get, just fuck her, solves all the issues then”

You stare at her, floored by the honesty, then laugh not because it’s funny, but because it hurts in that true kind of way. You nod. “I actually miss her.”

“Then do something about it,” Alba says, brushing salt from her fingers. “Or don’t, but don’t sit in this car acting like you didn’t feel loved just because it didn’t end with fireworks and lingerie.”

You stare at the horizon for a moment. “Wow,” you murmur. “You’re kind of wise.”

“I contain layers,” she says, deadpan, then immediately drops a fry in her lap and yells “Shit!”

You both burst out laughing, "Alba the Ogre"

"huh?" she turns her head to you and the expression on her face is like you've sprouted a second head

You glance over. “Shrek.”

She frowns. “I’ve never seen that.”

You slam the brakes, figuratively, but the gasp you let out is nothing short of betrayal. “You’ve never seen Shrek?!”

Alba looks confused, even a little defensive. “No? I don’t know, it just never looked that good.”

You turn to fully face her in your seat. “Take that back. Right now.”

She raises an eyebrow. “It’s an ogre movie. With a donkey.”

“That ogre movie is a cinematic masterpiece. It has layers, like onions and parfaits, and you won't even get that reference because you haven't seen it.”

Alba laughs. “You’re actually upset.”

“I’m furious,” you say. “I don’t even know how we’re related right now. What were you doing in 2001 when the world changed forever?”

"l was four,” she says flatly.

“And failing at life, apparently.” You shake your head. “There’s romance, there’s action, there’s Eddie Murphy singing about waffles. Alba, I can’t explain Shrek to you. You have to feel it.”

She looks at you, amused. “You want to put it on in the hotel later?”

“I want to put it on right now,” you say. “This road trip is cancelled. We’re going home, you can’t be trusted.”

Alba grins, finally a little sheepish. “Fine. You can show me, but only if there’s no singing along.”

“No deal,” you say immediately. “I will be singing, loudly and you will be emotionally moved by Hallelujah when it plays, or I’m leaving you at a petrol station on the way home.”

She rolls her eyes but smiles. “You’re insane.”

“And you,” you say with great drama, “are culturally bankrupt. I was one when that movie came out and even I've seen it, you have no excuse”

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You and Alba make your way through the crowds at Huesca stadium the Barcelona fans loud already, your matching sunglasses doing little to hide the fact you both look slightly road-weary but buzzing. Alba walks ahead of you with the practiced confidence of someone used to navigating stadiums, but you can tell even she’s excited there’s a bounce in her step that wasn’t there earlier.

You finally reach the family section, flashing your passes at security and he waves you through, you spot Eli first, seated near the front, scanning the pitch like she’s mentally coaching from the stands. She’s dressed casually, but her whole posture is alert, focused, maternal. Probably nervous.

Then she looks up and freezes, her eyes land on you and Alba together, side by side, and for a second, her mouth actually falls open in a silent, stunned kind of happiness. She stands immediately, hands over her chest like she needs to make sure she’s not imagining things. Alba grins and waves, you offer a small, awkward one of your own.

“Mi niña,” Eli breathes, moving to greet you both at the aisle. “What—what are you doing here?”

“We thought we’d surprise you and Ale,” Alba says casually, like it’s no big deal, but you can hear the warmth behind it, the meaning. She throws an arm around your shoulders and squeezes.

Eli’s eyes flicker to you, wide and glassy. “I didn’t think—”

You shrug a little, trying not to make it a big emotional moment, but your voice still comes out quieter than you expect. “Alba said she wanted company and, I wanted to see Alexia play.”

“She’s going to be so happy,” Eli murmurs, then steps in and hugs you both tightly, one arm around each daughter. “Thank you for coming.”

You sit between them once you're settled Eli to your left, fussing with her sunglasses, and Alba to your right, bouncing her knee with silent energy. The pitch below is alive, the players warming up under the late afternoon sky, and you spot Alexia easily in the distance, her ankle still taped up but dressed in full kit, talking with teammates near the bench.

“She doesn’t know either of us are here?” you ask quietly.

Eli shakes her head. “She thought it would just be me. I’m sure she’ll spot you both soon.”

You nod, feeling a little strange nervous, even, not in a bad way. Just unfamiliar, like being part of something you’ve spent your whole life picturing.

Then Alexia jogs toward the touchline, glancing up at the crowd probably looking for Eli. She finds her first, then her gaze lands on Alba and then you.

She stumbles mid-step and breaks into the widest, stupidest, most gleeful smile you’ve ever seen her wear. It’s not cool or composed at all. It’s just joy.

She waves frantically, mouthing something that’s probably ‘What the hell?’ at Alba, then pointing at you with mock offence. You smile right back.

Alba leans in and says quietly, “Worth the drive?”

You glance back at Alexia beaming like an idiot on the sideline, then over at Eli, who’s wiping her eye subtly like she isn’t. “Yeah,” you admit, voice low. “It really is.”

After warm-ups, as the players begin drifting toward the tunnel, Alexia peels off from the group and jogs over toward the family section her eyes locked on you like she's half afraid you'll disappear if she looks away.

She slows just before the barrier, cheeks still flushed from movement, her ponytail bouncing slightly as she beams up at you. She glances at Alba first, offering her a quick high five and a mouthed “hello,” before her gaze shifts back to you.

"You came," she says, almost in disbelief, eyes scanning your face like she still can’t believe it’s real. Then, softer, "You okay? You look… tired."

You swallow the lump in your throat, not from her concern but from how seen it makes you feel. Even with the chaos of the final, even with her ankle not at a hundred percent she still noticed. You force a small smile and shake your head, brushing it off. “I’m fine. It’s just the drive.”

Alexia studies you a second longer, not totally convinced, but she doesn’t press. Instead, she leans a little closer across the barrier, grinning.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” she says again, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Don’t leave at halftime, yeah? I need to show off in front of you.”

You scoff gently, crossing your arms. “Focus on the final, not showing off.”

She gives you a wink, backing up. “Same thing.” Then she turns, jogs backward a few steps, and just before disappearing down the tunnel, shouts, “Save me a drink at the after party!”

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The stadium is electric drums pounding, cheers echoing from the stands, a wave of blue and red cascading over the crowd like a tide of pride. You watch from the family section as the final whistle blows, and Barça players collapse into one another, elated, exhausted, victorious.

Alba nudges you hard in the side. “They did it,” she says, grinning wide, almost like a kid.

You nod, eyes already on Alexia she’s somewhere in the middle of the huddle, half-laughing, half-crying as her teammates drape themselves over her, shouting, singing, celebrating. Her hair is stuck to her forehead with sweat, her ankle still lightly taped under her sock, but she doesn’t care.

You feel your breath catch as she steps forward. She takes the Copa de la Reina trophy in both hands, shares a moment with her teammates getting them fired up, and lifts it high into the air.

The lights hit it just right gold gleaming, confetti beginning to fall and she throws her head back and roars, primal and full of joy. You feel it deep in your chest, that pride, that strange, soft ache that says you’re part of this somehow, even from the sidelines.

Eli claps loudly beside you, tears in her eyes, and Alba is on her feet cheering, but your eyes never leave Alexia and hers even through all the noise, the lights, the photographers manage to find you.

Just for a moment it’s brief, but you see it that soft flicker of recognition, a smile not just for the crowd or the cameras, but for you.

You smile back, eyes stinging a little, your voice too full to shout but your heart is louder than any noise in that stadium.

You step down onto the field beside Eli and Alba, your pass still hanging around your neck, the noise somehow both deafening and muted as your eyes scan the sea of jubilant players and there she is, Patri.

Laughing, arms flung around a teammate’s shoulders, bouncing on the balls of her feet like the win has filled her up with helium. Her hair is wild from the match, cheeks flushed, and she looks alive. Radiant, in that unfiltered way joy makes people beautiful, she doesn’t even know she’s glowing she never does.

You freeze for a second, because your heart traitorous, familiar, honest flutters the moment you see her. She’s still in her kit, socks rolled low, mud spattered on her thighs, and she hasn’t seen you yet, but Eli nudges you forward gently.

You step forward slowly, the sounds around you going a little soft again as Patri turns, she sees you, stops mid-spin and for a second the world seems to slow. Her eyes widen just a little, like maybe she wasn’t expecting you, or maybe she didn’t let herself hope to. Her grin falters not because she’s not happy, but because she’s surprised in a way that hits deep.

Then it returns full force, bright and unguarded. You don’t even realise you’re walking toward her until your feet are already carrying you forward and she’s doing the same steps hesitant at first, then more certain with each stride until you're meeting halfway, just like muscle memory, like it’s always been this simple.

Neither of you says anything, you just fall into each other, arms wrapping tight like this is the only place either of you has exhaled in weeks. Your face tucks into the crook of her neck, and her cheek presses against yours, both of you clinging a little too hard but neither pulling away.

You feel her breathing and for a second, the noise of the stadium falls away completely. She smells like grass and sweat and whatever bubblegum she’s been chewing during the match. Her fingers grip at your back like she’s afraid if she lets go, she’ll wake up and it’ll all have been imagined.

“Watch those hands, Guijarro!” Alexia’s voice cuts through the moment, teasing, smug and loud from behind you.

Patri groans without lifting her head. “For once, Ale, can you not?”

You turn your face enough to glance back over your shoulder, where Alexia is grinning from ear to ear, leaning against the barrier with her arms crossed, ankle clearly wrapped up still, smug as hell. Eli is beside her, pretending to scold her but very obviously holding back a laugh.

“I will not be silenced,” Alexia declares, mock-offended. “My little sister is out here getting felt up by one of my oldest friends. I’m just protecting the families honour!”

You bury your face in Patri’s shoulder, muffling a laugh as she mutters, “She’s the worst.”

“She really is,” you whisper back.

Patri eases back just enough to look at you, her hands still resting on your waist, thumbs rubbing small circles through your jacket. “you doing okay?” she says, eyes searching your face,

You nod and because she’s Patri, you manage a real smile. “Yeah. Better than when you found me cowering because of a spider.”

She laughs, rolling her eyes. “I will never forget the sound you made.”

“It was a very aggressive spider,” you insist.

“So aggressive it needed a panic call and a professional footballer on emergency duty?” she teases.

“Exactly,” you say, and you both dissolve into quiet laughter.

The movement makes the medal on her chest clink softly. You reach out and straighten the ribbon, letting your fingers brush the cool metal.

“It looks good on you,” you murmur.

She raises a brow. “The medal or the sweat and grass stains?”

“Both,” you admit, cheeks warming. “But mostly the medal.”

Patri’s grin softens. “Stay proud of me for at least twenty‑four hours, okay? I’m going to be milking this.”

You tap the gold circle once, then glance toward the family section where Alexia is still lobbing snarky comments your way. “I should go over before she tries to moon‑walk on that ankle just to get attention.”

Patri nods, but catches your hand before you step away. “One condition,” she says, tone mock‑stern. “You promise we have a drink together at the after‑party.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Water counts?”

“Nope.”

You roll your eyes with exaggerated exasperation, but your fingers squeeze hers. “Fine. One drink. Maybe two if no spiders are involved.”

“Deal.” She lifts your joined hands briefly, sealing it with a gentle squeeze before letting go.

You start toward your little family, feeling her eyes follow you, and for the first time in what feels like forever the buzz in your chest isn’t panic it’s something bright, brand‑new, and almost dizzyingly hopeful.

Alba watches you approach from where she’s leaning against the barrier, her arms crossed and her eyebrows practically reaching her hairline. As soon as you’re close enough, she nudges you with her elbow, her grin slowly spreading. “Well?” she asks, eyes wide and unmistakably smug.

You glance back toward Patri, who’s still being tackled with hugs and cheers from teammates, medal swinging around her neck, then back at your sister. You raise a brow. “Well, what?”

Alba practically bounces on the balls of her feet. “Don’t do that. You just hugged her like the final scene in a romance movie. What did she say? Did you say something?”

You scoff and shove her gently with your shoulder. “Shut up.”

Alba bursts into laughter, hands raised in mock surrender. “I’m just asking! You have that weird happy face you only get when something good happens.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks warm despite yourself. “You’re worse than her.” you jerk your thumb to Alexia oblivious talking to Eli.

“Yeah, but I’m the one you’re stuck with for the drive home,” she says, winking. “And I want every detail.” You groan.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The music thumps low and warm through the venue, the kind of bass that vibrates gently through your chest without demanding too much attention. You’re leaned casually against a high-top table, half-laughing as Cata Coll animatedly mimics her reaction to a goal-line clearance, and Claudia Pina is mid-eye roll, clearly not buying the dramatics.

You’ve found yourself oddly comfortable here, chatting with them they’d made it easy. You’d spent time with them before, back when things with Patri were simpler, lighter. They hadn’t treated you like an outsider then, and they weren’t now either, despite everything.

Cata’s halfway through a joke when your eyes lift and you see Patri weaving through the crowd toward you, a drink in each hand. She's changed out of her kit now, dressed down but still radiant with that post-win energy that clings to her like sunlight. Her eyes are already on you, there’s something unmistakable in the way she looks at you warm, focused, a touch nervous, like you’re the only person in the room that matters.

Cata notices, so does Pina, you see it happen the flash of recognition between them. Pina glances at Cata, one brow raised. Cata, with the subtle awareness that only close friends have, clears her throat softly and shifts her weight. “Well,” Cata says lightly, brushing her fingers against your arm with a grin, “We’ll go harass the DJ or something.”

“Yeah,” Pina smirks, already stepping back. “Don’t let her spill that drink on you. She’s got a history of that.”

Before you can respond, they’re already slipping into the crowd, leaving you with a quiet exhale and Patri, now standing just in front of you, holding out one of the drinks.

You take it, your fingers brushing hers. She smiles, a little crooked and uncertain around the edges. “You didn’t say what you wanted, so I guessed.”

You raise the glass. “Good guess.”

There’s a beat, the space between you hums with something unspoken but thick and alive like static before a storm. “Hey,” she says softly.

“Hey.”

Patri studies you, her expression tightening with quiet concern as her eyes trace over your features. “You okay?” she asks, voice low, nearly drowned out by the music. “You look kind of pale.”

You let out a breath, deflecting with a soft scoff as you tilt your drink. “It’s the lighting,” you murmur, glancing up at the ceiling like it’s personally responsible. “They’re trying to set a mood, I guess, dramatic shadows and poor complexions.”

Patri doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it go, smiling softly instead. “You look good, but I already knew that.”

You raise a brow, your lips twitching into a smirk despite yourself. “You flirting with me now, Guijarro?”

She shrugs, stepping just a little closer. “Maybe. Is it working?”

You pretend to consider, gaze lingering on her lips for just a second too long. “Might be.”

The smile she gives you is real, warmer now, more confident. The noise of the party fades to a dull throb around you both, like the rest of the world has respectfully stepped back.

You don’t realise how close you’ve gotten until your forehead is pressing gently against hers, your eyes slipping shut as your breath slows. The contact is soft, familiar, intimate. “I miss you,” you whisper, the words tumbling out without warning, fragile and honest. “I miss you so much.”

Patri’s breath hitches and then before you can say anything else, before your doubts can crawl back in she leans in and kisses you.

It’s not rushed or desperate. It’s steady, sure, her hand finding the side of your face like she’s afraid you might drift away again. The kiss deepens just slightly enough to taste the longing behind it, the weeks of silence, the ache of missing something that once felt like home.

When she pulls away, barely, her forehead rests against yours again. You swallow, nerves catching in your throat as you glance at her lips, then you hear Alba's voice, the first chance you get, just fuck her. You shift, your voice low and hesitant.

“Do you, uh…” You clear your throat, flicking your eyes up to meet hers. “Do you have a room of your own or…?”

Patri blinks, startled, her breath catches audibly not in a way that’s uncomfortable, but like someone hearing something they’ve been hoping for but didn’t expect to come. “I—” she starts, her voice a little higher than usual. She stops, bites her lip, recalibrates. “Yeah. I do.”

She watches you carefully now, her confidence from earlier dimmed by the sudden gravity of what you’re asking. There’s a flicker of nervousness in her eyes, but it’s softened by warmth, by care. She steps closer, almost hesitantly, like she doesn’t want to spook you.

“Are you sure?” she asks, quietly. “You don’t have to, just because of tonight, or the moment. I want you to want it… not feel like you have to give anything to restart us.”

You nod slowly, gaze steady on hers despite the pounding of your heart. “I know. I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to. I’m… nervous, yeah, but it's you, you're all I want.”

Patri exhales slowly, visibly moved. She brushes a hand along your arm, fingers barely grazing your skin. “Okay,” she says, her voice almost a whisper. “Then let’s go, but only if you hold my hand the whole way, I'm nervous to.”

You offer a small, nervous laugh, and she smiles wide, taking your hand in hers like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Neither of you says anything more as you walk out hearts racing, hands locked, the moment finally, tenderly, unfolding.

The hallway to the lift feels longer than it probably is. You and Patri walk side by side, hands clasped tight but swinging gently between you, as if neither of you wants to draw attention but neither of you can let go. Your footsteps echo softly against the sleek floors of the hotel corridor.

Neither of you speaks, it’s not awkward just weighted. Like the space between words when something big is about to happen.

When you reach the elevator, Patri presses the button with her free hand. The chrome doors reflect a version of you both that somehow looks braver than you feel.

The silence in the lift is thick you feel the warmth of her hand pulsing in yours and dare a glance her way. She’s looking straight ahead, but there’s a tiny smile on her lips like she knows what you're thinking, like she’s thinking it too.

The numbers above the doors light up one by one too slow, then too fast.

She leads you gently down another corridor, her room’s near the end, a quiet corner. Her hand finally slips from yours just so she can get her key card out. The little green light flashes, and the lock clicks open.

She glances at you, just once, checking in, you nod it’s subtle, but it’s everything. Patri pushes the door open and you both step inside.

The room is warm, soft lighting. A faint trace of perfume in the air hers. It’s not overly fancy, but it’s quiet, calm. She places her key card on the dresser and turns back to you.

Patri doesn’t move quickly. She just looks at you for a long moment, her eyes flickering between yours, like she’s trying to memorise the shape of your face, the emotion behind your eyes. Then she steps closer, close enough for her hands to find your waist gently.

She hugs you first, slow, firm, grounding, her arms around you aren’t possessive, they’re comforting. Her cheek rests against your temple for a second, and you feel her exhale softly. She smells like her shampoo, something faintly citrus and clean, and you close your eyes without meaning to.

Her hands start to move, not rushed, just exploring the curve of your back, the dip of your waist. She traces careful lines like she’s learning you with her fingertips. She pulls back a little not away, just enough to see your face.

“You’re sure?” she murmurs, eyes asking more than her words ever could.

You nod once, her lips brush yours feather-light, a question.

When you don’t pull away, she kisses you again, a little deeper now, but still gentle, still measured. Her hands pause every few moments, as if to say 'This is your moment. You can stop it anytime.' She gives you all the space in the world to step back, but you don’t.

You move with her, into her and in every quiet pause she leaves, you choose to stay.

Your hands find her shoulders and you guide her gently, steadily, until she sits at the edge of the bed. Patri looks up at you with a mix of awe and curiosity, her breath catching slightly. You don’t give her much time you step between her knees, hands sliding along her jaw as you lean down and kiss her slow, purposeful, with more pressure now, more intent.

Her hands rest at your waist, hesitant at first, then holding you tighter as the kiss deepens. You move your hips, just slightly, not rushed a slow, instinctive motion that draws a soft sound from her throat.

The heat builds in the spaces between kisses, in the way her fingers spread across your back as you move to straddle her. In the way your body presses closer, seeking more of her, more of this.

You pause for a second, foreheads resting together, both breathing a little harder now. Her thumbs brush under your shirt, tracing the bare skin at your sides, a silent ask for permission, and you don't stop her.

You kiss her again this time, with no hesitation.

Patri’s arm wraps around your waist with purpose, steady and sure, and in one smooth motion, she stands, effortlessly lifting and turning you. You barely have time to react before you’re laid back on the bed, your head hitting the soft pillow as she settles gently between your legs, her body fitting perfectly against yours.

She pauses, her weight balanced carefully so as not to press too hard, her eyes searching yours in the quiet dimness. Her hand brushes your cheek, her voice soft but steady as she asks, “Lights on or off?”

There’s a flicker of hesitation in your chest not because you don’t want her, but because it’s vulnerable still, you manage a quiet, “Off.”

She nods instantly, no questions asked, no judgment in her gaze just understanding. She reaches over and turns off the lamp. The room is bathed in darkness, except for the faint light spilling in through the hotel door from the corridor.

Then she leans back down, her lips brushing yours again, softer now, slower patient. Like she knows this moment matters. Like she’s ready to show you, without a word, just how much she cares.

In the hush of the darkened room, your breaths start to sync, slow and uneven, charged with anticipation. Patri doesn’t rush, her hands move with respect, fingertips ghosting over the hem of your shirt before she gently pulls it up, pausing only when it’s lifted over your head. Her eyes adjust to the low light, and even in shadow, you feel her taking in every inch of you like you’re something sacred.

You reach for her next, fingers fumbling slightly as you tug at the edge of her top. She smiles faintly at the nerves in your touch and lifts her arms to help you, letting the fabric slip away. She looks so calm, but you catch the subtle shift in her breathing the flutter in her throat that matches your own heartbeat.

Her hands are back on you, slower now, trailing over your sides, memorising the lines of your body with soft, steady pressure. Her thumbs brush just under your ribs, pausing for the slightest moment when they pass over the faint ridges of a scar the first she found of many, but she doesn’t stop. If anything, her hands linger, almost like she’s grounding herself to you. Proving she's not repulsed by your history etched on your skin with your scars.

When she unclasps your bra, it’s with a softness that tells you she’s waited for this not just the intimacy, but the trust. You shiver as it falls away and she presses a kiss to your shoulder, then to the center of your chest, right where your heart beats, like she knows how hard it’s worked to bring you here.

You help her with the rest of her clothes, your hands firmer now, more certain, guided by want and the need to feel her fully overtaking your nerves to a distant memory. Every layer removed between you is like shedding hesitation until there's nothing left but warmth, skin, and closeness.

She leans in, her forehead resting against yours again, your bare bodies brushing in quiet tension. “Still okay?” she whispers.

You nod, breath catching. “Yeah,” you manage, voice thin but sure. “I want you.” And with that, the space between you disappears Patri’s hand moves with care, exploring your body. There’s no rush only a quiet, deep patience in the way she touches you, like she’s listening to every breath you take, every shift in your body’s rhythm.

Her fingers trail slowly down your torso following your biggest scar like a road map down to your centre, a soft path of heat following her motion. When she reaches the curve of your hip, your breath hitches, a tremble running through you that you can’t hide. She pauses, her eyes lifting to meet yours in the dim light.

“Still okay?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, lips parting on a shaky breath. “Yeah. Don’t stop.”

When her hand finds the most sensitive part of you and runs through your folds, the feeling is overwhelming not just the sensation, but the intimacy of it, the way she touches you with both confidence and care. It’s like every nerve in your body lights up at once. You curl closer, your hand gripping her wrist lightly, not to stop her, but to feel anchored.

You kiss her in another silent 'I'm ok', Patri watches not just your body, but your face, the way your lashes flutter and your jaw tightens as you react to her. Her expression is full of focus, awe, and something deeper, affection, even love.

She kisses your neck gently, letting her lips trail up to your ear. “You’re beautiful like this,” she murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”

Patri’s touch is slow, reverent more about connection than urgency. She watches your face, learning every reaction like it’s a language only she wants to speak fluently. Her fingers move with gentle precision, exploring with a tenderness that sends waves of sensation through you.

You tense slightly at first not from discomfort, but from the vulnerability of it, but she’s patient, her other hand stroking your side in calming circles, her mouth close enough to whisper affirmations only meant for you.

“You’re incredible,” she murmurs. “I'm so hot for you right now”

When her fingers ease inside, your breath catches, and her gaze never leaves you. She moves with intention, every movement measured, listening to the subtle cues of your body. There’s nothing hurried, nothing careless only the deep, growing rhythm.

You cling to her, your body finding its own rhythm against her hand. The way she touches you firm, slow, knowing makes you feel understood in a way words could never capture. You can feel the pressure building, pleasure winding tighter inside you with every stroke and the whole time, she’s there present, grounded, entirely focused on you. You cup her face forcing her lips to yours, you kiss her with the passion you could never voice, your tongues brushing, you pull your lips back as your forced to gasp her name with the sensation she was creating deep in your stomach,

You breathe in through your mouth "Patri" you say on the exhale and Patri’s hand moves with more purpose, fingers pressing deeper, tracing firmer paths that ignite sparks along your skin. Her grip tightens just enough to make you shiver, sending heat pulsing through every nerve ending.

She’s no longer gentle as she learns you can take it, but still deliberate, her touch demanding and fierce, matching the fire building inside you. You arch off the bed slightly, each movement sending a new wave of pleasure crashing through you. As your breathing grows heavier, she shifts, lowering herself until her lips graze across your chest.

Her mouth closes around your nipple gently at first, her tongue teasing, her lips warm. Then she deepens it, the suction on your nipple sending a jolt straight through your core as her fingers don't let up. The combination of her touch and the heat of her mouth pulls a your first moan from your lips.

You're wrapped up in her the way she moves, the way she focuses on every part of you like you're something to be treasured and devoured at the same time. It's overwhelming in the best way, and you feel your body start to tremble as everything she gives builds toward the edge.

Her other hand grips your waist firmly, holding you steady as her fingers explore with raw, urgent rhythm. The tension coils tighter, pleasure and desire crashing through you like waves, relentless and fierce.

She leans in, her breath hot against your ear, voice low and rough. “You like this, don’t you?”

You can’t hold back the answer, your body craving every stronger, rougher stroke she offers, your trust in her fuelling the wildness between you. "Harder, please" you beg, "Harder, faster, 'm gonna cum"

Her fingers move with a steady, commanding rhythm, each stroke driving deeper into you, making your pulse race and your breath hitch. Patri’s eyes lock onto yours, dark and intense, as she watches every reaction, every shiver she pulls from your body.

Her touch is fierce but careful, a balance of strength and tenderness that sends you spiraling higher. The heat between you is electric, raw desire mixing with a deep trust that wraps around you both.

You reach out, tangling your fingers in her hair, pulling her closer, craving every moment, every sensation. Patri responds with a kiss, her movements gaining urgency, never letting you forget just how much she wants you how much she needs you to feel this too.

The world narrows to just the two of you, the quiet hum of the room fading away beneath the storm of sensation you’re both creating, into the late hours of the evening.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The early morning light spills gently through the thin curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. It’s quiet, still except for the sound of Patri’s soft, steady breathing beside you, but your body feels wrong.

You blink slowly, your head heavy, skin hot and clammy. Sweat clings to your chest, dampening the sheets. Something tightens in your gut as a wave of panic rolls through you.

Carefully, you peel the covers back, not wanting to wake her. You spot one of Patri’s t-shirts tossed over a nearby chair and pull it over your head, the familiar scent of her comforting for just a second. Your legs feel unsteady, but you manage to stand, one hand gripping the edge of the bed for balance.

You take a step then another but the world tilts sideways, you stumble, bumping hard into the wall with a dull thud.

The noise jolts Patri awake. “Y/N?” she calls out, voice hoarse with sleep but laced with worry. She sits up quickly, blinking in confusion as she sees you slumped against the wall, pale and drenched in sweat, your chest rising in quick, shallow breaths.

She’s out of bed and in an instant beside you, her hands on your arms. “Hey, hey what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

You shake your head weakly, throat tight. “I don’t… I don't feel ok. Patri I'm scared.”

Patri's eyes scan you, alarm settling on her face. Your body sags against her, drained, Patri’s grip on you tightens just as your knees buckle and then you go completely limp in her arms.

“No, no, no Y/N!” she cries out, trying to hold you up, but your body slips from her grasp and crumples to the floor.

The sound of your body hitting the ground sends Patri into full panic.

“¡Ayuda! ¡Por favor! Help! Someone!” she yells, her voice cracking as she drops to her knees beside you, cradling your face. “Wake up please wake up,” she whispers, checking your breathing with shaking fingers.

Your skin is hot to the touch, your breaths shallow, moments later, the door bursts open Cata and Pina are the first to arrive, both in sweats and half-awake but alert the second they see your body on the floor and the fear on Patri’s face.

“What happened?” Cata rushes forward, already pulling out her phone. “I’m calling emergency services.”

“She just collapsed,” Patri breathes, barely holding it together. “She was hot clammy and then just… she fainted. I don't think she's breathing!"

“I'm calling for help,” Cata says firmly, stepping back into the hallway to make the call.

Pina looks between Patri and your unconscious form, then bolts. “I’ll get Alexia.”

She sprints down the corridor, "Pina?" Mapi asks coming out her hotel room door, "What's going on?"

"Get the doctor, Patris girl has stopped breathing!" Pina gets in front of Alexia's door and bangs on it, not waiting before pushing it open. Alba is inside, sitting up already, hair a mess, clearly startled. Alexia’s rubbing sleep from her eyes, confused by the sudden intrusion.

“What’s going on?” Alexia asks, half-standing.

Pina’s tone is urgent, short of breath. “You need to come. Now. It’s Y/N.”

The look on Alexia’s face changes instantly sleep disappears. “What happened?”

“She collapsed, she's not breathing.”

Alba is already throwing on a hoodie. Alexia doesn’t even pause to grab her shoes. “Where is she?”

“Patri’s room,” Pina says, already leading them out. Alba and Alexia follow without a word, hearts hammering, fear overtaking everything.

Patri barely hears the footsteps pounding down the hall she doesn’t lift her head from where she’s knelt beside you, one hand gripping yours tightly, the other stroking damp strands of hair off your burning forehead.

Then Alexia drops to the floor beside her. “Come on you, wake up for me, Y/N,” Alexia murmurs, her voice cracking, her hand gently touching your cheek. “Hey COME ON, please.” There’s real fear in her eyes now, seeing you like this, so still, takes the air from her lungs.

Alba stands just behind them, wide-eyed, her arms crossed over her chest like she’s physically trying to hold herself together. She sees the way Patri’s face is streaked with panic and guilt, and the tension she’s been carrying all trip suddenly breaks, sharp and loud.

“What did you do?” Alba snaps, stepping closer. “What did you do to her? I trusted you with her!”

Patri’s head lifts sharply, her eyes glassy. “I didn’t, Alba, I didn’t do anything! I swear—”

“She was fine when I left her yesterday,” Alba shoots back, voice rising. “She was fine! And now I’m being woken up because she’s on the floor not breathing?”

“I didn’t know she wasn’t feeling well,” Patri pleads, barely keeping it together. “She didn’t say anything, not really. She just got up and then-”

“Don’t yell,” Alexia says firmly, turning to Alba without looking away from you. Her voice is strained but steady. “Not now. Not while she’s like this.”

Alba’s mouth opens again but then closes when she sees Alexia’s face, her jaw clenched, her hand still resting on your cheek, fingers trembling.

The room falls silent, only the distant voice of Cata on the phone in the hall filling the space.

Alexia leans closer. “Come on, hermanita,” she whispers to you, voice cracking. “Don’t scare us like this. Wake up. Mami just got you back you can't go now, not like this"

The hallway erupts in noise as the Barcelona medical team rushes in, led by the team doctor. The moment they see you on the floor pale, motionless they drop their bags and spring into action.

“Move back.. now!” one of them orders, already kneeling beside your body. Alexia and Patri are both frozen until someone physically pulls them back. Alba stumbles a few steps away, hand clamped over her mouth.

“She’s not breathing,” one doctor says quickly, pressing two fingers against your neck. “No pulse.”

“Starting compressions!”

The room explodes into urgency. "Has someone called an ambulance?"

Pina answered the only semi composed in the room, "Cata is onto them"

Patri gasps audibly, a sharp sound of shock as tears fill her eyes. Her hands tremble uncontrollably at her sides. Alexia grips the edge of the table beside her so tightly her knuckles turn white, her chest heaving with the weight of watching.

One medic is performing chest compressions, counting under his breath, while the other breathes for you.

Alba can’t look away, her knees buckle, and she grips the doorframe for balance. “Please,” she whispers. “Please no…”

They pause only briefly, two fingers coming to your neck “Still no pulse. Resume compressions!”

Patri turns away, burying her face in her hands. “No, no, no…” she whispers like a prayer.

⋆˙⟡♡ It's Love Island: Girl's Getaway — the first ever Love Island where it's all 100% girls and no dudes. Here, the girls are hot and the drama? Even hotter. This season, absolutely no one is gonna play it straight. 

Get it? Cause they’re gay.

⋆˙⟡♡ You're an up-and-coming singer. While you found success as a songwriter for several big popstars, writing hit love songs for the likes of Ariana Grande and Dua Lipa, you're yet to make it as a singer.

Why? Cause you've never really been in love. How could you sing about love if you've never experienced it? It was much easier to write a song for someone else: slipping into someone else’s story, their heartbreak, their fairytale. But when it comes to putting your own feelings into a melody... it never felt quite right.

So, your PR team decides that the perfect way for you to get that experience – just enough exposure to get you more comfortable singing about love – and well, also to get more followers was to join Love Island. (Your introduction song was Silk Chiffon – Muna, a song that you actually co-wrote.)

⋆˙⟡♡ Your introduction video was cute, kinda wholesome compared to everyone else's introductions. And while everyone else came into the villa with hot, intense energies, you brought something softer. Your energy was disarmingly gentle and genuine.

And that somehow worked in your favor. All the girls seemed drawn to your authentic energy. On the other hand, you felt intimidated. Everyone was hot, tall, and model-like. You wondered how you could possibly get coupled up if everyone else looked straight out of a Victoria's Secret catalogue. 

⋆˙⟡♡ Ahh, our first set of girls are standing tall and looking confident... or secretly regretting their shoe choices. I can't tell. 

They know the drill for the first coupling: if the new girl is your type, step forward.That new girl can now choose among all the girls who stepped forward or if they wanna be naughty, they can steal someone else's couple.

⋆˙⟡♡ You partnered up with the first girl – another musician from England. Her name was Cassie; she had beautiful, soft features that contrasted her tattooed body. She was hot, definitely. Maybe even someone you'd go for outside the villa. But still, something held you back. You weren’t completely sold.

Even so, you stepped forward almost right away.

You couldn’t really explain it. Maybe it was the rush of adrenaline. Maybe it was the fear of being left behind and stuck with someone who wasn’t your type at all. It probably came from both. Either way, your reaction was quick, and that anxious quickness was mistaken for certainty.

Cassie beamed as she walked over to stand beside you. She whispered that she’d felt something the moment she saw you. That she was glad you’d chosen her.

You smiled, but something about it didn’t sit right. You felt stupid, like you'd accidentally promised something you couldn’t follow through on. You didn’t mean to lead her on. You were just trying to survive the moment.

⋆˙⟡♡ That's a pair that looks like they'll make beautiful love songs together... or if things go south, we’re looking at enough breakup songs to rival Taylor Swift’s career. A win for me and my sing-along shower playlist either way!

⋆˙⟡♡ You didn’t fully regret partnering with Cassie as the other girls walked in. Sure, you were a bit hasty with your decision but she definitely was the best choice for you. She had this gentle, genuine energy about her, and she was undeniably attractive with her indie rockstar vibe. She definitely seemed more your type compared to the others.

You were almost sure that you made the right choice… until Alexia walked in. 

(Alexia’s entrance song was Beso – Rosalia.)

⋆˙⟡♡ We try not to rank our Islanders but we certainly did this time cause we saved the best for last! 

It's boots off, bikini on for this beautiful babe with the double Ballon d'Ors. Whew, that's too many Bs!  And what comes before B? A — as in A-lexia! Let's see if our Catalan Captain can score girls as easily as she can score goals.

⋆˙⟡♡ It wasn’t arrogant or boastful, but there was something about her that made it clear she was sure of herself. Perhaps it was the way she walked and carried herself. It just exuded confidence. 

A small smile played at the corners of her lips as she took in the room, her eyes scanning each girl... until they landed on you.

Her gaze felt intense, almost intimidating. It felt like they were studying you. You bit your lip, unable to look away, as her smirk grew, her eyes still locked on yours.

⋆˙⟡♡ You didn't step forward for Alexia. 

Maybe it was because Cassie was standing beside you, her presence grounding you, making you hesitate. Or maybe it was the thought of competing with everyone else who had already stepped forward for Alexia. Either way, something held you back.

You found Alexia insanely attractive and interesting but something was stopping you from stepping forward. 

Alexia raised an eyebrow at you, but said nothing. Instead, she shifted her focus, pairing up with Savannah, the Instagram influencer who was the only one left uncoupled. 

⋆˙⟡♡ Alexia and Savannah — that seems like the perfect power couple to me. She won the World Cup, the Ballon d'Or and every other trophy a footballer could dream of winning. And Savannah... well, she endorses tummy detox tea on Instagram! 

⋆˙⟡♡ After the initial coupling, it was clear that Cassie was already falling hard for you. She couldn’t stop talking about how drawn she was to you, how you were exactly the kind of person she had hoped to meet here. You tried to show the same enthusiasm, to return her feelings, but something held you back. You couldn’t go all-in, not when you could feel Alexia’s eyes on you and Cassie all the time. 

Even when Savannah was practically throwing herself at Alexia, lying across her lap, playing with her hair in the most flirtatious way, Alexia’s gaze still seemed to find its way back to you. It was unsettling and intimidating, and no matter how much you tried to focus on Cassie, it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

As much as you wanted to confront Alexia, to figure out why she seemed so fixated on you and Cassie, you were too shy and non-confrontational. Besides, you didn’t have enough to go on, no reason to bring it up. It felt like you were reading too much into something that could have been nothing at all.

⋆˙⟡♡ You also hit it off instantly with Jade, a part-time dog sitter and part-time voice actor. She was effortlessly cool and laid-back, and she reminded you a lot of your best friend outside of the villa. When Cassie was urged by the producers to chat with the others, Jade found her way over to your sofa lounge.

"So, you guys already seem like the couple to last," she said casually, adjusting the strap of her red bikini as she stretched out beside you. "I'm jealous cause I don’t think April and I have that connection yet.”

You nodded sheepishly, feeling a bit awkward, especially knowing just how unsure you were of your feelings for Cassie. "Yeah… but it’s really only been a day.”

Jade immediately noticed something off, hearing the tension in your voice. "Hey, you good?"

You bit your lip and looked around before leaning closer to the brunette. "What do you think that girl Alexia's deal is?" You asked quietly.

"Alexia? The football player?" Jade looked confused. "Why?"

"I don't know.” You shrugged, trying to act casual even if it has been all you’ve been thinking about for the past hour.  "She seemed to be looking at me and Cassie a lot and it just... it just felt odd, y'know?"

Jade scanned the room quickly, her eyes narrowing as she looked for Alexia. When she didn’t spot her, she shrugged, seeming to consider your words. "Maybe she’s jealous? Her and Savannah? They don’t make sense together, while you and Cassie... well, you two are already tough contenders."

You hummed, unsure of what to make of Jade’s observation. "You really think so?"

"Could be," Jade replied, giving a little shrug. "I mean, she’s pretty intense, and you two... well, you're kinda vibing. It's hard not to notice. A lot of people are not here for love but for the game, and well, she might be one of those people. Do you have any other reason to think so? You think she’s into you or Cassie?”

Jade looked more intrigued, a certain sparkle in her eyes. You paused. You were pretty certain that Alexia’s eyes always found yours but then again, you might have been reading too much into it. She might have actually been into Cassie. “I don’t think I’d be her type,” you responded. “You think Cassie is?”

Jade shook her head. “Nah, I just seriously think she’s jealous of your bond.” She said, settling beside you. “Just focus on Cassie right now. Alexia’ll have to deal with Savannah until she finds someone more interesting.”

⋆˙⟡♡ It had only been less than a day but Cassie was incredibly romantic already: picking flowers from the garden to put in your hair, massaging sunscreen on your back, even putting food on your plate for dinner. You two practically just mer each other a day ago but the way she acted was akin to someone who's been in a relationship for months.

You knew that things move fast in Love Island; you watched several seasons across most the franchises in preparation... but even that couldn't prepare you for Cassie. She seemed like those U-Haul Lesbian stereotypes you always heard about. 

But you figured that if Cassie was this into it, she must be seeing a potential with your coupling. So, you tried to play along, holding her hand and even cuddling up to her whenever you had the chance but you couldn't completely focus on her.

Not when Alexia was constantly staring at you two.

⋆˙⟡♡ You couldn't sleep well your first night in. Mostly because Cassie was smothering you. You never were a fan of cuddling and Cassie was an absolute koala bear in bed, clinging on to you like you were the last eucalyptus tree. 

By the time the first rays of light peeked through the villa, you were wide awake, feeling the sleepiness still hanging over you. You blinked your eyes a few times, trying to shake it off, and gently slipped out from under the covers so you wouldn’t wake Cassie.

You threw on a patterned bikini, smoothed on a bit of makeup to freshen up, and slipped out for a quiet early morning swim

⋆˙⟡♡ You weren’t expecting anyone to be up yet. The lights usually came on at 9 am so everyone was still fast asleep, tucked in sheets or cuddled up with their partner. 

The villa was quiet, the air still cool, the sky just beginning to turn from gray to gold. It felt serene; the perfect time to get an early morning swim session in without having to socialize with anyone else. If you could completely forget about the camera and crew lingering around, it would be an introvert’s dream.

But there she was. Alexia Putellas.

Alone outside, mid-squat with dumbbells on both of her hands, her body steady and focused. She was wearing a black sports bra and matching shorts, her hair scraped back into a ponytail, the light catching on the fine sheen of sweat across her chest and shoulders. 

You subconsciously slowed down your walking. Alexia immediately noticed you.  A lazy smile sprawled on her face as she caught sight of you, her eyes scanning your body. 

“Good morning, guapa." She greeted. "Didn't sleep well?"

You shook your head. "Just an early riser," you lied, not wanting to show signs of incompatibility with Cassie. "You?"

“Athlete’s schedule… kinda just used to waking up this early.” She reached for her water bottle, took a sip, then glanced toward you again. “Wanna join me?”

You gave a soft laugh and shook your head. “I’m more of a pilates and morning swim girl. I don’t really do weights.”

“Pity,” she said, pausing. “Strong legs can help when you’re running from things.”

You blinked, trying to process what she was implying. You narrowed your eyes. “What are you trying to say?"

Alexia chuckled under her breath and picked up the weights again. “Nothing, just fitness advice.”

You turned, ignoring her odd comment, about to keep walking toward the pool, when her voice stopped you. “So,” she said, adjusting her grip on her weights. "Why didn’t you step forward?”

You froze for half a second before slowly facing her again. “Sorry?”

She looked at you fully now, the expression on her face unreadable. Calm, composed, maybe a little amused. “Yesterday. Everyone stepped forward for me. Except you.”

“Except me and Cassie,” You corrected as you furrowed your eyebrows together. You scanned her expression, trying to figure out why she was suddenly bringing this up as your first one-on-one conversation. "Why? Did I hurt your ego?"

Alexia chuckled at your banter. "Ooh, never thought you were the feisty type." She commented. "But seriously, I don't really care for all that. I just... was curious about you."

You licked your lips, suddenly aware of how dry they were. “I guess… I didn’t want the attention. Everyone already wanted you. I was already in a couple. It just didn’t feel worth the chaos.”

She tilted her head. “So…it was about everyone else.”

Your brows furrowed. “What?”

“You didn’t step forward because of them. Not because of me.” A smile played on her lips, subtle but undeniably present. 

You blinked at her, thrown away by her statement. “Well, yeah. What does it matter?”

Alexia paused, then lowered the weights again, slower this time. “It doesn’t. I was just curious.”

Then her eyes locked with yours. Still quiet. Still unreadable.

“So, even if you didn’t step forward, you still want me. Is that right?” She asked. You felt your breath catch. The way she said it wasn’t arrogant. She sounded… genuinely curious. Like she wanted the truth to your attraction. It felt mildly invasive, just enough to make you flush.

Something in your stomach stirred. You looked at the ground before returning your gaze back into Alexia's hazel eyes. God, why is she so intense? 

Before Alexia could prod you to answer, a chirpy voice chimed in. 

"Good morning, darling!" It was Savannah, clad in a tiny white bikini with her bleached blonde hair in a messy bun. She headed immediately to Alexia, ignoring you completely. She wrapped her arms around the Catalan from behind and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Missed you in bed.”

Alexia didn’t move away. But she didn’t lean in either. Her eyes remained locked with yours as if she was still expecting an answer even with Savannah there. You didn’t say anything; you just walked toward the pool, the heat rising to your chest, your stomach turning from the interaction.

You felt Alexia’s eyes on you the entire time.

⋆˙⟡♡ Well, that question seemed heavier than the Barcelona captain's weights. Could Alexia be looking to strike a chord — or a nerve — with our musician?

And as for Savannah. I could say that that was definitely an offside, and by offside, I mean that Alexia wants Savannah off her side.

⋆˙⟡♡ You spent the rest of the day trying to focus on Cassie. 

Something about your interaction with Alexia just made you want to avoid her at all cost and just focus on Cassie. You tried to reciprocate her sweet gestures: cuddling by the pool, sitting on her lap, spoon feeding her breakfast.

It was enough to convince everyone that you were already a solid couple. Maybe even enough to convince yourself.

⋆˙⟡♡ After lunch with everyone, you decided to settle by the pool, sunbathing and trying to get some time alone from the rest of the Islanders.

Jade slithered to you. “You won’t believe what I just heard,” she said, a playful and excited lilt to her tone.

You lifted your sunglasses slightly, giving her a curious look. “Yeah?”

Jade’s grin grew wider as she perched on the edge of your sun lounger, glowing from the joy of gossiping. “Alexia’s been talking smack about you and Cassie.” She said in a lower tone.

Your stomach did a strange flip at the mention of Alexia’s name. “What about us?” you asked, trying to keep your voice casual.

“So, we were sitting around the kitchen, right? Me, River, and April. Just talking about which couples we thought would last. And when we all agreed it was you and Cassie,” she recounted, nodding along as she narrated. “Alexia… well, let’s just say maybe you were right about her yesterday. She does have an issue..”

“Wait, what did she say?” You sat up now, pushing your sunglasses from your face to the top of your head.

“She kinda implied that you and Cassie were just faking it for the cameras,” Jade said with a low voice. "Not her exact words but she said something about preferring couples who aren't all for show, like, actually in love and not for the cameras.”

You froze, unsure of what to think or say. You tried to not seem fake, genuinely trying with Cassie but it felt like she saw right through you. “Did she say why she thought that?”

Jade shrugged. “No but she just said she didn’t think you two were as strong as you seemed.”

You paused, looking at the pool and trying to think it through. Jade looked at you and furrowed her eyebrows. “You seem bothered.”

“Well, yeah…” you paused, considering maybe what you said to her had something to do with it. But then again, you didn't really give anything away. “I mean, I don’t know. It’s just that Alexia…”

You paused your statement as you see Cassie walking towards you, with two smoothies in hand. She flashed you a grin, but when she saw your expression, it faltered. “Hey babe, what’s going on?” She asked as she sat by your feet, handing you your drink.

You sighed, taking a long sip of your smoothie. Jade decided to fill in Cassie for you. “Alexia thinks you're faking it for the cameras,” she explained. “We all thought you two were the couple to look out for but she really wasn’t convinced.”

Cassie’s face instantly tightened, her lips pressing together in irritation. “Seriously? She said that?”

“Right in front of everyone,” Jade said, too pleased with herself. “Like it was no big deal too, as if it was an established fact.”

Cassie let out a small laugh, but it wasn’t a funny one. She seemed annoyed. “I don’t get it. Why does she care so much about us?” She scoffed. “I’m not worried about her opinion. If anything, she should worry about her own relationship.”

Jade chimed in again, her voice dripping with  amusement. “Yeah, and it’s not like she’s paying attention to Savannah anyway. Poor girl’s practically throwing herself at Alexia and getting nothing in return.” She shook her head. “I just don’t know what game she’s playing cause she’s not responding to Savannah’s advances but she also isn’t making an attempt to connect with anyone else at all."

"Yeah, she hasn't pulled anyone else for a chat." Cassie rolled her eyes. “I think she’s just here to stir the pot." 

You stayed silent, sipping your drink.

⋆˙⟡♡ Well, well, well, looks like trouble’s already brewing in paradise, and we haven’t even introduced the snake and the apple yet. And by apple, I don't mean the fruit. I mean, Apple — our new bombshell.

⋆˙⟡♡ Last time on Love Island, the islanders paired up, and the couple on top of the Villa’s Billboard Charts? Singer-songwriter Y/N and band guitarist Cassie. But not everyone’s a fan.

“They just seem so always on,” Alexia said in the recap clip. She shrugged. “I just don’t buy it. It seems too posed. I don’t think they’re really into each other.”

And things are about to get even hotter in paradise with our new forbidden fruit, Apple. Will everything stay sweet and peachy or will she leave everyone feeling a little rotten?

“Hi! I’m Apple,” The girl with the atrociously orange fake tan and long lashes said in her introduction video. “I’m a hairdresser so you know I’m great at scissoring.” “My type? I’ve always had a thing for tall girls with tattoos, so if you’ve got ink and a little bit of height, I'm sold. In other words, I want Cassie.” “I’m not here to make girl friends; I’m here to steal girlfriends.”

⋆˙⟡♡ The bombshell, Apple, invited Cassie on a date. As soon as Cassie left, the whole villa practically rushed to your side, offering reassurances, comforting you with words like, "Cassie would never go for someone else," and "She only has eyes for you."

Despite their well-meaning attempts, you couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that stirred in your stomach. You weren’t all in with Cassie yet but a part of you felt a bit upset by it. If Cassie ended up liking Apple, you’d end up out of a couple and that could mean being the first to go home.

"I'm fine, guys. Really. I just need some alone time to clear my head," you reassured them, before heading out to one of the more private day beds.

As soon as everyone was off your back, gathered in the kitchen to gossip about the new bombshell, Alexia followed you. You could see her make her way to you – dressed in a tiny bikini that showed off her muscles. She looked absolutely stunning but you were too distracted by the new bombshell dilemma to take it all in.

"Are you seriously worried?" Alexia asked, raising a doubtful eyebrow as she sat by the foot of your bed.

“A bit but I don’t know,” you sighed, fiddling with your water bottle. “I trust Cassie. And, well, if she likes this new bombshell, then at least it’s early days. But yeah… I do feel a bit off.”

Alexia tilted her head slightly, humming as she looked you over. She moved closer to you, sitting by your side now, her strong arm brushing against yours and the side of her leg knocking yours. Suddenly, your mind was divided between Cassie and Alexia whose proximity was making your cheeks flush.

“Cassie seems really... popular, huh? She's everyone’s type. Tall, pretty, good girl with that bad girl vibe.” Alexia said in an indecipherable neutral tone, breaking the silence. “Can't really blame Apple for making a move, right?"

You raised an eyebrow, keeping your tone steady. "Yeah, okay. You don’t have to rub it in." 

Alexia chuckled. “Sorry, just pointing it out.” She said before pausing, letting the awkward silence linger for a moment. “I just remembered that yesterday, you said you didn’t step forward for me because you didn’t like the idea of competition.”

You looked over at Alexia, unsure of her point. She turned towards you, locking eyes. Her hazel eyes looked warm, practically glowing under the light of the sun. You felt your heart thump faster at the intensity of her gaze.

“What’s your point?” You said under your breath.

Alexia averted her gaze. “My point is…” she paused. “How are you going to handle the competition when it comes to Cassie? Especially with Apple in the picture.”

You stayed silent, turning to remove your gaze from her. Alexia paused, sneaking a look at your expression, trying to read you. “And I’m sure she’s not the only girl in this villa interested in Cassie.” she added. “Just weird to me how you didn’t want competition when it came to me but you don’t seem that worried about Cassie.”

⋆˙⟡♡ You entered the confessional hut, ready to rant.

“God, I really wasn’t bothered that much by Apple since I know Cassie, and I know Cassie is not the type to be easily swayed.” You ran a hand through your hair. “But Alexia – GOD. She’s actually pissing me off. She’s always in our business and I never really knew before but now, I know.” You groaned. “She’s obviously into Cassie! That’s why she’s been trying to throw me off the whole time, staring at me without any care for who sees. She’s just trying to get into my head.”

⋆˙⟡♡ God, these clueless lesbians frustrate me. She wants YOU, girl! Get a hint!

⋆˙⟡♡ You were trying to cool off from your interaction with Alexia by joining Jade and April for some yoga when one of the other islanders Heather exclaimed loudly. “I got a text!”

Everyone rushed towards her, excited as to your first challenge.

"Islanders, it’s time for a game of ‘Who Did It?’ The rules are simple: We’ll read out some juicy confessions, and you have to guess which islander did it. When you think you know, kiss the person you think is guilty!" Everyone is buzzing with excitement. “Apple and Cassie are already waiting for you in the garden so hurry and get ready to smooch.”

⋆˙⟡♡ Once you were in the garden, you were grouped into two, partners split up into two separate groups with the bombshell Apple hosting and reading the confessions. Cassie gave you a smile and a wave from where her group was, not able to say anything more but you could tell she was pleased to see you. That seemed like a good sign that she was still in it with me.

But more than seeing Cassie again, you were actually more pleased that Cassie and Alexia were in the same group so they couldn’t kiss each other. With your suspicion about Alexia liking Cassie, the last thing you wanted was to see them kissing.

⋆˙⟡♡ The game began, and your team was up first as the guessers. Everyone seemed to play it safe, kissing their own partners instead of taking a real guess. You weren’t one to break the pattern, and honestly, you didn’t want to kiss anyone except Cassie.

“This islander has hooked up with a famous popstar,” Apple announced. The others gasped and murmured. You scanned the room, your gaze landing first on Cassie, who shot you a cheeky shrug and a playful grin. You were about to step toward her when your eyes met Alexia’s. Her expression was unreadable, like she was watching you closely. It felt like she was waiting for you to make your way to her.

You paused, shaking off the thought. Don’t even think about it; she’s just trying to get to you.

You walked up to Cassie, cupping her face before pressing a soft kiss on her lips. The group egged you on, urging for more, and Cassie pulled you into a deeper kiss, her arms wrapped around you. It felt nice, but you couldn’t shake the feeling of Alexia’s eyes on you the whole time.

"Well, that’s a winning kiss!" Apple grinned. "In more ways than one: Cassie’s clearly a great kisser, and Y/N got it right. It was Cassie!"

⋆˙⟡♡ Your group had just scored 2 points, and now it was the other team’s turn. Cassie was first up.

“This girl claims that one of her talents is an amazing porn voice.” Apple announced, fanning herself with the prompt cards as she made a shocked expression.

The room instantly erupted with knowing glances, and it was clear to everyone: it was Jade, the only voice actor in the villa. 

You shot Cassie a playful eye roll, half-smiling, then nodded subtly toward Jade. Go for it, you signaled her with your eyes. Without hesitation, Cassie leaned in, her lips finding Jade’s in a quick, soft peck. Jade turned to you, mouthing an apology, but you just laughed it off. You weren’t bothered by the harmless kiss; after all, it was barely more than a peck, and it was Jade.

Everyone settled down after a few teasing comments about your partner and your best friend kissing which you just rolled your eyes at. Once everyone was back to their spot, it was Alexia’s turn.

Suddenly, you could feel your body tense up for some reason. Apple cleared her throat, ready to read the next confession. “Awe, did this confession get lost? It’s so cute.” She teased, pouting. Just by her reaction, you knew it was yours. “Okay, so this islander got ghosted after her first attempt at sexting.”

Everyone cooed and chuckled, poking fun at the most innocent confession said so far. You felt your cheeks flush, unsure if it was because of the other Islanders’ reaction or Alexia’s unwavering gaze on you. You bit your lip, looking at your feet.

Alexia smirked as she walked towards you. You could feel your breath catch in your throat as she came closer. You looked up at her, meeting those intoxicating hazel eyes. You swear you stopped breathing for a moment. Alexia put a hand on your face, thumb grazing your cheekbone for a moment. It felt like forever – just you two standing closely as she cradled your face and she scanned your eyes.

Your feelings were starting to become confusing and your mind was filled with incoherent thoughts. You never fully considered ever being attracted to Alexia; you knew you found her attractive but maybe you suppressed it so much, trying not to overcomplicate your feelings. Maybe it seemed doable then but with her right in front of you, staring at you with those intense eyes and her hands on you so tenderly – it just felt like you were coming undone.

And before you could even fully process your thoughts, she was kissing you.

You couldn’t help but feel your eyes flutter shut as you melted into the warmth of her kiss, your hands holding on to her strong arms for balance as she held your waist with them, holding you flush against you. Alexia kissed you with the perfect balance of gentle intimacy and firm yearning. A satisfied sound escaped your lips as you felt her tongue enter your mouth, warm and firm but not imposing. It would be a lie to say that that was not one of the best kisses you ever had.

You didn’t even realize how long you had been kissing until you heard the group’s whistles and teasing shouts. Blinking your eyes open, you pulled back, your breath coming a little faster than usual. You looked away from Alexia, a bit embarrassed at your eager reciprocation of that kiss. You feel like you just got exposed.

The girls beside you jokingly elbowed you and teased you. Apple chuckled. “Not as innocent as we thought, huh?”

You avoided Alexia and Cassie’s gaze the entire game. 

⋆˙⟡♡ Yikes, did an Argentinian goat arrive in the villa? Cause things just got Messi.

⋆˙⟡♡ While everyone's all smiles after letting their lips loose during the challenge, there's one thing tighter than our Islanders’ bums: the tension between Cassie, Alexia, and Y/N.

⋆˙⟡♡ In the confession room:

You were slumped on your seat, hands dragging down your face as you groaned. “I’m literally an introvert thrown into the middle of a telenovela. This is like my worst nightmare,” you muttered, peeking between your fingers. “I hate drama. I avoid it like the plague. And somehow? I’m smack in the middle of it.”

⋆˙⟡♡ Look at the bright side, Y/N. You could write a song about this drama. Let's call it "Snogging Another Girl In Front of My Partner." Sounds like a banger to me!

You exhaled, eyes drifting toward the floor as you tried to piece it all together, eyes focused away from the camera. “I like Cassie. A lot. I mean, I picked her on day one, and I’ve intended to put all my eggs in her basket. I really thought we were just... solid. But then there’s Alexia. And at first, I thought she was just... I don’t know, staring because she fancied Cassie? Or maybe she was bitter that things didn’t click with Savannah and she was just salty watching Cassie and I actually get along.” You sighed another time. “But after that kiss…” you trailed off. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

Cassie looked mildly bothered, arms crossed as she sat on the edge of her seat in the confession hut. “I mean, yeah. It bothered me,” she admitted, glancing away for a second. “We were doing so well. Like, I actually thought we were one of those couples that figured it out early. That we could just chill and ride it out to the end, win the whole thing.” She huffed out a sigh, then looked straight at the camera. “But seeing her kiss Alexia? I’m not stupid. There’s clearly something there, something to be worried about. I just don’t know how worried I should be cause it might just be a one-time thing like, it might just be a challenge kiss… or I might actually be losing my girl.”

The reel cut to you again. You looked genuinely conflicted, fidgeting with the string of your bikini bottom. “I really can’t figure out Alexia’s feelings too. She’s so confusing.”

Alexia looked effortlessly composed in her reel, reclined casually with one leg crossed.  “I like Y/N.” She said nonchalantly with a shrug and a calm expression, unbothered by the whole drama. “She’s with Cassie now but that doesn’t change things for me. It’s not really that complicated to me. I like her and that's really all that is to me."

⋆˙⟡♡ I’m not a geometrist but I know a love triangle when I see one. 

⋆˙⟡♡ “She’s obviously into you,” Jade said as you two waded in the pool while everyone was working out together “But like… you’re with Cassie.”

You groaned, dragging your fingers through the water. “I know. But I can’t help feeling… conflicted, I guess.”

Jade tilted her head, brows raised. “Babe, the fact that you're even doubting says a lot. Maybe you’re not as all-in with Cassie as you thought… and I saw the way you kissed. That just kinda sealed the deal in my head that you might really be into Alexia.” She held up her hands quickly. “And genuinely, no judgment from me. I’m just saying… maybe it’s time to widen your palette. Try the Spanish cuisine.”

You gave her a look as you splashed her with water for the innuendo. “Just this morning you were telling me Cassie and I were endgame. Now you’re basically shoving me into another girl’s arms.”

Jade laughed. “Well, that’s back when I thought you two were satisfied being the boring couple that wins it all in the end with minimal drama and conflict but now… now that there's a ridiculously hot Spanish football player eyeing you like she’s ready to devour you.” She shrugged. “So now, I say explore, live a little.”

You shook your head but considered her words for a moment. Jade could tell she was getting to you, shooting you a smile. “It’s Love Island, babe. Don’t force yourself to fall for the first girl you couple with.”

⋆˙⟡♡ After dinner, Cassie took your hand and pulled you aside, leading you away from the fire pit and into one of the quieter corners of the garden. Her grip was tight, her expression guarded, and you could already feel a knot forming in your stomach. You knew a difficult conversation was about to happen and you never liked having to deal with confrontation.

 “I just…” she began, her voice barely above a whisper as she rubbed her thumb over your knuckles. “I feel like we’ve been solid since day one. Like we actually found something real here.” She paused, swallowing hard. “And then now with Alexia…”

You paused, not saying anything, focusing your gaze on her thumb drawing patterns on your hands. Cassie let out a shaky sigh. “She’s not just anyone either. She’s this big-time athlete who everyone wants. I just feel threatened cause she’s like everything I’m not.”

You couldn’t help a quiet chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “Who everyone wants? You want her too?” you teased gently, wrapping an arm around her and idly playing with the hair on her nape.

Cassie let out a breathy laugh, but her eyes didn’t soften. “No, but seriously, babe.” She reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and looked at you intently. “Can you just… tell me the truth?”

A tension hung in the air as Cassie moved closer to you. “Right now, right here. Are you all in with me? Or are you just leading me on?” Cassie sighed. “Cause I don’t want to be blindsided in the next recoupling. I need to know what you feel now.”

You froze.

It wasn’t a hard question. Not really. But the answer stuck in your throat like a stone. You wanted to say yes, to promise her, to kiss her and make her feel safe. But you couldn’t force it. During the first few days, you felt bad leading Cassie on, making her think you were sure of her from the first coupling.

This finally felt like your chance to be honest. You bit your lip and tried to muster the strength to say something but you couldn’t even manage to keep eye contact, averting your gaze.

“Y/N?” Her voice cracked.

You looked up for half a second and she saw it in your face.

Cassie exhaled sharply. “Unbelievable.” She whispered before she shook her head. She dropped your hand like it disgusted her. She stood up and walked away, running off to the other girls to rant.

You didn’t follow her. It felt horrible to hurt her like that but you thought it was better than to keep leading her on.

⋆˙⟡♡ Alexia was sipping on martinis with the other girls when Cassie stormed into the dining area. “What got into your panties, rockstar?” She said teasingly.

Cassie was practically turning red, annoyed with the comment especially after everything that happened. “Fuck off, Alexia.”

What’s an all-girl season without a little catfight? Come on girls, claws out! It’s girl fight time.

“Oh, I got on her nerves.” Alexia whispered to Jade, nonchalantly sipping on her cocktail.

Or not… Alexia seems too unbothered to even engage Cassie in an argument.

Everyone rushed to Cassie, comforting her and asking her what happened. Alexia stayed put, eyes wandering towards the direction of where Cassie came from. She finished her drink and swiftly got up, heading to where you were.

⋆˙⟡♡ “Your puppy dog’s making a fuss over there,” Alexia said as she walked toward you, a slow, smug smile pulling at her lips. “Whimpering to everyone like she hurt her paw.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You shot back in a low tone, not really in the mood to joke around.

Alexia shrugged as she lowered herself onto the daybed by your feet, facing you, casually resting her hand on your calf, fingers brushing your skin with a sense of familiarity. “I don’t know… you tell me what that was about.” She raised an eyebrow, her tone playful but with an underlying seriousness. A moment of silence took over before she spoke up again. “So… I take it that chapter’s closed?”

You hesitated, not knowing if you were comfortable totally just ending your chapter with Cassie. While you couldn’t deny the chemistry you had with Alexia, you also weren’t so keen on the kind of drama you’d have to deal with if you chose to be with Alexia instead. 

Alexia’s fingers lingered on your calf, looking at you intensely with her hazel eyes. “What’s going on in that head of yours?” She asked in a low and serious tone. “Looks like you’re still deciding whether you want to keep pretending.”

You snapped, finally meeting Alexia’s gaze. “Pretending?” You half-laughed, trying to act casual. “What’s there to pretend?”

The Catalan just shrugged back at you and raised her eyebrows. You groaned at her expression, feeling like Alexia was just playing a game to confuse you or drive you insane. “I’m not in the mood to play this game right now. I'm serious."

Alexia didn’t respond right away. Instead, her eyes locked onto yours, and the playful edge in her expression disappeared. She bit her lip and leaned in slightly, pausing for a moment. “Alright, if you want serious, I’ll be serious,” she said, her voice now low and steady. 

You met her gaze, your breath hitching at the sudden intensity. “I’m serious about you,” she continued, words hitting harder than you expected. Suddenly, your heart was racing in your chest.

Her eyes never wavered, never leaving yours. “That kiss wasn’t just a game. You felt it too.” she said in a deliberate tone. “I know you enjoyed my kiss more than hers.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“Maybe,” she said with a small shrug and a smirk playing on her lips. “Or maybe I just know how to read you.”

She leaned in, slowly closing the distance. Her hand lifted, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Her touch stayed, fingers brushing the side of your neck. Her palm was warm against your skin.

“I know you’re trying to be angry,” she said quietly. “Trying to act like that kiss and this… feeling you have for me doesn’t mean anything. But underneath all that… I know you want to kiss me again.”

Your lips parted, ready to fire back, to call her arrogant, to drive her away. But before you could speak, her lips were on yours.

All the tension, the frustration, everything… just gone in an instant. Whatever bit of confusion and apprehension you had in your body melted away as you wrapped your arms around Alexia, deepening the kiss. You knew how this show went; there was going to be tons of drama making your way. But right now, none of that mattered.

All you could focus on was her lips on yours.

⋆˙⟡♡ While I’m definitely cheering for Alexia and Y/N, the other islanders look ready to flash them a red card. 

One of the islanders, River, shook her head and rolled her eyes after Cassie recounted your conversation.  “You know what, you dodged a bullet, Cass.” She said as she put a hand on Cassie’s shoulder. “Like, obviously Alexia’s been into her from the start but Y/N is shady. I bet she’s just putting on this whole innocent girl act.” Apple nodded. “She’s definitely sneaky. I wouldn’t trust her.”

⋆˙⟡♡ In the confessionals:

“I definitely had my eyes on Y/N when I first entered because she just seemed so different and meek but I’m seeing that maybe that’s just a facade.” River told the camera, shaking her head as she played with her rings. “I don’t know. I don’t trust her.”

Apple flipped a lock of hair from her shoulder to her back and rolled her eyes. “I don’t care about her. I just know I want Cassie and she just handed me Cassie on a silver platter.” A playful smirk grew on her face. “So, maybe I should thank her.”

Your best friend Jade sighed, crossing her arms. “I think everyone is going to regret acting like this because this is fucking Love Island.” She said, looking exasperated. “It’s not Friend Island or Commit-with-your-first-couple Island. That’s just not the game!”

⋆˙⟡♡ Your magical moment with Alexia was short-lived because you were still coupled up with Cassie, which meant you still had to sleep in bed together. You were initially worried but realized that this meant Cassie was going to let you breathe tonight and not suffocate you with her cuddles. So, even if that meant it was awkward as fuck sharing a bed with her, it was still a win for you.

⋆˙⟡♡ Despite having the best sleep in the villa you’ve had so far, you still woke up earlier than everyone else. You looked over to Alexia and Savannah’s bed which only had Savannah now sprawled on the bed. A blush crept across your face at the thought of having a moment alone with Alexia while everyone else was asleep. 

This time, you decided to put on a bit more makeup and wear a cuter bikini before heading out to the pool area. As soon as you walked out to the open area, you heard a low wolf whistle. “Oh guapa.” You looked over to Alexia who was in the middle of a mat workout. 

You walked over to Alexia who had now stood up and was quick to wrap her arms around you, pulling you in closer, putting a kiss on your cheek. “Good morning,” she cooed. “You slept well?”

“Mmhhmm,” you said as you enjoyed the sensation of Alexia peppering kisses on your jaw and neck. You giggled and pushed her a bit away, feeling incredibly flustered by the feeling of her lips. “Well, someone’s in the mood.”

She smirked, a hand still wrapped around your waist. "Yeah, I've been wanting to do that ever since I saw you but Miss Emo Popstar was always in the way."

You chuckled but rolled your eyes. "You're actually so mean."

She chuckled. "Hmmm, but you still have got a crush on me," she teased, leaning in to plant another kiss on your cheek. “So, are you going for a morning swim? Or do you want to have a little talk first?”

“Hmm, a talk sounds great.”

⋆˙⟡♡ Alexia and you sat in one of the morning day beds, a cautious distance between the two of you. While the conversation started off a bit awkward and stiff, it eventually flowed naturally and after a while, you two were laughing and relating pretty well with each other.

Alexia talked about her career, her ACL injury, her doubts after her injury. Her eyes sparkled whenever she talked about football; it was obvious that she was passionate which drew you in even more since you felt the same way about music. You told Alexia about how you got into songwriting, being an introvert who had massive stage fright, but how you were trying to come out of your shell now as a singer, forced to be in the public eye.

“So, Love Island must be you stepping out of your comfort zone,” Alexia said, hazel eyes scanning yours.

You nodded. “Yeah, it’s a huge pressure for someone who never really liked having attention on them but also… cause I’ve never been in a long-term relationship before.”

Alexia’s jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”

You nodded. “Is that like a red flag or something?”

She chuckled and shook her head. “I think that’s cute actually.” She said, smiling. “How old are you again?”

“23,” you said, ready to get defensive. “And I know I’m younger but I swear, I can be mature.”

Alexia laughed. “Don’t worry. I can tell.”

You bit your lip and nodded nervously. “Does my age bother you?”

She shook her head. “Does my age bother you?”

“Not at all,” you responded.

“Good,” she hummed. She put a hand on your thigh, which sent electricity through your body. It felt like all doubts and apprehension you had about Alexia just fizzled away.

Everything felt just right.

⋆˙⟡♡ It had been just under a week, but the Love Island setup made it feel like time moved in slow motion. With no phones, no books, no music, not even a deck of cards, your entire world had shrunk to this villa and the people inside it. You spent nearly every hour of the day talking to Alexia, Jade, and the other Islanders, caught in this strange bubble where real life felt far away.

And while it was kind of nice to feel disconnected from everything else, it also gave you way too much time to think. Especially about Alexia.

You’d had crushes before, sure. Situationships. Passing things. But this? This felt different. With Alexia, it was like something had clicked and short-circuited at the same time. She made you feel something new and intense, something you didn’t have a name for yet. 

And the worst part was you couldn’t escape it. You lived in the same space, shared the same room, breathed the same air. There was no time apart. At least not completely.

But it wasn’t just the feelings that were getting to you. It was everything else too. The way half the villa looked at you like you were a villain for how things ended with Casey. Like you’d personally gone out of your way to break her heart on live TV, as if it was just out of spite. Never mind the fact that this was literally the point of the show. That you were all here to explore connections. Some people had already made up their minds about you being the villain, and it stung more than you’d like to admit.

It was all getting to you. You thought you mentally prepared yourself for the drama but maybe you lacked in preparing to actually have to deal with all these intense emotions paired with having to fight against losing your mind over other people’s perception. It was too much. 

So, the next day, you decided a little space was what you needed to clear your head.

⋆˙⟡♡ “I GOT A TEXT!”

Jade’s voice cut through the chatter, echoing through the villa.

You pulled yourself off the flamingo floatie, dripping as you stepped out of the pool, and made your way to the kitchen. Everyone started to gather around. You could feel Alexia watching you, but you didn’t look at her. You couldn’t. Not right now.

Jade held up her phone, grinning. “The public has voted for the Islander who needs a spa day,” she read dramatically. “And the Islander who got the most votes is… Y/N.”

You blinked. For a second, you weren’t sure if you’d heard right. Then everyone turned to look at you. You smiled genuinely, unable to hide your excitement despite the annoyed look from Casey. 

“That was exactly what I needed,” you said, voice quieter, more vulnerable than usual. “Everything’s just been so overwhelming lately. I think I forgot how intense this would actually be. I know not everyone’s happy I got it. I’m sure Casey and Savannah have something to say. But honestly? I don’t care. I think the public saw how rough it’s been for me, and I’m really grateful for that.”

Jade paused, wiggling her eyebrows playfully. “And she gets to take any islander out with her on her spa date.”

A few people oohed under their breath. All eyes flicked toward Alexia.

You met her gaze for just a second. She wasn’t smiling. She didn’t look surprised. Her expression was calm, maybe even unreadable. But that only made your heart beat faster.

You hesitated. You wanted to choose her. You really did. But the truth was, she was part of the reason you needed this break in the first place. Your feelings for her were getting too loud, too heavy, and you needed to breathe before they swallowed you whole.

You looked away. “I pick Jade,” you said.

⋆˙⟡♡ In the confessionals:

“I like Alexia. I seriously do,” you said, pouring your heart out to the camera. Without the privilege of a therapist, you were starting to treat the camera like one. “But that’s exactly why I need space from her. Like it’s not even her fault; I just… can’t deal with these feelings right now. It’s too much.”

Casey sat cross-legged, arms draped over her knees, clearly trying to play it cool. “She left me for Alexia, which whatever, that’s the game. But then doesn’t even take her on the date? It just makes it feel like she doesn’t really know what she wants.”

Jade grinned at the camera, bun wobbling on top of her head. “I’m not surprised, to be honest. She’s like my best mate here so I think I know her best and I can just tell that with everything going on, it makes sense she’d want a break from everyone.” She smiled. "Well, everyone except her bestie, of course."

Alexia had her arms crossed but she had a serious expression. “It would be a lie if I said I didn’t want her to pick me,” she said simply with a shrug. “Of course I did. But I get it. We’re all going through a lot. I’m not worried though. This won’t be the only chance we get for a date. I’ll have my moment with her. I know I will."

⋆˙⟡♡ Looks like the Spanish captain is playing the long game. And even if she didn’t get the date, she has something else that’s rarer in this villa… emotional maturity.

And speaking of a lack of emotional maturity.

⋆˙⟡♡ Apple sat cross-legged on the sunbed right beside Casey, sunglasses perched on her head as she glanced toward the villa. “I genuinely can’t tell what game she’s playing,” she muttered to Casey. “She’s either faking the whole sensitive act or she’s just really bad at being honest. Either way, it’s getting old.”

Casey scoffed, shaking her head before taking a sip from her water bottle. “She left our couple, didn’t even look back, and now wants space from Alexia too?” She rolled her eyes. “It’s like she gets off on confusing people.”

Apple leaned back, lips curling into a smirk. “She doesn’t seem genuine at all. And honestly?” She tilted her head. “She's just a dramatic mess. It’s good you got out of that couple sooner than later."

Unbeknownst to them, Alexia had walked out from the kitchen and paused just behind the sun beds. She couldn’t control herself after overhearing the conversation.

“Yeah, good for all of us,” she commented cheekily as she walked into their line of sight. “Could tell she never really was in it with you.”

Casey furrowed her eyebrows. “Seriously, why are you even in this conversation?”

Alexia raised her brows, unbothered. “Maybe because you’re talking loud enough for the entire villa to hear. If you want privacy, try whispering.”

Casey stood up, pushing her sunglasses onto her head. “Alexia, can you just learn how to back off for once?”

Alexia let out a low, dry laugh. “When have I ever crossed your boundaries? Because from where I’m standing, it’s you and your little group that can’t stop running your mouths about Y/N.”

Casey’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” She retorted, trying to hurt Alexia’s feelings. “I’ve got a solid group of friends here and it’s not my fault they stick by me.”

Alexia shrugged. “Maybe instead of turning bitter and questioning her character, you should be asking each other why she didn’t want to stay with you.” A playful smile grew on her face.

Casey straightened up her posture, eyes dark. “You better watch yourself.” She said as she stepped closer to Alexia, looking her in the eyes as if she was in a stare down before a boxing match.

Alexia didn’t move. She just put her hands up, slow and mocking, with a teasing smile on her face. “Yeah, sure.” She chuckled. To further annoy Casey, she gave her a cheeky wink before walking away. "Don't hurt yourself, Casey."

⋆˙⟡♡ In the confessional: 

Alexia chuckled. “Casey wants to act tough and all,” she said, an amused lilt to her voice. “Someone needs to remind her that she’s a skinny musician and I’m an athlete. I won’t fight her because I’ve got integrity and because I don’t think that would be fair for her.”

⋆˙⟡♡ You just returned from your spa day with Jade which helped you get the necessary time away from the drama in the villa. But you didn’t expect to return to the villa with the tension even higher than ever.

Alexia was quick to greet you and pull you aside for a talk which, while daunting, meant being away from the other group's tension.

⋆˙⟡♡ “I know why you’ve been distant and avoiding me,” she said once you were both seated, her voice quiet and thoughtful. Her finger idly traced along her bottom lip as she looked at you, waiting.

You glanced down at your hands, fiddling with your thumbs. “Hmm?”

Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to, and of course, the flutters in your chest were back. They always showed up when she was near.

Alexia reached out and gently took your hands in hers, stopping your nervous habit. The touch was light, but the way she looked at you made your stomach twist in the best way. Her eyes met yours, steady and soft, and for a second you forgot how to breathe properly. Something about those hazel eyes.

Alexia didn’t continue her statement but you knew what she meant instantly. She took her hand in yours, thumb rubbing against your hands. A silence took over between the two of you. It was that kind of loaded silence that just made your heart beat faster.

Alexia broke the loaded silence. “So, if there was a recoupling tonight, can I trust you?”

Even after avoiding her and struggling with your feelings, you didn’t hesitate to nod. “Yeah, of course.”

“Yeah?” Alexia’s eyes practically lit up. 

You locked eyes with the Catalan. You suddenly felt unfair with her, being so avoidant the whole day without having a chat to explain to her what was going on… but here she was, being understanding and patient. 

Maybe it was her age but she was clearly more emotionally mature than anyone else in the villa, including you. It just felt like it was time for you to learn from her.

Instead of answering her, you delicately put a hand on her cheek, thumb touching her cheek as you leaned into her. You paused, taking one last moment to gaze into her eyes, before making the first move and capturing your lips with hers. The kiss was gentle and soft at first until Alexia put a hand behind your neck, deepening the kiss. It was the kind of kiss that made you feel weak in the knees and light-headed.

Suddenly, everything just felt right.

⋆˙⟡♡ And as expected, the recoupling happened that night. Since it was the first sapphic version of the show, it was being done differently. Instead of girls picking guys or guys picking girls, it was now all left to the public as to how everyone would couple up. For this particular recoupling, they voted on which islanders get to go first. They’d seen your drama with Alexia and Casey. They saw the other islanders’ drama. It seemed like they knew best what line up to follow.

Luckily, you went first and there was no doubt in your mind. You stood in front of everyone but your eyes were fixed only on Alexia. 

“While things have been difficult the past week and I’ve tried to keep my distance because of my avoidant habits,” you started, your voice a little shaky, but warm, “the islander I’m choosing has always been patient with me. She’s shown me how serious she is with me, even when I’ve made it hard.”

You glanced down, biting your lip for a second before looking back at her.

“And I’m finally ready to show her I feel the same, and that I’m ready to go all in.”

You took a breath. “The islander I’m choosing is… Alexia.”

Alexia immediately walked towards where you were standing and she didn’t hesitate. Her hands cupped your face as she kissed you deeply. The islanders erupted into cheers. Well, most of them. Casey and Savannah barely clapped.

But that didn’t matter. For the first time, it felt like the pairing was right. Like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

⋆˙⟡♡ The next days (and episodes) really went by smoothly for the two of you. The drama between you and the other islanders was soon forgotten as new drama emerged. Now, you and Alexia were getting along well with your bond growing stronger each day. At times, it felt like you two were just on vacation, relaxing, without a care in the world. Things were going well, and for once, you let yourself believe that everything was falling into place.

⋆˙⟡♡ But as always, Love Island is never about smooth sailing. As things were finally settling into a comfortable rhythm between you and Alexia, the producers had to rock the boat.

⋆˙⟡♡ “I got a text!” You exclaimed from the kitchen where you were making a coffee, your voice cutting throughout the villa. 

Everyone approached you, murmurs swirling around, excitement hanging in the air. No one had entered the villa in a while, so they were eager for any sort of news about a potential bombshell.

You opened the message aloud, and as soon as the words left your mouth, the room fell into stunned silence. “I don’t wanna step on anyone’s boots, but Y/N, you definitely caught my eye. I hope you don’t mind me stealing you away. Get ready for our date in 10 minutes. #GoalGetter #NoSuchThingAsTeammates.”

The reaction was immediate. Shouts, gasps, and excited chatter filled the space. It was clear that the mystery person was likely another footballer… and judging by the wording of the message, she was probably someone Alexia knew well. Everyone’s eyes were suddenly on Alexia. Though she seemed unbothered, you could see a furrow in her brow, her mind obviously working overtime behind those steady eyes. She wasn’t too worried yet… but she could feel that things were about to shift in the villa.

Before you could say anything else about the date, you were quickly whisked away by the other girls, all chattering excitedly as they helped you get ready.

⋆˙⟡♡ You nervously fidgeted with the hem of your skirt as you walked to the designated date place which was a nice Spanish restaurant. You bit your lip, not knowing who to expect.

As you walked towards the restaurant, a tanned girl with dark brown hair stood with a smile on her face. She was effortlessly dressed in a cream linen top and shorts; it was a casual look but it looked so effortlessly charming on her. She greeted you by reaching out to place her hand gently on your arm as she gave you a kiss on the cheek. “Hey, you look amazing.”

A blush crept on your cheek, feeling intimidated by the girl. “Thank you,” you responded. “You look stunning too.”

You two sat in front of each other as a waitress swiftly came to drop off a couple of drinks. “I’m Patri, by the way.” She said as she extended her hand to shake yours. “I’m so glad you decided to join me.”

Patri and you had the typical exchange of niceties and question-and-answers. You were trying to carefully skirt around her text message, unsure if it was an appropriate time to ask her about it. But without prompting, she brought it up. “Since you didn’t ask...” she chuckled. “I’m teammates with Alexia. We both play for the same club and for Spain.”

You nodded. “Yeah, I got that from the text. I was just kinda scared to bring it up.”

She smiled. “Scared? Why?”

You shrugged. “Well… I thought that if I knew for sure it would seem like a bigger betrayal for me to be on a date with her friend.”

Patri laughed, shaking her head. “Ouch… betrayal is one way to put it.” She said, raising her eyebrows before taking a sip of her red cocktail. She paused. “But really… the way I see it is, this is Love Island and I’d be doing her… and well, you and me… a disservice if I didn’t choose you out of courtesy.”

“Cause even if you and Alexia got together first, I don’t really want that to stop me from getting to know you.” She locked eyes with you, brown eyes full of sincerity. “You were truly the only girl who caught my eye in that villa.”

The intensity of Patri’s gaze caused a blush to tint your cheeks pink. You bit your lip as you subconsciously tucked a hair behind your ear, diverting your gaze to the table. “Why even me? I’m genuinely so boring,” you responded, reverting to your self-deprecating ways as you grew conscious.

Patri chuckled. “Well, I think you’re obviously gorgeous, like, completely my type. And, you seem kind and genuine…” she paused, “And well, it would be wrong of me not to mention that I already was a fan of your music before I even knew you were in Love Island.” 

Your eyes widened. “No way!”

“Yes, your latest single’s actually in our locker room playlist; I’m shocked that Alexia never recognized your name from our shared playlist…” 

You smiled at Patri as she continued to hype your music up, clearly a fan. It was cute and charming seeing her a bit fangirl-y over you. Something about being with her just felt… different from being with Alexia.

God, I’m in trouble.

⋆˙⟡♡ Patri was nothing like Alexia. 

While Alexia was more reserved and intense, Patri was extroverted and playful, making you laugh a lot and joking around. Patri was also touchy in a different way. Her touches were lighter, more subtle like brushing against your hand when she passed you something or feeding you a chip. It was playful and lighthearted. You couldn’t help but feel at ease with her.

She made you feel completely different than Alexia did. 

With Alexia, there was always an undercurrent of intensity, a sense that things were never quite simple, that every moment between you was heavy with meaning. But with Patri, it felt different. There was an ease, a simplicity that made you forget the complexities of everything around you. She made you feel like you didn’t have to think too much, that maybe you could just be.

The date went by so easily, once the initial nerves had settled. You had a drink, then another. The alcohol helped loosen you up, but it was more than that. It was Patri’s presence and her effortless charm that made everything feel like it was falling into place. You laughed more than you had in days. It felt like you were both just going along with the moment, no expectations, no overthinking.

Before you knew it, you were kissing her.

You didn’t even know how it happened at first. You figured it might have just happened after she joked about how good of a kisser she is but there was no way of knowing for sure. It just happened without a second thought, without the usual self-consciousness you usually felt on a first date. There was no thinking or analyzing the consequences; it was just you two having a good time.

Patri held your cheek as she deepened the kiss, locking lips before slipping her tongue into your mouth once you parted it. You hummed in satisfaction as you locked lips. Once she pulled away, you could feel your eyes flutter.

She giggled. “So, was that good?”

“That was…” You bit your lip, feeling giddy for a moment before suddenly remembering that you had Alexia nervously waiting for you in the villa. You cleared your throat, trying to shake off the giddiness that had taken over you just moments before.

Patri chuckled. “Well… too bad it’s time to go back to the villa,” she said. “I’d love to kiss you more.”

You smiled, trying to revert back to your more easy-going self early on the date but now all you could think about was how to deal with Alexia.

⋆˙⟡♡ When you returned to the villa, you could just feel the energy shift. Even if you and Patri had a good foot of space between the two of you, your chemistry together was just palpable. The cameras zoomed in on Alexia who might initially seem calm to any onlooker but the cameras did a good job of capturing her slightly clenching her jaw and raising her eyebrows. She wasn’t exactly pleased to see that it was indeed her teammate and good friend who got in between the two of you.

⋆˙⟡♡ Is it just me or does Alexia look like she had just been benched? Not too happy about Patri scoring this time!

⋆˙⟡♡ Later that afternoon, Patri pulled Alexia aside to have a chat in the quiet corner of the villa. Without looking too much into it, you’d think nothing was off or wrong with the teammates but a closer look would tell that there was obviously some tension.

After the two caught up with each other on what was going on outside the villa, Alexia cleared her throat. “Uh so… out of all the girls, huh?” She said with a half-laugh, intending it to sound casual but the edge was obvious in her tone.

Patri chuckled, seemingly unfazed but there was a fleeting hesitation before she responded. “I’m sorry, Ale. I genuinely didn’t want any drama between us…” she said with a calm voice. “But I’m here for love too and I’d be lying if I chose anyone else to go on a date with. I have to put myself first.”

Alexia nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t say anything immediately, and for a moment, it felt like she was weighing her response, carefully measuring each word. She met Patri’s gaze, her face unreadable.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Alexia said finally, though her voice was quieter than usual. “I get it. You didn’t choose her to start drama or hurt me; I know you and you aren’t that kind of person.”

Alexia paused. “But even if you didn’t mean to, you have to know that that offended me. It did hurt.”

Patri opened her mouth to say something, but Alexia raised a hand, cutting her off. “It’s fine. I’ll get over it. I always do; it's the captain's duty to be the bigger person, right?”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke, and the silence seemed to stretch, heavier than before. Patri looked at the distance, not wanting to look at Alexia due to intimidation. She sighed. “Let’s just play it out,” she said, still averting Alexia’s gaze. “Just like a friendlies match.”

Alexia chuckled and rolled her eyes.

⋆˙⟡♡ Is it just me or is Alexia’s demeanor nothing but friendly?

If I were Patri, I’d go running the opposite direction. RUN FOR SAFETY, PATRI! 

⋆˙⟡♡ Confessional:

Patri sighed and shrugged. “I know Ale’s probably pissed, but what can I do? I chose the person I was most attracted to,” she explained with animated hand gestures. “If her girl wasn’t interested at me, I’d stand down and back off… but she seemed interested. I can’t just cower away just because of my respect for Alexia.”

In contrast, Alexia was more reserved, arms crossed.  “I signed up for this, so I should’ve known something like this would happen,” she shook her head. “Doesn’t mean it’s easy. But that’s what I get for playing the game.” “I just feel like my trust is getting tested,” she looked at the camera now, eyes serious. “My trust in both Y/N and Patri.”

⋆˙⟡♡ Later, in bed with Alexia, you could easily tell that something has shifted between you. It was just how silent Alexia was and how her gaze seemed harder, more guarded in a sense. You sighed, feeling a wave of regret. 

“Alexia,” you whispered, trying to meet her eyes in the dim light. 

She hummed, locking eyes with you. “Hmm?” There was no softness or warmth in her voice or her gaze; she seemed so distant even if she was just right in front of you, cuddled up under the same duvet.

“Are you mad?” You asked, swallowing hard before biting your lip as you slowly moved closer to her, gently holding on to her arm for some physical contact. Your touch was almost tentative. 

The entire day, you didn’t really get to have a proper conversation. When you tried to talk to her about it, she brushed you off with a casual wave of her hand and a half-hearted, “It’s fine. It’s all good.” But you knew better. You could see it in her eyes. She was obviously bothered.

This was nothing like what had happened with Cassie. With Cassie, there had never really been a real connection or spark so it felt easier to consider being with Alexia while still being paired up with Cassie. Now, you were with Alexia and the bond… is just different. There’s an undeniable chemistry and spark between the two of you but the pull you felt toward Patri was also undeniable. 

With Cassie and Alexia, there was really no competition; Alexia was the clear winner even when you hadn’t known it yet. But with Alexia and Patri… it was just different. 

“Should I be mad?” Alexia asked after the long pause between you two. Since you didn’t get a chance to talk about what happened during your date, you never really got to tell Alexia that you kissed Patri but of course, being Love Island, the news got around fast and reached her instantly.

You sighed. “Maybe,” you responded, being vague about it. You paused, trying to move closer to Alexia, perhaps seeking some sort of comfort that all was fine even if you had slipped up but the Catalan offered nothing of the sort, remaining still and unmoving. 

Alexia sighed. “I just wanna know if you’re in it with me.” She said with a steady but low tone. “Obviously, I still like you and I am getting feelings for you but if you don’t feel that anymore—”

“I still feel that way,” you interrupted. “I still like you.”

She hummed in response. “And Patri?”

You hesitated, trying to piece together a proper response but nothing seemed like it would sound right. “I think I like her too.” You responded, being honest. “I can’t lie to you. I think while most my eggs are in your basket right now, I don’t want to not consider Patri and just close the door on that possible connection.”

Alexia nodded, eyebrows furrowing. “No, I get it. I can’t expect you to be just tied to me. It’s early days and it’s Love Island after all,” she responded, trying to sound mature.

You nodded thankfully, thinking it was all settled but when you leaned in for a kiss, Alexia stayed unmoving, not meeting you halfway or leaning in. You paused and just bid her good night before turning around, facing the opposite direction.

⋆˙⟡♡ The next morning, you woke up with a sense of guilt already settling into your chest. You thought maybe, just maybe, preparing breakfast would be a way to make things right with Alexia. The idea of quietly fixing things before the day began felt like a small gesture, something simple you could do to start mending the distance between you. But when you opened your eyes, she was already gone.

You looked around the dim room to see that most of the other islanders were still fast asleep in their beds, tangled in their sheets with their partner. The only other bed that was empty was Patri’s. You sighed, pulling the covers off of you to get up, deciding that a morning swim could help you clear your head.

Once you headed outside, you immediately noticed Alexia and Patri working out together, chuckling as if nothing was wrong between the two of them. You hummed, thinking that maybe the drama could be quashed by today and that there would be no issue with you considering Patri as an option while still partnered up with Alexia.

“Good morning, guapa!” Your typical morning greeting sounded different coming out of Patri’s mouth. You smiled at the two footballers, waving at them before heading over to the workout station, trying to act like you didn’t have a million questions running through your head.

Alexia seemed warmer and less tense. She gave you a familiar comforting smile and something about it just put you at ease. It felt like her way of comforting you that everything was okay. You responded with a weak smile back. 

“Morning,” you greeted her. “You got out of bed early?”

Alexia shrugged casually. “Had to get a workout in,” she explained. “You upset I left the bed without saying good morning?”

Patri chuckled softly at the question. You just gave the Catalan captain a small, tight smile and an eyebrow raise. Alexia tilted her head slightly and hummed at the response. “I’ll make it up to you then,” she said with a playful lilt to her voice  before walking over to you.

Before you could even react, Alexia was right in front of you. Her hand snaked around your waist, pulling you close as she captured your lips with hers, kissing you deeply and passionately. Your eyes widened at the sudden display of affection. It was obviously her trying to stake her claim right in front of Patri.

 Okay, so she’s still bothered, you thought to yourself.

Patri let out a dry laugh, also taken aback by the sudden blatant display of possessiveness but she didn’t say anything. After Alexia pulled away, you bit your lip and felt your cheeks flush from embarrassment.

“Uh… I’ll go make coffee now.” You said, turning at your heel to walk away from the scene quickly.

⋆˙⟡♡ “She did what?!” Jade exclaimed as you recounted to her what happened that morning. Her eyes widened and she looked incredibly scandalized. “Damn, Alexia really must be jealous of her to be doing all that in front of Patri. It’s like those Alpha Wolves or whatever when they implant on their mate or something.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at Jade’s weird reference. “I mean, it was hot but also, I just felt kinda bad for Patri.” You said. “She seemed a bit offended by it even if she hadn’t said anything.”

Jade looked at you quizzically, raising an eyebrow. “Why would you feel bad? Are you trying to tell me that you actually are considering Patri?” She asked. “Just yesterday you said that even if the date with Patri was fun, you think you were sticking with Alexia.”

You groaned, sinking into the lounge chair. “I know… but I just can’t ignore the spark I felt for Patri too. I have to consider it too cause there is something there.”

Jade let out a sigh, leaning back as she crossed her arms. “Can’t believe I’m best friends with the messiest girl in the villa,” she joked but there was a subtle tone of concern in her voice. "I'm not looking forward to reading what people online have to say about you, love."

You playfully pushed her shoulder. “Jadeeee, just help me.” You groaned. “I’m so lost right now."

“Girl, what do you want me to do? I can’t choose for you.” Your friend exclaimed, shaking her head dramatically. “I’m just saying you gotta choose quick cause I just can sense that someone is going home soon. And it could be you or one of them if you don’t choose ASAP.”

You sighed. You knew Jade was right. With Patri’s entrance, someone was bound to leave the villa soon and that decision might be left to you if the cards weren’t in your favor.

⋆˙⟡♡ Later that day, Patri pulled you aside to talk, her voice calm, but you could sense the seriousness in the tone. “I know you’re still figuring things out,” she said, leading you to the daybeds.  “But I just really want to have a chat to see where your head’s at.”

You nodded, sitting down beside her on the daybed, leaving a decent amount of space between the two of you. Patri sighed. “So, I know that you really are emotionally invested with Alexia already but… I want to know if your door is still open for me, like, do I still have a chance to get to know you and to be considered by you?”

You hesitated, taking a beat to think. Before you could respond, Patri spoke up again. “Hey, I know we kissed andhit it off already the other day but if you’ve made up your mind and you really want to stick with Alexia, I won’t be mad,” she reached out to take your hand into hers, causing you to meet her gaze. “I’d actually prefer if you let me down now than later.”

A part of you just wanted to take the easy route, tell her that you were definitely going to stick with Alexia and that you’d appreciate being her friend. It felt like saying anything else other than that would paint you in a negative light, probably counterintuitive to the intention of your publicists to get you good press. 

But part of you just felt like taking the easy route was such a dishonest way to go. Even if PR was a main reason as to why you entered Love Island, finding love was also a big reason you agreed to it. You wanted to experience all the aspects of love and relationships, and doubt was one of them. It felt like doing yourself a disservice to just do an easy cop out.

“I haven’t…” you paused to look into Patri’s eyes. “I haven’t completely counted you out.”

A smile grew on her face. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “I mean, I’m not saying for certain that if there was a recoupling, I would choose you. I still have feelings for Alexia.” you paused. “But, I won’t not consider you. I’m still open to getting to know you.”

Patri nodded. “That’s enough for me.” 

You smiled back at the Spaniard. She reached over to you, tucking a loose strand behind your ear. “So, if you wanna test out the waters between us…” she looked into your eyes. “Can I test it out with another kiss?”

You paused, looking around to see if there were other islanders nearby but with the coast clear, you meekly nodded. It felt wrong to be cozying up to Patri like this and letting her kiss you even if it had just been a couple days since you met her when with Alexia, it felt like there was more hesitation with you at the start of your relationship. But if you wanted to fully consider both options, you had to do something to test it out. 

Patri’s hand moved to your neck, cupping it gently before pulling you in closer to her. She captured your lips with hers, slowly moving against yours. It started off gentle before it grew more passionate, more insistent. Unlike your first few kisses with Alexia, Patri’s kisses didn’t feel like butterflies or fireworks. It felt more like a warmth forming in your stomach. It was intense in a different way.

Once you pulled away from the kiss, you sighed deeply, biting your lip.

I’m in big trouble.

⋆˙⟡♡ You planned to have a sit-down dinner with Alexia later that night. Just the two of you, with no other islander around, no distractions or interruptions. You two skirted around the discussion long enough and you needed to completely clear the air with her, be honest and let all your feelings out. With the recoupling looming, it was pertinent that you discuss your own confusion and struggle but also to comfort her that even with Patri’s arrival, she was still the first person in your heart at that moment.

It was a good plan, something that could have helped you two a lot. But that plan? Officially out the window.

Just as you were preparing to pull Alexia aside for it, Jade got a text. As soon as you heard the notification sound, you knew it was too late. It was recoupling time, and you had to make up your mind quick.

⋆˙⟡♡ The group gathered by the fireplace, the flames crackling in the background as everyone stood in a loose circle, eyes darting nervously around the room. Sophie, the host, arrived with that look on her face. Before she could even say anything, you knew someone was going home.

Your stomach churned and you absentmindedly shifted from foot to foot, anxiety taking over you. Even as Sophie spoke, all of it turned into garbled nonsense in your ear; you were too caught up in your own thoughts to process it. Suddenly, Sophie was calling your name.

“Seems like Y/N’s in a daze,” You blinked, snapped out of your thoughts, and immediately felt a flush of embarrassment. You hadn’t even realized how much you’d zoned out. When you met Sophie’s eyes again, she was smiling, waiting for you to speak. “Y/N, it’s your turn to choose.”

You gulped, stepping forward, settling beside Sophie and looking back at the group. 

Immediately, you locked eyes with Alexia who gave you a weak smile. Your connection with her was undeniable; it felt solid. Even when she first walked in the villa when you were coupled with Cassie, something about her drew you in instantly. It felt like there had always been an invisible thread pulling you toward her. And the things she made you feel — butterflies, fireworks, the dizzy ecstasy you felt with her — was something you have never felt before. Her kisses felt like revelations and her touch always felt intimate, filled with a warmth and intensity that seemingly no one could ever replicate. 

Having known Alexia longer, you’ve also gotten to know her pretty well. You knew her quirks, her habits, her nuances; you’ve accepted most parts of her already. Maybe it would have been an easy choice to choose her again.

But then, your gaze shifted to Patri, standing at the other side of the group. She gave you a wider smile, visually less tense than Alexia. While you only knew Patri for a few days, there was also a spark between the two of you. While it wasn’t as intense as your initial connection with Alexia, there was something about her that made you feel at ease; it felt easier to be open to Patri, less intimidating. There was no tension with Patri. It all felt like calm waters with her.

So, maybe you were wrong and maybe Patri was the easier choice; after all, she got you to open up to her on one date in contrast to the initial pull-and-push you felt with Alexia. Coupling up with her would also give you a chance to explore that small spark, see if it’s worth it. But then that choice could come at Alexia’s expense. What if the connection with Patri was just a new type of excitement over someone new and you send Alexia home for nothing? 

Then again, what if you choose Alexia and never get a chance to know Patri? What if the spark you felt with her was worth exploring, but you wouldn’t ever know unless you took that risk?

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. All eyes were on you now, anticipating your decision. It was a big choice to make but you knew the clock was ticking and no amount of hesitation was going to save you from having to make this decision. 

“The person I choose to couple up with is…”

a/n: aaaa! bit of a dramatic series of events, isn't it? i hope you all enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it. i included a poll below on who you guys would choose if you were in that position. while i feel a lot of you would be picking alexia, idk maybe some of u would choose patri!

anyway, releasing the other fics in the playlist series soon so i hope you all tune in!

— @gozzi-1154 @floppy-03 @daniwhatwhat @sapphicdarlingx @dfwspky @miss-americana22 @lilibach @liloandstitchstan @tikitakatia @beeversblues @aced-of-baked @maeshoneyles @jazard7 @daniwhatwhat

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The office is still when you arrive, early sunlight filtering through the blinds, casting soft gold stripes across the floor. You set your bag down, plug in your laptop, and sit for a moment in the silence just breathing.

You’re not sure what today will bring, you’re halfway through replying to an email when you hear the click of the front door.

Olga’s balancing two coffees and a paper bag from that little place she knows you love but never ask for. She glances at you, eyes scanning your face for something she’s clearly already read in your posture. She sets everything down at your desk before heading to her own without a word.

You blink at the coffee then the croissant and spot the note under the napkin.

Eat. I know you probably haven’t yet. — O x

Your throat tightens, she’s typing already, a headphone in one ear, hair still a little damp from the shower, clearly focused on her task, but she glances at you just once over the rim of her screen, a soft kind of check-in that doesn’t require words.

You tear off a bit of croissant, begin to chew. “Thanks.”

She doesn’t look up, just murmurs, “You don’t have to thank me.” A beat passes. “You look rested.”

You smile a little. “I laughed a lot last night.”

That gets her attention, she looks up, really looks at you. There’s warmth there but more than that, a calm relief “With them?” she asks and you simply nod. Olga’s mouth curves into a quiet smile. “Good.”

You take a sip of coffee. Then ask, “You okay?”

She pauses before answering, “I am now.” Olga smiles softly. “I like when you laugh,” she says, like it’s not a big deal, like it hasn’t just quietly set your whole morning aglow.

You look down, cheeks warm. “I like when you don’t pretend to be scary.”

She laughs under her breath. “I’m terrifying, don’t ruin the brand.”

You laugh too and just like that, everything’s a little easier.

There’s so much behind that, and you both know it but neither of you push. You both work, emails, graphics, campaign planning it's ordinary, comforting and through it all, there’s a thread of something stronger than routine. A kind of bond forged in chaos and kept alive by every moment like this.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

Wednesday mornings always carry a certain energy. Alexia’s energy.

She arrives like a breeze that leaves the door open behind her, a reusable cup in one hand and her gym bag slung over one shoulder. She’s already halfway into a story about training before she even rounds the corner into the main office. “—and then Mapi slipped, blamed the floor, but literally no one else had fallen all morning,” she grins. “She’s going to be unbearable about it all week.”

Olga’s smile is soft, automatic. “Tell her I said to be careful. I’m not designing another injury post.”

Alexia chuckles, then her eyes find you. “Hey, you.” She gives you that now familiar smile, something warm, tentative, like a thread trying to strengthen itself between two people still learning how to be.

“Hey,” you manage your voice doesn’t match hers, not quite. You’re smiling, but your hands twist your pen a little tighter than they need to.

Alexia drops into one of the spare chairs near Olga’s desk, bouncing slightly with excitement. “So, mamá’s doing dinner Friday. Proper dinner tablecloth and all and no one’s allowed to cancel, I’ve decided.”

Olga smiles again, but it flickers. She’s looking at you now. You nod faintly. “That’s… nice.”

“Yeah,” Alexia says brightly. “It’ll be all of us. You, me, Alba, Mamá. Maybe even a little cava if we behave.”

You laugh softly, but it’s quiet, your eyes drop to your notebook. Olga catches it. Sees the way your shoulders don’t quite settle, the nervous twitch at the corner of your mouth. So she jumps in ever so gently.

“Y/N,” she says, casually, like she’s only just remembered. “Didn’t you say you had plans with Patri that night?”

Your head snaps up, eyes flicking to her. Olga’s face is calm and neutral, but her eyes are soft and searching. You pause long enough that Alexia notices. She looks between the two of you, something cautious knitting behind her eyes. "Erm..." You swallow. “I… might. I don’t know yet.”

Alexia’s smile falters just a fraction. “Oh. Okay. Well, if you can make it, it would be… good.”

There’s so much in her voice that you can’t carry today. You nod. “I’ll let you know?”

Alexia nods too, just once. “Yeah. Sure.”

She rises again with that same energy she walked in with, but it doesn’t quite bounce the same. She kisses Olga on the lips, waves to you, and disappears in a rustle of fabric and keys. In the silence you let out a breath you hadn’t meant to hold, Olga doesn’t look at you right away. She starts typing, deliberate, before saying gently, “You don’t have to go if it’s too much.”

You nod, then shake your head. “I want to.” She looks at you, turning her chair to face you, “I’m just scared.”

Olga’s voice is soft. “I know.” She's up from her chair mug in hand, you go back to work, but not before she reaches over just briefly as she passes and gives your wrist the gentlest squeeze.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

Patri’s cart has only three things in it, and you’ve already done two laps of the supermarket. “I swear we passed the tortillas like five times,” you mumble, toeing along behind her as she backtracks, again.

“That’s because I wasn’t sure if I wanted soft or crunchy,” she says, barely glancing at you over her shoulder, then adds with a grin, “And now I’m sure I want both.”

You shake your head, watching her compare packets like she’s making a life-altering decision.

The cart squeaks when you push it after she abandoned it in the middle of the aisle. She doesn’t notice, or maybe she does and has no regard for anyone else to engrossed in her tortilla choosing.

You trail her into the next aisle, a row of cereals on one side and a wall of jams and spreads on the other. You lean your elbows on the cart, watching her scan labels. “I’m supposed to go to dinner with them Friday.”

She turns halfway, a box of oats in her hand. “Your sisters?”

You nod. “Alexia invited me like it’s the most normal thing in the world.” You pause. “It probably is.”

Patri doesn’t say anything right away. Just gives you a soft look and sets the oats into the cart like they’re breakable. “You going?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. I want to.”

“You don’t sound like you want to.”

“I do. I just—” You blow out a breath and push the cart forward a little. “It feels like if I sit at that table, I’m saying yes to something I’m not sure I know how to be part of.”

Patri turns, leaning on the handle in front of you, her expression gentle. “You’re not saying yes to knowing how to do it. You’re just saying yes to trying.” You meet her eyes, uncertain, she smiles, softer now. “That’s all they’re asking of you.”

You blink fast and look down. “I’m scared I won’t be what they want me to be.”

Patri steps closer, brushing your hand with hers. “Maybe try being what you want to be. Let them figure the rest out.” You nod slowly, the weight of it still heavy but less suffocating in her presence. She pulls you forward by the cart, just enough to make you walk again. “Now help me pick salsa. I’ve been burned before.”

You smirk. “You mean that time you cried over a medium?”

She gasps. “It lied to me!”

You laugh and somehow the aisle feels a little lighter, like maybe you’re already figuring out how to do this. You cuddle up beside her, "What about extra mild for the sensitive midfielder?"

"You're pushing your luck"

You tap her ass as you move away back to the cart, "You love it"

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

Your phone buzzes on the kitchen counter, screen lighting up as you close the fridge door with your foot. You almost ignore it, assuming it’s Patri asking if you want to come over after training, but it isn’t.

The notification makes you stop.

New Group: Hermanitas 💜

You stare at the name for a second before opening it and there’s a wave of messages already waiting.

Alexia: i was talking to alba earlier 💬

Alexia: we were thinking…

Alexia: if it helps you feel more comfortable maybe you could bring Patri to dinner? and i’ll bring Olga too?

Alba: only if it’s not weird tho

Alba: like if it makes it worse then ignore us 😅

Alexia: but also you know

Alexia: less pressure maybe

Alexia: more wine

Alexia: more distractions

Alexia: less weird staring from our mamá 👀

Your hand rests on the counter, reading the messages once, then again. You know what Alexia’s doing. You can feel it in every word the careful way she’s reaching, the way she’s making it about options and comfort and not forcing anything. It’s not subtle, but it’s kind, even if it's clearly been orchestrated by Olga.

You thumb out a reply before you can think too much:

You: i think that sounds… actually really nice, thank you 🫂

Alba: ok but like

Alba: not weird couple stuff in front of me

Alba: i’m still adjusting 😭

Alba: I now know how Alexia felt with me

Alexia: you’re the worst

You: 😂 no promises

You surprise yourself… you're not dreading dinner. You’re looking forward to it, even if it is just a little bit.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

Patri’s apartment is a mess of hair tools, half-dried laundry, and open drawers by the time you settle in front of her mirror again. She stands behind you, toothbrush in her mouth, watching you fuss with your hair for the fourth time. “You look fine,” she says, the words muffled through foam.

You glance at her reflection. “You’re saying that while you’re foaming like a rabid dog. I can’t take you seriously.”

She smirks, rolls her eyes, and disappears back into the bathroom. You breathe out, reaching for your earring the second one shakes in your hand. You're not even sure why you’re this nervous, it’s not your first dinner with them, but it’s the first where you’re walking into a place that didn't feel neutral ground. You’re walking in with Patri, with someone who knows you, there's something terrifying about being known by two different parts of your life at once.

Patri returns a moment later, drying her hands, already dressed loose black trousers, simple white tee, chain necklace. No fuss, just her, effortlessly cool, your comfort zone. She steps up behind you again and rests her hands on your shoulders, you meet her eyes in the mirror.

“You okay?” she asks, quieter now.

You nod. Then shrug. “Mostly. Just… don’t want to mess it up.”

She leans in, presses her lips to your cheek. “You won’t.” You turn your face just a little, catching her mouth halfway, and kiss her back, slow and gentle. She smiles into it, “Besides,” she murmurs, lips brushing yours, “if anyone’s going to embarrass you, it’s definitely going to be me.”

You laugh. “I don’t doubt it.”

She grins and grabs your jacket from the bed, holding it up for you. “Come on then, baby sister. Let’s go meet the wolves.”

You narrow your eyes as you slip your arms in. “Don’t call them that. They’re already protective enough.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” she winks.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The house smells like garlic and roasted peppers. There’s music playing low from a speaker in the kitchen, and Alba’s already poured a glass of wine you’re not sure you’re ready for.

You and Patri arrive five minutes early, but somehow the house is already loud with conversation and laughter. Olga greets you first with a soft smile and a one-armed hug. She’s calm tonight, tucked close to Alexia like always, her presence grounding. Alexia, on the other hand, has her game face on smirk locked in place, eyes full of mischief.

She sees Patri step in behind you, and with all the dramatic flair of a footballer taking the pitch, she plants her feet, throws her shoulders back, and juts out her chest. “So,” she says, voice teasing, “you’re the girl dating my little sister.”

Patri just rolls her eyes, already used to her long-time teammate’s antics. “Do I need to give a what are my intentions speech before or after dinner?” she fires back.

Alexia lets out a laugh and drapes her arm around Olga, grinning. “Just know if you break her heart, you’re benched for life.”

Alba mutters from the kitchen, “I said I’d do worse.”

You make a strangled noise in your throat. “You’re all terrifying.”

“We’re family,” Olga says sweetly. “It’s basically the same thing.”

Everyone laughs even you and somehow that breaks the tension enough for the dinner to feel real. You sit beside Patri who, despite herself, leans her shoulder into yours once the food’s been passed around. Alexia takes the opposite end of the table, but you catch her watching you sometimes not suspiciously, not protectively, just curiously.

Patri reaches for your hand under the table once you squeeze back, “You okay?” she whispers, leaning close.

You nod. “Actually… yeah.”

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

Plates are nearly clean, and a third bottle of wine has been opened. The room is buzzing with a warmth not just from the alcohol, but from the laughter, the low music, the way things feel possible tonight.

Alba leans back in her chair, eyeing you over the rim of her glass, “So…” she begins, drawing out the word like she’s testing the water. “You and Patri.”

You feel your cheeks warm before she even asks anything else. Patri quirks a brow and gives her a mock warning look. “Don’t start.”

Alba ignores it completely. “No, seriously. I’m just curious. Like, how did that even happen? You’re so quiet, and Patri’s…” She waves a vague hand. “...Patri.”

Patri pretends to be offended. “What does that mean?”

“Loud,” Alexia offers from across the table, grinning.

“Fearless,” Eli adds, smiling into her wine.

“Annoying,” Alba finishes, smirking as she looks back to you.

You laugh softly, your fingers brushing against Patri’s on your lap beneath the table. “We met in a bar, actually.”

Alba’s eyes widen. “Seriously?”

Patri nods, shrugging casually. “She spilled her drink on me.”

You cringe. “It was one drink.”

“She was so awkward about it I had to buy her a replacement.” Patri nudges your shoulder. “I didn’t even know your name, but you blushed so hard I thought your face would combust.”

Olga grins. “That tracks.”

Alexia sips her wine. “Did you know who she was?”

You shake your head. “No. I mean, I knew the name Patri Guijarro because a friend of mine goes your games, but not her face. Not in the moment though, I was too busy apologising to death.”

Alba laughs, then tilts her head, suddenly more sincere. “So… is it serious?”

You look at Patri, Patri looks at you and she’s the one who says it. “Yeah. It is.”

The table goes quiet for a moment, but not tense just still Alba smiles then, a bit softer. “Good. Because if you hurt her, I will absolutely ruin your life.”

Everyone laughs even Patri, even Alexia, even you but there's a weight to it too. A sincerity beneath the humour. You glance at Alba. “I don't doubt that.”

Alba meets your eyes and nods. “Yeah. I can tell.”

Alexia’s talking football with Olga at the other end who looks bored to death, and clearly she’s only half-listening, her eyes flicking over to your side of the table every so often.

Patri’s watching you, her cheek propped on her knuckles, eyes soft and full. Then she says it, casual but laced with a kind of wonder, "It’s funny, you know… I saw you every week in that bar for weeks and couldn’t build up the courage to speak to you."

You turn to her, a smile already pulling at your lips, the kind that happens without trying the kind only she gets from you. "I know," you say softly, amused. "Your friend Salma told me. Weeks before I spilled that drink on you."

Patri’s eyes widen. "Wait — what?"

You laugh and lean in a little, like it’s a secret meant just for her, "Salma told me you’d been coming in just to see if I was there… but that you didn’t have the guts to talk to me." You lick your lip, "We had a bet going"

"A bet?" Patri sat up

You nodded, "How long it would take you to make a move, I won"

"How much?"

"100 euro"

Patri nodded seemingly impressed, "Nice"

"I bought that jacket of mine you think I haven't noticed you've stole"

"Can we rewind" Olga waves her hand about, "Patri, you were nervous of Y/N?"

Alba snorts into her wine. Alexia, clearly now fully listening, makes a loud, mock gasp. "Patri Guijarro, nervous?!"

Patri groans, sliding down in her chair as she mutters, "I’m never going to live this down."

You nudge her knee with yours, still grinning. "Hey, at least I spilled a drink on the right girl."

Olga, watching the way you look at each other, murmurs just loud enough, “You really did.”

Patri smiles like she doesn’t quite know what to do with herself. You can tell by the way her fingers brush yours again featherlight, like a question she's already sure of the answer to.

Alba looks between you two, then sighs dramatically. "Gross. I want it. But gross."

Alexia raises her glass. "To nice jackets, accidents, and overly dramatic footballers."

You raise yours, laughing, the glasses clink.

You notice Eli had made her exit part way through the conversation, as you moved through the home after excusing yourself, the laughter softened into background noise, the sound of wine being poured replaced by the scrape of cutlery being cleared and stacked. You slip into the kitchen without really thinking about it, drawn by the clink of plates and the low hum of the tap running.

Eli’s at the sink, alone, she doesn’t look up when you step in but you see the way her shoulders tense, the slight hesitation in her hands as she rinses a dish and places it gently in the rack.

You hover for a moment, "Do you want some help?"

She glances sideways, caught off guard, but nods, "If you don’t mind drying."

You grab a clean towel and take your place beside her. The silence is thick but not heavy, just careful. You dry slowly, matching her pace.

"Dinner was really good," you say. "The potatoes especially. Who made them?"

Eli lets out a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh. "That was me. It’s Alexia’s favorite. She always insists I make them whenever we do family dinners."

You smile, placing a plate down gently. "I get it. They were incredible. Comfort food."

She nods, focusing on the next dish. "She used to help me peel them when she was little. Always ended up with more potato on the floor than in the pot."

You glance at her hands older now, but steady. You wonder if they were the same hands that once buttoned your baby clothes, even for just a few short moments. You want to ask her everything. Why she didn’t try to keep you. Why she never tried to find you. Why it feels like she’s afraid to look directly at you now, but you don’t. "I do that too. Fidget when I’m anxious. You were doing it at the table your hands, they kind of… circle each other." She pauses and looks at you. "I thought it was something I picked up at the children’s home. But now I wonder if it’s just... you."

Her eyes shine not quite tears, not yet, but there's weight behind them. Emotion pressed down, for now. She swallows, "You noticed that?"

You nod, "I notice a lot of things. Especially things that feel familiar."

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, just places the mug down, steadies herself, "Thank you for helping."

"Anytime," you say and mean it.

"Would you, would you maybe be open to us spending time together, just you and I?"

You nod, "I would"

Eli nods just the once, "Ok" You don't plan anything with her in that moment but its seems it was enough for her in that moment.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The night air is cooler than you expected, brushing against your skin as you and Patri walk side by side, hands almost but not quite touching. She’s quiet, too quiet, you glance over at her a few times, but she keeps her eyes ahead, jaw tight, her pace just a bit too quick for it to be casual.

Finally, you say it. "You okay?"

She stops, not dramatically, just stops.

You turn to face her, brows furrowing, the quiet suddenly louder between you. "What’s going on?"

She shifts her weight, runs a hand through her hair, "Alexia and Alba talked to me."

You freeze. "Okay...?"

She looks at you now, finally but her expression is unreadable. "About us. About… how we haven’t slept together."

Your stomach drops, "What—how did that even—"

"You told them," she cuts in. "You told them something private. Something personal. About me. About us."

"It wasn’t like that," you say quickly, voice shaky. "It just came up. They were being, sisters. Asking questions. I didn’t mean to—"

"But you did," she says, voice rising. "You’ve known them five fucking minutes and you're already telling them things that are really fucking personal?!"

Your eyes sting, you take a step back, "It wasn’t malicious. I was just… trying to connect. Everything’s moving so fast and I—"

She laughs once, bitter and breathless. "Yeah, well, I feel like an idiot now. Standing here, finding out from your sisters that you’re apparently frustrated with how slow I’ve been.

You wince. "That’s not what I said. Patri, I care about you. I wasn’t complaining—"

"You embarrassed me." Her voice breaks a little. Not loud. Just raw. "You made me feel small." Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out, she shakes her head. "I thought I was being respectful. Thought I was giving you space. Turns out I was just giving you something to joke about with your new family. She's my friend man, I've known her years, she's my fucking captain!"

You feel the tears hit before you even realise they’re falling. "That’s not fair," you whisper. "You’re twisting this. I didn’t mock you. I’ve never mocked you."

But Patri is already turning away, "I need to go."

"Patri—" She doesn’t look back. You’re left standing under a flickering streetlight, your breath catching in your throat, the sound of her footsteps fading fast into the dark.

You don’t know how long you’ve been walking not really. The air stings your face now, dried tear tracks tight against your skin, footsteps slow and aimless.

You’re still trying to catch your breath when headlights glide up behind you, soft and golden. A car slows and a window rolls down.

"Hey!" It’s Alexia, her voice is too casual, too cheerful like she doesn’t know the world just came crashing down on top of you. You glance over. She’s in the driver’s seat, Olga sits beside her in the front, and Alba peers out from the backseat, concern etched into all their faces. "Thought Patri was walking you home?" Alexia calls.

You stop walking, you feel everything in your body lock into place, your jaw, your spine, your fists. "She was" You give them a look turn and start walking again.

You heard her car start up again and she pulled back along side you, "Y/N Stop, talk to-"

"Are you serious right now?" you snap, your voice slicing through the night. "You thought this was a good time for a chat?"

Alexia blinks. "Wait, what—"

"Of course you thought it was fine!" you yell. "Because everything is always fine for you, isn’t it? You get to be the golden girl the football star, the daughter Eli kept, the sister everyone loves."

Olga opens her mouth like she might say something, but one glance from you silences her.

"You and your whole perfect family keep blowing my life apart. You just waltz in like I should be grateful. Like I should fall to my knees because I finally have a family who want me now that I’m not an inconvenience anymore."

You see Alba flinch in the back seat, her eyes wide, but you’re not done. You take a shaking breath, stepping closer to the window, to Alexia.

"Do you even know what it’s like to spend your whole life wondering why no one came back for you? To look in the mirror and not know a single damn thing about who you are?"

Alexia looks dumbfounded, "What have I done?"

“Don’t play dumb,” you snap, your voice rising fast. “You told her what I said. About us not sleeping together. That was private, Alexia. That was between me you and Alba.”

You shake your head, stepping closer.

“You embarrassed her. You humiliated me. And for what? A laugh? Some bonding moment with your actual sister at our expense?”

She opens her mouth guilt written all over her face but you’re not interested in apologies.

“How am I supposed to trust you after that? You don’t get it, do you?” you say, eyes blazing. “I’ve never had people. Never had someone to protect my secrets, my heart and I let you in. I let all of you in and in five minutes, you’ve already broken something that meant something to me.”

No one says a word, even Alba who usually has something snarky or sharp on hand is silent. Olga’s lips part, but you look at her, and she falls quiet too.

“You and your perfect, shiny family come crashing into my life like you’re doing me a favour,” you go on, voice cracking now. “Like you saving me from loneliness excuses the fact that I was abandoned in the first place.”

You suck in a breath, barely holding it together.

“Do you even understand what it’s like to grow up not knowing why you weren’t wanted? To find out years later that the people you needed weren’t dead, or missing they were just living their lives without you? Cast aside, not spoken of again like you didn't matter”

Alexia flinches and then you deliver the final blow.

“I wish I never found out you were my sister because the reality of knowing you is worse than not.”

You see her shoulders drop, like the air’s been pulled out of her, Olga’s hand subtly reaches for hers, grounding her but you’re already walking.

Toward the alley just ahead dark, narrow, the kind of space a car couldn’t follow through.

“Y/N—” Alexia calls behind you, voice softer now, please in her tone, but you don’t stop.

“Just leave me alone.” And then you’re gone.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The locker room hums with pre-training chatter. Boots clatter against tile, lockers slam, and the familiar sounds of music and laughter bounce off the walls. Alexia sits on the bench, tugging her boots on, her mind only half in the room. Her phone buzzes against the metal beside her, she glances down at the screen.

Olga 💬 Incoming Call

She frowns and quickly answers. "Hey, what’s up?"

Olga’s voice is tight. "Has Y/N texted you? Called? Anything?"

Alexia straightens. "No. Why?"

"She didn’t show up to work this morning," Olga says, voice quiet but tense. "I figured maybe she needed space, after… everything last night, but she’s not answering her phone. I’ve text, called and getting nothing."

That gets Alexia’s full attention, she stands, moving toward the corner of the locker room for privacy. "You’re serious?"

"Dead serious," Olga says. "I’ve never known her to just… not show. And after how upset she was"

Alexia bites her lip, eyes scanning the room instinctively. She spots Patri sitting on the far bench, quietly tying her laces, her shoulders a little stiffer than usual. "I’ll ask Patri," Alexia says quickly, she lowers the phone slightly and steps over. "Hey," she says gently. Patri looks up, wary, "Have you heard from Y/N today? Olga says she’s missing work and not answering."

Patri’s expression doesn’t change much, but something flickers behind her eyes. She shakes her head. "No. Haven’t spoken to her."

Alexia waits, but it’s clear she won’t say more. "You sure?"

Patri doesn’t flinch, but she’s quiet, measured, "Yeah. I'm sure."

Alexia nods slowly, uneasy. She steps back toward the corner and lifts the phone again. "Nothing to Patri either," she tells Olga. "She’s not getting involved, though. I think they argued."

Olga sighs through the line. "I should’ve gone after her last night. I should’ve made her come in the car. She looked… broken."

Alexia closes her eyes. "She told me she wished she’d never found out I was her sister."

There’s a pause, "We need to find her, Ale. I'm worried."

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The sun has dropped behind a massive rain cloud by the time training finishes, casting a golden haze over the city.

Alexia’s untying her boots when she hears Patri behind her “Heard from Y/N?”

Alexia turns, heart lurching with the same dread that hasn’t left her chest all day. She shakes her head. “No. Nothing. I keep checking my phone, Olga's been sat outside her apartment door all afternoon waiting for her to come home with Alba”

Patri nods slowly. Then quietly, without ego or drama, “I know where she’ll be.”

Alexia’s brows pull together. “Where?”

“Come on. I’ll take you,” Patri says. “We can grab dumb and dumber on the way.”

The car is silent as it snakes through the city. Patri’s at the wheel, Alexia riding shotgun, and Olga and Alba sit in the back, Olga clutching her bag like it’s holding her together.

No one really speaks. The weight of it all, the fear, the guilt, the silence between people who care too much and said too little fills the space.

They pull up outside the aquarium. The lights inside still glow faintly as the storm draws in, and it’s quiet, save for the gentle sound of the sea nearby.

Olga leans forward from the back seat. “Why here?”

Patri shuts off the engine. “She comes here when she’s overwhelmed. Told me once that the jellyfish calm her down. She used to sneak into the computer room after hours at the children’s home. She'd watch videos of them, said the water made her feel like she wasn’t trapped anymore.”

Alexia’s heart twists, of course she’d run to the sea when everything on land felt too heavy.

Inside, the space is quiet just the soft hum of filtered water and the rhythmic pulse of ocean light refracted through glass.

They walk slowly. Past reef tanks and luminous tunnels. It’s Olga who spots you first.

You’re seated on the floor in front of the jellyfish exhibit. Legs crossed, arms hugged around your knees, face illuminated in shifting blue light. The world has been too loud, too confusing and here, it's just water, movement, breath.

You don’t hear their footsteps at first, but something in the air shifts that makes you look over your shoulder, Alexia is already walking toward you.

She doesn’t say a word, doesn’t ask if she can, she simply lowers herself to the floor beside you, close but not touching.

You're both quietly watching the tank, then she says softly, eyes on the jellyfish “Papa liked the jellyfish too.”

You blink. She doesn’t look at you.

“He used to bring us here when we were little. Me and Alba. He said they looked like they were dreaming, like they floated between worlds.”

Her voice wavers a little. Still calm, but deep with memory.

“After he died… I couldn’t see a jellyfish without thinking of him”

You say nothing, but your shoulders relax just a fraction, your fingers uncurl slightly on your knee Alexia finally turns her head toward you.

“I’m sorry.”

You glance at her. She holds your gaze now.

“I shouldn’t have told Patri what you said. That was yours and I shouldn't have brought that up with her, it was out of line, I want to treat you as what you are, my sister, but I need to remember how overwhelming it is for you, I don't know how to make this ok”

A long pause, then, you murmur, “Neither do I.”

Alexia breathes in slowly as she nodded, her voice is quieter still, “But I want to try. If you'll let me.”

You barely register there was someone behind you until she speaks, “Can I… have a minute with her?” Patri asks, glancing briefly at Alexia, who nods and quietly gets up, giving you space.

You’re not sure why, but your stomach twists as Patri kneels in front of you slowly, like you might shatter if she moves too quickly. Gently and without asking she reaches for your wrists. You flinch, pulling back sharply. “I didn’t do anything.”

Your voice is more defensive than you meant it to be more ashamed that she needed to check. Patri exhales, sitting back on her heels. She doesn’t say anything right away, just watches you. Not accusing, not angry just worried. “Okay,” she says softly. “Okay. I just… had to check.”

You wrap your arms around yourself and look away. You feel small again, like every bad part of you is suddenly visible, impossible to hide. “You should go,” you whisper.

She blinks. “What?”

You look at her then, voice cracking just enough to betray what’s underneath. “You should go. You deserve better than this than me.”

Patri frowns, confused, hurt. “Y/N—”

“You do,” you cut in, firmer this time. “You deserve someone better. Someone more… I don’t know. Attractive. Confident. Normal. Not this boring, broken mess.”

The silence that follows is painful, but Patri doesn’t storm off. She doesn’t argue or try to fix you with some perfect line. She just swallows, eyes glistening slightly, and whispers, “You don’t get to decide what I deserve.”

You can’t look at her, you stare at your hands. The sting of your words still hanging between you both.

Then, more quietly, she says, “Can I ask you something?” You nod, not looking at her, “Did it really bother you that much… that we haven’t had sex?”

You pause, then shrug, not because you don’t care, but because you don’t know how to explain it not properly. Patri waits. She always gives you space like that, but this time, she deserves an answer. “It’s not you,” you say quietly. “I know it’s not you.”

She turns toward you slightly. You can feel her attention on you, even as you keep your eyes on the shifting water.

“It’s me. It’s how I see myself. How I feel in my own skin.” You take a breath, then another. You hate the sound of your voice when it’s this vulnerable. “I know you’re being respectful and I love that about you, I do, but sometimes it makes me feel like… like somethings wrong with me, like I’m not good enough. Not sexy enough. Like you’re waiting for something better to come along.”

You finally turn your head to look at her, your voice barely a whisper:

“I want to feel wanted too.” There’s a long, deep quiet, "you didn't always make me feel like that"

Then Patri shifts a little closer, her eyes gentle but burning with conviction.

“You have no idea how wanted you are,” she says. “You think I’m holding back because I don’t want you?” She shakes her head. “I’m holding back because I do. So much it scares me.”

You blink fast. Her hand reaches for yours slowly, letting you be the one to close the space. You do.

“Don’t ever think for a second it’s because I don’t want you. I do. All of you. Exactly as you are.”

You lower your head placing with the laces on your shoes to keep you busy, then, Patri speaks again, her voice low but honest.

“I haven’t… initiated anything because when we do spend the night together…”

She hesitates, not out of shame, but to be careful with her words.

“…you wouldn't even get changed in front of me.”

You feel your cheeks burn, gaze dropping again. She’s not being cruel it’s not judgment. Just truth.

“So I figured…” she continues softly, “…maybe you weren’t confident in yourself yet and I didn’t want to push you or make you feel like you had to do anything just because I wanted to.” She swallows “I wanted you to want it and the only way I’d really know that… is if you were the one who started it.”

You nod slowly, the sting behind your eyes returning again, "You were right to be mad" You raise your eyes, "But I don't want you to forgive me because you think something happened to me, you need to go be mad"

"Y/N" She watches you stare back into the tank for a moment, before getting to her feet and leaving you behind.

"Well?" Olga asks

Patri sighed, "I think she just broke up with me"

"What?"

Patri shrugs holding her car keys to Alexia, "I'll walk home, take care of her make sure she gets home ok" and just like that the best thing you'd had in years walked right by you like you weren't even there.

The jellyfish glowing and silence holding the weight of everything said and unsaid clogs your mind, until the faint echo of footsteps draws your attention. You glance over as Alexia, Olga, and Alba approach slowly, uncertainly, as if afraid to disturb something fragile.

No one speaks at first, they just stand there, the soft glow of the tank casting bluish light over all of you, reflecting in eyes that still hold exhaustion and unsaid things.

Then, Alba breaks the silence. "They're funny-looking little things, aren't they?"

She squints at the jellyfish drifting behind the glass, her voice casual, even light, but you can hear the intent beneath it she's trying. You blink at her, then turn your gaze to the tank again.

"They don’t even have brains," she adds, frowning. "Just… float around bumping into stuff, somehow still alive."

"Sounds familiar," you murmur, standing up and leaving them behind, you know they're following you, but you've always been good at switching people off to you.

You move slowly toward the massive shark tank, the water dark and swirling with sleek shapes gliding silently through it.

Olga stops beside you, her eyes wide with awe. “I never realised sharks were so... graceful,” she says, watching the shadows move.

You smile softly, stepping closer to the glass. “They’re incredible creatures,” you begin, your voice steady and sure now. “Most people think they’re just mindless killers, but sharks have been around for over 400 million years. They’re apex predators, but they play a vital role in keeping the ocean’s ecosystem balanced.”

Olga leans in, clearly impressed, “Wow, I had no idea. You really know your stuff.”

You shrug, a little shy but pleased. “I’ve always been fascinated by them, their senses, how they detect electrical signals in the water, their social behaviours. It’s like they have this whole world we barely understand.”

Olga's gaze lingers on you for a moment longer, her smile soft, "You broke up with Patri?"

"I don't want to talk about it"

"Ok" Olga nodded, "Do you want us to take you home?"

"Only if you drive and I can sit in the front"

You caught the smile Olga tried to hide, you were aware how childish you sounded but she didn't need to find it funny.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The market buzzes around you the sounds of bargaining, the rustle of paper bags, the scent of spices and fresh herbs hanging in the warm air. You spot Eli before she sees you, carefully choosing tomatoes with the same quiet intensity you’ve seen in the mirror when you’re trying to steady yourself.

You walk up slowly, offering a soft, “Hi.”

She looks over seemingly genuinely pleased to see you, “Mi niña,” she says gently, setting down a tomato and reaching out to give your arm a squeeze. “I’m glad you came.”

You fall into step beside her, letting the noise of the market fill the silences between you. It’s not awkward just tentative, like you’re both learning a rhythm neither of you ever expected to need.

A few stalls in, while she’s weighing peaches, Eli glances at you “Alexia told me what happened,” she says quietly. “About what she and Alba said to Patri.”

You swallow, suddenly fascinated by the uneven cobblestones beneath your shoes. “I didn’t mean to hurt Alexia's feelings,” you murmur.

“I know you didn’t.” Eli’s voice is steady but carries that tired weight, the one that lingers after sleepless nights. “And I want to say this to you, they were wrong for telling her. That was your story, your trust you put in them and they didn’t protect it, they want you to be their sister but they need to act like one towards you to.”

You blink at her, taken aback by the unexpected validation. She picks through some herbs as she speaks, almost absentmindedly.

“It's a hard situation, we're all trying to learn and navigate through something we have no idea how to deal with.”

You nod, throat tight Eli gives your hand a gentle squeeze.

"It just needs some communication and boundary setting I think"

The conversation dips back into quiet as you both drift toward a stall selling fresh pastries. Eli eyes a tray of cinnamon-coated ensaimadas, then glances at you with a little conspiratorial smirk.

“They say the calories don’t count if you’re with company,” she says.

You chuckle. “Who says that?”

“Me. Just now.” She shrugs like she’s daring the universe to disagree.

You both laugh, and it’s real light, unforced. A moment you never imagined having with her, and yet here it is, folded in between fruit stalls and spice jars.

Eli hands you a warm pastry and takes one for herself, nodding toward a bench shaded by a canvas awning. You both sit, elbows brushing, the market humming around you like background music.

After a beat, Eli speaks again, softer this time, “I want you to know something.” You glance sideways at her, she doesn’t look at you yet just picks gently at a bit of sugar on her pastry. “I’m not trying to be the mami I gave up the right to be. I know I don’t get to come back into your life and just… pick up where we didn’t even start.”

You look at her then properly. She finally turns to meet your gaze.

“I just want to get to know you, as you, not the baby I lost. Not the girl I couldn’t raise. Just… the person you are now.”

Your chest tightens, but not painfully more like something protective inside you loosening, just a little.

She adds, quietly, “I want to be your friend. If you'll let me.”

You nod, swallowing past the lump in your throat. “I’d like that,” you say. “I think I would really like that.”

She smiles this time with her whole face, eyes shining just a little and two strangers who were never meant to be strangers sit and share sweet pastries in the quiet. After you finish your pastries, Eli doesn’t rush to stand, instead, she stretches her legs a little, brushing crumbs from her lap.

“Do you like flowers?” she asks casually.

You blink, then nod. “Yeah. I mean, I don’t know a lot about them, but… yeah.”

She smiles and tilts her head toward a nearby corner where a small flower stall is almost bursting with colour. “Come on then.”

You follow her, and she walks with purpose not fast, but steady, as though she knows this exact route by heart. When she reaches the stall, she speaks easily with the older man running it, switching from warm Catalan to Spanish as needed. It’s clear she comes here often.

She gestures to a cluster of sunflowers. “These were your father’s favourite,” she says, almost casually but you notice the tremor in her voice.

You glance over, heart quietly thudding. “He had good taste.”

She chuckles softly. “He really did.” Then she looks at you, eyes soft. “You have his eyes, not the colour, in the way they move. Always watching people, thinking.” You feel yourself blush faintly and look away, unsure how to respond. She buys a small bunch sunflowers and white carnations and pays before you can even consider offering, “Come on,” she says gently. “There’s a little bench up by the fountain I used to take the girls to after shopping.”

You follow her again, the bouquet tucked gently under her arm, and as you both sit again, Eli pulls out a little plastic water bottle from her bag and carefully places the flowers inside.

You watch her quietly, something twisting deep in your chest. A strange feeling. Not pain exactly just the ache of unfamiliar comfort.

After a beat, you ask, softly without looking at her, “Do you miss him?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Every day.”

You pause. “Me too. And I didn’t even know him.”

There’s silence. But it’s full rich and sad and okay, eventually, she reaches over and gently touches your hand. “I’m proud of the woman you’ve become,” she says, voice trembling slightly. “Even if I had no part in making you her.”

You don’t cry not exactly, but the tears sting a little, and when she opens her arms, you don’t even hesitate.

You lean into her and, it feels like maybe something broken got stitched back together, even just a little.

After the fountain, after the tears, and after your arms had finally let go of each other, Eli tilted her head and smiled at you gently.

“We should do something completely superficial now,” she said, swiping at her cheek with a tissue and handing you one too. “Let’s go buy something neither of us needs.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the suggestion. “Clothes?” you ask, half-laughing.

“Clothes,” she confirms, already rising and adjusting the bouquet in her bag like it’s simply a companion now.

You both end up walking to a quieter side street, tucked away from the usual tourist mess, into a little boutique that’s airy and bright and smells like lavender and fresh linen. It’s the kind of place you wouldn’t usually step into too polished, too elegant, but Eli seems at home, offering a polite wave to the woman behind the counter, who beams at her like they’re old friends.

“You really know everyone, don’t you?” you say under your breath.

“It’s a gift,” she replies, grinning.

She doesn’t rush you. Instead, she browses lightly, then subtly starts holding things up against you. A pale green sundress. A deep blue blouse. A soft cream cardigan.

You roll your eyes but secretly it’s nice, someone seeing you like this.

“What about this?” she says eventually, holding up a long wrap dress, black with little embroidered constellations scattered across it.

You pause. “It’s pretty.”

“It’s you,” she says simply, then adds with a little wink, “And it would drive Patri mad.”

You flush, laughing. “Okay, now it’s weird you're trying to dress me up for a woman didn't show any interest in me like that”

“I’m observant and I have daughters who gossip like they’re paid to do it.”

You turned back to the mirror to look at yourself in the mirror as you held the dress against you, "Then you probably heard me and her are over because of it"

"I heard. Surprisingly from Olga, not like her to gossip," Eli adjusts the fabric on your dress fussing like any mother would making sure you were holding up correctly, "It's a shame"

You hold your eyes in the mirror on her, "Is it?"

She hums, "I saw the way she looked at you, she cared for you"

"She didn't fancy me, she didn't want to-"

"Sex is not everything my dear, you want to find a woman who is your best friend who makes you laugh without trying because if you marry a dull woman who is great in bed, its not going to be great when you're bed bound with them and unable to" She stopped fiddling, "And you can have a lot of fun before you get to that part teaching them how to do it with your best friend"

You genuinely laughed, "Since you put it that way"

"Plus since my daughters love to gossip with there friends in my ear shot, from what i've heard, you wouldn't need to teach Patri a thing"

"Oh really?"

Eli nodded with a hum, "Really"

Eventually, you try on a few more things. She waits just outside the curtain, tossing in little comments now and then that are actually kind

When you finally step out in the constellation dress, she stills.

Her face shifts proud and quiet and a little sad all at once, “You look beautiful,” she says, not trying to oversell it. Just honest.

"You sure?"

She nods, "It's a little long but I can hem that no problem"

You look at yourself in the mirror. It's been a long time since you agreed. “Okay,” you say softly. “Let’s get it.”

As you change back, she pays for it, despite your protests, and when you step back out, she hands you the paper bag with a little smile.

“Everyone deserves to feel lovely in something once in a while. You especially.”

You leave the shop arm in arm, the sun warming the cobblestones, the weight in your chest just a little lighter.

You don’t talk about the past anymore that afternoon. Instead, you get iced coffees, walk back to her home, and people-watch. You tease her about how nosy she is. She tells you you’re too guarded.

You don’t correct her.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The door creaks as you push it open with your hip, a to go caffeine free coffee in one hand and the weight of a not quite healed argument still clinging to your shoulders. The office is quiet, too early for the usual hum of conversation or clatter of keys, but as you turn the corner, that hush is cut by the unmistakable sound of Olga’s sigh echoing dramatically through the space.

You glance up to find her seated at her desk, legs swinging slightly, head tilted back like she’s been trapped in the worst kind of purgatory, early morning admin with nothing to entertain her.

Beside her, slumped far less dramatically, is Alexia. One foot propped on a chair, hair tied in a messy low bun, her face is unreadable as she scrolls idly through something on her phone. She doesn’t even look up.

Your eyes linger on her a second too long before you catch yourself.

“Morning,” you say cordial but clipped.

Olga perks up immediately, flashing you a grin that feels about five percent mischief and ninety five percent cautious optimism. “There she is. Look at you, up early, looking fresh,”

You don’t answer that. You just give a polite smile, one corner of your mouth barely twitching up, and move past them to your desk.

Alexia finally looks over, her gaze lingers. She opens her mouth like she might say something but then shuts it again.

You pull out your chair, setting down your bag, then your drink, then the stack of papers you’d been meaning to sort through since last week. You focus on that, not on how still Alexia has gone, not on how the silence between you stretches taut like a wire.

“You two still not talking?” Olga asks with a huff, clearly talking to you but looking at Alexia.

You don’t respond, Alexia does, her tone dry. “Apparently not.”

You look up at that, sharp, eyes meeting hers, she doesn’t flinch, she never does. “It’s not about talking,” you say simply. “It’s about trusting.”

Alexia’s mouth tugs into something like a grimace, but she doesn’t push it further. Olga watches you both like a spectator at a tennis match, sensing she’s stepped into the tension without a helmet.

“Right. Cool. Love this vibe,” she mutters, sliding off her chair. “Think I’m gonna go make a very strong coffee and pretend this office isn’t emotionally suffocating.”

She wanders off, muttering under her breath, you and Alexia are left in the silence. You shuffle some papers, she crosses her arms and still she doesn't say she's sorry. You don’t ask her to and maybe that’s what’s worse than yelling. The not knowing if the bridge will be rebuilt or just left to rot quietly, unspoken between you.

The tension in the office doesn’t fade as the morning drags on. If anything, it lingers. You keep your head down, earbuds in, pretending to focus on an old training report that doesn’t need reviewing. But every so often, your eyes flick across the office, watching Alexia pacing back and forth like a caged animal.

She’s been restless since you got here, more than usual, it would be comical, her muttering under her breath, grumbling about the chair being too low, the air conditioning being too cold, and her phone battery mysteriously disappearing even though she’d definitely charged it last night, if it wasn’t so deeply, pointedly irritating.

Olga clearly thinks so. “Ale,” Olga finally groans from her chair, chin on her folded arms on the desk, “if you sigh one more time, I swear to god I’m going to glue your mouth shut with glue.”

Alexia, perched by the window with her injured ankle propped up on a small chair, whips her head around. “I’m just bored, okay? I’m meant to be training. This sitting around doing nothing shit is torture.”

“Oh, I hadn’t noticed.” Olga drags out the sarcasm like it physically pains her not to be dramatic. “You’ve only rearranged the pens on my desk three times.”

You fight the small smile that tugs at the corner of your mouth. You don’t want to find this funny, you don’t want to enjoy anything about Alexia right now, but her pout is so real and so unintentionally childish that you can’t help it.

Alexia glares at Olga, then sighs, again, deliberately and leans back in the chair like she’s being punished.

“I just feel useless,” she mutters. “Everyone’s training, everyone’s doing something, and I’m… sitting here. Waiting to heal.”

That flicker of guilt stings in your chest. You know the feeling stalled, stuck, waiting for something inside you to stop aching. Olga speaks “Maybe you should’ve thought about that before deciding to take on a five a side match against literal children.”

“They were talking shit,” Alexia mumbles defensively.

“They were nine, Alexia.” That earns a short, begrudging chuckle even from you, there’s a pause and then Olga, not bothering to lower her voice, says, “You know, this would all be more tolerable if you weren’t also in your feelings about the whole Y/N thing.”

You freeze, Alexia doesn’t, she just exhales sharply and glares at Olga. “Can you not?”

“What? It’s the truth.” Olga props herself up on one elbow, expression flattened with that all too familiar tone of blunt affection. “You’re moping. It’s annoying and Y/N is literally right there trying to work while you do it.”

You don’t look up, you click something at random on your screen ad you hear Alexia shift. “I’m not moping,” she says too quickly.

“You are and you screwed up and I know you know that and I know you want to fix it, but you don’t know how to do that without being defensive or emotionally constipated.”

You finally glance up, just in time to catch Alexia looking completely murderous, but she doesn’t deny it.

Olga shrugs. “Look, I’m team you two work it out. I am, but either do something about it or stop because I swear to god if you reorganise those pens one more time, I’m going to scream.” You stifle a laugh behind your hand, Alexia throws a stress ball at her, it bounces off Olga’s head with a dull thud. “You throw like you injured your arm not your ankle,” she mutters, catching it lazily.

Alexia doesn’t respond. You keep your eyes on the screen even though you’ve reread the same sentence four times and absorbed none of it.

Then, finally, she moves tentative steps with her good leg, crutch under one arm as she hobbles the short distance across the office toward you.

Olga mutters something under her breath probably a sarcastic prayer or warning but neither of you acknowledge it.

Alexia stops just short of your desk, eyes soft but cautious. Like someone approaching a skittish animal. Like she knows one wrong word and you’ll bolt. “Can I talk to you for a sec?” she asks, voice quiet.

You don't look up right away, you feel her hesitate, but she doesn't walk away. She waits, like Patri used to, but less sure of herself. You sigh when she doesn't give up, close your laptop lid, and glance up expression blank, but not cold.

She shifts her weight awkwardly, adjusting the crutch. “I know you’re still upset with me,” she says, with no forced emotion. “And I deserve that. I do.”

You stare at her a beat longer than necessary. Then finally, you exhale and softly, almost without thinking you ask, “How long are you out for?”

It’s not forgiveness, but it’s not nothing either. Alexia blinks at you, surprised. Then her shoulders loosen a bit. “Three weeks, maybe four. Depends how it heals. Sprained it playing five-a-side with the neighbours' kids,” she adds, half-smiling, a little self-deprecating.

You hum, barely amused. “Heard they were nine.”

“One of them did a roulette nutmeg and called me abuela. I panicked.” You don’t laugh, but the corner of your mouth twitches, she notices but she doesn’t push. “I’m sorry, Y/N,” she says quietly, no speech, no excuse, just that. “What I said to Patri… it wasn’t mine to share. I know that now.”

You nod. Just once. It's small, but it's acknowledgment, “You didn’t mean to hurt me,” you say, your voice calm but not warm.

Alexia shakes her head, eyes a little sad. “No, but I did.”

That hangs between you both for a second, it isn’t a full olive branch accepted but you didn’t break it either and that’s something.

“So…” she starts, way too casual for someone who knows she’s about to prod at something delicate. “You and Patri. Still broken up?”

You keep your gaze forward, flipping aimlessly through your paperwork, even though nothing on it matters. “Yeah. Seems it”

She nods like she expected that. Then, “Because you didn’t have sex?”

You close your eyes for a second, then nod slowly and you were still not looking at her.

Alexia doesn’t miss a beat, “Why did you not just sleep with her then?”

You blink and blink again, then turn to her with the slow, painful precision of someone trying not to yell in a hospital zone. “Oh wow, Alexia,” you say, voice dry as desert air, “that never occurred to me at all.”

She has the decency to wince a little but doesn’t back off. Classic Putellas. “I just meant—”

“What? That I should’ve sucked it up and gone for it? Pretended I’m not completely terrified every time someone sees me without clothes on?”

She pauses and you keep going, not angry exactly, just exposed.

“I didn’t not sleep with her because I just didn't feel like it. I didn’t because I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror, Alexia. I didn’t because I was scared she’d look at me and change her mind”

Alexia is quiet now. The kind of quiet that means she’s finally listening instead of trying to fix it with a one-liner and a shrug.

You sigh, shaking your head, rubbing at your temple. “I didn’t need someone to sleep with me. I needed someone to make me feel like I could be seen and still be wanted. She barely showed she wanted me clothed so you can only imagine how I thought she would be when I wasn't”

There’s a beat and then, gently quiet in a way she rarely is, “She did want you. She does want you.”

Alexia stares at you like she’s genuinely baffled, her brow furrowed in that intense, earnest way she reserves for both Champions League finals and your emotional wellbeing.

“You’re beautiful,” she says, like it’s fact, like it's obvious, like it physically pains her that you don’t agree. “Why do you not see that?”

You blink at her, deadpan, then gesture vaguely at her elevated leg, wrapped in ice, her sock rolled halfway down and a grimace still lingering from earlier. “You have an ankle,” you reply, dry as ever. “Why don’t you just use it?”

Her mouth opens slightly, stunned into silence for a second before she bursts into a begrudging laugh, head dropping back against the wall behind her. “Okay, fine,” she mutters, smiling despite herself. “Point taken.”

You allow yourself the smallest smirk before glancing back at your notes, the moment settling between you, you look up just in time to see Alexia limping over, dragging the chair beside your desk.

She plops down beside you with a sigh, resting her ankle on another chair, and then fixes you with a look that already makes you brace yourself. “Okay,” she says, “this is going to be an awkward conversation, considering you're my little sister…”

You immediately groan, putting your pen down. “Do we have to”

“Let me finish,” she insists, holding up a hand like she’s the adult in this sibling dynamic, which somehow makes it worse. You cringe, already regretting whatever impulse let her get within ten feet of you, “Patri thought you were sexy.”

You squeeze your eyes shut like it’ll block out her voice. “Stop it.”

“No, no, listen, before we even knew who you were, she used to go on about you all the time. Always bragging about how attractive you were. Like, stupid obsessed.”

You peek at her, horrified, “Are you done?”

“Not even close,” she says brightly. “She showed you off like a proud dog mami, Y/N. I mean, full-on ‘look at her, isn’t she perfect’ vibes. She’d find any excuse to bring you up and not just about your face either, which, yes, she liked, weirdly.”

You groan again, sinking into your seat.

“She loved that you were funny when you let yourself be. Said you had this dry, clever kind of humour that made her feel like she had to earn your laugh.”

There’s a silence then, not heavy, but not nothing either.

Alexia shrugs, “I’m just saying, it was never about you not being enough. If anything, I think she thought you were too good for her"

You don’t say anything for a second, then, quieter, “She still left.”

Alexia nods, softer now, “Yeah, but maybe she was just doing what you asked her to do”

You glance down at your hands, the silence stretches a little further this time, then Alexia clears her throat and leans back.

“Okay, I’m done being the emotionally available big sister. This ankle is killing me and I’m bored again.”

You huff out a small laugh despite yourself. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m the best,” she corrects, kicking her good foot up onto your desk. “And I deserve snacks for this emotional labour.”

You slide a granola bar across the desk toward her without looking. “Take it and never speak again.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, grinning.

Alexia starts absently fiddling with your pens, spinning one between her fingers before clicking it three times in rapid succession like she’s testing the exact frequency that will break your brain. Then she lines them up not straight, of course, but just off enough to trigger every urge you have to fix them.

You stare at her, “Can you not?”

She grins, “I’m stimulating the creative environment.”

You reach out and unceremoniously shove her foot off your desk, “Stimulate a job. Somewhere else.”

"Can we stop saying stimulate" Olga muttered as she shuddered at the word

She dramatically recoils like you’ve just committed a war crime. “Violence against the injured? Disgusting.”

You glare. “It’s no wonder Alba’s always angry. Growing up with you? I’d be furious every day of my life to.”

Alexia smirks, unfazed. “She is and she still texts me first every time she needs to vent. That’s the power of charm.”

You roll your eyes and start fixing your pens back into their proper place, muttering under your breath. “More like the power of shared trauma.”

“Tomato, tomahto,” she sings, now tapping out a rhythm on the edge of your desk with another pen like a toddler who’s discovered percussion.

You shoot her a look that promises death, “You’re lucky you’re injured.”

“I know,” she grins. “It’s the only thing keeping me interesting this week.” You sigh, long suffering, and reach for your headphones the only line of defence you still have. “I’ll tell Alba you said she’s angry, by the way.”

“I said always angry, not just angry. There’s a difference.”

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You’re two months in, and you’re still not sure how Olga Rios manages to be everywhere at once.

She’s answering emails while editing a reel. She’s sketching out a content calendar with one hand and handing you a matcha latte with the other because she remembers that you don’t do coffee, and that still surprises you a little.

Her loft-office smells like lavender and old books, even though the work is anything but quiet. There’s a gentle hum of creativity in the air half Spotify playlists, half the occasional bark from her dog, Nala, who has her own Instagram account with better engagement than most influencers you know.

You sit across from her at a wide wooden table covered in sticky notes, open laptops, two ring lights, and exactly one succulent that’s definitely fake but somehow not thriving. She’s got that kind of energy, Olga. She makes things grow, unless you're fake.

“You’re getting faster,” she says without looking up from her screen. Her voice is warm, honeyed, soft in the way that makes you want to lean closer, like she’s letting you in on something. “The captions today? I liked them. You’re starting to sound less like a brand, and more like a human. That’s good.”

You try not to grin too much, but it’s hard not to. Praise from Olga is never handed out like candy it’s measured, genuine, and usually comes with a Post-it note suggestion five minutes later, but when she says something’s good, she means it.

You glance at your own screen three drafts open, analytics humming in a separate tab. You're starting to notice patterns, pick up her shorthand, even anticipate when she’s about to say, “We can do better.” You’re getting the rhythm now. It feels like learning a dance. Awkward at first, but now... now you’re finding your footing.

“Do you ever sleep?” you ask, half-joking, because she’s been up since six and somehow still looks like she floated here on a sunbeam.

She laughs, a soft, melodic thing that fills the loft. “Only when a campaign’s not launching. So… not often. But I love this. I love seeing things come to life.” She sips her tea, eyes crinkling at the corners. “And I think you’re going to be really good at this.” Something about the way she says it makes your heart lift. A couple of month in, and you’re already certain, this isn’t just an internship. This is the beginning of something.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

It’s a quiet afternoon, the kind that settles like soft dust. The usual buzz of Olga’s workspace is muted no clients calling, no urgent edits, just the rhythmic clack of keys and the occasional sigh from Nala, curled up under the table like she owns the place.

You’re working side by side on a campaign for a small bookstore that’s trying to grow its online presence. Olga is fine-tuning the carousel post for tomorrow, and you’re adjusting the tone of the captions trying to thread that fine line between charming and trying-too-hard. It’s nice. Peaceful, even.

Olga breaks the silence without looking away from her screen. “Do you have anyone in your family who loves books like this?”

You pause. The cursor blinks in front of you. The question is soft, casual, not meant to dig but it hits something that feels like hollow wood. “I…” You swallow. “I don’t know.”

Olga looks up immediately.

You don’t say anything else at first. The words stall. It’s not that you haven’t talked about it before it’s just that people usually don’t ask, not really.

She tilts her head slightly, brows gently furrowed. Her voice lowers. “Hey. You okay?”

You nod automatically, out of habit. But then, without quite meaning to, you add, “I didn’t grow up with a family. I was left at a children’s home when I was a baby.”

The air in the room shifts not heavier, exactly, just… slower. Softer.

Olga doesn’t gasp, or overreact, or flood you with sympathy that feels too bright and uncomfortable. She just sets her phone down and gives you her full attention.

“I’m sorry,” she says. Quiet. Real.

You shrug, though it feels awkward. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s just… how it was. I don't really think about it much now. I just… didn’t have anyone to ask questions like that about.”

Olga nods slowly, like she’s letting your words settle inside her before responding. Then, gently “Well, just so you know any time you want to say, ‘My 'mentor' once told me this,’ you can go ahead and start with me.”

You let out a soft laugh, surprised.

She smiles, warm and a little wistful. “I know it’s not the same. But you’re not on your own here, okay? Not while you’re working with me.”

For a moment, you’re not thinking about metrics or content calendars or trending audios. You’re just sitting across from someone who sees you not just as an assistant or intern, but as a person.

The knock on the door is light but confident. You barely register it at first lost in the middle of scheduling posts for a new client who sells handmade ceramic earrings until Olga perks up with that unmistakable sparkle in her eyes.

She glances at the clock, then at you. “That’ll be Alexia.”

You blink. “Alexia…?”

Before she can answer, the door swings open and there she is.

Alexia Putellas. That Alexia Putellas.

Even if you don’t follow football religiously, her face is familiar. The captain, the icon, the Ballon d'Or winner. The kind of person whose highlight reels show up on your feed whether you asked for them or not. And now she’s in Olga’s office, wearing a simple hoodie, black joggers, and the kind of calm confidence that doesn't need to shout to be heard.

She smiles when she sees Olga, and everything about Olga posture, eyes, even the way she exhales shifts in the softest way. Like a house when someone finally comes home.

Olga stands, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Ale, this is the one I’ve been telling you about.”

You freeze. Alexia’s gaze lands on you, kind and curious. “So you’re the apprentice,” she says, her accent smooth but clear, the kind that could make any sentence feel like a secret. “Olga’s been bragging.”

You blink again. “She—she has?”

Olga shrugs like it’s nothing. “Only a little. Maybe a lot.”

Alexia steps forward and offers her hand. “It’s really nice to meet you. I’ve heard you’re doing great work.”

You shake her hand her grip is strong, grounded and try not to look like you’re meeting a living legend, because you are. But she’s also incredibly down-to-earth, her presence somehow both intimidating and totally easy to be around.

Olga comes around the desk and gently bumps Alexia’s shoulder with hers. “She only comes here to raid my snack drawer and steal my playlists,” she says, teasing.

Alexia grins. “Also because I love you.”

There’s a beat of warmth between them that you feel rather than see, like watching sunlight fall through a window. “Do you want me to go?” you ask, half-joking.

Olga laughs. “No way. Ale's just here to say hi before training. You’re family now. Might as well meet the boss.”

Alexia raises an eyebrow. “I’m the boss?”

Olga winks. “In football, yes. In here, you just eat all my almonds.”

You watch them and feel something shift inside you again like the quiet redefinition of what ‘family’ might look like. Not always blood. Sometimes it's someone who believes in you. Someone who shares their space with you. Someone who brings light with them, just by walking through the door.

You glance at your screen, then back at the two of them.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You invite Olga over to work because it feels normal now. Familiar. Safe, even.

It’s late almost midnight. You’ve both been bouncing between drafts for a new campaign and clips from a client shoot. Nala is curled up on your bed, half-snoring, and there’s the comfort of shared silence between you, broken only by the occasional sound of keys or a soft “Wait, this transition’s better” from Olga.

She gets up to stretch, as she often does when she’s been sitting too long. Paces a little. You barely notice her eyes scanning your bookshelf until you hear her voice. Low. Surprised. “…Wait. What?”

You glance over. She’s holding the small, slightly curled photo that’s been with you for as long as you can remember. You’ve had it since before you could read. Two little girls. One smiling, the other not so much.

You never knew their names. Never knew why the photo was with your things. It was just… always there. Something old, something yours, but now Olga is frozen, staring at it. “Why do you have this?” she asks, but the softness in her voice is already cracking.

You sit up straighter. “What do you mean?”

She turns the frame toward you, her eyes sharp now. “This is Alexia. And her sister Alba. This photo’s from when they were kids. I’ve never seen this before, how do you have this?.”

Your mouth opens slowly. “What?”

She steps closer. “Don’t play dumb.”

You shake your head, heart beginning to pound. “I’m not. I didn’t know who they were. I’ve had that photo since I was dropped off at the home. It was in a box with my baby things, I never even knew there names.”

Olga stares at you like she doesn’t believe you.

“I swear,” you say, voice trembling now. “I never knew. I didn’t know.”

But she isn’t hearing you. Not fully. Her jaw clenches. “So you mean to tell me this is just some random coincidence? You had a photo of my girlfriend and her sister, and you never knew?”

“I didn’t know!” you say louder now, trying to push through the panic rising in your chest. “Olga, I didn’t. They were just two girls in a picture I’ve had it since I was a baby! One of my foster parents told me they were my sisters once but I could never see the resemblance but I, I don't know I just could never throw it away, it was left with me for a reason, I couldn't-”

“You expect me to believe that?” she snaps interrupting, eyes suddenly fierce. “You knew who Alexia was. Everyone does. You had the photo, you applied for this job, and you never once thought to say a word.”

Your breath catches. “I didn’t even connect them to say something. Please why would I lie to you?”

But she’s shaking her head, stepping back, betrayal flashing in her eyes. “I trusted you. I let you into my space. My life. And now I find this?”

She turns, grabs the frame, and holds it tightly like she’s afraid it might disappear. You stand, reaching toward her helplessly. “Please, Olga. I’m not using you. I didn’t know. I swear to you.”

But her voice cuts through the air like glass. “Don’t say another word.”

She storms toward the door. “Olga—please!”

Her hand is on the knob already. “Do not tell anyone about this. Not Alexia. Not anyone. I mean it.” And just like that, she’s gone door slamming behind her, the photo still clutched in her hand.

You stand frozen in your tiny apartment, the silence left in her wake louder than anything you've ever heard.

You don’t remember sitting down. Just that suddenly you’re on the floor, legs folded awkwardly beneath you, and the room feels too still.

The candle you lit earlier is still flickering on the desk, scenting the air with warm vanilla, like any normal night, but everything has changed.

The photo’s gone. She took it.

You wrap your arms around yourself, unsure if you’re cold or just empty. Your hands are shaking. Your chest feels tight, like someone filled it with wet sand. You can’t stop replaying the last ten minutes Olga’s face, the anger, the betrayal in her voice. The way she looked at you like you were a stranger. Worse—like a lie.

“I didn’t know,” you whisper, to no one. Your own voice sounds small, cracked open. “I didn’t know.” But the silence doesn’t answer. It just presses in around you.

You don’t know how that photo ended up with your baby things. You never questioned it. It was just… part of the mystery of you. You’d imagined a hundred stories for it as a kid. A fantasy life you were left out of. Two unknown little girls you'd prop up when you had tea parties alone, two faces you talked to when no one else would listen but it never felt real. Not like this.

You wipe at your face and realise you’ve been crying without noticing, not loudly, just slow, quiet tears that slip out like steam from a cracked mug.

You try to work. To check a calendar, finish a caption, edit a reel, but everything blurs. Your fingers hover over the keys, useless. More tears come. Not steady, but suddenly rising without warning like waves. You press your hand to your mouth, like that might stop the sob that’s already too far out to swallow back.

You don’t know what hurts more: the fear that she won’t believe you or the feeling that she already doesn’t, and underneath that, a newer, stranger thought creeps in:

What if the photo really does mean something? What if you're connected to them in some way you never imagined?

You don’t know how to hold that. You don’t even know if you want to.

The night stretches long and quiet. You cry again, not always with sound. Sometimes just with breath that shakes too hard, or thoughts that spiral too fast. You think about messaging Olga. You almost do, but what would you say that you haven’t already begged her to believe?

Eventually, curled in bed, your chest aching and eyes sore, the exhaustion takes over.

You fall asleep and as your breathing evens out in the dark, the photo lives somewhere else now, in her hands.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You shouldn’t go in to work, you know that.

You didn’t sleep more than a couple of hours, and when you looked in the mirror this morning, your reflection startled you, pale, red-eyed, shadows under your eyes like bruises that haven’t fully bloomed. You look like someone who’s been crying on and off for eight hours, because you have, but not going in make it look like you had something to hide, and you loved your job.

So you pull yourself together barely. Tie your hair back. Splash water on your face. Avoid your own eyes as you grab your bag and head out the door.

The walk to Olga’s office feels longer than usual. Everything’s sharp, the sound of your own footsteps, the brightness of the morning, the hum of people who don’t know your world just came apart. You keep your head down.

When you get there, the door is already unlocked, she was here already, you step inside slowly. Olga’s at her desk. Laptop open, headphones around her neck, Nala curled up on the rug at her feet. She looks up instinctively when you enter.

For a moment, nothing moves, then her eyes scan your face and she sees it. The red around your eyes. The way your shoulders hang. The hollow tiredness you didn’t have to fake.

Her mouth parts slightly, like she might say something, but she doesn’t. Instead, she looks back down at her screen.

You nod stiffly, not that she’s looking, and cross the room to your usual seat. Every movement feels brittle. Too careful. You place your laptop on the table as quietly as you can, like noise might crack what’s left between you.

You don’t speak. Neither does she.

The silence is different today. Not the peaceful kind. It’s tight. Pressurised. You can feel her not looking at you, can feel her tension radiating from behind her screen like heat.

Your stomach twists. You open your laptop. Try to focus on the client folder. Everything blurs.

You can’t stop thinking about the way she stormed out. The photo in her hand. The fear in her eyes. The disbelief in her voice.

And now, she’s right there but she may as well be a hundred miles away. You steal a glance at her. She’s typing something. Her jaw is tight. Her ponytail is a little messy, like she didn’t sleep well either.

You want to say something. Apologise again. Explain again. Beg if you have to, but the air around her says not to.

So you sit in the quiet. Trying to work. Trying not to cry. Trying not to lose the one place that ever felt like it might become home.

You’re halfway through pretending to work when the door clicks open behind you. Your heart stops, you know that sound now. You know who it is before she says a word.

“Hola,” Alexia calls out gently, cheerful but quiet, as if she’s stepping into a place where someone might be asleep or upset.

You stay frozen for a half second too long, then shift your body slightly in your chair. Not enough to seem rude, but just enough to make your back the most visible part of you.

Don’t make eye contact. Don’t breathe too loudly. Don’t be more than necessary.

Olga looks up, and the change in her voice is immediate.

“Ale…”

Alexia steps in fully now, holding a brown paper bag and a takeaway cup tray. “You were tossing all night,” she says softly, “so I figured you could use some sugar and espresso.” She walks over, places the treats beside Olga with care. “I got that oat milk one you like. And a croissant, because I know you never remember to eat when you’re stressed.”

Her voice is so easy. So full of quiet affection. It makes your throat tighten. Olga stares at the bag for a moment before letting out a breath you didn’t know she was holding. She smiles, faint but real, and says, “Thanks.”

Alexia leans down and kisses her cheek. It’s a small, domestic gesture. One that would’ve felt sweet yesterday.

Now it’s a stone in your stomach.

They talk for a minute, low and warm too low for you to hear clearly. It sounds like a small exchange about sleep, and schedules, and if Olga’s eaten yet. You keep your eyes fixed on your screen, even though the words are swimming and nothing’s going in.

Then Alexia shifts, you feel her glance in your direction. “Hey,” she says kindly, and you can hear the smile in her voice. “Nice to see you again.”

You muster every scrap of civility you can find and turn your head slightly, just enough to meet her eyes for a breath of a second.

You smile a tiny, exhausted curve of your mouth and lift your hand in a half-wave.

She nods back, just as polite. Just as unaware. “Bueno,” she says, brushing her hand against Olga’s arm. “I’ll leave you both to it.”

Olga doesn’t look at you as Alexia turns to go. She just murmurs a soft, “Thank you,”

"How do you take your coffee?" Alexia stops at your desk, she swallow as you look up at her, Olga watching intently.

"I um. I don't drink coffee"

"How come? Don't like it?"

"No.. I um, I can't have caffeine at all.. I um, its complicated but I have a heart condition so I-"

"My papa was the same," she nodded and your heart pulled, Olga must of sensed it and she spoke

"Amor, Y/N and I are very busy"

Alexia held her hands up, bid you both a goodbye, Olga eyed you before she watches her leave.

The door clicks shut. You exhale through your nose, slow and quiet.

Olga says nothing. She unwraps the croissant with deliberate care, and takes a small bite, her eyes still on the table, on her work, on anywhere but you and the silence that follows is full of everything neither of you are ready to say.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

Olga doesn’t go straight home after work, she drives in silence. No music. No podcast. Just the low hum of the road beneath her tires and the sound of her own pulse in her ears.

She should’ve gone home, she doesn’t go to the flat she shares with Alexia, or to a café to decompress, or even to the beach where she sometimes walks when her mind needs quiet.

She drives, to a quiet cul-de-sac on the outskirts of Mollet, where the streetlights buzz low and orange, and the houses are tucked behind tired gardens and climbing vines. She parks without turning off the engine at first. Just sits there, heart tapping a steady, uneven rhythm behind her ribs.

Eli’s car is in the driveway. She’s home. Alone. Just like Olga knew she would be. Olga takes the photo from the glove compartment. It’s still in its cracked, worn frame. She hasn’t looked at it since that night in the apartment. She doesn’t need to. She remembers it perfectly.

She breathes in. Breathes out. Kills the engine.

Then knocks on the door, it opens almost immediately, Eli answers the door in slippers and a cardigan.

“Olga?” Eli’s face brightens with warm surprise. “Qué haces aquí, cariño? Alexia isn’t with you?”

“No,” Olga says quietly. “She’s at home.”

Eli frowns a little. “Is everything alright?”

“I just…” Olga hesitates, standing just beyond the threshold. Then says, “Can I come in?”

Eli steps aside, instantly serious. “Of course, hija. You’re always welcome.”

The house smells the same as always lavender, old wood, something faintly sweet in the kitchen. A candle flickers on the sideboard. Family photos line the shelves,  birthdays, holidays, the girls growing older in frames that haven’t moved in years.

They sit in the living room. Olga perches on the edge of the couch, she doesn’t take off her coat, her fingers are tight around something in her bag. Eli watches her closely now, concern pinching the corners of her mouth.

“I have to ask you something,” Olga says, voice steady but low. “And if it’s nothing then we never have to talk about it again. I’ll forget it. We’ll both forget it.”

Eli nods, cautious. “Okay…” Eli’s brow furrows. “What is it?”

Olga doesn’t speak. She just reaches into her bag and pulls out the frame. Holds it gently in both hands and turns it around. Eli’s breath stops halfway through her chest. The change in her is instant so small and devastating you’d miss it if you weren’t looking for it. Her hands freeze on her knees. Her face goes white, then pale-blue cold, like all the warmth was drained out in an instant.

Her lips part, but no sound comes. The silence says everything. Olga watches her. Doesn’t blink. Eli’s hand, which had been loosely curled around her teacup, goes limp. Her entire face drains of colour not just pale, but hollow, like a piece of her just dropped through the floor.

Olga doesn’t move. She watches the shift. The silence that thickens around it.

“Where.. Where did you get this?”

Olga doesn’t answer, she just says, “You know who this has come from don’t you”

“I’ve not seen that in twenty five years,” Her voice catches, “After.. After” Olga nods once, jaw tight. Her throat burns with questions, but she asks none of them and still, Eli presses gently, almost begging, “Olga. Please. Where did this come from?”

“It’s true isn’t it,” Olga whispers. “You have another daughter”

Eli closes her eyes. A beat. A breath and then, very softly, very brokenly, “Yes” Olga’s throat tightens. Eli’s voice is barely there. “We left that with her”

“I don’t understand how you could do it!” Eli sits frozen on the couch, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She looks older than she did twenty minutes ago. Like every word being spoken is peeling something back she’s kept buried too long. “You gave up your own daughter,” Olga spits, gesturing wildly to the photo still lying on the coffee table like it’s cursed. “And just carried on like she didn’t exist? How?”

“I didn’t carry on,” Eli says, voice low and shaking. “Don’t you dare think it didn’t break me.”

“Then why?” Olga demands. “Why didn’t you fight for her? Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Olga’s voice cracks, sharp with disbelief, her hands clenched at her sides. She’s standing now, breath short, pacing Eli’s living room like she’s trying to outrun what she just heard. She hadn’t planned to stay only to ask one question, but the answer shattered everything.

Eli is curled forward on the couch, her hands white-knuckled in her lap, her eyes wide and shining. “You don’t understand what it was like,” she says quietly, pleading. “She was born with a heart condition. We didn’t know what it was at first, she was so small always struggling to breathe. She couldn’t even cry properly with out her lips turning blue.”

Olga stares at her, hollowed out. “So you gave her away.”

“I thought she’d get help,” Eli whispers. “We couldn’t afford the surgeries. We didn’t have insurance or savings, I wasn’t working at the time. My parents wouldn’t help. We thought… we thought someone else could save her. I loved her enough to let her go.”

Olga’s breath catches, just for a second, because she knows Eli means that. And still, it’s not enough. “She grew up in multiple children’s home,” she says bitterly. “With no one.” Eli flinches like she’s been slapped. “You’re the one who taught Alexia how to be gentle,” Olga says, voice shaking. “You tell everyone family is everything. You cry at Christmas commercials, for God’s sake. And now I find out that there was another child and you just… gave her up?”

Eli’s eyes are glassy. Her face is pale. “You think that was easy for me?” she says, hoarse. “You think I didn’t wake up every night for years hearing her cry even though I hadn’t seen her since she was—”

“Don’t,” Olga snaps, tears brimming. “Don’t make yourself the victim in this. I think about her alone every night now,” Olga goes on, tears clinging to her lashes. “I see her sitting in that place, wondering why no one ever came back for her. Why her parents the people who are meant to love her unconditionally let her go.”

“Stop,” Eli whispers. “Please, stop.”

Olga stares at her, breathing hard, voice strangled. “And you never told Alexia. Or Alba.”

Eli looks down at the floor like it might save her. “They were so young they didn’t need to know, have that burden.”

“You gave up your baby,” Olga says, gesturing to the photo on the table between them. “You let her disappear into the system, and you never looked for her. Never even told your daughters they had a sister.”

“I didn’t let her disappear,” Eli says, voice shaking. “She was born sick. Her heart Olga, she needed something me and her father couldn’t give her! We did what we thought was best for her!”

Olga stops in her tracks, eyes wide with pain. “So you just gave her away and pretended she never existed?”

“She would’ve died if I’d kept her!” Eli cries. “We couldn’t afford treatment we thought a hospital might place her with someone who could help. It wasn’t abandonment, it was the only mercy I had left to give her.”

Olga’s voice rises. “And you’ve told no one. For twenty-five years. No one.”

Eli’s hands shake now. “Because I didn’t want this. This moment. This shame. This wreckage.”

“Well, it’s here now,” Olga whispers. “She grew up in a children’s home, Eli. Alone. She had no one, she doesn’t understand the meaning of family, I don’t even think she’s ever felt what it’s like to be loved. Do you understand that?”

Eli explodes raw, desperate. “Leave it alone!” The words come like a slap, louder than anything yet. “Just—shut up!” she screams. “You don’t understand what it cost me! You don’t get to stand there judging when you weren’t there!”

The front door slams open. “What the hell is going on?” Alba’s voice slices through the room like lightning. She’s standing in the doorway, flushed from running, alarmed and out of breath. “I could hear you both shouting from the street.” She looks from Eli, who is crumbling in her chair, to Olga, who’s barely holding herself upright. “What the hell is going on?”

Olga turns away, shoulders hunched, face blotched with tears. She’s trying to breathe, but she can’t steady herself. She just shakes her head, mutely.

Eli goes silent, too. Like she forgot anyone else existed. Her face folds in on itself caught red-handed by her own daughter. “Why were you yelling at her?” Alba asks, stepping in, confused and suddenly afraid. “What did she do?”

“She didn’t do anything,” Eli croaks out, broken.

“Then what—?” Alba’s voice wavers. “Why is everyone crying?” No one answers.

Olga breathes in sharply through her nose, sinks onto the armrest of the sofa, her shoulders shaking, barely holding in the sobs now.

Alba doesn’t understand what this is, what it means but something in her bones tells her exactly what to do. She pulls her phone from her pocket, thumb trembling as she finds her sister’s name. She steps back into the hallway and presses the call.

Alexia answers almost instantly. “Albs?”

Her voice is warm, calm, but Alba’s isn’t.

“Ale,” she says quickly, “you need to come to mamá’s. Now.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I—I don’t know, but Olga’s here, and she’s crying, and mamá’s… something’s wrong. I think it’s big mamá was screaming at her I heard her from the street”

There’s a pause. Then, “I’m on my way,” Alexia says, sharp and sure. Alba hangs up, heart pounding, and returns to the living room where the air feels too heavy to breathe. Olga is quiet now, face buried in her hands. Eli sits motionless and Alba stands between them, caught in the middle of a secret she doesn’t yet understand only knowing that whatever it is, her sister will make sense of it.

The knock is soft, but the tension in the room makes it sound like thunder. Alba leaps to open the door, her heart in her throat. Alexia steps inside, face creased with concern, eyes sharp, already scanning the room like something in her gut told her this wasn’t just a misunderstanding.

She’s still in joggers and a hoodie, her hair tied back loosely, eyes sharp and searching. She takes one look at her sister and then scans the room freezes when she sees her mother, crumpled on the sofa. Her gaze lands first on her mother, who’s slumped on the sofa, visibly shaken, hands clasped tightly in her lap like she’s bracing for something else to hit. Then her eyes flick to Olga standing stiff and silent by the window, her back half-turned, her coat still on.

“Olga?” Alexia says gently, walking toward her. Olga doesn't turn. Her arms are crossed tight, like she's holding herself together by sheer will.

“What happened?” Alexia asks again, slower now, as her eyes dart back to her mother. “Is someone hurt? What—?”

She steps closer, reaches out, instinctively placing her hand on Olga’s arm but Olga flinches. Not dramatically. Just enough and then she pulls away. Alexia’s breath catches. She stares at her, confused hurt.

“Olga…” No response.

Alexia’s eyes flick between them again her partner and her mother, both visibly wrecked.

“Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” she says, louder now, tension rising in her voice. “Mamá? Olga? Talk to me.” Still, no one speaks.

Olga finally moves. Slowly, she reaches for the door, her hand trembling just slightly. “I need some air,” she mutters, almost to herself.

Eli rises instinctively. “Olga please, wait—”

Olga stops, her hand still on the doorknob. She turns slowly and what’s on her face is something Alexia’s never seen before. Grief. Betrayal. Disgust. “I can’t even look at you right now,” Olga says, her voice hollow, strained. Her eyes fixed on Eli, who seems to shrink under the weight of it. “You are not the person I thought you were.”

Alexia’s breath hitches, heart pounding. She looks at her mother, sees the quiet devastation spreading across her face, and she’s suddenly terrified. “Wait—Olga, please—just… what happened?” Alexia pleads, reaching after her again, but the door opens and Olga is gone.

Silence crashes back in. Alexia stands frozen, her hand still in the air, her heart breaking without knowing why. She turns to her mother. “Mamá,” she says, voice trembling. “What did you do?”

Eli doesn’t answer, she sinks down slowly, like the weight of those words took her legs out from under her. She covers her mouth with her hands, eyes spilling over with silent tears.

And Alexia stuck between the two most important women in her life—feels the walls close in, a thousand questions pressing against her chest. Alba looks at her sister, whose hands are balled into fists at her sides. Alexia is staring at the door, stunned, shaken, she’s never seen Olga like that. Never seen her walk away and whatever happened here, whatever broke her, Alexia knows it isn’t just something they can fix. It’s something that changed everything.

The cool night air hits Olga’s face like a slap sharp and biting. She walks until the porch ends, then stops, clutching the railing with both hands, trying to breathe past the chaos inside her.

She hears the door creak open behind her, soft footsteps following.

“Olga,” Eli calls gently. “Please. Just come inside. Let’s talk, mi amor.” Olga doesn’t turn. Her knuckles are white on the railing. A long silence stretches between them.

Then quietly, without venom, only pain Olga speaks. “Please tell me… their father at least knew.”

Eli stands still behind her, silence falling heavy again. Then a nod.

“Yes,” Eli whispers. “He knew.”

Olga finally turns, slow and rigid, her eyes burning. “And he still let her go?”

Eli’s voice cracks. “He didn’t want to. God, Olga, he held her all night the day she was born. He cried like I’d never seen before, he just he knew we couldn’t give to her what she needed. We didn’t have the money, or the support. We thought it was the only way she had a chance. Giving her up broke him Olga, he was never the same after that day, his spirit, his health, everything”

Olga presses her lips together, shaking her head, tears gathering again. “They lost him when they were barely out of childhood, god Alba was a child” she says hoarsely. Eli nods, tears now running freely. Olga blinks through the tears. “So you gave away your baby and because of that, you think it eventually killed your husband.”

Eli swallows a sob, covering her mouth, Olga turns away again, shoulders rising and falling, behind her, Eli stands on the threshold exposed, crumbling and inside the house, through the windows, Alexia is still watching, not understanding everything, but beginning to feel how deep this fracture runs.

The living room is too quiet when they step back inside. Eli gently closes the door behind Olga, whose eyes are red and raw. She doesn’t move far from the entryway. Her arms are crossed tightly again, a self-made cage.

Alexia is still standing, tense, waiting. Alba sits curled up in the corner of the sofa, chewing the inside of her cheek, a nervous habit from childhood.

Eli breathes in deep like the confession she’s about to make might crush her lungs if she doesn’t hold herself steady. “Sit down,” she says softly, looking to both daughters.

Alexia hesitates. “Mamá, what is this?”

“Please,” Eli says. “Just… sit.” Reluctantly, Alexia lowers herself onto the arm of the sofa, her eyes locked on Olga on the way she trembles. She’s crying again, and that frightens her more than anything. Eli moves to stand in front of them, hands clasped like she’s in church, waiting to confess. “I never thought I’d have to say this out loud,” she begins, voice shaking. “I thought I had buried it deep enough that none of you would ever know.”

Alba shifts uncomfortably. “What do you mean?”

Eli’s lips tremble, but she goes on. “You had a sister. A younger one, she was born 3 years after you Alba”

The silence detonates. Alba blinks. “What? You… you’re joking, right?” she asks, glancing at Alexia and then back to Eli. “Is this some weird joke or—?”

“No,” Eli says. “It’s not a joke.”

Alba’s face falls. “No. No, that can’t be true. I don’t remember—”

“You wouldn’t,” Eli cuts in gently. “You were just a toddler, Alba. We, your father and I, gave her up. She was born with a heart condition. We couldn’t afford the care she needed. We thought it was the only way she’d survive.”

Alba stares at her, blinking hard like the words won’t compute. “No,” she whispers again. “No. That’s not—you wouldn’t do that. You’re not like that.”

“I did,” Eli says, her voice cracking. “We made the only choice we thought we had.”

Alba suddenly covers her mouth, her eyes wide and brimming with tears. She makes a small, broken sound as if something inside her just split clean down the middle.

Alexia, meanwhile, is still too still, she stares at her mother, jaw tight, eyes sharp with disbelief. “You lied to us,” she says, flat and cold. “Our whole lives.”

Eli looks up, stricken. “Alexia—”

“You let us grow up thinking we were the only ones. Thinking that Dad died with no secrets. That we came from love. From honesty.”

“You did,” Eli pleads. “I loved you every day of your lives.”

Alexia stands suddenly, shaking her head. “But not her.”

“No,” Eli whispers, ashamed. “Not like I should have.”

Alba sobs now, curling into herself on the sofa, shaking. Olga breaks down again. She tries to wipe her face but can’t stop the tears. “I didn’t want this,” she says hoarsely. “I didn’t want to be the one who broke you. I’m so sorry.”

Alexia looks at her, confused, wounded. “You knew?”

Olga opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. “I found out by accident,” she finally manages. “I-I—God, Alexia, I didn’t want to know.”

Alexia’s eyes narrow slightly, not in cruelty but in disbelief. She looks like someone just pulled the rug from beneath her entire identity.

And still, Alba cries softly in the corner, whispering, “A little sister... we had a little sister…” And across from her, Olga thinks of you. Alone in your apartment. Crying into the quiet, not knowing that the truth is finally breaking wide open—and that it’s going to change everything.

The room feels heavy, thick with silence and unsaid things. Alba sits on the sofa, knees pulled close to her chest, eyes fixed on the floor. She doesn’t cry anymore just quiet. Unreachable, curled inward, eyes fixed on the floor, refusing comfort when Olga cautiously reaches out.

“No,” Alba murmurs, voice barely audible. “Not now.” Olga pulls back, defeated, sitting down quietly a few feet away.

Alexia, however, is a storm, pacing, fists clenched, voice rising, “How could you know and say nothing?” she snaps at Olga, eyes burning. “You found out and just kept it to yourself? Do you have any idea how long we lived in the dark? How much this changes everything?”

Olga meets her gaze, her own eyes shining with tears. “I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure. Until I spoke to Eli and confirmed it. Like you, I had a hard time believing it myself.”

Eli steps forward, voice pleading. “Alexia, please. Olga didn’t keep this from you to hurt you—”

Alexia was now directing her frustration at her mother, firing questions at Eli with a mix of desperation and anger.

“Why didn’t you tell us? How could you keep this from us for so long? Why didn’t you try harder? What about Dad, did he know everything? Did you ever try to find her again? What—what was her name?”

Eli swallows, unable to meet any of Alexia’s eyes. “I—I don’t know,” she admits finally. “We… we thought it was better to keep it quiet. We gave her a name but the home just called her ‘Baby Girl.’ It’s probably been changed”

Alexia stops pacing, stunned by the silence, the gaps in answers.

Eli has tears pooling again. Alexia looks at Olga, whose face is streaked with fresh tears. Then Alba remains silent, distant, lost somewhere inside herself. The room is fractured everyone aching, separated by secrets and grief, caught in a web of loss no one can untangle yet, and Alexia can’t see her family healing from this.

The room is heavy with silence. Alba hasn’t moved from her place on the sofa, arms wrapped tightly around herself. She’s staring into some unseen distance, tears dried on her cheeks, her expression blank.

Alexia still stands, breath shallow, torn between betrayal and sorrow.

Then, quietly, she moves.

She walks over and sits down beside Olga, not saying a word. The weight of her presence is everything and nothing at all. Her shoulder barely brushes Olga’s. The contact is light, but to Olga, it’s enough to keep her breathing.

“I need to see her,” Alexia says suddenly, softly. “I need to know she was real.”

Her voice cracks on the last word. Eli blinks, startled. “What?”

“A photo,” Alexia says, turning slowly to her mother. “Do you have one? Anything?”

Eli stares at her daughters one silent and broken, the other just barely holding herself together then nods. She disappears into the hallway. For a long while, the only sounds are Alba’s sniffles and the soft creak of the floorboards as Eli moves in the other room. Then she returns. In her arms is an old, battered shoebox edges torn, the lid soft with age.

She kneels in front of the girls and opens it slowly, like unsealing a grave.

Inside theres a small bundle of ultrasound scans, worn at the corners, black-and-white ghosts of a baby not yet born. A tiny, creased hospital card with faded blue ink: "Baby Girl Putellas Segura." Her weight. Her length. The time she arrived. A white card stamped with one perfect footprint and one tiny handprint, pink and curled like a blossom. And then the photos.

There aren’t many. The first few show Eli and her husband in the hospital room, holding a swaddled newborn between them. They're smiling, tentatively, cautiously, but with something fragile and full in their eyes.

In the next few, the smiles are gone. Eli looks down at the baby with red-rimmed eyes. Her husband kisses the baby’s forehead, his face twisted into something halfway between a smile and a sob.

In the last photo, Eli is no longer holding the baby. She is standing by the hospital bed, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her husband has one hand on her back, but his other is empty. They both look like people trying to memorise the little girl on the bed before it’s taken away.

No one speaks. Olga covers her mouth with her hand, tears falling silently, the pain was radiating from the photos.

Alexia reaches forward, touching the photo gently with her fingertips, like she’s afraid it might disappear. “She looks like, us,” she whispers. “Her nose. The shape of her eyes.”

Eli nods, wiping her face. “I only looked at these once,” she says. “Then I put them in a box. I never looked at them again. I couldn’t.”

Alexia glances at her mother eyes still confused, still hurt but quieter now. “She was real,” she says, mostly to herself. “She was ours.” next to her, Olga presses her hand against her chest, trying to breathe through the ache.

Alexia holds the photo delicately, as though it might crumble if she breathes too hard. Her thumb hovers over the image her parents, younger and terrified, their arms newly empty.

She glances sideways. Alba hasn’t moved. She’s still curled in on herself, her chin on her knees, her arms wrapped tight like a shield. Her eyes are open but empty, staring into the middle of the floor, if she’s heard anything, it’s impossible to tell.

“Alba…” Alexia says softly. No response, she turns more fully, holding the photo just a little closer in Alba’s direction. “Do you want to see her?” Her voice is quiet, careful. Not pushing. Just offering.

Alba doesn’t answer. For a long moment, she doesn’t even blink, but then her eyes flicker, just barely, toward the photo in Alexia’s hand. She doesn’t reach for it. Doesn’t move, but that one glance is enough to crack something.

Alexia sees it. She leans a little closer. “She looks like you,” she whispers. “When you were little.”

Alba’s lower lip trembles. Her breath shudders out of her like it physically hurts to take in air. “Why didn’t she get to stay?” she says finally, voice fragile and small.

Eli’s breath catches in her throat. She opens her mouth to answer but no words come. Olga whispers for her, “She was sick, your parents did what they thought was best for her”

Alba turns slowly toward the photo, then reaches out, her hand trembling as she takes it. She looks at it for a long time and then, in a barely-there voice that cracks in the middle, she whispers, “She had Papa's chin.”

It breaks Eli. She covers her mouth, sobbing quietly, and Olga gently moves to wrap her arm around her. Alba doesn’t cry. She just keeps looking, at the baby, at the past, at the sister she never got to love. 🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You sit on the floor of your apartment, your laptop closed on the coffee table, long forgotten. The untouched sandwich from earlier is still in its wrapper, resting near your elbow. You haven’t moved much since you got home. Haven’t wanted to.

The apartment feels emptier than usual. Not just quiet but hollow. Like something inside you cracked open when Olga left, and now the silence has a place to live.

You’ve replayed that moment over and over. The look in her eyes when she saw the photo. The way she snapped. The disbelief. The accusation.

You’d tried to speak, to explain, but she wouldn’t let you. Wouldn’t hear you. She thought you’d used her. That you’d known. That the photo meant something you’d kept hidden, but you hadn’t known. You still don’t know.

That picture had always been a strange little mystery to you. Left in the file the home had when you were a baby. Just two smiling girls, a sense of something warm and long-lost. You’d stared at it often growing up. Not because you knew who they were but because they felt like a possibility. Like maybe, once, someone had loved you and now that photo’s gone. Torn out of your hands and taken into someone else’s truth.

You wipe at your eyes again, but they won’t stop watering. Your throat aches from holding back sobs that keep forcing their way through.

You don’t know what’s happening.

You don’t know what to do.

You just keep sitting there, waiting for a knock that might never come. A message. A clue. Something, but there’s nothing. Just the faint hum of your fridge and the quiet ache in your chest.

It’s almost midnight by the time you stop pacing your apartment. Your hands shake as you hold the phone. You scroll past a few names none feel right. Not now. Not after everything.

Then your thumb hovers over hers. Patri 💕

You haven’t told anyone about her. Not even Olga. It was easier that way kept things uncomplicated. Casual. Hidden, but now… nothing feels simple or safe.

You press call.

She picks up quickly. “Hey,” she says, voice warm and soft.“Everything okay, you never call this late?”

You don’t answer right away. Your throat’s too tight. “Can you come over?” you manage. “Please?”

She hears it. Whatever's in your voice. “I’m on my way.”

You don’t move from your spot near the window until you hear her knock. When you open the door, she doesn’t ask questions. She just sees your face red-eyed, exhausted, cracked wide open and steps in with arms that don’t hesitate.

You fall into her without a word. Her hand runs gently down your back, grounding you.

Minutes pass before you pull away, wiping your face with your sleeve. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I just… I didn’t know who else to call.”

Patri nods, patient. “You can always call me. You know that.”

You sit on the couch. She sits beside you, close but not crowding you. Waiting. You breathe in deep. Out. And then, “I think…” You pause, heart hammering. “I think Alexia Putellas is my sister.”

Silence. Patri doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t flinch. Her brow furrows, but her eyes stay soft.

You look down at your hands. “There was this photo. Two girls. I had it my whole life it was left with me when I was dropped off at the children's home. I never knew who they were” You shake your head, tears rising again. “Olga saw it and lost it. Thought I’d known all along it was Alexia and her sister. Took the photo. Stormed out. She hasn’t answered my messages. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t even know if I’m going crazy.”

Patri takes your hand in both of hers. “You’re not crazy,” she says softly. “And even if it sounds impossible… it might not be.”

“I don’t want anything from them,” you say quickly. “I didn’t even know. I just… I want to understand. Why I was left. Who I was before I was just… no one.”

You’re crying again, but you don’t try to stop it now, Patri squeezes your hand, steady and sure, you don’t say anything, but when you lean your head on her shoulder, it’s the first moment you’ve felt even a little less alone.

Patri’s fingers thread gently through yours, her thumb brushing your knuckles. Your eyes are swollen, throat raw, barely holding it together. Then, in the quiet, she leans a little closer. Her voice barely above a whisper, warm and solid against the chaos inside you. “You’re not no one to me.”

It stops your breath, you lift your head just slightly, eyes meeting hers. There’s no pity in her face. No fear. Just quiet certainty.

“You hear me?” she says again, firmer now. “You’re not nothing. I don’t care if you don’t know who you were before. I care who you are now and I see you.”

Your eyes fill again, but this time, the tears feel different. Not jagged or spiralling just full.

You nod. A small one. But it’s real. “Thank you,” you manage, your voice breaking.

Patri leans in, gently presses her lips to your forehead. “We’ll figure this out,” she says. “Together. Okay?” And in that moment, just for a heartbeat, you believe her. 🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The sun creeps in slowly through your curtains, tracing thin golden lines across the floor. You barely slept, but with Patri beside you, the night didn’t feel quite as endless. She stirs first, brushing a strand of hair from your face. You open your eyes to find her watching you, soft and steady.

“Come on,” she says gently. “I’m taking you to breakfast before we face the world.”

You want to protest, you don’t look like yourself, your stomach is a knot, and the idea of being in public right now feels impossible but she’s already pulling the covers back and reaching for your pre hung up work clothes like it’s not up for debate.

So you let her.

The café is small, tucked on a quiet corner near the training grounds and your office with Olga. No jerseys, no fans. Just warmth, fresh bread, and the clink of mugs being set on tables.

You sit across from her, both of you nursing hot drinks. Patri tears a croissant in half and sets one piece on your plate without asking after you said you didn't want anything.

“You don’t have to talk,” she says, watching you. “Just eat something. One small normal thing before everything gets… complicated again.”

You nod, barely able to hold her gaze, but grateful, after a few bites that were dry, tasteless in your mouth, you whisper, “What if she never forgives me?”

Patri doesn’t hesitate. “Then she doesn’t deserve to be in your life." You blink at her. “She’s hurt,” Patri adds, softening. “I get that, but if she can’t believe you, if she won’t even try to, then that’s on her. Not you.”

You glance down at your coffee. “It just… it meant something working with her, i thought I finally had… something that made sense.”

Patri reaches across the table, hooks her pinky around yours. “You do,” she says. “You have me and I’m not going anywhere.”

You nod, holding onto that, even if everything else is spinning, this feels real. When you check the time, you realise it's almost time to head in. Patri downs the rest of her coffee and stands.

She pulls you up with her, smooths your jacket at the shoulders, and presses a quick kiss to your temple. “You’ve got this,” she whispers. “Text me when you’re done. No matter how it goes.”

You nod. She squeezes your hand once before heading toward the training facility down the block. You turn toward the office. Stomach heavy. Heart heavier but not quite as alone.

You step away from the café, the last of Patri’s warmth still clinging to your jacket like a hug that hasn't fully let go. The morning air is cool, quiet. You take a breath, try to let the calm hold for just a second longer. Then you see her, Olga, she’s over the road, leaning against the side of a closed bookstore, arms crossed tight, shoulders hunched like she hasn’t slept either. You freeze mid-step, her eyes are on you, it hits you like a punch. She saw. She was watching, maybe the whole time.

You don’t know what she saw exactly, but in your gut it doesn’t matter whatever flicker of healing you’d just started to believe in crumbles under your feet.

She looks up, your eyes meet, her expression doesn’t shift. No relief. No kindness. No fury either just something unreadable, and somehow that’s worse.

You almost step toward her, almost say her name, but the shame wraps around your ribs like wire. The same helpless, spiralling thought churns, I’ve made it worse.

You lower your eyes, quicken your pace, and cross the street without another glance back, by the time you reach the office door, your hands are shaking again.

The walls have started to ease back up, the ache in your chest back in full force and the photo, the truth, all of it… still just out of reach.

The office is cold when you step in, or maybe it’s just you. Either way, you don’t take off your coat.

You slide into your desk, boot up your laptop, and stare at the screen without seeing a word. You hear her before you see her, the soft click of the door, the measured steps. She moves past without a glance. You hold your breath.

She settles into her chair, the rustle of fabric as she crosses one leg over the other, her keys clinking gently on her desk. Then after what feels like an entire hour folded into thirty seconds "How did you meet Patri?"

Her voice is calm, almost too calm, you glance over. She’s not looking at you, her fingers are gently tapping her mug, as though it’s just any other morning.

You swallow. “I, um…” Your throat is dry. “I met her in a bar. A few weeks ago. After work.”

You watch her profile, trying to read her, but she gives you nothing.

“She didn’t know who I was,” you add. “To you. I didn’t tell her. At first”

Silence, you brace for something accusation, coldness, anything, but all she says is, “Do you love her?”

The question stuns you, not because you hadn’t thought about it, but because you never expected her to ask. “I don’t know,” you say honestly. “Maybe. It’s a bit early for that yet. We've not even had sex”

Another beat of silence. Then Olga nods, just once, like she’s filing it away somewhere.

You sit there, confused, the tension still knotted in your chest, but she doesn’t push. Doesn’t snap, just sips from her mug and opens her inbox like this conversation never happened and somehow… that quiet is the most painful sound of all.

The silence between you stretches thin but neither of you moves.

You pretend to work, Olga pretends not to notice your shaking hands. Then she speaks, her voice soft. Measured. “I spoke to Alexia’s mami.”

You freeze, your cursor blinks on the screen, forgotten.

You turn slowly, but she’s not looking at you. Her eyes are locked on the mug in her hands, fingers curling tight around the ceramic like she needs to anchor herself to something.

Your voice barely makes it out. “You did?”

She nods once. “Yeah.”

You wait. The silence stretches again, heavy with everything she hasn’t said yet. “I showed her the photo,” Olga continues, still soft. “The one you had. She went pale. I didn’t even have to ask anything. I knew just by her reaction to the photo.”

A breath shudders out of you. “I didn’t know,” you whisper. “Olga, I swear to you—”

“I know,” she cuts in.

Your eyes snap to hers, she's finally looking at you and in that look is a whole storm grief, disbelief, pain, exhaustion.

“You were just a baby,” she says quietly. “Left with a photo and nothing else.”

You blink back fresh tears. “Then it’s true.”

Olga nods, slowly. “They gave you up, because of your heart, because they couldn’t afford the care you needed. Your—” She pauses, breath catching. “—your father… he knew. He died when Alexia and Alba were teenagers.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, the ache in your chest pulsing to life again.

“They loved you,” Olga says. “You were their baby. I saw the pictures. The scans. A card with your footprints. They held you. Smiled with you.” She swallows hard, and now it’s her turn to look away. “But they left the hospital without you because they thought that would give you the best chance in life.”

The room is still. The weight of twenty-five years settling over your shoulders like fog.

You whisper, “What was my name?”

Olga’s voice trembles. “They didn't get to name you.”

You close your eyes, it doesn’t feel real and yet it explains everything.

Olga stands. You watch her cross the room slowly, quietly, something reverent in the way she moves as if she’s carrying something sacred and she is.

She reaches into her bag, then gently places the photo frame down on your desk in front of you. The same one that had once been your only clue to anything real. It feels heavier now.

“They know,” she says, barely above a whisper. “Alexia. Alba.”

You stare at the photo. Two little girls. You touch the glass. Your fingers don’t shake this time, but your breath catches.

“I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure,” Olga continues. “Until I had the truth.”

“And now they know.” You say it aloud. Like you’re testing it. Like it might disappear.

Olga nods.

“They didn’t before?” you ask.

She shakes her head slowly. “They had no idea. Eli kept it from them all this time.”

You stare at her. “What did they say?”

Her lips press together for a moment. “Alba was… broken. She didn’t believe it at first, then she just went quiet, typically her.”

Your chest tightens.

“And Alexia…” Olga’s voice trails off, her gaze dropping. “She was angry. Confused. At Eli. At me.”

You wince. “At you?”

Olga meets your eyes. “She didn’t understand why I didn’t tell her soon as I found the picture. Why I didn’t come to her the second I suspected.”

You nod slowly, taking that in.

“I told her I needed to be sure,” Olga says softly. “I owed that to everyone.”

Something cracks in your chest at that. You look down at the photo again, then whisper, “Do they… want to see me?”

There’s a pause and then “Yes,” Olga says. “They do.”

You look up at her. You nod, blinking fast. You stare down at the photo. Your throat tightens as you try to find the words that don’t sound like a betrayal of how much this means, how much it changes. You swallow hard, your voice barely there. “I need time.”

Olga doesn’t speak, so you glance up half-expecting disappointment, or worse, pity, but there’s none, she just nods. “Of course,” she says gently.

“I just…” you start, then stop. Try again. “It’s a lot. I’m still trying to believe it’s real.”

Her eyes soften, her shoulders releasing tension you didn’t realise she’d been holding. “You don’t owe anyone speed,” she says, and again, that name hits different. Warmer now. Anchoring.

You nod slowly.

Olga walks back to her desk, sits quietly, like she’s giving you both physical and emotional space. No pushing. No pressure.

Just… waiting.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

Patri’s apartment smells faintly of rosemary and whatever candle she always has burning. It’s quiet except for the soft sound of her socks on the wood floors and the occasional clink of mugs as she makes tea without asking like she already knows you won’t have the appetite for anything more.

You’re curled on her couch, legs pulled to your chest, the familiar soft throw blanket wrapped tight around you. The photo’s not in your bag anymore, but it may as well be it’s burned into your thoughts.

Patri walks over, hands you a mug you barely manage to hold, then settles beside you without touching close enough to feel, but not crowding.

You stare down at the tea. “I have family.”

The words barely leave your mouth. They feel surreal still, like you’re saying them for someone else. Patri doesn’t speak. She waits.

You exhale shakily. “People I’m related to. By blood. I’ve never had that before, never even let myself imagine what it could be like.”

She glances at you, softly, kindly.

You keep going, voice fragile. “They want to meet me. Alexia. Alba. My sisters.” You taste the word, and it stings and warms at the same time. “But I don’t know if I can do it.”

Patri tilts her head. “Why?”

You blink hard. “Because I’m not who they think they lost. I grew up different to them. I have… pieces, but they don’t fit right. What if I’m a disappointment? What if they only want who I could’ve been, not who I actually am?”

The tears come quick this time. Quiet and raw.

“I don’t know how to be someone’s sister. I don’t even know how to be someone’s daughter.”

Patri shifts closer, gently, until your knee brushes hers. She doesn't reach for your hand just gives you space to fall apart without pressure.

When you finally look up at her, eyes glassy, voice cracking, you whisper, “What if I ruin it just by showing up?”

She leans forward then, soft but certain. “Baby,” she says slow, “You ruin nothing by existing. If anything, you’re the one thing that might put something broken back together.”

You don’t reply, but you lean against her, and when she wraps her arms around you, you let yourself fall into the quiet. Not healed. Not ready, but no longer alone.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The bedroom is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the city outside filtering through sheer curtains. Alexia is already in bed, lying on her side, scrolling idly through her phone. Her hair’s a little damp from the shower, and the covers are pulled up around her shoulders like she’s cocooning herself from the day.

Olga steps in quietly, brushing her teeth finished, sleep tugging at her limbs but her thoughts too loud for rest.

She climbs into bed slowly, careful not to disturb the peace too much.

Alexia hums, sensing something. “Everything okay?”

Olga hesitates, settles on her side to face her, elbow bent, cheek resting against her hand. “I need to tell you something,” she says softly. "It's been eating me all day and I just need to off load it to someone"

Alexia’s eyes flick up from her phone. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Olga assures quickly. “Just… weird and you have to promise not to freak out.”

Alexia raises a brow. “That’s never a comforting preface.”

Olga gives her a tired, warning look. “I’m serious. No confronting anyone. No speeches. Just… listen.”

Alexia sets her phone down. She shifts onto her back, sighs dramatically. “Fine. I solemnly swear. Go.”

Olga stares at the ceiling for a second. Then “My assistant, the one you met at the office… she’s the girl Patri’s been seeing.”

Alexia blinks. “Wait. What?”

“Shh,” Olga hushes quickly, placing a hand gently on Alexia’s arm. “You promised. No freaking out.”

Alexia sits up a little against the headboard, clearly working through it. “Wait. Your assistant is Patri’s girl? She's the one who everyone’s been speculating about in the locker room for weeks?”

Olga nods slowly. “Yeah. I saw them this morning. Having breakfast together. Just… looked like a date.”

Alexia stares at her, mouth open slightly. “And you’re just telling me this now?”

Olga shrugs. “I didn’t know until today. I wasn’t spying. I was just... walking. Processing.”

Alexia laughs once, disbelieving. “Dios. Patri and your assistant. That’s… wow.” She pauses. Then narrows her eyes. “Is she even Patri’s type?”

Olga gives her a flat look. “You’ve met her once, and all you said was she seemed ‘too polite.’”

Alexia shrugs, but she’s smiling now. “Polite and dating Patri? That girl must have hidden layers.”

Olga hums. She rests her head on Alexia’s shoulder, a little quieter again.

After a beat, Alexia asks, “Is that all? Or is there a reason you brought it up now?”

Olga closes her eyes. “There’s more to it… just not for tonight.”

Alexia tilts her head, trying to read her. “Okay…”

Olga squeezes her hand gently. “Just don’t mention anything at training. Let Patri have her privacy.”

Alexia rolls her eyes. “You act like I’m the drama.”

Olga just smiles, eyes still closed. “You’re the captain and the drama.”

Alexia laughs softly and presses a kiss to Olga’s forehead. “Fine. I’ll behave.”

But even as they settle into silence, you linger in Alexia’s thoughts just a little longer than before.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

You’re mid-call, headset on, trying to sound confident while walking a particularly demanding client through a social rollout calendar. Your laptop is open, filled with colour-coded chaos, and you’re scribbling notes on a pad beside you.

Patri is lounging, because that’s the only word for it, in the visitor’s chair next to your desk. She’s got one ankle lazily hooked over her knee, phone in hand, sunglasses perched on her nose even though you’re indoors. She hasn’t said a word in ten minutes, just keeping you company like some smirking silent bodyguard.

You flick your eyes toward her for a second and she just wiggles her eyebrows. You try not to laugh but the door clicks open.

Olga strides in, crisp and purposeful, folders tucked under her arm and a cappuccino in hand. She looks up, clearly expecting her usual quiet workspace and then spots Patri.

She stops Patri glances up from her phone, sees her, and grins “Hola, jefa.”

Olga narrows her eyes. “Patri.”

You freeze mid-sentence on your call. “—Yes, we’ll have the draft by Friday, absolutely. Thank you, I’ll follow up with the design team. Okay. Bye now.”

You click off and rip off the headset, slowly swivelling toward Olga

“Hey,” you say, cautiously.

Olga looks between the two of you, arms crossed, brow lifted in that unimpressed way that’s both maternal and mildly terrifying. “You know this isn’t a café, right?” she says to Patri, deadpan.

Patri shrugs, completely unbothered. “Had the morning off. Thought I’d escort your best employee through their incredibly stressful workday.”

Olga glances at you, unamused. “Is that true?”

You give her a tight, sheepish smile. “I didn’t know she was coming.”

Patri snorts, Olga sets her folders down on her desk, sipping her coffee. “Well, now that you’re here, maybe you’d like to help sort through thirty Instagram DMs from a dog food sponsor who doesn’t understand what a brand kit is.”

Patri puts a hand to her heart, mock-wounded. “That sounds horrifying.”

Olga deadpans, “Welcome to my life.”

You try not to smile but fail miserably, and Olga catches it her expression softening just for a second.

“Fifteen more minutes,” she says to Patri. “Then she’s mine again.”

Patri gives you a wink. “I’ll take what I can get.”

Olga rolls her eyes and turns back to her desk, but not before you catch the tiniest smirk twitch at the corner of her mouth.