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Fast Fall In Slow Waters (One-shot)

Pairing: Jana Fernandez x Femme!Reader

Summary: After losing the Euro 2025 final, all Jana Fernández wanted was a break from the noise — a detox trip to Ibiza with her chaos-coded teammates and zero plans to fall in love. Enter you: a techno DJ/model with tired eyes, a teasing smile, and a past tangled in the shadowy luxury of “yacht girl” life. You met by chance in a hotel bar, with neon lights, laughter in the air, and a setlist that would break her heart before she even knew it was hers to lose.

Featuring: Patri Guijarro, Leila Ouahabi, Salma Paralluelo, Vicky Lopez & Alexia Putellas (cameo)

Word count: ~ 25k

A/N: I’m excited to share this fic, but at the same time — posting this just reminded me of the glaring fact that Jana won’t be playing for Barca next season. 😞

————————————————————————

Switzerland – Euro 2025 final, Spain vs England. Night.

The hotel room was quiet in that way only heartbreak could make it.

Muted lamps hummed low. A travel-sized bottle of body wash sat abandoned on the bathroom counter, its cap still open. In the hallway, someone’s suitcase wheel scraped across the carpet — dragging like it was grieving too.

Jana Fernández stared at the TV. It wasn’t on.

Her jersey was still stuck to her skin, heavy with sweat and defeat. She hadn’t showered. She hadn’t cried. The numbness had settled into her bones somewhere between the final whistle and the awkward line of consoling handshakes with England’s team.

In the adjoining room, Patri Guijarro sighed — again.

“You’re not going to talk to me, are you?” Patri’s voice was soft, the way people sound when they know you’re not okay and also know you won’t admit it.

Jana didn’t look over. “Nothing to say.”

Patri made a sound — part groan, part affection, part I-know-you-better-than-that — and flopped onto the bed like gravity had finally won. “We played our heart out, tonta.”

“We still lost.”

“We made the final.”

Jana finally turned. “We lost, Patri. We were supposed to win. We had Alexia. We had Aitana. We—”

“Stop.” Patri didn’t raise her voice, but her tone shifted — firm, sure. “Stop trying to carry the whole thing like you’re the captain.”

Jana bit the inside of her cheek.

Patri crossed her arms, looking at her with that unnerving best-friend stare. “You’re twenty-three. Not dead. You can grieve like the rest of us. You’re allowed.”

“I don’t want to grieve. I want to forget.”

That earned a pause.

And then, as if the universe had been waiting for its cue, a WhatsApp message buzzed between them on the hotel nightstand.

Leila Ouahabi [team group chat]: 🧘‍♀️🧘‍♀️🧘‍♀️

I’m booking Ibiza. Ten days. Clean eating optional. Clean souls required. Shut up and pack. No excuses. Vicky stop asking if we can bring boys.

Another message popped up right after.

Vicky López:

what if the boy is gay?? 🤨

Salma Paralluelo:

if the boy is me then okay 🫡

Leila Ouahabi:

NO.

just bring SPF, a good attitude, and your ugly sandals from the Paris Olympics. we leave in 48 hours. I am mother. Obey.

Jana snorted despite herself. “She’s unwell.”

Patri grinned. “Leila’s always chaotic.”

Jana rolled over onto her back, finally letting the ceiling take her focus. The soft whirr of the A/C filled the room, steady and uncaring.

Ibiza.

Ten days of sunburns and smoothies. Of pretending football didn’t rule their lives. Of pretending she wasn’t still waking up thinking about the way England’s captain raised the trophy.

“Should I come?” she murmured.

Patri looked at her. “I think you need to.”

——————

Hours later, Jana sat at the edge of her bed, phone glowing in her hand. She had opened and closed Alexia’s chat three times now. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard.

Eventually, she typed:

We’re going to Ibiza.

You’ll be missed, Capitana.

The read receipt stayed grey. Alexia was probably already en route to Mexico, all strength and smiles and press-perfect appearances. Jana envied her. Or maybe she just missed her.

Behind her, Patri was already asleep — snoring slightly.

Jana stood, finally, peeled off her jersey, and walked into the shower. As the water ran over her, she tried not to think about anything at all.

The silence hurt louder when it hit warm skin.

——————

Ibiza. Late afternoon. The day after arrival.

If there was a more chaotic group to land in Ibiza together, Jana hadn’t met them.

Leila was the first to emerge from the arrivals terminal — oversized sunglasses, a linen two-piece too white to survive travel, wheeling a hot pink suitcase like it had just insulted her. Behind her: Vicky bouncing on the balls of her feet, Salma trying to keep a juice bottle from spilling in her bag, and Patri — blessed Patri — looking like she regretted all her life choices that led her to this moment.

Jana followed, bleary-eyed and already regretting not taking Leila’s warning about SPF seriously. It was pushing 34°C and the group chat was alive with messages like “resort wifi better SLAP” and “dibs on the bed by the window”.

By the time they reached the resort, Jana had already been assigned a room by Leila (as per spreadsheet), been told by Vicky that she looked “sad but in a sexy way,” and had to help Salma detangle a hair clip from a piece of someone else’s luggage.

The resort itself was… ridiculous.

Infinity pool. Cabanas shaped like eggs. Staff with clipboard smiles and teeth too white to be real. Everything smelled like oranges and money.

Leila turned to them, arms wide like she had personally built the place. “Girls — welcome to our revirginification.”

Patri choked on her water.

Salma cackled. “Leila—!”

“What?” Leila said, pushing her sunglasses onto her head. “We’re cleansing. Detoxing. Leaving our sins behind. It’s called branding.”

“You’re 33,” Jana muttered.

“I’m thirty-two.”

Vicky stretched out on a pool lounger with all the confidence of someone freshly out of teenhood. “I’m gonna make out with someone with a boat. Manifesting.”

“No boats,” Patri said.

“I SAID MANIFESTING.”

Jana stood quietly at the edge of the group, sipping water. She wasn’t trying to mope — really, she wasn’t — but the noise and the colour and the heat made her feel like a ghost at someone else’s holiday. She wanted to want to be here.

Then she saw her.

Seated alone at the pool bar.

Sunglasses perched low on the bridge of her nose. Hair swept up messily. One leg crossed over the other like a portrait come to life. A half-finished Negroni in hand and headphones slung around her neck like a fashion statement she’d forgotten to remove.

She didn’t smile. Not really. But her eyes slid toward Jana with a kind of deliberate boredom that made her stomach twist.

Jana looked away first.

The next time she looked back, you were still there. This time with a cigarette balanced between your fingers. A bartender passed you a bottle of water. You toasted it ironically.

Jana could hear Vicky still rambling about boat boys in the background, but the moment had shifted. The bar suddenly felt like a different kind of invitation.

“You’re staring,” Patri murmured beside her.

“I’m just… looking.”

“She’s pretty.”

Jana didn’t answer.

Patri bumped her arm. “This is supposed to be fun, you know.”

“She looks older.”

“Not by much.”

“She looks like trouble.”

Patri grinned. “That’s the point.”

An hour later, you were gone. The bar stool was empty, the glass washed clean, like you hadn’t been there at all.

But Jana kept glancing toward it — again and again — long after the sun dipped low and the poolside music changed.

She didn’t know your name yet.

But she wanted to.

——————

Hotel bar. Late night.

The pool had emptied hours ago. The sunburnt partiers had vanished into foam parties and overpriced beach clubs, leaving the resort in a hush of distant bass and clinking glasses. The air still smelled of citrus and chlorine. The moon was heavy, low, indecently close to the horizon.

Jana didn’t mean to end up at the bar. Her room had felt too sterile. Her body too tired. She wasn’t ready for sleep, and she wasn’t ready to be alone with her thoughts either.

The bartender looked surprised to see someone in football slides and a hoodie sit down at a half-lit bar built for influencers and PR couples. But he didn’t comment — just handed her the menu.

“Anything with passionfruit in it,” she said, without really looking.

“Complicated day?” came a voice to her right.

She froze — spine tight, chest too alert.

You.

Perched just two stools away, glass in hand, elbow resting on the bar like you were born on the edge of things. Your hair was down now. You looked like a storm someone had learned to style.

She blinked. “You again.”

“You looked like you needed a drink.”

She glanced at the passionfruit cocktail just delivered to her. “Seems like you were right.”

You smirked. “I’m good at reading faces.”

Jana turned toward you, resting her forearms against the bar. “What does mine say?”

You didn’t blink. “Tired. Sad. Not sure if you’re allowed to relax.”

That startled her. Not the accuracy, but the ease of it. Like you’d seen her before.

“I’m Jana,” she said, quieter now.

You studied her for a moment, then extended a hand. “Y/N.”

Her hand met yours. Warm. Dry. Steady. You didn’t rush the shake. You also didn’t let it linger long enough to make it weird.

“Are you—” she hesitated. “Are you staying here too?”

“For now,” you said. “I’m playing a set later. Yacht party.”

“Yacht party,” she repeated.

You gave her a look. “Don’t say it like that. I don’t own the yacht.”

She laughed, low and surprised. “Sorry.”

“I just… show up. Play music. Try not to get groped.”

The bluntness of it made her pause. Not because it was shocking — but because you said it like someone who didn’t care to cushion the truth anymore.

“Is that your job?” she asked.

You took a long sip. “Depends on who’s asking.”

She raised a brow.

You relented. “Model-slash-DJ. Slash other things when the bills don’t wait.”

“How many slashes are we talking?” She tilted her head.

You gave her a half-smile, sharp and tired. “A lot. Hustle right.”

Jana didn’t speak right away. She just sat there, thumb tracing the curve of her glass. You waited for the inevitable discomfort — the quiet pity, the fake woke feminism, the I-had-no-idea bravado.

But Jana just said, “Well, that’s the economy. It sucks.”

You blinked. “Yeah. It does.”

“I hope the set’s good, at least.”

You shrugged. “You should come.”

“What?”

“To the set. Midnight. Pier 3. If you’re bored.”

Jana opened her mouth to protest — to say she wasn’t dressed for that, that she didn’t even like techno, that she had no business being on a yacht with strangers and you, glowing under strobe lights.

But instead she said, “Maybe.”

You smiled — small, but real.

“You’re not what I expected,” she said.

You raised a brow. “What did you expect?”

She considered that. “Someone who’d already forgotten me.”

You looked at her then — truly looked — and said, softly, “Haven’t had the chance.”

The clock hit 11:45 PM. You checked your phone, sighed, and pushed off your stool.

“Duty calls,” you said, grabbing your headphones. “If I don’t go now, someone’s gonna send me an angry emoji in real life.”

Jana smiled, finishing the last of her drink. “Good luck.”

“You too.”

She raised a brow. “With what?”

You leaned in just enough to make it personal. “Relaxing.”

And then you were gone.

——————

Ibiza pier and nearby dock, just past midnight.

The music started low — all pulse and patience, like the sea had learned to throb in time with the bass.

You were already on the deck when the yacht pulled away from the marina. Nothing too extravagant tonight — small, sleek, not built for crowds but for exclusivity. You stood behind your setup, hoodie zipped to your chin despite the warm air, headphones around your neck, watching the guests swirl like drunk perfume in expensive glass.

Your set started clean. Echoing. A beat that skipped like a skipped heartbeat. And then another. Layered synths. You didn’t look up when someone tried to talk to you. You smiled when you had to. You said little.

You’d done this enough times to know the choreography. Some guests just wanted to flirt. Others wanted something more. Sometimes a lot more.

One leaned in — older, manicured, tan lines around his wrists where a watch had probably been. His smile said, I paid for the right to interrupt you. You said nothing, just reached over and bumped the volume slightly. He lingered, but eventually left.

You took a sip of water — warm and flat — and adjusted the tempo.

No one cared about the girl behind the booth. Just the beat. Just the mood. Just the way you looked when the lights caught your cheekbone right.

Still, a small part of you scanned the dock every so often, through the glass, over the water.

You didn’t expect her to come.

So when you packed up a little early — another DJ taking over, another round of curated sound — you didn’t feel disappointed. Just tired.

——————

The air hits different when you stepped off the yacht.

You kicked off your boots on the edge of the dock and sat barefoot, jeans rolled, staring out into the black mirror of the sea. The kind of silence that hummed behind the ears.

And then — footsteps.

You turned.

Jana.

Hands in the pockets of an oversized hoodie, hair pulled into a low bun, face still warm with leftover sun.

“You came,” you said, startled.

She sat beside you without asking. “I did.”

You passed her your bottle of water. She took it.

“I didn’t think you’d actually come down here,” you said.

She shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Yeah,” you said, after a beat.

The sea lapped against the dock. The boat behind you was already sailing off, smaller and smaller until it looked like a moving constellation.

“You were good,” she said. “Your set.”

You raised a brow. “You heard it?”

“Some of it. From the dock. I walked by.”

You nodded, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “It’s not always that kind of crowd.”

“What kind?”

You gave her a sidelong glance. “The kind that listens.”

She looked down at her hands. “I was listening.”

The words settled between you like a net — light, but lingering.

“You’re different at night,” she said, quietly.

You huffed a laugh. “Most people are.”

“I don’t mean like that.”

You waited.

“You’re quieter. But not in a hiding way,” she continued. “More like… watching everything.”

“That obvious?”

She smiled. “To me, yeah.”

You didn’t know what to do with that. You looked back out at the ocean, letting the wind catch your hair.

“You don’t talk much about yourself,” she said.

“You don’t ask much.”

“I didn’t want to pry.”

You took a slow breath. “It’s not a secret. It’s just… complicated.”

She nodded. “You don’t have to explain anything.”

You looked at her again — for real this time. There was no pity on her face. No suspicion. Just patience.

“That’s rare,” you said.

“What is?”

“You. Being like that.”

She smiled, then leaned back on her elbows. “Guess I’m not what people expect.”

You smirked. “Neither am I.”

The silence returned, but this time it felt warmer. Like shared breath. You didn’t realise you’d inched closer until your knees brushed.

“You going to play more sets this week?” she asked.

You shrugged. “Probably. If I feel like it.”

“And if you don’t?”

You paused. “Then I disappear.”

“Just like that?”

You smiled, wry. “It’s kind of my thing.”

She studied you. “Maybe I’ll find you again anyway.”

That made you laugh — soft, surprised, real.

“You always this confident?” you asked.

She tilted her head. “Only with you.”

You stayed like that for a long while. Neither of you rushed the moment. You shared the rest of the water. Talked about nothing important — breakfast preferences, terrible travel stories, the weirdest superstition you’d ever heard.

Eventually, Jana stood and offered her hand.

“Come on,” she said. “I’ll walk you back.”

You hesitated — not because you didn’t want to go, but because you weren’t used to being taken care of in small, non-transactional ways.

But you took her hand anyway.

And she held it.

Not like a promise. Not like a secret.

Just like it mattered.

——————

Resort, the next morning through late afternoon.

Jana woke to the sound of someone absolutely murdering a ukulele in the suite’s shared living room.

She lay still for a moment, face down, cheek pressed into a sun-bleached pillow that smelled like lavender and chlorine. Her body was sore in places she didn’t know had muscles — she hadn’t done anything that strenuous, but being emotionally overwhelmed apparently burned more calories than expected.

Another twang. Then Leila’s voice:

“VICKY, PUT THAT THING DOWN BEFORE I YEET YOU INTO THE POOL.”

Jana groaned into her pillow. Vacation was a lie.

The group breakfast was a hot mess of hungover declarations and chaotic table politics.

Patri sat cross-legged on a pool lounger, hair damp, poking at a fruit bowl with surgical precision. Salma was still in her robe, eating dry cereal with a fork. Leila, in full team mom mode, was attempting to blend something green in the corner kitchen while Vicky made TikToks of herself lip-syncing to Bad Bunny.

“I need coffee,” Jana mumbled, rubbing her eyes.

Vicky pointed at her phone, grinning. “Say it again, but sexier. I’m making content.”

“Block me.”

“No me bloquees, cariño,” Vicky teased.

“She’s got that ‘I fell for a mysterious girl last night’ glow,” Salma said through a mouthful of cornflakes.

Jana froze mid-reach for the Nespresso pod.

“I do not,” she said flatly.

“Oh, you do,” Leila chimed in, pointing the smoothie blender at her like a microphone. “She’s been floating around all morning like a little lovesick sponge.”

“A what?”

“A sponge, Jana. Soaking in emotions. You’re moist with confusion.”

“Stop talking.”

“She’s not denying it,” Patri added mildly.

“I hate all of you.”

——————

Later that afternoon, you walked past the pool while the team was in full chaos-mode water fight. Jana spotted you just beyond the glass fence — barefoot, holding a tote bag, sunglasses on, hair damp from a shower. You wore a long black T-shirt dress and headphones slung around your neck like an accessory you hadn’t taken off.

You didn’t wave, didn’t smile. But your eyes flicked toward hers, and that was enough.

You disappeared around the corner.

And Jana — without really thinking — dropped the water gun Vicky had just handed her and said, “I’m going to get a towel.”

You were sitting on a low stone wall facing the sea when she caught up. Waves slapped lazily below.

“You left the chaos,” you said without turning.

“Had to,” Jana replied. “They started weaponising limpet shells.”

You looked over your shoulder, amused. “That some kind of coastal warfare?”

“You have no idea.”

You moved your bag aside, offering her a spot.

She sat. Close, but not too close.

“Rough night?” you asked.

She shrugged. “Rough morning. Too much fruit. Not enough dignity.”

“I feel like you’re the least chaotic of your group.”

“I try. Patri helps.”

You nodded. “She seems grounded.”

“She is.”

A pause.

You fiddled with the drawstring on your bag. “They’re… very curious about me.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” You smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I’m used to it.”

Jana glanced sideways. “That’s a weird thing to be used to.”

You gave her a look. “You’d be surprised.”

She opened her mouth to ask more — but didn’t. Instead, she let the silence sit. Let you keep the pieces you didn’t want to hand over yet.

“I took photos,” you said after a beat. “Of you.”

Jana blinked. “When?”

“Earlier. You were laughing. It was nice.”

“You don’t even know me.”

You shrugged. “I know a good photo when I see one.”

She flushed. Not quite blushing — but almost.

“Can I see?”

You hesitated — just a second — then unlocked your phone and handed it to her.

The photo was unfiltered. No angles. No touch-up. Just Jana, wind in her hair, eyes closed, smiling wide and unguarded while Salma appeared blurry in the background mid-cannonball.

Jana stared.

“I don’t look like that,” she said.

You tilted your head. “Sure you do.”

“No. I don’t smile like that.”

“You do when you’re not thinking.”

She handed the phone back carefully, like it held a version of herself she didn’t know how to protect.

“That’s kind of intimate,” she murmured.

You smiled, but softer this time. “Only if you keep it.”

She looked at you — really looked — and you could see the question in her eyes: What happens if I want more?

But she didn’t ask. And you didn’t push.

So you sat there, shoulder to shoulder, letting the sun do the talking for both of you.

——————

Rooftop terrace, resort. Just past midnight.

It was one of those nights when Ibiza softened.

The kind where the humidity finally gave up. The kind where the stars didn’t feel so far. Where the music from the beach clubs faded into a low murmur and the pool lights blinked out, one by one.

Jana found you sitting cross-legged on the rooftop terrace of the resort’s lounge, bathed in the ghostlight of a half-dead citronella candle and the pale glow of your phone screen. You were typing something — and then deleting it.

When you looked up and saw her, you didn’t flinch. You simply tilted your head and gestured to the cushion beside you. She sat.

You didn’t speak right away. Neither did she.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It had learned you both by now.

You broke it first.

“Ever think about starting over?”

Jana turned slightly. “Like, completely?”

You nodded. “New name. New city. Blank page. Whole thing.”

She considered it. “I used to. Back when I was younger.”

“You are young.”

Jana looked down at her hands. “Not like that.”

You waited.

She exhaled. “I just mean… before I made promises. Before people started expecting things of me. You know?”

You nodded, but didn’t elaborate.

She looked over. “Do you think about starting over?”

You snorted — a sound that wasn’t quite humour.

“I think about quitting sometimes.”

Jana blinked. “Quitting what?”

You paused. Then, quietly: “The pretending.”

She didn’t ask what you meant. She didn’t need to.

You picked at a loose thread in your pants. “There’s this version of me people like. The girl who plays music and poses pretty and laughs at bad jokes and knows how to pour drinks with just the right amount of eye contact.”

Jana was still.

“And then there’s the real me,” you continued, quieter. “The one who doesn’t want to be touched when it’s not a choice. The one who doesn’t want to smile for people who treat her like she’s on a menu.”

Jana’s jaw flexed.

You looked away. “Sorry. That was—”

“Don’t apologise.”

You blinked.

“I’m not going to pretend to understand,” she said, softly. “But I can listen.”

You met her gaze.

“Really?”

“Yeah. And if you don’t want to talk, that’s okay too.”

You swallowed. The candle flickered between you like it knew too much.

“It’s not always like that,” you said, after a while. “There are good nights. Good sets. Times when I feel like I’m doing something. Like I’m more than just… decoration.”

“You are,” Jana said, without hesitation.

You looked at her, half-smiling. “You don’t even know me.”

“I’m learning.”

That made something in you go still. Like a wire snapping into place. You let the silence stretch again, but this time you reached for her hand and laced your fingers through hers.

She didn’t flinch. She just squeezed.

“You’re not what I expected,” you said.

She tilted her head. “That good or bad?”

You smiled. “Dangerously good.”

She laughed — low, breathy, nerves kicking up behind her ribs.

And then she kissed you.

Not a heavy kiss. Not rushed. Not messy or hungry or heated.

Just her lips against yours like a quiet promise. Like a window left open. Like she wasn’t asking for your walls, just your presence.

You kissed her back with the kind of softness that made your chest ache.

When you pulled away, you stayed close — her forehead pressed lightly to yours.

“You okay?” she whispered.

You nodded, eyes still closed. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moved.

She didn’t try to take it further. You didn’t ask her to.

The intimacy was enough.

And when you eventually leaned into her side, letting your head rest on her shoulder, it was the safest you’d felt in months.

Just two girls on a rooftop, letting the night be enough.

——————

Hidden cove, Ibiza. Day trip arranged by Leila.

Leila had rented a boat.

This, in itself, was not surprising.

What was surprising was that she had not told anyone until 7AM that morning, when she burst into the suite still wearing last night’s eyeliner and announced, “Today is for healing, putas. Wear SPF or perish.”

Salma screamed. Vicky clapped. Patri blinked once and rolled over with a pillow on her head.

Jana, still tangled in sheets and slightly dazed from the warmth of your hand still lingering in hers from the night before, simply sighed and accepted her fate.

———————

The cove was straight out of a fantasy — turquoise water, limestone cliffs, and no reception. A perfect place to scream into the void, which Vicky did several times, for no discernible reason other than youth and vibes.

You came too — invited by Jana and cemented by a nod from Leila. You arrived with your hair braided back, oversized sunglasses, a black one-piece swimsuit with sheer pants, and a towel that smelled faintly like neroli and secrets.

Leila offered you a mimosa before noon. You declined with a smile and a half-lie about keeping your head clear for a set tomorrow. She accepted it without question.

Patri sat beside you for a stretch of time, sipping coconut water and asking about your favourite cities to DJ in. She didn’t prod. Just listened. You liked her for that.

Jana didn’t swim much.

She mostly floated. Legs dangling off the boat, hair tied in a knot, hands lazily trailing the surface of the sea. She looked lighter. Still tired, yes, but less like she was trying to hold the sky up.

You watched her when she wasn’t watching you. And sometimes when she was.

At one point, she dove beneath the water and came up right beside you.

“You okay?” she asked.

You nodded. “You?”

“Getting there.”

“Progress.”

She grinned. “Look at us. Healing.”

You laughed. “Leila would be so proud.”

“She just belly-flopped into seaweed,” Jana said, nodding behind you.

You turned and saw Leila flailing dramatically in the water, yelling “¡ME TOCÓ UNA MEDUSA!”

Salma was filming it on her phone. Vicky yelled, “Caption it ‘Mother Nature fights back.’”

——————

Later, after lunch and a lot of sunscreen reapplication, the girls passed out on towels and beanbags. You and Jana walked a little away from the group, up a rocky ledge overlooking the water.

You sat together on a flat sun-warmed rock.

You pulled your knees up. “They’re good people.”

Jana nodded. “They’re chaos, but yeah. They’re my people.”

You glanced at her. “I’ve never really had that. A group, I mean.”

She looked over. “Why not?”

You shrugged. “Work’s always… mobile. Temporary. No roots.”

“That’s lonely.”

“Sometimes. Sometimes it’s freedom.”

She studied your face. “Which is it now?”

You were quiet. Then: “Ask me when this trip ends.”

That landed heavier than you meant it to.

She nodded slowly. “Okay.”

You picked at your fingernail. “You’re not just nice, you know.”

She blinked. “I—what?”

“You’re kind. Thoughtful. The kind of person who asks before touching someone’s arm.”

She smiled, eyes soft. “It’s not hard to be decent.”

“No. But it’s rare.”

——————

When you climbed back onto the boat later, a little sun-dazed, Jana offered you a towel. You took it, but only after brushing your hand over hers on purpose.

She didn’t pull away.

You sat pressed together on the bench seat, silently sharing the last of someone’s warm lemon soda.

In that moment, you knew: you were in trouble.

Because this wasn’t just sweet.

This was beginning to feel like something that could matter.

——————

Resort villa, morning after the boat day.

Hangovers, subtle glances, and a kitchen blender on the brink of combustion.

Jana was awoken by the sound of blender homicide.

She shuffled into the kitchen in an oversized Barça hoodie, her hair frizzy from sun and sleep, just in time to witness Salma throwing what looked like two whole kiwis — unpeeled — into a NutriBullet, followed by kale, coconut water, and a single raw egg.

“You’re gonna kill us,” Patri said flatly, seated on the counter eating dry toast like a hostage.

“It’s a cleanse,” Salma argued. “Leila said we needed to sweat out our sins.”

“She also said I could eat a doughnut in the bath as long as it was organic,” Vicky chimed in from the doorway, wearing tiny sunglasses and someone else’s bathrobe.

Leila, ever the chaos matriarch, entered carrying a yoga mat and a crystal the size of a grapefruit.

She looked at the blender.

Paused.

Then calmly said, “No. Absolutely not.”

“But—”

“Nope.” Leila unplugged the machine. “Some of us like our intestines intact.”

Salma sulked. Vicky clapped. Patri raised her toast like a glass of champagne.

Jana, silent and amused, poured herself black coffee and watched the circus unfold. Her eyes flicked toward the back patio.

You were out there. Cross-legged on a lounge chair, earbuds in, face tilted toward the sun, drinking from a plain glass bottle filled with something bright red. Probably pomegranate. Maybe blood. Who knew with you.

You glanced over your shoulder.

Met her eyes.

Smiled — just a little.

She looked away, trying not to grin into her mug.

——————

“Okay,” Leila said, clapping her hands. “Today is spa day. No bikinis. No boys. No bad decisions.”

“Define ‘bad,’” Vicky asked.

“If you have to ask, it’s probably bad,” Patri muttered.

“Does that count?” Salma asked, nodding toward the patio where you now stood stretching, shirt riding up slightly, tattoos peeking out along your ribs.

Everyone turned.

Jana choked on her coffee.

Leila arched a brow. “I mean… spiritually? Maybe.”

Vicky stage-whispered, “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not,” Jana said, flushing harder.

“Oh baby,” Salma crooned, “You’re so in it.”

Patri chuckled. “Just ask her out properly.”

“I have.”

“Then do it again.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re glowing and weirdly polite and it’s giving ‘please ruin my routine in a meaningful way.’”

Leila pointed with her crystal. “She’s got the soft eyes. The forehead lean. The ‘I made you a playlist’ vibe.”

Vicky screamed, “WE NEED TO MAKE HER A T-SHIRT THAT SAYS ‘SHE’S JUST DIFFERENT’.”

Jana gave up and poured more coffee.

——————

Later that afternoon, while Leila attempted to teach Salma yoga and Vicky took thirst traps on the balcony, Jana found herself sitting beside you again — this time on a shared pool chaise under a gauzy umbrella.

You were sketching something in a little notebook. She couldn’t quite see what.

“What’s that?” she asked.

You tilted the page. “Set notes. For tomorrow.”

She nodded.

“You okay?” you asked, glancing sideways.

“Yeah.”

You waited.

Then added, “You look… floaty.”

Jana raised a brow. “Floaty?”

“Like you’ve been walking around in a daydream.”

She didn’t answer immediately. Just sipped from your bottle of pomegranate-not-blood and said, “Maybe I am.”

You smirked. “About anything specific?”

She looked at you. “Maybe.”

You leaned in — just enough to brush your shoulder against hers.

She didn’t move away.

——————

That evening, the group gathered for sunset drinks on the rooftop. The blender was mercifully retired. Someone had found a speaker that actually worked.

As the sky shifted from orange to pink to that soft indigo Ibiza always kept secret, Jana caught herself watching you — again.

You were telling Leila a story. Hands animated. Laugh quick. You looked like someone who didn’t trust joy but still chose it anyway.

She felt it in her chest. That quiet ache.

Patri came up beside her, wine in hand.

“You’re falling,” she said simply.

Jana didn’t deny it.

Instead, she whispered, “Yeah.”

——————

Resort villa, rooftop and later a quiet bedroom.

A photo changes everything.

It started, like most problems, with a poorly timed push notification.

Vicky was the first to scream.

“Oh my God.”

Jana nearly dropped her glass of sangria.

Everyone turned.

Vicky stood frozen in the middle of the rooftop lounge, phone clutched like it had personally betrayed her. “We’re trending.”

Leila blinked. “What?”

“You’re trending,” Vicky clarified, turning her screen to face Jana.

There it was.

A blurry zoomed-in paparazzi shot, clearly taken from a distance — probably a hotel across the marina. Jana, half-dressed, in a sports bra and linen pants. You, in her hoodie, legs bare, standing close enough to kiss. The way your hand cupped the back of her neck wasn’t explicit — but it wasn’t not suggestive either.

There were already quote tweets. Instagram reels. TikToks.

Someone had slowed the photo down into a fancam clip with sparkles and the words “real love looks like this.”

Salma’s jaw dropped. “Babe, you got caught in 4K.”

Patri rubbed her temples. “This is why we said no balconies.”

Jana just stared at the screen, face pale.

Leila moved into damage-control mode instantly. “Okay. It’s not that bad. It’s blurry. It’s moody. People love a sapphic summer arc.”

Vicky was still scrolling. “The L Chat forum girls have already named you ‘DJ Princess’ — why princess though?”

You, for your part, had been on the other side of the room, halfway through tuning a small Bluetooth speaker when you saw the faces turn.

Jana found you in her room twenty minutes later, sitting cross-legged on the bed with your phone face-down and your hands in your lap.

“I’m sorry,” she said immediately. “I didn’t—”

You looked up. “You don’t have to apologise.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be public.”

You smiled — but it didn’t reach your eyes. “It never is.”

She sat beside you. Careful. Close.

You took a breath. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No.”

A pause.

“You sure?” you asked.

Jana turned to face you fully. She fidgeted. “People can be… intense. Especially online. Especially with football. I don’t want you to feel unsafe.”

“I’ve been through worse,” you said, dryly.

“Doesn’t mean you should have to deal with this alone.”

You didn’t reply.

So she reached for your hand.

And when you didn’t pull away, she let out a quiet breath of relief.

——————

Later that night, long after the rooftop had emptied and Vicky had passed out with a sheet mask on and Leila had gone for a moonlit walk to “realign her chakras,” Jana’s phone buzzed.

Alexia Putellas — FaceTime Incoming

She answered immediately, still curled beside you under the sheets.

“Hola,” Jana whispered.

Alexia appeared on-screen, somewhere dim and warm. Likely a hotel room in Mexico. Her hair was tied back. She looked tired but amused.

“I just woke up to chaos,” Alexia said, sipping something in a black mug.

Jana groaned. “It’s not that bad.”

Alexia held up her other phone and angled it toward the screen: the tabloid photo.

Jana covered her face with her free hand. “Okay. It’s that bad.”

Alexia laughed. “Patri already sent me five memes.”

You, sitting half-out of frame, gave a shy little wave.

Alexia’s expression shifted — just slightly. Softer. She looked at you, then back at Jana.

“She looks happy,” she said.

Jana blinked. “What?”

“You. She makes you look happy. That’s what I meant.”

You swallowed — unsure what to say.

Alexia just smiled. “Take care of each other, ¿vale?”

“Sí, Ale,” Jana murmured.

The call ended a moment later.

You stared at the blank screen for a beat too long.

Jana gently nudged your leg with hers. “You okay?”

You nodded. “Just… not used to this.”

“What?”

“Being… accepted. So easily.”

Jana leaned in.

“Get used to it.”

You didn’t sleep for a while that night.

But when you finally closed your eyes, head on her chest, her heartbeat was steady.

For once, you didn’t feel disposable.

You felt like something that might stay.

——————

Secluded beach cove near the resort, sunset into twilight.

Jana found you down by the cove, where the sand met sharp rock and the waves came in quieter than they had any right to.

You stood barefoot in the shallows, jeans rolled, hair down, your hoodie zipped halfway up despite the late heat. A cigarette burned out between your fingers — you weren’t even smoking it. Just holding it like something to do with your hands.

She approached slowly, sneakers in hand, voice soft. “You didn’t come to breakfast.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“That’s rare for you.”

You shrugged. Didn’t look at her. “Didn’t feel like talking.”

“Me neither,” she said.

You turned to her, finally. “So why are you here?”

Jana didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she looked at you. Really looked. You — disheveled, guarded, beautiful in a way that didn’t ask to be noticed. And still, she noticed.

You were tired of being a thing people wanted to claim but didn’t know how to hold.

She stepped closer.

“Because I want to be.”

——————

You sat on a half-buried log by the sand dunes.

Jana sat beside you, close but not touching. The wind had picked up, cool and restless.

You stared out at the sea, jaw tight. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I think I do.”

You shook your head. “I’ve been through this before.”

“This?”

“This… liking. Wanting. Being wanted.”

Her brows furrowed. “That’s not a bad thing.”

“For you? No. For me? Always.”

You turned to her, eyes hard. “I’m not someone people keep, Jana.”

The silence cracked open.

And then she said, without flinching: “Then I’ll be the first.”

Your mouth parted slightly.

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “I don’t care what you’ve done. Or what people think you are. I care about you. And you — right now — are someone I want.”

Your voice cracked. “It’s not that easy.”

“I know.”

“I’ve been… things. For people. Things I didn’t always choose.”

She looked at you, steady. “That’s not who you are. That’s what they did.”

You closed your eyes.

Your voice dropped. “You don’t want to love someone like me.”

“Too late.”

You kissed her then.

Not slowly.

Not softly.

You kissed her like you were drowning and she was the only thing that tasted like air. Like the ache in your chest had a name now — and it was hers.

She kissed you back with both hands in your hair and an edge of something deeper — something grateful, like she couldn’t believe you let her touch you like this.

There was no rush.

But there was urgency.

A shared truth in every motion: I want this. I want you. I don’t want to run anymore.

——————

Back at the suite, it was quiet. Everyone had scattered. Someone had left an empty wine glass on the steps. A citronella candle burned low.

In the room, you stood together at the edge of the bed, hands brushing, unsure who would move first.

Jana looked at you — flushed, hair windblown — and cupped your cheek. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “Are you?”

She kissed you again — slower this time.

When you finally undressed each other, it wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t about heat or proving anything. It was reverent. Gentle. A language spoken in sighs and shivers and forehead kisses between moments of stillness.

She touched you like you mattered.

You touched her like you believed it.

Later, when you lay tangled in her arms, skin warm and sticky, neither of you said anything.

You didn’t need to.

The wanting was no longer the weight.

It was the release.

——————

Resort, final full day in Ibiza. Midday into evening.

The last day felt too loud, like the sun was brighter just to be spiteful.

Someone — probably Vicky — had written GOODBYE, IBIZA 💔 on the villa’s glass patio doors in bright pink lipstick.

Suitcases lined the hallway. Unused outfits hung limply on chair backs. Leila had started her customary last-day playlist (“a mix of Beyoncé, nostalgia, and whatever Salma sends me”) which had been playing on loop since breakfast.

Back in your hotel room, you were packing in silence.

Your hands moved automatically — folding, zipping, smoothing things down — but your mind kept stalling in strange places. Like the corner of the bed where Jana kissed your collarbone the night before. Or the outline of her sandal print next to yours in the sand outside the door.

You weren’t good at endings.

Especially not ones that had started to feel like beginnings.

A soft knock sounded at the door. You walked over and opened the door to find Jana — already dressed for the day — loose linen shirt, hair in loose waves, those brown eyes that always looked like they were learning you.

“Hola,” she greeted.

“Hey.”

A pause. The air was gentle, but alert.

“I booked a later flight,” she said.

“Oh?”

“Wanted a few more hours.”

You smiled — small. “To do what?”

She shrugged, stepping closer. “To hold you. To pretend this isn’t ending yet.”

You stood from the suitcase, walked into her arms.

Her hands came up instinctively to your waist, grounding. Familiar now. Almost muscle memory.

You said into her shoulder: “I don’t want this to be a holiday thing.”

“Me neither.”

“But I don’t know what I’m walking back to.”

“Whatever it is,” she said, “don’t do it alone.”

You looked up at her.

“I’m in Barcelona,” she said simply. “That doesn’t have to be far.”

“I move a lot,” you said, quietly.

“So stay still. A while.”

——————

That afternoon, the girls gathered one last time on the rooftop — mimosas, final sunburns, Vicky blasting throwback reggaetón and proclaiming it “cultural preservation.”

You sat beside Jana, legs intertwined, her arm casually slung across the back of your chair. No more hiding. No need.

Leila clinked her glass against everyone else’s. “To freedom!”

“To SPF!” Salma added.

The sun dipped low, and the group noise softened into the kind of laughter that aches at the edges. You leaned your head on Jana’s shoulder.

“I’m going to miss this,” you said.

She kissed your hair. “We’ll make more of it.”

——————

Back in your room, later, you sat at the edge of the bed scrolling through photos.

One of you and Jana — blurry, golden-hour light, her nose brushing your cheek. Taken by Patri when you weren’t looking.

You saved it to your favourites.

Jana came in holding her phone.

“I made a playlist,” she said, a little sheepish.

You raised a brow. “For me?”

“Maybe.”

You pressed play. Ambient. Steady beats. Hints of melancholy and want.

“You made me a techno mixtape.”

“It’s… inspired by you.”

You looked at her, heart full. “You’re soft.”

“You like it.”

You kissed her.

She didn’t say don’t go.

You didn’t say stay with me.

But when she walked you to your cab at sunrise, kissed you through the car window, and pressed her number into your palm on a napkin with a lipstick kiss drawn beside it — you both knew:

This wasn’t goodbye.

——————

Barcelona. Winter sun. First meet-up with the team.

You still flinch when someone says your name in a crowded room — the muscle memory of being called for the wrong reasons dies hard. But you don’t flinch as much anymore.

It’s been six months.

Six months since Ibiza. Since a cove and a kiss and a quiet promise over cheap pomegranate juice. Since the softest “stay still a while” you’d ever been offered.

You moved. Not for Jana. Not technically. But Barcelona felt like something that called rather than claimed. A city where you could play gigs without being propositioned. Where you could model without being handled. Where you could — for the first time in a long time — just exist without negotiating your worth at the door.

And slowly, the light came back.

So did your music.

And — inevitably — so did your chaos.

Patri was the first to hug you when you walked into the café. She smelled like sunscreen and almond milk. “Welcome to the chaos,” she said, winking.

Salma raised her eyebrows the moment she saw you. “You look great!”

“I get that a lot,” you said, deadpan. Salma cackled. “You look good too, Salma.”

“Months later, you’re still around,” Vicky said, leaning back in her chair with mock awe. “Jana’s game is strong.”

You stood there awkwardly, clutching your coat, letting them talk about you like a legend that had walked out of a story. And then—

You felt it. A hand sliding into yours from behind.

Jana.

She was late. As usual.

But her smile was soft, crooked, yours.

“Sorry,” she said. “Got caught in traffic.”

“I think you just like entrances,” you teased.

“Only if you’re waiting at the end.”

She kissed your cheek in front of everyone. It wasn’t a statement. It was just true.

Vicky fake gagged. “Oh my GOD, get a room.”

Patri passed you a menu like nothing happened. “We got almond milk and shade on tap.”

——————

After coffee, you all walked to the park. Vicky tried to climb a tree for a better selfie angle. Salma helped. Patri documented the fall. Jana held your hand the entire time — absentminded, like it belonged there.

Later, on a quiet bench in the shade, she turned to you.

“You’re different here.”

“Different how?”

“Like the volume’s down. In a good way.”

You smiled. “You’re the first place that’s ever felt quiet.”

She leaned in. “Stay a while longer?”

You tucked her hair behind her ear. “That wasn’t the deal.”

“What was the deal?”

“I’d come if you asked.”

She kissed you.

“I’m asking.”

——————

That night, you made dinner in your new apartment — no yacht, no dress code, no job title hanging around your neck like a collar. Jana danced barefoot in your kitchen while you burnt the garlic. You pretended not to notice that she’d left a drawer full of her things without asking.

Neither of you said “I love you.”

But when she reached for your hand in the middle of your sleep, whispered something half-dreamed into your shoulder, and exhaled like she belonged nowhere else—

You knew.

——————

A/N: Thank you for scrolling this far.

#jana fernandez fanfic #jana fernandez x y/n #jana fernandez imagines #jana fernandez x reader #jana fernandez #woso imagine #woso fanfics #woso x reader #rpf

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arabella-syntax · 1 day ago

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Bro, I just finished My Capitana, and it was the best shit I've read in a long time. It was so good I didn't want it to end. I've always had trouble reading quickly, no matter how interested I am or how good the material is, I'll read a paragraph and then get up to do something else. But with this fanfic, I was like the fucking flash, no joke. Also, while reading it, I was thinking about all you talented fanfic writers and wondering why you don't go pro or something cause god (he’s probably against it but I don’t care) knows how much this world needs some good sapphic novel… there just aren't enough.

Last but not least, you fucked me up with that 'torna a mi.' I genuinely thought it was heading toward the most heartbreaking ending, but I was wrong and I’m happy about that.

Keep going you talented human

Bro, your kind words really touched me. Like, I did not expect these kind of reactions or comments when I started dabbling again in writing. I stopped writing (it was my hobby for a long time — like really, really long) as my work takes a lot of my time and energy.

But now I’ve been enjoying a sabbatical from work for three months now, and the floodgate of all these suppressed ideas just came out — and it has not stopped. I’m actually ending my sabbatical in a month’s time and I’m afraid this side of me will quiet down. Which is why I’ve about to complete 3 other fanfics that I intend to post before end of the month.

Once again, thank you for your kind words. 🙏

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arabella-syntax · 1 day ago

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i NEED a part 2 of not just a cute meet. i’m falling hard launch’s, celebrating a trophy and reader coming onto the pitch. fluff.

Did not expect readers to resonate with this little fic as much as it did. Hmm, I’d probably do a poll to see if there’s more interests for a sequel of Not Just Another Meet Cute. Maybe titled Still Not Just Another Meet Cute - 🤷🏻‍♀️.

But if I do end up exploring and writing - it will be after 3 upcoming fics I’m working on.

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arabella-syntax · 3 days ago

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idk why but alexia saying“torna a mi” was the prettiest thing i’ve read, it made me ugly cry at 7 in the morning that’s not a good crying time

thanks for not killing yn

Ugly crying is nice sometime. I love to ugly cry. And ya, Y/N deserves a resemblance of life with Alexia.

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arabella-syntax · 3 days ago

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eli side eyeing yn every time she went to see alexia play 😭😭😭

Mami knows.

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arabella-syntax · 3 days ago

Text

My Capitana (Part 2)

Pairing: Alexia Putellas x Femme!Reader

Summary: When Alexia Putellas was just a shy, messy-haired seven-year-old at Sabadell, she used to wait after practice for her dad — and for her captain. You, at twelve, were fast, brilliant, already a quiet leader — the American expat kid who always passed to her first. She followed you around like a shadow. Your teammates teased. You brushed it off: “She’s too young to know what a crush is.” Then, one day, you vanished. No goodbye — just a scribbled note with a number that would never work. Decades later, you meet again.

Word count: ~ 20k

A/N: Here’s part 2. Thanks for reading! Peace out. ✌️

————————————————————————

Gràcia, Barcelona — Two Weeks Later

Y/N had always known that love — real love — had a way of leaking.

You could pretend you weren’t showing it. You could call it private. Call it yours. But love had a mouth. It had eyes. It spilled into the space between bodies and lingered on glances and gestures. It curled into the curl of a hand around an oxygen monitor in the middle of a quiet café on a Tuesday morning.

And when you were in love with Alexia Putellas?

Well, it made headlines.

The photo wasn’t even that dramatic.

No kissing.

No hands anywhere scandalous.

Just her and Alexia sitting outside a small café in Gràcia, two mugs of tea between them. Y/N was laughing — actual laughing, which already felt like a betrayal — while Alexia adjusted the strap of her oxygen band.

Intimate.

Unmistakable.

Tender in a way you don’t touch a friend.

By lunchtime, it was everywhere.

“IS THIS ALEXIA PUTELLAS’ MYSTERY PARTNER?”

“WHO IS THE WOMAN ALEXIA WAS SPOTTED WITH?”

“SOFT LAUNCH, POWER COUPLE?”

“QUEER LOVE WINS: INTERNET LOSES IT OVER ALEXIA’S CAFÉ MOMENT.”

The last headline made her choke on her water.

Alexia took it in stride.

When the texts started pouring in, she just muted the group chat and tossed her phone under the couch. Jana sent three eyeball emojis and a voice note that was just 48 seconds of wheezing.

Mapi followed it with:

“La data girl has the riz. I respect it.”

Y/N turned her phone over on the table and groaned into her hands. “Kill me.”

Alexia, unbothered, sipped her tea. “You’re trending in Mexico.”

“Oh my God.”

“They’re calling you ‘la científica.’”

“Please.”

“Honestly? It’s hot.”

Y/N peeked through her fingers. “You’re enjoying this.”

Alexia shrugged. “Only a little. And only because I’ve been trying to soft launch you for months.”

“Then next time maybe don’t do it in a paparazzi-accessible postcode.”

“I didn’t know I was being watched. I was busy being in love.”

Y/N stared at her.

“You don’t get to say things like that while I’m having a crisis.”

Alexia reached across the table and stole a piece of her toast. “Too late.”

——————

The media chaos was expected.

What wasn’t expected was the call.

From Laporta.

Alexia blinked at her screen, let it ring once more, then picked up.

“Hola, president.”

Y/N could only hear one side of the conversation — quiet, clipped.

“No, everything is fine.”

“Yes, I’ve seen the coverage.”

“No, I’m not distracted.”

“She is a professional.”

“No, I’m not confirming or denying. Because my private life is not under contract.”

Pause.

Then, calmly:

“Yes. I’ll see you.”

She hung up. Turned back to Y/N.

“He says hello.”

Y/N blinked. “He does not.”

“No,” Alexia admitted. “He does not. But he didn’t say anything wrong, either. He just wanted to make sure I’m not about to spiral.”

“Are you?”

Alexia smiled. “Not even close.”

——————

That evening, Eli called. And invited her to dinner.

Not them.

Just her.

Which made Y/N nearly pass out.

“She said it so casually,” Y/N whispered later, pacing the length of her apartment in socks and a Barça hoodie that didn’t belong to her. “Just, ‘Ven a casa. Alba hará croquetas.’ Like I’m not about to be interrogated by your mother.”

Alexia was on her stomach on the couch, scrolling Instagram. “You’re not being interrogated.”

“I’m the mystery girl who made headlines for oxygen kisses.”

“Okay, first of all, it wasn’t a kiss—”

“Not the point.”

Alexia sat up. “Y/N. She likes you. She’s always liked you.”

“She’s never met me.”

“She remembers you from Sabadell.”

“What?”

“She said you used to look at me like I was the only person on the pitch. That it scared her a little. That you were too old to look at a kid like that.”

Y/N flushed. “I never—”

“She knows that,” Alexia said gently. “She knows who you are. And she’s seen who I’ve been… without you.”

Y/N sat down.

And nodded.

——————

That Night — Mollet del Vallès

Alba opened the door with a suspiciously wide smile and a dishrag slung over one shoulder.

“You made it,” she said. “Wow. Brave.”

“Hola to you too.”

“Did you sign the waiver?”

“I—what?”

“Kidding,” Alba said, dragging her inside. “Mostly.”

The house smelled like warmth and onions and something nostalgic Y/N couldn’t quite name. Eli was already at the table, flipping through a recipe book but clearly waiting.

She looked up when Y/N entered and offered a smile that felt like a verdict delayed.

“Buenas tardes,” she said. “Have a seat.”

They didn’t ask about the photo. Not directly.

Instead:

“So, how long have you been working in analytics?”

“What brought you back to Barcelona?”

“How do you like your tea?”

And then, finally — over dessert, just as Y/N thought she’d survived:

Eli said, quietly:

“Alexia is happier. I see it in her shoulders. She doesn’t come home carrying the whole world.”

Y/N met her gaze.

“I won’t promise things I can’t deliver,” she said. “I won’t say forever. I won’t say I’ll never need help. But I can promise that I won’t ask her to hold me up. Only to hold me. When I let her.”

Eli nodded slowly.

“Then I’m glad you came back.”

——————

Later that night, Alexia met her outside the house. Wrapped her in a hug before Y/N could say a word.

“Well?” Alexia murmured.

“She made me cry over croquetas.”

“She does that.”

“She said she’s glad I came back.”

Alexia pulled back slightly.

“I am too.”

——————

As they drove home, Y/N rested her head against the window, watching the streetlights blur.

“I thought people would be upset,” she said. “About us. That they’d say I’m a burden. Or that you’re wasting your time.”

Alexia’s hand found hers on the gearshift.

“They can say what they want.”

“And what do you say?”

Alexia smiled.

“I say we haven’t even started yet.”

——————

Gràcia, Barcelona — One Month Later

The day began the same way it always did now.

Not with alarm clocks, not with frantic emails or rushes to training — but with breath.

Or the fight for it.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor beside her bed, shoulders hunched slightly forward, nebuliser mask secured. Her eyes were closed, one hand on her chest, counting the rhythm: inhale, hold, release. The vest — inflated around her torso — pulsed with soft mechanical percussion. She looked calm. She looked clinical.

Alexia watched from the kitchen doorway, barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed up, a teaspoon hanging from her fingers. Quietly, she leaned against the wall and said nothing.

She never interrupted the routine. Not anymore.

She just made coffee and waited.

——————

Twenty minutes later, the sound of the nebuliser stopped with a click. The vest deflated with a sigh. Y/N exhaled like she was letting go of something ancient.

Alexia placed a mug on the nightstand beside her. One sugar, splash of oat milk.

Routine.

Sacred.

“You okay?” she asked.

Y/N nodded. “Better.”

“Rough night?”

“Little bit.”

Alexia leaned down and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “You didn’t wheeze in your sleep.”

“That’s a new high score.”

They smiled at each other in that soft, morning kind of way — not bright, not giddy. Just warm. Earned.

——————

They spent the morning side by side on the couch, laptops open, knees brushing. Y/N worked on match analysis for Barça’s upcoming Champions League fixture. Alexia half-pretended to review game film but mostly watched Y/N scroll.

“You know,” Alexia said, nudging her foot gently, “if you submitted this much feedback to the actual coaching staff, we’d be undefeated.”

“Since we started dating, they had me focus on the men’s team. So oops, that ship has sailed.”

“You’re not even trying to be neutral. You’ve highlighted my name three times.”

“I’m tracking high-risk overlaps. It’s not personal.”

“It feels personal.”

“Maybe because you keep leaving the left side wide open after you cut inside.”

Alexia scowled. “You sound like Vilda.”

Y/N looked horrified. “Take that back.”

Alexia laughed. “Fine. You sound like Patri when she’s annoyed.”

“Better.”

——————

By midday, they were at the local market. Y/N walked slowly, one hand tucked loosely into Alexia’s back pocket. They didn’t talk much, just moved in rhythm — a quiet couple among the bustle. A woman behind the cheese counter nodded toward Y/N’s monitor and asked if she needed a chair.

Alexia turned to answer, but Y/N beat her to it:

“No, gracias. Estoy bien.”

Later, as they unpacked groceries in the kitchen, Alexia hovered behind her.

“You okay?”

“I’m not made of glass.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You looked like you wanted to pick me up and carry me home.”

“I did,” Alexia admitted. “But only because you looked tired.”

Y/N turned. “I’m always going to look tired.”

Alexia’s voice dropped. “Then I’ll always be here to carry you. If you ask.”

——————

That night, they lay in bed in the quiet, legs tangled, the hum of the city muffled by thick curtains. Alexia traced the inside of Y/N’s wrist with her finger, just below the pulse.

Y/N spoke without looking at her. “I keep waiting for you to regret this.”

Alexia didn’t flinch. “I won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

Y/N turned her face toward her. “Why?”

Alexia smiled. “Because I’ve waited through the version of life without you. And it didn’t get better with time. Just quieter.”

Y/N’s eyes stung.

She rolled onto her side and kissed her.

It wasn’t urgent.

It wasn’t fire.

It was the kind of kiss you give someone when you’ve already chosen them in every other way.

——————

Barcelona — Four Months Later

The press conference was supposed to be about the award.

Alexia, seated beneath the banner of the FC Barcelona Foundation, had just been named recipient of the Premio Humanitario Joan Gamper — a quiet, prestigious award recognising her leadership off the pitch. Not for the goals, not for the trophies, but for the work she’d done in hospitals, youth shelters, and silent meetings behind closed doors. Work no one had asked her to do.

Y/N sat in the back row. Not hidden, not announced. Just present. Watching.

She wore a black blazer over her oxygen monitor, a notebook in her lap — half pretending to take notes. Really, she just didn’t know what else to do with her hands.

Alexia looked calm. Radiant. Hair tied back, suit perfectly tailored. She’d given her thank-yous — to the club, to her teammates, to the girls coming up behind her.

Then the reporter asked:

“You’ve always said your inspiration comes from people off the pitch. Can you name one?”

Alexia paused.

Not out of nerves. Out of choice.

She looked toward the back. Not directly. But enough.

Then she smiled — the quiet kind. The one only Y/N knew the shape of.

“There’s someone in my life,” she said, “who taught me that time doesn’t run the same for everyone. That breath comes slowly, sometimes. That love isn’t always loud, or easy, or guaranteed.”

Y/N stopped breathing.

“She taught me that you don’t need to play to belong. That showing up — fully, vulnerably — is harder than running full speed at any defender.”

The room had gone still.

Alexia added, softly:

“She makes me better. And more than that, she reminds me that different clocks can still strike at the same time — if you learn how to listen.”

No name.

But she didn’t need one.

——————

Outside the hall, after the conference, they met in the shadow of the stadium. Y/N waited in the corridor, half lit by filtered sun through glass. Alexia came down the steps two at a time.

“You didn’t have to—” Y/N started.

“I did,” Alexia said. “You were part of this. From the beginning.”

Y/N blinked back tears. “I’m not always going to be able to be here.”

“I know,” Alexia said. “But I will be.”

“You’ll miss things.”

“I’ll wait.”

——————

That night, they walked the streets of Gràcia in silence, hand in hand, warm breeze slipping through the jacaranda trees. Y/N didn’t wear the monitor tonight — her oxygen levels had been steady. The city moved around them gently, like it knew.

They stopped in front of their favourite café — closed for the night, chairs stacked behind the glass. Y/N leaned against the window, exhaling slowly.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” she said. “This was just supposed to be a visit.”

Alexia leaned beside her. “Then stay longer.”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be better.”

“I don’t need you better. I need you here.”

Y/N turned toward her. “What if I don’t have forever?”

Alexia smiled.

“Then give me now. And tomorrow. And the next tomorrow after that.”

——————

Later, they sat on the rooftop. The same two garden chairs. The same mismatched table. The same city exhaling beneath them.

Alexia poured the wine. Y/N ran her fingers over the rim of the glass.

No grand finale. No declarations.

Just two women. Still in love. Still choosing each other.

——————

Late Autumn. Gràcia. Hospital del Mar.

She counted her breaths.

Not because it helped, but because it gave her something to do.

One—inhale.

Two—wait.

Three—exhale.

It used to be easier. Even when it wasn’t.

Even when she was running laps at twelve, lungs burning, everyone assuming she was just dramatic, not defective.

Defective. That was the word her father had never said but always meant.

Even now, even after decades, it still felt like a bruise. One that spread behind her ribs and colored everything.

She turned slightly on the bed. A movement so small, it woke Alexia.

“Sorry,” Y/N whispered.

Alexia, eyes bleary and hair a halo of tangles, blinked at her. “Estás bien?”

Y/N nodded. Lying felt gentler than the truth.

Alexia leaned forward in her chair, joints stiff from sleeping in positions no one should. “I dreamt you were playing again,” she murmured. “You had the captain’s armband.”

Y/N smiled. It hurt, in that way deep nostalgia always did. “That was never real.”

“It was to me.”

She looked at Alexia. Five years younger and yet infinitely braver. Still here. Still choosing her, even when the doctors said, “You’re officially on the list now — it’s a matter of time.”

They didn’t say whose time. Or how much.

Alexia reached out. Took her hand like it was a prayer she’d memorized. “You know if you get the call, I’ll drive like hell.”

“Alexia.”

“Seriously. Sirens on. I’ll wear my kit if it helps.”

Y/N laughed. Coughed, then laughed again. “You can’t solve everything with football.”

“Who said anything about solving? I’m showing up. Like always.”

And that was the thing about Alexia. She didn’t offer promises she couldn’t keep. Just presence. Just persistence. Just that steady, stupid, beautiful loyalty that had started when she was seven and never left.

Y/N turned toward the window, watching the pink smear of morning inch higher.

“I’m scared,” she admitted.

Alexia didn’t let go. “Good. It means you still want to be here.”

——————

A week later

The apartment was quiet in the way that only old cities could be.

Barcelona’s heartbeat had slowed for the weekend, traffic hushed, church bells distant. Her plants were thriving. The light slanted soft through the blinds.

Y/N was reading — or pretending to.

The book lay open in her lap, untouched for pages. Her lungs felt tight, but manageable. She was used to breathing through a straw. You learned not to complain when your body became the battleground.

Then her phone rang.

She didn’t recognize the number. But she knew.

Somewhere in her marrow, she knew.

She stared at it for two rings. Three.

Then picked it up.

“Miss Y/N?”

The voice on the other end was calm. Too calm.

“This is Transplant Coordination, Hospital Clínic. We have a match for your case. You’re listed as first recipient.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

“You’ll need to be here in the next 45 minutes for pre-op clearance. Can you make it?”

Y/N blinked.

“Yes,” she said softly. “Yes, I—I can.”

The world blurred. The air sharpened. She fumbled for her bag, her wallet, her shoes. Left the book open on the couch. Didn’t lock the windows. Called a cab because she didn’t want Alexia to panic.

But as she stood by the door, keys in hand, something twisted in her chest.

She had never pictured what the moment would feel like. That second when death quietly left the room and possibility walked in wearing surgical scrubs.

She texted Alexia.

Hospital. Transplant call came. Don’t leave training. I’ll see you after, okay? I’m okay. I promise.

No hearts. No kisses. Just fact.

And maybe a little lie.

——————

Elsewhere, on the training pitch…

Alexia read the message three times.

Felt her knees go out from under her on the turf.

Mapi ran over. “¿Qué pasa, tía?”

Alexia’s hands shook. She didn’t say anything.

Just showed Mapi the screen. Then she sprinted for her car.

——————

Later, Gràcia. Hospital del Mar.

It felt like falling.

Not the kind of falling that sent adrenaline rushing to your throat — but the kind that came slow, like a soft surrender. Y/N had been wheeled into the pre-op room fifteen minutes ago. It was colder than she expected.

Everything in hospitals was.

Even the kindness.

The nurse — Marc, early thirties, Catalan, kind eyes — was trying his best to keep things warm.

“So,” he said, gently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “¿alergias?”

She gave him a half smile. “Men.”

He laughed. “Vale, noted. I’ll write that down in the chart.”

The IV went in. A paper gown replaced the one she wore from home.

Her phone had been taken and stored — just in case she went under.

And for the first time, Y/N realized she hadn’t really said goodbye.

Not properly.

She hadn’t told Alexia how much she’d meant. How much she still meant. That she had been the softest regret all these years — and somehow the greatest return.

Y/N had always believed she was a footnote in Alexia’s story.

But lately… Alexia had made her feel like a prologue.

She closed her eyes.

Tried not to shake.

She didn’t want to cry. Not before going under. Not before the scalpel touched skin.

And yet—

a small, familiar knock.

Urgent. Off-rhythm.

Like someone who never knocked because she always had a key.

Then: “Perdón, can I—please. Please. I need to see her.”

That voice.

Y/N blinked.

The nurse opened the door with a sigh and a shrug. “She ran in here like a hurricane.”

Alexia.

Alexia, breathless, hair tied in a messy bun still damp from a shower. Training jacket zipped halfway. Eyes wide and wild and rimmed red.

“¡Hola, jefa,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Still breathing?”

Y/N let out a shaky laugh. “Barely. But I suppose that’s the whole point, no?”

Alexia rushed to her side. Took her hand — no hesitation, no room left for pride. She sat on the edge of the hospital bed like she’d done it a hundred times before.

Like they weren’t about to rip out what made Y/N’s body hers — and replace it with something that had belonged to a stranger.

“I tried to get here faster. I left training. Mapi covered for me.”

“Did she threaten anyone?”

Alexia smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“I almost missed you.”

“You didn’t,” Y/N whispered.

They stayed like that for a long beat.

Then Alexia pressed her forehead to Y/N’s.

“Do you remember,” she murmured, “when I was ten, and you gave me that stupid note? You left before I could say goodbye.”

Y/N blinked back tears.

“It wasn’t stupid,” she whispered.

“It had your number. It never worked.”

“I know. It was a Spanish number. We had to cancel the plan when we moved. I was just a kid. I didn’t know.”

Alexia pulled back just enough to look her in the eye. “You don’t get to leave me twice.”

The words were a punch.

Warm. Desperate. Fierce.

“Ale…”

“I love you.”

Softer now. But no less real. “I’ve always loved you.”

Y/N exhaled slowly. “Even when I was just the ‘cool big sister’?”

Alexia’s smile broke through. “Especially then. You were never a sister figure to me — you were my first crush.”

Y/N smiled, amused. “I was your queer awakening?”

The nurse cleared his throat from the corner. “Sorry to interrupt the rom-com, but we have about five minutes before she has to go in.”

Alexia didn’t move.

Just kissed Y/N’s knuckles and whispered something she didn’t understand, but felt in every bone:

“Torna a mi.”

Come back to me.

And Y/N — for once — believed she would.

——————

A day after the transplant, Hospital del Mar.

Y/N came back like fog. Not light — not sudden. Just a quiet return.

The world was too white.

Too blue.

Too still.

It took her a moment to realize she was breathing through something — a tube, maybe, or a mask pressed too tightly to her face. Her ribs ached in places that didn’t make sense. Her chest felt full and hollow at once.

Then it hit her:

She was.

She was breathing.

On her own.

No emergency inhaler. No night-time oxygen. No panic rising through the throat like a ghost with nowhere to go.

Just… breath.

Steady. Raw. Real.

“You’re back,” a voice whispered — cracking, almost reverent.

Y/N turned slightly, eyes still trying to focus. Her vision blurred, but she knew the voice.

Alexia.

Her Ale.

She was curled up in the awful recliner next to the bed, hoodie stretched over one knee, hair a mess. Her eyes were rimmed pink, and her face was the kind of tired that didn’t come from lack of sleep — but too much waiting.

Y/N tried to speak. Failed. Her throat was sandpaper.

Alexia reached out immediately. “Hey—shh. Don’t talk. You just woke up.”

She stood and hovered, awkward but certain, like her body didn’t quite know how to carry the weight of relief.

Y/N blinked again. Her hand moved slowly — shaky, like she’d never used it before — until her fingers grazed the edge of Alexia’s jacket.

“I stayed,” Alexia whispered, as if reading the unspoken question. “The nurses said I couldn’t. But… you know me.”

Y/N coughed weakly — a sound that used to terrify her, but now felt like proof of life.

Alexia smiled, wiping gently at the corner of Y/N’s mouth. “Still dramatic, even with new lungs.”

Y/N mouthed something.

It took Alexia a second to piece it together.

“Not mine,” Y/N had tried to say.

Alexia nodded slowly. Sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand again. “No. But they’re yours now. And they’re going to let you stay longer. With me. Right?”

Y/N blinked once. A promise.

Alexia leaned in. Pressed a kiss to her forehead. It lingered.

“Do you want me to tell you everything that happened?” she asked softly. “What the doctors said? How your sister called? How Vicky sent flowers so big the nurses thought you were a celebrity?”

Y/N shook her head gently.

“Then what do you want?”

Y/N mouthed again, lips barely moving.

Alexia bent closer.

“Stay,” she whispered.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Alexia said, before Y/N could even finish mouthing the word.

“I’m not twelve anymore. And neither are you.”

Y/N let out a laugh, small and broken — but alive.

She was alive.

And suddenly, it didn’t feel like the ending of anything.

It felt like a second half.

——————

One year later, Gràcia, Barcelona

Y/N’s lungs no longer sounded like betrayal.

She could walk up three flights of stairs without wheezing. She could laugh without coughing. She could lie in bed past sunrise and feel alive, not borrowed.

Still, she never let herself forget. Not entirely.

The mirror by the bathroom still had a small Polaroid tucked in the corner — a photo Alexia had taken in the hospital recovery wing, her hair a mess, lips chapped, giving a sarcastic thumbs up.

“Survived, bitch,” the caption said. Sharpie. Purple.

The girl who wrote that now moved around their shared kitchen like a show-off.

“Cuidado, chef incoming,” Alexia called dramatically, hip-checking the counter with the flair of someone who had captained club and country — and was now channeling all that leadership into making mediocre tea.

Y/N sat on the couch in leggings and an oversized hoodie, flipping through a book she’d read twice already.

“You’re using the wrong tea bag,” she murmured, not looking up.

Alexia gasped. “Blasphemy.”

“It’s not even steeped yet.”

“Oh, now you’re a tea sommelier?”

Y/N smiled without showing teeth. “Just saying. The Queen of Spain should know better.”

Alexia strutted in, holding two mugs like trophies.

“I’m not the Queen,” she said, handing one over.

“No?”

“I’m worse.” She grinned. “I’m your girlfriend.”

Y/N took the mug, watching steam curl upward. “Ah, so this is a hostage situation.”

Alexia sat beside her — too close on purpose, as always — and leaned into her shoulder. “You can’t prove that.”

They sat like that for a while. The kind of quiet that had space in it. The kind of quiet that only came after surviving something.

Alexia turned her head, pressed a kiss just below Y/N’s jaw. “When are you going back to the clinic?”

“Check-up’s in a week.”

“You nervous?”

Y/N shrugged. “A little. But…” She sipped her tea. “Not like before.”

Alexia nodded. “Because you’ve got me now.”

Y/N side-eyed her. “You’re annoying.”

“Hot, though.”

“Debatable.”

Alexia tilted her head, challenging. “Still remember that one time you called me ‘absurdly pretty’? In your sleep?”

Y/N groaned. “I had a fever.”

“You said I looked like a saint with a bad attitude.”

“You do.”

Alexia smirked. “So you admit it.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stuck with me.”

Y/N let her head fall onto Alexia’s shoulder.

“I used to watch you on the bench at Sabadell,” Alexia said suddenly, quieter. “Thought you were the coolest person I’d ever seen.”

Y/N closed her eyes.

“You had this wild ponytail and taped fingers. You’d always stay back and tie your shoelaces like the world was waiting on you.”

Y/N laughed under her breath.

“I didn’t know what it meant,” Alexia continued, voice softer now. “Back then. But I knew I wanted to be around you. And later… I knew I wanted you. All of you. Even the parts that scared me.”

Y/N swallowed, throat tight.

“Not scared of that anymore?” she asked.

Alexia turned, kissed her temple.

“I’m still scared,” she whispered. “But I want you anyway.”

Y/N let her tears come quietly — not out of sadness, but from the overwhelming grief of being allowed to stay.

Of being wanted, not pitied.

She reached for Alexia’s hand, curled their fingers together.

“I want you too,” she said. “Even when you make awful tea.”

Alexia grinned against her. “Unbelievable. I carry this team.”

“You carry nothing. You’re lucky you’re hot.”

“See? Absurdly pretty.”

They laughed.

And outside, Barcelona kept breathing — the way she did now.

Brighter. Louder. Fully.

——————

A late spring evening, Mollet de Valles

Jana had warned her.

Three days before, over coffee in the city, Jana had leaned across the café table and said, low and conspiratorial:

“She’s planning something stupid. Stupid and romantic. But mostly stupid.”

Y/N had laughed. “Define stupid.”

Jana stirred her espresso like she was mixing gossip into it.

“She asked me how to hide a ring in a cake.”

“Oh my god.”

“Then she said, ‘Never mind, too obvious,’ and started googling ideas involving the football.”

Y/N blinked. “She’s going to use the team?”

“I think so. I told her no. I don’t know if she listened.”

——————

That had been enough to prepare Y/N for something… Alexia-adjacent.

But not this.

Not Eli standing in the corner with her phone out, pretending not to film.

Not Alba whispering, “Brace yourself, she’s weird when she’s nervous.”

And definitely not Alexia clearing her throat and calling out:

“Hey! I need to ask a very important question. Like—life or death. Existential.”

Y/N, already side-eyeing the suspicious cake box, turned toward her.

Alexia stood in the doorway between the living room and dining area, holding a folded Barça training bib like it was sacred cloth.

“Don’t laugh,” she said, serious now. “This is important.”

“I’m scared,” Y/N muttered.

Alexia unfolded the bib.

On it, scrawled in black permanent marker:

“Wanna be my starting XI forever?”

Below it, a shaky little checkbox: ☐ sí ☐ sí obvio

Y/N’s hand flew to her mouth.

Alexia dropped to one knee — not gracefully, her jeans caught on the rug and she wobbled, swore, then steadied herself.

The ring box in her hand looked like it had been hiding in someone’s sock drawer. It probably had.

Eli gasped. Alba face-palmed. Jana, somewhere, was probably having psychic heartburn.

But Alexia looked up at her like the world didn’t spin without her permission.

“You once said I was absurdly pretty,” she said. “But you still roasted my tea.”

Y/N started crying.

“You told me I was annoying,” Alexia continued. “And that I talk too loud on the phone. And that I steal the covers. And that my toes are always cold.”

She opened the box. Inside was a ring — simple, delicate, unmistakably her.

“But you stayed,” she said, eyes shining. “So maybe… you love me back.”

Y/N covered her mouth, choking on a laugh-sob.

“I do,” she whispered.

Alexia smirked. “So you’ll sign my lifelong contract?”

Y/N nodded through tears.

“Only if I get co-captain rights.”

Alexia grinned. “Done. Come here.”

Y/N crossed the room and pulled her into a kiss so eager they both lost balance and collapsed onto the rug.

Eli clapped. Alba groaned, “Ugh, now I have to update the family group chat.”

Y/N, breathless, held the ring to the light.

“You’re lucky you’re hot,” she whispered.

Alexia kissed her forehead. “I am lucky. I got the girl.”

————————————————————————

A/N: The end. See, I’m not that evil. 👿

#alexia putellas x you #alexia putellas x y/n #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas fanfic #alexia putellas imagine #woso imagine #woso fanfics #woso x reader #rpf #woso x y/n

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arabella-syntax · 3 days ago

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OMFG I NEED A PART 2 OF MY CAPITANA I GENUINELY WAS SO SCARWD FOR Y/N. CAN YOU MAYBE ADD A HARD LAUNCH OR SMTJ.

Hang it there. I’ll be updating very soon.

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arabella-syntax · 4 days ago

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Wow, what an amazing part 1, and I can't wait for part 2. The emotional weight of this story is fantastic, and I'm happy to hear you don't plan on being super evil in the ending

Thanks for reading this little fic. I’m in my chill era, so ya — on the scale of 1 to 10 (with 10 being most evil), I’m just a 6 now.

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arabella-syntax · 4 days ago

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7yrs old alexia saw a pretty girl thought “i want her” and by 30 made her dreams come true, we have to stan

also i’ve watched enough grey’s anatomy to know you can get a lung transplant for cystic fibrosis so you better give this girl a successful lung transplant bcz i can’t take this suffering anymore im gonna kms fr

We stan a queen who knows what she wants. And no to your suffering — I’m not that evil. 😈

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arabella-syntax · 4 days ago

Text

My Capitana (Part 1)

Pairing: Alexia Putellas x Femme!Reader

Featuring: Vicky Losada, Mapi Leon, Patri Guijarro, Jana Fernandez (side note: can’t believe she’s heading to LCL 😣) & Ona Battle.

Word count: ~ 25k

A/N: Turns out it’s too long to post the entire fic in a single post. So, look out for Part 2 sometime tomorrow.

————————————————————————

CE Sabadell Training Ground, 2001

The ball skidded across the pitch like it had somewhere better to be.

Y/N didn’t chase it. She didn’t need to. Her first touch was already good enough to draw a whistle from the coach — short and sharp — the kind that meant, “Again, but slower.”

Twelve years old and already playing like she had something to prove, Y/N looped her hair into a ponytail, spat into the dirt, and jogged back into formation. On her right, Vicky Losada — ten and already loud — elbowed her with a grin.

“Capitana, that ball’s in love with you.”

“Not now, Vicky.”

“No, really. I think even Alexia’s jealous.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. It was a familiar tease, one that had started a few weeks back when the new kid joined — Alexia Putellas, age seven, with tangled brown hair and eyes too big for her face. She hardly spoke, but she always watched. Always lingered near Y/N’s side during warm-ups. Always sprinted harder when Y/N praised her.

Vicky nudged her again. “You know she stares at you, right? It’s weird. Like you’re a Pokémon card or something.”

“She’s a child, Vicky.”

“So are you.”

“Barely.”

——————

They broke into another set of dribbles before Y/N could retort. By the time training ended, her shirt clung to her back and her socks were streaked with the red clay that passed for turf in the lesser-used fields of CE Sabadell’s facilities. The older girls had the nicer pitch. The boys had the better cleats. And the girls’ under-13s? They had sunburn, gravel, and talent no one bothered to watch.

Y/N picked up two stray cones before turning to see the little one — Alexia — sitting cross-legged by the touchline, waiting. Her kit was still too big for her. The number on her back — 11 — nearly hit her knees.

No one else lingered. No one ever did. But Alexia always waited.

“You okay?” Y/N asked, swinging her duffle bag over one shoulder.

Alexia nodded. “My papa’s late again.”

There was a softness to her voice, careful and shy, like she wasn’t used to being heard. Y/N had always found that part hard to ignore.

“Want me to wait with you?”

Another nod. Not too eager. Not bashful either. Just… honest.

They sat on the concrete step near the field gate. The air smelled like sweat and overwatered grass. Cicadas buzzed somewhere in the distance, and the orange light of a Catalan evening dipped low across the hills beyond the pitch.

Alexia tugged at the velcro of her shin guards.

“Do you want to be a professional footballer?” she asked suddenly.

Y/N blinked, then smiled. “That’s the plan.”

“You will be.”

That startled her — not because of the certainty, but because of the way Alexia said it. Like it wasn’t a dream. Like it was already true.

“You think so?”

Alexia looked up at her, wide-eyed and serious. “You’re the best player I’ve ever seen.”

Y/N laughed gently. “You need to see more players, Lex.”

“I don’t want to.”

The honesty was too much for someone so small. It left Y/N quiet for a beat too long.

Behind them, Vicky appeared with her dad, eating half a bocadillo and grinning like a menace.

“Still waiting together? Aww. That’s adorable.”

“Go away, Vicky,” Y/N said without venom.

Vicky bit her sandwich and smirked. “She drew a heart on your water bottle earlier.”

Alexia turned red in a heartbeat — the kind of flush that ran straight up her neck like a siren. Y/N felt her stomach twist.

“She’s just a kid,” she said quietly, but the words didn’t sound like a dismissal.

Vicky shrugged. “Some kids know.”

Alexia didn’t say anything.

Y/N changed the subject.

“So, what’s your favorite team?”

“Barça,” Alexia said immediately. Then, after a pause: “But I like our team better.”

Y/N grinned. “Good answer.”

Minutes passed. The sun lowered. Shadows stretched long across the pitch.

Alexia’s father eventually pulled up in the familiar navy SEAT Toledo, waving from the driver’s side with an apologetic smile. Alexia stood, slung her bag over her shoulder, and turned back one last time.

“Thanks for waiting with me.”

“Always,” Y/N said.

And then — just before she walked off — Alexia pulled something from her bag and handed it to her.

A drawing. Crumpled at the edges, done in ballpoint pen and the kind of rainbow markers only little kids carried around.

It was the two of them — stick figures with lopsided kits — kicking a ball together. Over their heads was one messy word, written all in capitals:

“CAPITANA.”

Y/N opened her mouth to respond. Didn’t. Just watched as the little girl ran off, long hair bouncing, boots clumsy on her heels.

Later that night, she slipped the drawing into her diary.

She told herself it was because it was sweet.

Not because it felt like a promise.

——————

Winter, 2005 – CE Sabadell & Mollet del Vallès

The winter came faster that year.

Not in snow — Sabadell rarely got that — but in the kind of cold that settled in the bones and clung like regret. The grass turned from green to straw. Training moved to earlier in the day. And Y/N started arriving later and later.

Alexia noticed.

She always noticed.

Her captain wasn’t like the others. Most girls laughed too loud, kicked too hard, came and went like passing clouds. But Y/N? Y/N stayed. Always stayed.

Until she didn’t.

It happened just after Alexia’s eleventh birthday.

Her mamá had let her stay at training ten minutes longer, something about her being “una señorita” now, whatever that meant. She had just taken her last shot on goal when she noticed Y/N wasn’t there.

Not running extra drills. Not doing her usual “one more” before packing up. Not waiting by the dugout.

Gone.

Vicky noticed too. Her voice was unusually quiet when she jogged over, her jacket half-zipped and cheeks red from the wind.

“She’s not coming today,” she said.

“Why?” Alexia asked, already anxious.

“She’s leaving.”

“Like… leaving practice?”

“No. Like leaving Spain.”

Alexia stopped breathing for a second.

“She didn’t say goodbye.”

“She wasn’t allowed to.” Vicky shrugged. “Her dad got some job back in America. Something about visas. It was sudden. She just left.”

“But—” Alexia’s voice broke. “She said she’d wait.”

Vicky hesitated. Then reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of notebook paper.

“She told me to give you this.”

Alexia took it with trembling fingers.

It was written in block letters — clean, careful — like Y/N had rewritten it a few times before getting it right.

Ale,

I’m sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye. This wasn’t supposed to be goodbye.

You’re the best player I’ve ever met, and you’re going to be ten times better than me one day. I mean it.

I’m really proud of you.

This is my number. Call me. I’ll pick up, always.

— Y/N

(P.S. Keep the drawing. I still have the one you gave me.)

+34 6XX XXX XXX

Alexia clutched it in her fist until the corners curled and the ink smudged.

Later that night, she waited for her father to fall asleep before sneaking into the hallway and using the cordless phone.

She dialed slowly. Carefully.

Ring.

Click.

Silence.

Then: “The number you have dialed is not in service.”

She tried again.

And again.

The next morning, she folded the note into her training diary, next to the first goal she ever scored.

She didn’t cry. Not yet.

——————

For months after, Alexia looked for her.

On passing streets. In crowd shots. At school tournaments.

Each time someone new joined training, her heart leapt — just for a second — before she remembered the age difference. Before she remembered how people disappear sometimes. Even the ones who say they won’t.

It was her father who eventually threw out the drawing.

Not cruelly — just absentmindedly during a spring cleaning. Alexia found the empty folder and lost her breath.

“I know you admired her,” he told her gently when he saw her frozen at the bin. “I’m sorry that I almost threw it out.”

She carried the note in her shin guard for three straight seasons. Right up until she made her debut for the senior Sabadell side at fourteen. Then, she moved it into her locker at Barça’s youth academy.

By the time she turned eighteen, she still remembered the number.

And by twenty?

She still hadn’t forgotten the way Y/N tied her shoelaces twice — like she was sealing something in.

——————

Brighton, 2025

Vicky Losada pressed the phone to her ear and grinned into the morning sun slanting through the English clouds.

“She’s here,” she said.

“Who?” came the scratchy voice on the other line — older now, tired from training, clipped with Catalan fatigue.

“Your old captain.”

Silence.

Then:

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. I got the confirmation this morning — she’s working as a data analyst for one of the startups Barça’s contracted. She’s based in Gràcia. Moved in six months ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Because I wasn’t sure if you’d want to know.”

Alexia breathed in. Slow. Careful.

“I’ve always wanted to know.”

That night, she opened her old keepsake box — the one she kept in the back of her closet behind her UEFA medals and a faded Barça flag.

The note was still there.

Faded. Fraying. But real.

Her fingers brushed over the final line.

“I’ll pick up. Always.”

——————

Barcelona, Present Day – 2025

Y/N never liked offices with windows.

Not in the way people normally did. While others wanted open views, sunlight, and cityscapes, she preferred controlled lighting and screens — quiet corners, muted blue glows, and walls she could lean into without having to smile at a skyline.

It was early — a Monday morning, one of those that started too cold and too quiet for Barcelona spring — and her coffee had already gone cold beside her mousepad. The tactical dashboard in front of her blinked with heatmaps and pass completion percentages from Saturday’s match against Atlético Madrid.

She leaned in, squinting at a data point on Salma’s sprints when the knock came.

Three taps. Then silence.

Not from her team. No one ever knocked.

Y/N rose, smoothing her sweater absently, and opened the door to the Barça sports analytics office.

Then blinked.

“Hola,” said Alexia Putellas, leaning slightly on the doorframe like she’d rehearsed this in her head.

And forgotten her lines.

Alexia didn’t look like she belonged here — not really. Not in the sleek corridor, not under the cold-white LED overheads. She looked like she had just come from the gym (she had), dressed in Barça kit, hair still damp from a post-training shower. There was a duffle bag slung over one shoulder, and something unreadable in her eyes.

“I— Sorry—” Y/N stepped back out of instinct. “I think you might be looking for… marketing? Or media?”

Alexia tilted her head. “I know where I am.”

Y/N stared.

“I’m looking for you.”

The breath lodged in her throat. “Me?”

“You’re Y/N L/N, right?”

Pause.

“…Yeah. I— Yeah.”

Alexia smiled. Small. Awkward.

“I used to call you Capitana.”

The moment slammed into her like a cleat to the chest.

Y/N opened her mouth. Closed it. Looked at her like a photograph that shouldn’t exist anymore — all grown up, real, alive, and standing at her door like the ghost of a promise she’d written on crumpled notebook paper.

“You’re…” Her voice cracked. “Wow. You’re taller.”

Alexia gave a huff of a laugh. “Yeah, I’ve heard that once or twice.”

“And… good. You’re good.”

Alexia raised a brow. “I’m very good.”

“Cocky, too.”

“Only sometimes.”

Y/N couldn’t stop staring. The last time she saw Alexia Putellas, she was eleven years old, all oversized shirts and flushed cheeks. Now — thirty-one and towering, with that sharp captain’s focus softened only slightly by the smile creeping across her face.

“You remember me?” Y/N asked, voice quieter now.

Alexia nodded. “Of course I do.”

“You were a kid.”

“I wasn’t stupid.”

“No,” Y/N said, swallowing, “you weren’t.”

They stood in the doorway for a beat too long.

Finally, Y/N cleared her throat and gestured inside. “Come in?”

Alexia stepped in without hesitation, ducking her head slightly under the doorframe.

The room was a nest of screens and coffee mugs, tactical overlays projected onto one side of the wall, and a framed photo of Y/N’s old university team on a high shelf — mostly hidden behind a stack of training bibs and a model of a football pitch with magnetic tokens.

Alexia surveyed it all silently.

“You’re still around the game,” she finally said.

Y/N sat back in her chair. “Not on the field, but yeah. Barely.”

“I used to think you’d go pro.”

“I didn’t,” Y/N said simply.

Alexia waited, but Y/N didn’t elaborate.

“So what do you do exactly?” she asked instead.

“Data analytics. Mostly tactical breakdowns. I read games like books and explain why your heatmap’s shaped like a dagger this week.”

“Was that a compliment?”

“Depends. Are you trying to stab the opposition?”

Alexia smirked. “Always.”

Y/N chuckled, shaking her head. She still hadn’t fully wrapped her mind around the fact that this was real — that Alexia Putellas, captain of FC Barcelona, Ballon d’Or winner, living legend — was standing in her office with the same crooked smile and soft-eyed intensity she remembered from the kid who used to follow her around at training.

“You look exactly the same,” Alexia said, voice dropping.

“I definitely don’t.”

“You do. Same eyes. Same smirk when you’re thinking something mean.”

“I’m not—” Y/N stopped. “Okay. Maybe a little.”

Alexia tilted her head. “Why didn’t you come find me?”

Y/N blinked. “I didn’t think you’d remember.”

“I never forgot.”

They sat there in a silence that didn’t feel awkward — just full. Like pages waiting to be turned.

Finally, Alexia reached into her duffle and pulled something out.

A folded, time-yellowed piece of paper.

Y/N frowned. “Is that…”

Alexia handed it to her.

It was her note. The one she left with Vicky. The ink had faded, but the handwriting was unmistakably hers — block letters, a little too upright, trying hard not to shake.

Y/N felt her throat tighten.

“You kept it?”

“Of course I did.”

“But the number didn’t work.”

“I still tried it every year. Just in case.”

Y/N stared down at the paper. Her past staring back at her. Her lungs felt like they were folding in on themselves, gently.

“I was pulled out of school so fast,” she said. “My parents were furious. I was sick, and they didn’t want me playing anymore. We left in forty-eight hours.”

Alexia’s brow creased. “Sick?”

Y/N blinked, then smiled tightly. “Another time.”

A long pause.

“You left just before I scored my first goal.”

“I saw it on the newsletter online,” Y/N said softly. “I had it printed and pinned above my desk. You looked so proud.”

“I was,” Alexia said. “But I still looked for you in the stands.”

The words hung there. Heavy. Gentle.

Then Alexia added: “You gave me the word ‘capitana.’ I never let it go.”

Y/N exhaled slowly. “You always had it in you.”

Alexia met her gaze. “You did too.”

That stopped Y/N in her tracks. She had no reply to that — not one that didn’t bleed.

Instead, she shifted in her seat and gestured toward the screen behind her. “So. You want to see how dagger-shaped your heatmap really is?”

Alexia grinned. “Are you trying to seduce me with statistics?”

“I think I’m trying to humble you.”

“Good luck with that.”

They stayed in that office for another hour — not quite friends, not yet something more. Just a captain and her former captain, orbiting each other again like clocks that were once out of sync.

But now, maybe, catching up.

——————

Gràcia, Barcelona – 2025

The apartment was quiet in the way hospitals are — not silent, just measured. Every sound had its place. The hum of the air purifier in the corner. The soft click of the nebuliser cycling off. The rain tapping faintly against the window, like someone unsure they were welcome.

Y/N sat on the edge of her bed with a towel slung around her neck, her damp hair curling slightly at the ends, bare feet pressed to the warm wood floor. She coughed once — not sharp, not violent, just the kind that sat deep in her ribs, blooming there.

She checked her oxygen saturation.

92%.

Good enough.

Outside, Gràcia was coming to life with the slow rush of early evening — the narrow streets filling with the metallic shuffle of supermarket trolleys, the muffled clink of terrace wine glasses, dogs barking from windowsills. But Y/N stayed in. She usually did.

She wiped her mouth and turned the nebuliser off, folding the tubing neatly the way she always had. The routine was muscle memory now — saline rinse, Pulmozyme, chest percussion, vest if needed. It didn’t bother her anymore. Not really. The only part that did — the part that always did — was the pause after.

When everything was done and she sat in the quiet and remembered what her lungs used to be like.

She was ten when the diagnosis came.

Her parents had flown into a panic — urgent appointments, medical letters, second and third opinions. They didn’t want her running anymore. Didn’t want her training. Didn’t want her doing anything that could shorten a life already bracketed by limitation.

But Y/N?

Y/N kept playing until she was sixteen.

She played because the field was the only place her body didn’t feel like a trap. She played because her lungs burned in a way that made her feel alive. She played because, for a while, she had someone younger watching her — believing in her — like she could be something more than just a cautionary tale with cleats.

Alexia had been seven when she first joined the Sabadell team. Wide-eyed, fearless, and stubborn as hell.

And Y/N remembered her. All of her.

Even now.

She rose slowly from the bed and padded barefoot across the room to the closet. Pulled down a dusty cardboard box from the top shelf.

It was labelled Sabadell in faded marker.

Inside:

An old training bib, number 4 half-faded.

A pair of small cleats with the laces double-knotted.

A polaroid of the 2004 girls’ team — Y/N standing tall at the back, Vicky grinning in the middle, and little Alexia at the front, hands clasped behind her back, face half hidden behind a too-large fringe.

And beneath all of it — a folded piece of printer paper.

She opened it slowly.

The drawing. The one Alexia had given her all those years ago.

Stick figures. A ball. Two little jerseys. Over their heads, the word “CAPITANA” in blue marker, the A written backwards.

Y/N exhaled through her nose.

She hadn’t looked at this in years. Not since college. She’d always told herself keeping it was harmless nostalgia — not some part of her refusing to let go.

But now, after this morning?

After Alexia stood in her office like time hadn’t passed — like they’d just skipped ten chapters and picked up where they left off?

Something in her chest pulsed.

Not her lungs. Something deeper.

——————

Later that night, she sat at her desk, laptop open, cursor blinking on a blank tactical report.

She should’ve been working. Should’ve been analyzing the gaps in the half-spaces from the weekend’s second half.

Instead, she was searching YouTube for old match footage.

There she was — Alexia, age 19, subbed in during a preseason match for the senior team. She looked lighter then. Not in skill, but in soul. The weight of captaincy hadn’t hardened her yet. She still played like the ball belonged to her and no one else.

Y/N watched the goal on loop. The left-footed strike. The turn just before it. The celebration that followed — all teeth and triumph and a small, inexplicable glance to the crowd, like she was looking for someone.

Y/N had watched this clip before.

But tonight, it hurt differently.

She coughed again, this time into the crook of her elbow, deeper. Her whole body folding in.

After it passed, she reached for the bottle of water by her nightstand and the inhaler tucked beneath it.

One puff.

Hold.

Release.

Then she leaned back against the headboard and let herself breathe.

She hadn’t told Alexia. Not today. Not ever.

She wasn’t sure she would.

What do you say?

“Hey, it’s been twenty years, sorry about ghosting. Also, my lungs are slowly failing me, and I didn’t want to ruin your childhood by sticking around.”

No. That wasn’t fair. And it wasn’t true. Not completely.

She hadn’t stayed away because she was sick.

She stayed away because she was scared.

Scared of being remembered too fondly.

Scared of becoming something someone pitied.

Scared that the girl who once looked at her like she hung the moon would see her now — and wonder why stars fall.

A message lit up on her phone just before midnight.

Alexia Putellas.

“You still tie your shoelaces the same way.”

Y/N blinked. Smiled.

Typed back:

“Some habits die hard.”

The reply came fast.

“So do some crushes.”

Her breath hitched.

She didn’t respond.

Instead, she turned off the light, tucked the drawing back into its box, and whispered into the dark:

“I remember you too.”

——————

Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper, Later That Week

Y/N stood just outside the training pitch, sunglasses low on her nose and an iPad clutched to her chest like it might save her from the unsolicited attention she was about to receive.

From the field, she could already see the glint of chaos.

Mapi was hanging off the goalpost. Patri was definitely talking trash at someone mid-drill. Jana had paused her warm-up stretch to squint suspiciously in Y/N’s direction, elbowing Ona as if to say “There. Told you. That’s her.”

And in the middle of it all — as if she wasn’t the one who had sneakily added Y/N to the staff access list for “cross-department observational purposes” — was Alexia.

“Hey,” Alexia called, jogging over before Y/N could disappear into the tunnel. “Glad you came.”

“I didn’t come,” Y/N deadpanned. “You roped me into this under the pretense of ‘data insight integration.’ Which is not a real thing, by the way.”

Alexia grinned, wiping sweat from her temple. “It worked, though.”

Y/N opened her mouth to reply, then paused as Alexia took the iPad from her hands and set it on the bench. Too close. Their arms brushed. Heat flared, unwelcome and familiar.

“You’ve got no shame, do you?”

“None,” Alexia said easily. “Not when it comes to football.”

Y/N raised a brow.

“Or you,” Alexia added, quietly. Too quietly.

Ten minutes later, she was somehow still there — standing awkwardly behind the cones as Mapi shouted something inappropriate across the pitch in her direction.

“She’s definitely not marketing,” Mapi yelled.

“She’s the data girl!” Patri shouted back.

“Data girls don’t get Alexia to smile like that,” Ona chimed in, pulling her bib off with a smirk.

Y/N shook her head and folded her arms. “You have a very loud team.”

Alexia looked almost proud. “We’re efficient communicators.”

“Efficient is not the word I’d use when Mapi’s catcalling me across the halfway line.”

“She only does that to people I like.”

That made Y/N pause.

Alexia clocked it and added, “Also because she’s insufferable.”

——————

After the session, while the players filtered into the gym, Y/N lingered near the benches, her bag slung low, trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person. Alexia wandered over, water bottle in hand, towel slung across her shoulders.

“Want to grab lunch?” she asked casually, like they hadn’t just spent two hours in a minefield of glances and innuendo.

“I don’t usually eat with players.”

“I’m not usually ‘players.’”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “You can’t use your Ballon d’Or as a cheat code.”

“I haven’t even tried that yet. Do you want me to?”

“Alexia.”

“Yes?”

Y/N looked at her. Really looked.

Her cheeks still a little flushed from training. Hair a mess. That crooked, overconfident smile that didn’t quite match the way her eyes stayed soft.

God, she was in trouble.

“I have work.”

“I’ll walk you to your office.”

“That’s not lunch.”

“Then I’ll walk you toward lunch and you can turn me down halfway there.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You used to say I was sweet.”

“You were a kid.”

Alexia leaned in, mock-serious. “I’m in my thirties now.”

Y/N scoffed. “Yeah. And insufferable.”

But she didn’t move away.

Neither did Alexia.

——————

Later that evening – Barça group chat

Patri:

Sooooo… was that her? 👀

Mapi:

The OG crush?? Capitana herself???

Jana:

Why did Alexia literally try to nutmeg her with a water bottle?

Ona:

She BLUSHED. I swear. Our Capitana actually blushed.

Irene:

Leave her alone, joder. Let her fall in love like a normal person.

Mapi:

Love??? 👀👀👀👀👀👀👀

Alexia:

I can see this chat.

Patri:

Good. Then you’ll see this too 💅🏽👸🏻📉🏃🏻‍♀️ = you + her. Translation: Slay. Queen. Data. Lesbians.

——————

Instagram, same night

@alexiaputellas posted a carousel:

Slide 1: A throwback Sabadell photo. Blurry, sun-drenched.

Slide 2: A pair of worn cleats on a grass pitch.

Slide 3: A close-up of her armband.

Caption: “Started from the mud. Still here. ⚽️💙”

Tag: @ynlnusername

Comments:

@janafernandez3:

Oh, we’re soft-launching now? 👀

@vickyylopezz._:

We love a backstory Lilo.

@losada_vicky:

Hola capitana @ynlnusername.

——————

Back in her apartment, Y/N stared at her phone like it might combust.

She didn’t know what this was. Not really. Not yet.

But she could feel it in her chest — something loosening. Something frightening. Something stupid and reckless and warm.

She texted one word back:

“Why?”

Alexia replied two minutes later:

“Because you waited for me. Even when you didn’t know it.”

Y/N didn’t sleep much that night.

——————

Gràcia, Barcelona — A Thursday Evening

Barcelona glowed gold and violet under a cloudless dusk, the kind of sky that made rooftops feel like altars.

Y/N’s building was old — stone bones, crooked railings, and a narrow spiral staircase that hated her knees. But the rooftop? The rooftop was her favourite part. Half-abandoned, half-overgrown, full of mismatched garden chairs and a single table with a mosaic top someone had clearly made drunk.

Alexia had never been up here. Until now.

“Hope you’re not afraid of heights,” Y/N said as she unlocked the rooftop gate and nudged it open with her hip.

“I play in front of thousands of people,” Alexia replied, following her up with a bottle of wine in one hand and two paper cups in the other. “Heights aren’t the problem.”

Y/N smirked. “Good. Because this railing is basically ornamental.”

They sat cross-legged on opposite sides of the table, the city humming below them — distant traffic, a Vespa’s snarl, someone laughing four buildings over. Y/N watched the sky fade from lavender to blue. Alexia poured the wine.

“So what’s the occasion?” Y/N asked, accepting a cup.

Alexia shrugged. “You said no to dinner. Again. I thought maybe I’d increase my odds if I showed up with alcohol.”

Y/N arched a brow. “This your strategy with all the girls?”

“No. Just the ones who left me on read in 2005.”

Y/N coughed a laugh. “That’s your statute of limitations?”

“More like a personal vendetta.”

“Cute.”

“You used to call me cute.”

“I used to call you kiddo.”

Alexia grinned over her wine. “You don’t anymore.”

The air stretched between them, thick and bright.

Alexia leaned back in her chair, arms draped loosely along the sides. “I always wanted to ask why you disappeared. I used to think I did something wrong.”

“You were ten,” Y/N said, voice softer than she meant it to be.

“Still.”

Y/N set her cup down. “It wasn’t you. I promise.”

“Then what was it?”

Y/N hesitated.

There it was. The question that hovered behind every look, every text, every awkward almost-invite in the weeks since they’d reunited.

She could lie. Or sidestep. Or offer some version that skimmed the surface.

But Alexia didn’t deserve that. Not anymore.

“I have cystic fibrosis,” Y/N said. “Diagnosed when I was ten.”

Alexia blinked.

Y/N continued, voice steady: “My parents didn’t want me playing. They thought it would shorten my life. It might’ve. But I loved it. So I kept playing until I couldn’t. Around sixteen, my lungs started declining. I was hospitalized twice in one year. That was the end of my career.”

Silence.

“I didn’t want to tell anyone,” she added. “Least of all a little kid who looked at me like I was a superhero.”

Alexia’s eyes didn’t move. “You were.”

“I wasn’t,” Y/N said, smiling tightly. “I was just stubborn.”

Alexia leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You think being stubborn makes you less of one?”

Y/N stared at her. “I think it made me stupid.”

“No,” Alexia said. “It made you brave.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was full. Thoughtful.

Y/N exhaled slowly.

“Anyway,” she said, “that’s why I never called. And why the number stopped working. We moved back to the States. My parents put me in a private school. I never played again.”

“And now you’re back.”

“I missed the city.”

“No other reason?”

Y/N sipped her wine. “I don’t know. Maybe I needed to know if anything I left behind was still here.”

“Was it?”

Y/N looked up. “Some of it.”

Alexia held her gaze. “Me?”

Y/N didn’t answer.

——————

The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the tiles.

Alexia stood suddenly and crossed to the edge of the roof, leaning on the iron railing with her forearms. The wind caught her hair, sending strands dancing around her face.

Y/N joined her, slower, more hesitant.

They stood side by side in the golden dark.

“You ever wonder what would’ve happened if I stayed?” Y/N asked.

“All the time,” Alexia said.

“I probably would’ve played another year. Maybe two. Maybe I’d be the one in your position now.”

“I don’t think so.”

Y/N glanced at her. “Why not?”

Alexia turned her head. “Because I never played like you. I played like I had something to prove. You played like you belonged there. Like you were the game.”

“That’s a lot of praise for someone who peaked at age sixteen.”

Alexia smiled. “You didn’t peak. You paused.”

Y/N let her fingers curl around the rusted railing. “It’s not that simple.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

There was a pause. Heavy.

Then:

“I used to copy the way you tied your boots,” Alexia said suddenly.

Y/N blinked.

“You double-knotted and tucked the laces underneath. I thought it was the coolest thing in the world. I made Vicky re-tie mine every match until I could do it myself.”

Y/N laughed softly, eyes shining. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s true.”

“You were obsessed with me.”

“I was.”

Alexia turned toward her now, closer than before, eyes full of something older than nostalgia.

“I think I still am.”

Y/N didn’t move.

“I’m not the same person,” she said.

“Neither am I.”

“I’m sick, Alexia.”

“I know.”

“I’m going to get sicker.”

“I know that too.”

“And you still…?”

Alexia nodded. “Yeah.”

The city kept moving beneath them. Horns. Voices. A dog barking somewhere far away.

But up here, it was quiet.

Alexia leaned in.

So did Y/N.

Almost.

Her breath hitched — not from her lungs this time, but from something else. Something vulnerable and terrifying and warm.

Then she pulled back.

Just enough.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “Not yet.”

Alexia didn’t look hurt. She just nodded.

“I’ll wait.”

“You’ve done enough of that.”

“I haven’t even started.”

They stood there a little longer, watching the city blink itself to sleep.

And somewhere between dusk and nightfall, a part of Y/N — the part that had been stuck on pause since she was ten years old — started to shift.

Not forward.

Not yet.

But toward something that might one day be worth the fall.

——————

Barcelona — Three Days Later

Y/N had always been good at disappearing.

She’d perfected it the first time she left Barcelona — quiet, clean, with just a note and a number and a folded goodbye she didn’t have the breath to say aloud. She hadn’t expected to use those skills again, not like this. But here she was — radio silent for three days, unread messages piling up, a long walk home instead of the metro just to avoid running into the wrong teammate at the wrong hour.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see Alexia.

It was that she did.

Too much.

And that was the problem.

——————

The coughs had returned that morning — dry at first, then deeper. She’d skipped her afternoon saline dose, and now she felt it sitting in her chest, thick and threatening. Her head ached from lack of sleep. She hadn’t touched solid food in 24 hours.

She told herself it was stress.

She told herself a lot of things.

But mostly, she told herself that Alexia didn’t deserve this.

——————

It was a mistake to stop by the training facility.

She told herself she was just dropping off data. Not staying. Not lingering. Just loading a report onto the shared drive, checking the predictive injury monitor, and leaving.

But she didn’t count on Jana.

“Hey,” Jana said, blocking the hallway with a kind of quiet defiance only someone her age could pull off. “You okay?”

Y/N blinked. “Fine.”

“You’ve been ghosting our captain.”

“I’ve been busy.”

Jana tilted her head, not buying it. “She’s… weird right now. Like, soft weird. She left her boots in the freezer this morning.”

“That can’t be real.”

“She said she was ‘icing the part of her that wouldn’t let go.’”

Y/N winced. “Jesus Christ.”

“She said it with a straight face,” Jana added.

Y/N groaned.

Jana paused. Then gently asked, “What did you tell her?”

Y/N’s chest tightened and looked away.

“She deserves someone whole,” she said quietly.

Jana just looked at her for a long moment and said:

“She deserves someone honest. Are you that?”

Y/N didn’t answer.

——————

That night, she walked home in the dark.

Barcelona felt different now — familiar but sharp around the edges. Every plaza a memory. Every pitch a ghost. Every glance at her phone a reminder that Alexia had stopped texting after the third unanswered message.

She thought she’d feel relieved.

She didn’t.

She felt empty.

——————

The knock came at midnight.

Three taps. Like the very first time.

Y/N stared at the door for a full thirty seconds before she opened it.

Alexia stood there, dressed in black sweats, hair pulled back, face unreadable.

“Hi,” she said.

Y/N’s heart stuttered.

“Hi.”

“Can I come in?”

Y/N stepped aside.

The silence stretched as Alexia moved to the window, looked out, then turned back.

“You don’t get to vanish on me again,” she said. Calm. Controlled. But her voice cracked at the end.

Y/N folded her arms. “I needed space.”

“Is that what this is?”

“Yes.”

“Or are you scared?”

Y/N blinked. “Of what?”

“Of being loved by someone who knows exactly what she’s signing up for.”

She flinched.

Alexia stepped closer.

“I’ve already lived without you. For years. I don’t want to do that again.”

“I’m sick, Alexia.”

“I know.”

“You might watch me get worse.”

“I know that too.”

“You might have to say goodbye before you’re ready.”

Alexia took another step.

“I said goodbye to you once already. When I was ten. At a field where you never came back.”

Y/N swallowed hard.

Alexia’s voice dropped.

“And I survived it. But I never stopped looking. Not really. So if you think I’m going to run now, you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

The tears came before she could stop them — silent and sharp. Her breath caught, shallow. The fear she had locked behind her ribs broke loose all at once.

“I don’t want to make you sad,” she whispered.

“You already did,” Alexia said. “By leaving.”

Y/N shook her head. “You deserve someone who can—who can go to every game. Who can travel. Who can run. I haven’t run in years.”

Alexia touched her hand.

“I don’t want you for your lungs.”

That startled a laugh out of her — wet, choked.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m right.”

They stood there, forehead to forehead, the weight of years pressing into the space between them.

Y/N finally said, “I can’t give you forever.”

Alexia nodded.

“Then give me what you can,” she said. “I’ll make it enough.”

The kiss didn’t come then.

Not yet.

But something closer did — an understanding, fragile and bright.

The quiet kind of love that doesn’t arrive with thunder but instead grows like moss.

——————

Barcelona — Saturday Afternoon

It was supposed to be simple.

Just a walk.

Not a date.

Alexia hadn’t called it one. She hadn’t even suggested anything extravagant. Just: “Let me take you somewhere. Nothing fancy. Just… you and me.”

So Y/N said yes.

She didn’t know why.

Maybe because it was spring and her lungs had been kind for three days in a row. Maybe because she’d missed how Alexia looked at her like she was still wearing that captain’s armband. Or maybe — most dangerously — because the silence in her apartment was starting to feel like punishment.

So she said yes.

And Alexia showed up with two takeaway cortados and a jacket over her arm, just in case Y/N got cold. She said nothing about her oxygen monitor — a sleek black band around her wrist — and didn’t flinch when Y/N paused at the bottom of her building to catch her breath.

Instead, she just offered her hand.

Y/N didn’t take it.

But she didn’t pull away either.

——————

They walked slowly through the streets of Gràcia, avoiding the crowded squares and taking back roads until the sun broke through the alleyways and spilled onto the top of Las Ramblas.

It was late enough in the day that the tourist crowds had started to thin, leaving only locals and lovers and weekend drifters. Street performers curled around fountains, selling half-hearted magic tricks and roses wrapped in old newspaper. The market was still buzzing, music rising from hidden speakers and fruit stalls.

“I used to hate this street,” Alexia admitted, sipping her cortado.

Y/N raised a brow. “Because it’s popular?”

“Because it reminds me of who’s not here to see it with me.”

Y/N slowed her steps. “Your dad?”

Alexia nodded once. “He brought me here when I was six. Told me every street in this city had a heartbeat. I didn’t know what that meant until years later.”

“And now?”

Alexia glanced at her. “Now I think some streets beat louder when the right person walks beside you.”

Y/N snorted. “You’ve been spending too much time with poets.”

“I’ve been spending too much time missing you,” Alexia said, shrugging.

And just like that — silence again.

Not uncomfortable.

But charged.

——————

They stopped at a quiet café just off the avenue, one of those tucked-away places with only two outdoor tables and a chalkboard menu in smudged cursive. Y/N let Alexia choose the seats — in the shade — and they ordered sparkling water and a small plate of olives they barely touched.

Y/N’s breathing was slower now. Controlled. But she could still feel the tightness at the edges of her ribs.

“You okay?” Alexia asked gently, watching her track her O2 levels discreetly under the table.

“Yeah,” Y/N replied, forcing a small smile. “Just pacing myself.”

Alexia nodded. “We can go home anytime.”

“No,” Y/N said. “I want to be here. With you.”

——————

They didn’t talk much.

Not because there was nothing to say, but because sometimes, people who’ve already waited years don’t need to fill every second with words. Sometimes they just want to sit in the same frame again.

Alexia was quieter than usual. She didn’t reach across the table. Didn’t push. Just let the air settle.

Y/N watched her in profile. The slope of her nose. The scar at her temple. The strength in her stillness.

“I used to think you were going to change the world,” she said.

Alexia didn’t look up.

“I used to think you were the world,” Alexia replied.

——————

They left the café an hour later and walked down to the end of the avenue, where the street met the water and the breeze picked up from the marina.

Y/N stopped.

Alexia did too.

“I can’t go much farther,” Y/N said, hand on the railing. “Sorry.”

Alexia reached over and gently linked their pinkies. Not a full hand. Just a tether.

“You don’t have to go anywhere,” she said. “You’re already here.”

They sat on a bench at the edge of the dock. Alexia leaned back, arms stretched across the top rail. Y/N curled one leg beneath her and watched the boats drift.

“I miss playing,” she said quietly. “Some days I wake up and think I could still do it. Just for five minutes. Just to feel what it’s like to run again without worrying.”

Alexia said nothing.

Then: “Wanna know a secret?”

Y/N nodded.

“I miss watching you more than I miss playing with you.”

Y/N turned to look at her. “You were seven going ten.”

Alexia smiled. “You were magic even then.” Then she continued, “Alex Morgan is lucky your lungs are not as good — she would never be in the national team’s lineup with you around.”

Y/N laughed, the unconscious kind.

Alexia, liking Y/N’s reaction continued, “With your talent, personality and good looks — you would have been America’s sweetheart.”

Her head rested lightly on Y/N’s shoulder. The moment felt suspended — not quite real, not quite memory.

A group of school kids ran past. A dog barked from a bicycle basket. Somewhere, someone played a saxophone badly.

And for a second, it was just them.

When they got back to Y/N’s apartment, she paused at the front step.

“Do you want to come up?” she asked.

Alexia blinked. “Are you sure?”

Y/N nodded. “I don’t think I want to be alone tonight.”

——————

They didn’t kiss.

They didn’t even touch beyond the brief brush of shoulders on the couch.

They watched an old match replay — one where Alexia scored a ridiculous volley from the edge of the box.

“You always did love the dramatics,” Y/N murmured.

“You always made me believe I could pull them off.”

——————

By the time Alexia fell asleep on the corner cushion, Y/N was still awake, her oxygen monitor blinking softly at her wrist.

She looked at Alexia’s sleeping form — one hand curled against her cheek, lips slightly parted, brow relaxed in a way Y/N hadn’t seen in years.

She whispered, “You’re already here too.”

And she meant it.

——————

Barcelona — Midnight, same night

Y/N woke to the weight of something warm pressed against her thigh and the soft, uneven rhythm of breath not her own.

Alexia had fallen asleep sideways on the couch — head tipped back, mouth parted slightly, hair a mess of golden-brown curls crushed against the throw pillow. Her sweatshirt had ridden up just enough to show a sliver of skin above her waistband. One arm hung over the edge of the couch, fingers twitching slightly in sleep.

It was, without a doubt, the least glamorous she’d ever looked.

And somehow, Y/N couldn’t look away.

Not because Alexia was beautiful — she always had been.

But because she was still here.

After the rooftop and the retreat and the look in her eyes that said I’m scared of what you might lose by choosing me.

She chose her anyway.

Again and again.

Even now.

——————

Y/N didn’t move at first. Just sat there, half-tucked into the armrest, oxygen monitor quietly blinking at her wrist. Her lungs felt okay — not great, but manageable. Her body had learned how to adjust. It always did.

But her heart?

That had no idea what to do with this woman curled against her leg like she belonged there.

She brushed her fingers gently over Alexia’s hair, trying not to wake her.

Alexia stirred anyway. Softly.

“Mmm… qué hora es?” she mumbled, voice rasped with sleep.

“Just after midnight,” Y/N whispered. “You fell asleep mid-second half.”

Alexia blinked blearily. “Was I winning?”

“You were yelling at the ref in your sleep, so… probably.”

A sleepy grin.

Then — silence. Comfortable. Familiar.

Alexia’s eyes fluttered shut again.

Y/N hesitated. Then said, quietly, “Stay.”

Alexia’s eyes opened again. This time fully.

“I mean it,” Y/N added. “Don’t go home. Not tonight.”

Alexia sat up slowly, blinking the sleep away. “Are you sure?”

“No,” Y/N said, heart thudding, “but I’m done waiting to be.”

They moved like people testing a theory.

Not rushed.

Not hesitant.

Just… deliberate.

Y/N led her to the bedroom without needing to say anything else. Alexia followed. The air between them had shifted — not heavier, not tenser. Just more real. More now.

The bedroom was dim, lit only by the soft amber of the salt lamp in the corner and the city’s orange haze through the curtains. The bed was still unmade. The covers half-thrown from a bad night two nights ago.

Y/N stood at the edge and turned.

Alexia watched her. Just watched.

Then said, softly:

“You don’t have to prove anything.”

“I’m not,” Y/N whispered back. “I just want to feel what it’s like… to let someone in. While I still can.”

Alexia crossed the room in two slow steps and cupped her jaw.

“Then let me.”

They undressed slowly. Like unwrapping something sacred. Not fumbling. Not breathless. Just soft, reverent motions between heartbeats.

Y/N’s oxygen monitor stayed on.

Alexia didn’t ask.

Didn’t flinch.

Just kissed the inside of her wrist and whispered:

“You’re still the strongest person I’ve ever known.”

——————

They made love like it was a language they’d learned in pieces across twenty years.

Alexia’s touch was patient.

Y/N’s hands trembled, but not from fear.

When Alexia kissed her shoulder, Y/N exhaled with a sound that was almost a sob.

“Still okay?” Alexia asked.

Y/N nodded. “More than.”

“Tell me if you need to stop.”

“I won’t,” Y/N said, “but I will tell you if I need to breathe.”

Alexia smiled against her skin. “Deal.”

——————

Afterward, they lay tangled in the mess of sheets and limbs and soft exhales, the kind of quiet that follows storms and miracles.

Y/N’s fingers traced the lines of Alexia’s forearm absently. Alexia’s hand rested on her hip, anchoring her gently. The city outside had gone quieter. No more traffic. Just the wind and the creak of old buildings settling into night.

Y/N stared at the ceiling and whispered:

“I didn’t think anyone would ever see me this way again.”

Alexia, eyes half-lidded, replied:

“I’ve only ever wanted to see you.”

Y/N blinked. “Even now?”

Alexia rolled onto her side and tucked her face into Y/N’s neck.

“Especially now,” she said.

——————

Sometime later, as they drifted toward sleep, Y/N felt the pressure in her chest return — not painful, just familiar. A reminder.

She shifted slightly, reaching for the oxygen tube clipped to the bed rail. Alexia stirred.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Y/N said. “Routine. Just topping up.”

Alexia helped her clip it in. No hesitation. No awkwardness. Just gentle fingers and a soft kiss to her temple after.

And when they settled again, limbs pressed together, oxygen line curled between them like a thread — Y/N whispered into the dark:

“You’re not scared?”

Alexia, almost asleep now, murmured:

“I’m terrified.”

Pause.

“But not of you.”

——————

Barcelona — A Week Later

The air felt heavier that morning. Like something in the sky had thickened overnight.

Y/N chalked it up to a minor flare. Maybe allergies. Maybe stress. Maybe nothing.

She ignored the fatigue at first. Skipped the nebuliser. Pushed through her meetings. Promised herself she’d nap at lunch.

But by early afternoon, her hands had started to shake.

By five o’clock, she couldn’t finish a sentence without coughing.

By six, her O2 had dropped to 86%.

By seven, she was in the emergency ward of Hospital Clínic with a mask on her face and Alexia pacing a hole into the linoleum floor just outside the treatment bay.

——————

It wasn’t dramatic. Not at first.

No sirens. No screaming. Just Y/N collapsing into a seated position on her kitchen floor after trying to stand, and Alexia catching her mid-fall.

Just the way Alexia had gently pulled her close and whispered, “We’re going now, okay? You’re not fighting me on this.”

Just the calm in Alexia’s voice when she handed the nurse her ID and said, “She has cystic fibrosis. Oxygen is dropping. She needs IV antibiotics and a chest X-ray.”

Just the way she’d known what to do. As if she’d rehearsed it.

As if she’d imagined this moment more times than she ever admitted.

——————

Now, she sat outside the room, knuckles pressed to her lips, elbows on her knees, trying not to unravel.

The hallway was too bright. Too sterile. Every minute dragged.

Eli arrived first, brisk and tired and holding a bag of food that Alexia didn’t touch.

“Any news?” she asked.

Alexia shook her head. “Still running tests. They said they’re keeping her overnight. Maybe longer.”

Eli sat beside her without speaking. Just placed a hand gently over Alexia’s — thumb brushing the knuckles.

They didn’t need words.

——————

An hour later, Alba arrived, breathless and wide-eyed.

“She’s stable,” Alexia said immediately. “It’s a pulmonary exacerbation. They’ve started antibiotics. She’s awake now, but groggy.”

“Can I see her?”

Alexia shook her head. “Not yet. One visitor at a time.”

“Have you gone in?”

Alexia hesitated. “No.”

Alba blinked. “Why?”

“I wanted her to ask for me.”

She said it like a prayer. Like superstition.

As if bursting through the door would jinx everything.

As if her presence wasn’t already stitched into the room by proximity alone.

The nurse emerged ten minutes later. “She’s asking for you.”

Alexia didn’t speak. Just stood and walked.

She didn’t rush.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink until she was inside.

The room was small. Too white. The kind of place that makes people look smaller than they are.

Y/N was propped against the pillows, cheeks pale, oxygen tubing in her nose, hair mussed. Her eyes fluttered open the moment Alexia stepped inside.

“Hola,” she rasped.

Alexia crossed the space in four quick steps and sat beside the bed, gently taking her hand.

“You scared the hell out of me,” she whispered.

Y/N gave the faintest smile. “First time?”

“Last time,” Alexia said, “if I have anything to do with it.”

Y/N winced. “It’s not your job to fix this.”

“I’m not trying to fix you.”

“Then what?”

“I’m trying to stay.”

They sat in silence for a while.

Eventually, Y/N said, “You could’ve left.”

“I did,” Alexia said. “In 2005. I left every day that you weren’t here. Every time I tied my boots the way you did. Every time I saw a left-footed midfielder and looked twice.”

Y/N closed her eyes. “I didn’t mean to make you wait.”

“I know,” Alexia whispered.

“But I’m still asking you to.”

Alexia shook her head. “You’re not. Not anymore.”

——————

Eli and Alba came in later, soft-voiced and warm. They brought a sweater from Y/N’s apartment and her favourite lip balm. They kissed her forehead like she was already family.

When they left, Alexia stayed.

She curled into the chair beside the bed and held Y/N’s hand loosely — not in fear, not in desperation.

Just to be there.

Just to be real.

——————

Sometime past 3 a.m., Y/N stirred again.

“You’re still here?”

Alexia smiled sleepily. “Where else would I be?”

Y/N’s voice was rough. “You can sleep, Lexi.”

Alexia leaned in, forehead resting against Y/N’s arm. “I will. Just… let me hold this part a little longer.”

Y/N’s voice cracked. “What part?”

“The part where I still get to say we made it through the first scare together.”

And she did.

Through the beeping. Through the IVs. Through the oxygen tubing and the fatigue and the fear that sat behind both of their ribs.

She stayed.

Not because she was owed.

But because she had chosen.

——————

Sabadell — A Month Later

The gate creaked exactly the way she remembered it.

Y/N stepped out of the car slowly, one hand still curled around the frame like it was an anchor. Her breath fogged faintly in the cool morning air, though spring had already begun warming the edges of Catalonia. The field beyond the chain-link fence was overgrown — the lines faded, the goalposts lopsided, the turf a patchwork of stubborn grass and forgotten glory.

Alexia stood beside her, quiet.

“You didn’t,” Y/N whispered.

Alexia smiled, pulling a key from her hoodie pocket. “Turns out Barça still has friends here. And someone owed me a favour.”

“You rented the Sabadell pitch?”

“I restored it for a day.”

Y/N blinked. “Why?”

Alexia didn’t answer. She just tilted her head toward the field.

“Come see.”

They walked slowly. Y/N’s lungs weren’t at full capacity yet, but she was steadier now — no longer winded by a single flight of stairs. Her doctor had cleared her for light activity. No running. No risk.

But this?

This wasn’t risk.

This was home.

The pitch looked smaller than it had in her memory — the kind of place only children could make feel infinite. There were no crowds. No scoreboard. Just chalk lines redrawn by hand and a goal at each end.

In the centre circle, something waited.

Y/N stepped closer.

It was her old jersey — number 4 — laid flat on the grass. Beside it, a ball.

She looked at Alexia, heart catching.

“What is this?”

Alexia stepped forward, hands in her pockets.

“You used to say you’d retire after your best goal.”

Y/N let out a breathless laugh. “I said a lot of things.”

“I’ve waited twenty years to see you keep that one.”

——————

They stood in the centre of the pitch, the morning quiet around them. No one else was there. No cameras. No noise. Just two women and a goal and the memory of everything they lost and found again.

Y/N crouched slowly, picked up the ball, and let it rest at her feet.

Her joints ached. Her lungs pulsed. But her body remembered.

She took three steps back.

Alexia stepped aside — but not far.

Y/N gave her a look. “You’re not defending?”

Alexia grinned. “You think I’d block the goal I’ve waited two decades for?”

Y/N raised a brow. “You might.”

“Okay,” Alexia relented, “maybe just a little jog.”

Y/N rolled her eyes.

Then she turned.

And ran.

It wasn’t fast.

It wasn’t clean.

But it was hers.

A step. A flick. A shot.

————————————————————————

A/N: Thanks for reading.

#alexia putellas x you #alexia putellas x y/n #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas fanfic #alexia putellas imagine #woso imagine #woso fanfics #woso x reader #rpf #woso x y/n

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