#Española Way

[rabbitcruiser]

Miami Beach was incorporated on March 26, 1915.

[pucksandpower]

Fallen Angel

⟡ Chapter 6

⟡ Oscar Piastri x Sainz!Reader

You were supposed to be a good girl, a quiet wife, a family secret. Instead, you ran straight into the arms of the one man they loathe — and he’s not letting you go.

Warnings: religious trauma, toxic family dynamics, arranged marriage, purity culture, and possessive behavior

Series Masterlist

You try to build a life within the walls of a man’s penthouse.

Not a real life, of course — this isn’t real. You remind yourself every morning: this is temporary. This is borrowed time and borrowed space and borrowed mercy from a man who owes you nothing.

Still, your days take on a kind of rhythm.

You wake with the sun filtering through thick blackout curtains, slip barefoot across cold marble floors, and kneel beside the guest bed Oscar insisted you move into properly after the balcony incident.

You pray.

You pray longer than you ever did at home — longer than even your confessor back in Madrid would’ve recommended. Not out of virtue, but desperation. You pray to be forgiven. To be forgotten. To be made invisible to everyone hunting your name down. To be kept hidden, safe. To stop thinking about-

Him.

Because you do. Think about him.

Oscar.

At first, it’s just the way he moves — efficient and fluid. A kind of quiet confidence in the kitchen, the hallway, the way he throws his car keys on the table without looking. Like the space already bends to him before he even commands it.

Then it’s his voice.

Low, sometimes dry, sometimes soft enough to unsettle your bones. He doesn't talk much in the mornings, not until coffee’s in his hand and the world makes sense again. You learn to fill the silence with your own gentle updates — what pages you read, what dish you tried (badly) to make, what you saw out on the balcony.

He listens. He doesn’t pretend to care if he doesn’t. But he listens.

And then … then it’s his body.

His back when he stretches before heading to training. The curve of his throat when he tilts his head. The way his chest rises and falls when he’s fast asleep on the couch after a long, hot day.

It feels like a betrayal.

Not of him. Of yourself. Of everything you were raised to believe, everything you used to know with certainty. You're not supposed to look at men like this. Not even in secret. Especially not in secret.

You're not supposed to want.

So you double your prayers. You add a second rosary before bed. You journal out every thought that feels unclean.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, you write in looping pen strokes, even though no one will ever read it. I saw a boy’s smile and imagined the warmth of his hand around my wrist. I saw him stretch and felt heat in my chest. I saw him laugh and wished I could taste the sound.

You scrub the page with your fingers afterward, as if ink could be erased with guilt alone.

You burn your fingers baking tortilla española from a recipe you found in a magazine because you think the pain will realign your soul.

It doesn’t.

Oscar walks in to find smoke curling up from the pan and your eyes wet from the sting of oil splatter.

“Are you okay?” He asks, stepping in quickly.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you bleeding?”

“No.”

He reaches for your hand anyway, examines the red spot blooming near your knuckle.

“You’ve gotta stop trying to cook like someone’s chasing you.”

“I’m not-”

“You are. You’re always moving like you need to outrun something.”

You look away.

Oscar pauses. His thumb still rests against the edge of your hand. His touch is too warm. Too careful. It makes you feel-

“I’ll order lunch,” he says finally, letting go.

That night, you spend an hour just staring at your ceiling. Counting your sins. Recounting every word your mother once whispered to you about virtue and modesty and how the devil slips into the hearts of women through admiration disguised as affection.

You think of his voice again.

The way he had said, “You’re not a burden.”

The way he’d looked at your crucifix when he thought you weren’t watching.

You bite your lip and roll over, clutching your rosary so hard the beads dig into your palm.

You wake up with marks on your skin. Little circles of shame.

The next morning, Oscar catches you scrubbing the balcony floor.

“You know I have a cleaning lady, right?”

“She hasn’t come in two weeks.”

“That’s because we decided not to let anyone else into the apartment for now.”

You blink up at him, eyes dry from a night of restless sleep. “Right. Sorry.”

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s the third time you’ve said that this week.”

“I am fine.”

“You’re on your knees on marble with bleach on your hands.”

“I like cleaning.”

“No, you like punishing yourself.”

You flinch.

Oscar crosses his arms. He doesn’t look angry. Just tired. “You don’t need to keep proving you deserve to be here.”

“I’m not-”

“You are.”

“I just don’t want to be useless.”

“You’re not.”

You hesitate. “I think I am.”

Oscar crouches beside you. “Y/N,” he says quietly. “Look at me.”

You do.

“You’re not a guest here because you make good coffee or mop the floors. You’re here because you needed help. That’s it.”

Your throat tightens. “You don’t even like me.”

He huffs out a breath. “You really don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“I-” He stops himself. Shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“No. Say it.”

“You’re not easy to ignore.”

Your heart skips.

He stands again. Walks away without another word.

You sit back on your heels, hands raw from bleach, and wonder if maybe that’s worse — being seen. Not just tolerated, not just pitied.

Not just a Sainz.

Just … you.

And you’re not sure what to do with that.

The next day, you stop cleaning. You let the apartment breathe.

You journal. You pray. You let your mind wander less. Or you try to.

You try to avoid him for an entire day. You stay in your room. You journal more. You pray again.

But the words feel different now. Less certain. Less innocent.

That night, you kneel by the bed and whisper into the silence, “God, please take this away. I don’t want to feel this.”

And you almost mean it.

Almost.

***

You shouldn’t write it down.

You know better than to confess something dangerous on paper. But your chest has been aching all day, lungs tight with the weight of unspoken words, and the quiet in the penthouse stretches long and strange. Oscar’s out again. Training, meetings, media — whatever drivers do when they disappear into the world that would eat you alive if it found you.

So you write.

You pull your knees to your chest on the edge of the guest bed and curl the little leather-bound journal against your thighs. The one with the gold-edged pages and the woven ribbon bookmark. You picked it out last year because it looked dignified. Holy. Respectable.

Now you’re scribbling in it like a girl possessed.

It feels wrong to say this. Even wrong to think it. But I need to be honest, at least somewhere. I think of him too much. I think of him all the time.

Oscar’s not like anyone I know. He doesn’t pretend. He doesn’t flinch when I mention faith, but he doesn’t tiptoe around it either. He tells me things no one else has ever said out loud. He sees right through me, and I hate it, but I also …

You stop. Breathe.

I also want him to keep looking.

You press the pen harder.

I dreamed about his mouth last night. I dreamed he touched my face. I dreamed I let him.

Your eyes sting.

I woke up wanting to cry. Wanting to scream. Wanting to feel holy again. I said three Hail Marys and showered for twenty minutes, and I still feel it. The weight of it. The hunger. I don’t know who I am anymore.

Is that what sin feels like? Wanting to be held and not knowing how to ask for it?

I am ashamed. I am ashamed. I am ashamed.

You slam the journal shut like it’s bitten you. Fumble to slide it back under your pillow, where you always keep it. Tuck it deep. Bury it.

You don’t realize, later, that you forgot to.

Not until much, much too late.

***

Dinner is quiet.

You’ve started cooking again. Slowly. Carefully. Small things. Nothing ambitious. Tonight, you made a simple lentil stew with paprika and soft bread. Oscar walks in around seven, hair damp from the shower, shirt clinging to his back. He says nothing at first when he sees you at the stove.

Just, “Smells good.”

You don’t answer.

You’re still not sure how to behave around him now. Not after what you wrote. Not with the memory of that line echoing in your head-

I dreamed about his mouth last night.

Your ears burn.

You sit across from him at the long marble island, pretending not to watch the way he eats with one hand, the other scrolling absently through something on his phone. Probably a racing report. Or a schedule. Or an escape plan, now that he’s seen-

No. Stop.

He hasn’t seen it. Of course he hasn’t. You always put it away. You always-

“I like the stew,” he says, setting his spoon down. “Little salty. But good.”

“Thanks,” you whisper.

Then, without looking up from his phone, he says, “Temptation’s a funny thing.”

You freeze.

The room stills with you. The silence goes glass-thin. Breakable.

Oscar doesn’t look at you.

He doesn’t have to.

Your stomach drops straight out of your body.

“I-I don’t know what you mean,” you say too fast, voice splintering in the middle.

“Don’t you?”

You shove back your chair.

He lifts his eyes now. Calm. Curious.

You can’t breathe.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I have to … excuse me-”

You don’t run. You walk, very fast, very quiet, down the hall and into the guest bathroom, where you shut the door and twist the lock like your life depends on it. Like the devil is in the hallway, and the only holy ground left in the world is behind this door.

You grip the sink. You don’t look at your reflection.

The panic builds fast and hot.

He read it.

God, he read it.

He saw the journal. He opened it. He saw what you wrote — every desperate thought, every unclean dream, every line about his body and your weakness and the way your soul keeps curling toward him like a flower toward sun.

And now he knows.

He knows what a disappointment you are.

What a failure.

What a girl who ran from a forced marriage only to fall into this must be. Must want. Must deserve.

You press your fists to your mouth and sob, quietly. Ugly and raw.

Then, louder, “Holy Mary, Mother of God-”

You slide to the floor and start praying between gasps for air.

“-pray for us sinners, now and at the hour … at the hour-”

The words collapse. Your lungs feel too tight. Your knees ache from the tile. You clutch your crucifix so hard the metal bites into your collarbone.

There’s a knock.

Soft. Once. Then twice.

You freeze.

“Y/N.”

Oscar.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“Please go away,” you manage.

But he doesn’t.

“I didn’t read all of it,” he says through the door. “Just the page it was open to. I’m not in the habit of going through people’s secrets.”

You cover your face. Curl in tighter.

Silence.

Then his voice, quiet. Sincere.

“You don’t have to be afraid of wanting things.”

Your breath catches.

“I am,” you whisper.

“I know.”

A pause.

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I shouldn’t have said anything at dinner.”

More silence.

You curl your knees to your chest and press your face into them.

“I’m not like you,” you mumble.

“I know that, too.”

Another pause.

“You think I don’t understand shame?” He says, voice low. “I grew up watching people hide everything they are just to stay likable. Just to stay marketable. Clean. Safe. Good boy image and all that. I’ve been told not to feel too much, want too much, ask too much. It eats you from the inside.”

You blink against fresh tears.

“I don’t know what I am,” you admit.

“You’re not bad.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you care enough to ask.”

You breathe. In. Out. In again.

Outside, the floor creaks. You think he’s left.

You’re wrong.

“I’ll be on the balcony,” he says, a little softer. “If you want air.”

And then he really is gone.

You stay curled on the bathroom floor another fifteen minutes, heart still hammering, shame thick in your throat. Then you slowly stand, rinse your face, and stare at your reflection.

Your eyes are red. Your lips are trembling.

But there’s something in them — your eyes — that looks a little more alive.

When you step out of the bathroom, the hallway is empty. A quiet breeze drifts in from the direction of the balcony. You follow it. You don’t know why.

And when you find Oscar leaning on the railing, shirt loose, eyes on the harbor lights — you don’t say anything.

You just stand beside him.

Close enough to feel his warmth.

Not quite close enough to sin.

Not yet.

[theonottsbxtch]

LOVE - LOCKED | FC43

an: this is based off of this request and i hope you like it bc i had sm fun writing a romantic slightly angsty thing i cant wait to hear what y'all thin, i also think it may be slightly rushed tho so lol ALSO LOL WE'RE GONNA PRETEND CARLOS IS YOUNGER IN THIS BC I NEEDED HER TO BE HIS OLDER SISTER

summary: carlos' sister has lived her life completely separated from him and their family name, instead she went and made a name for herself in the tennis world - she likes her life like that. that is until she meets franco colapinto

wc: 8.7k

The roar of engines, even from a distance, unsettled her.

They reminded her of the long days her father and brother spent in garages, the low rumble of motors and sharp tang of fuel in the air. Those were the hours she’d spend alone, working on her serve in the empty court across town, each hit ricocheting off the walls with a hollow, lonely echo. Her own choice, of course. She’d had no interest in the world of carbon fibre and grease, no desire to be the girl who simply tagged along, her name always in her brother’s shadow.

Now, years later, she’d become someone entirely on her own terms. A name people knew on its own — Vázquez de Castro — a name that meant something outside of her family, outside of her brother’s fame.

She slipped her phone into her bag and looked around the chaotic pit lane. Journalists, engineers, teams in matching shirts, faces alight with anticipation for the weekend's race. She knew she’d stand out here; her face might be familiar, but she was a stranger in this world.

The hum of voices around her faded as she felt his gaze. She’d been hoping to move through unnoticed, just a face in a sea of faces, but there he was: tall, familiar, unmistakably Carlos. His brow furrowed in surprise as he caught sight of her, his quick steps carrying him closer before she had a chance to dodge. She braced herself, turning to him with a calm that she didn’t quite feel.

“No aquí,” she murmured, her voice low, hoping that would be enough to keep curious ears at bay.

He paused, just a moment, his expression softening in understanding, and he tilted his head, his face somewhere between a grin and a frown. “You came.”

It wasn’t an accusation exactly — more surprise than anything. But she couldn’t miss the faint hope in his eyes, as if he thought she might be here to see him, to share a piece of his world after all this time. She let his words linger for a beat before she replied, her tone steady.

“I was invited,” she said, giving a slight shrug, “by Fernando.” She gestured vaguely in the direction of the green and silver canopy, keeping her tone casual, but she saw his shoulders fall ever so slightly.

He nodded, glancing away for a moment, his jaw set. “Right. Fernando.”

There was something she wanted to say, something to soften the look in his eyes, but the pit lane was crowded, the eyes and cameras trained on every inch of the paddock sharper than she’d ever expected. They’d notice anything. And the last thing she wanted was for the papers to start spinning stories, putting her under a headline right next to him.

She touched his arm briefly. “Te hablo en el hotel. I’ll speak to you at the hotel.”

As she made her way toward the exit, ready to slip back into the background and disappear, she heard a voice calling out just over the rumble of engines and chatter.

“¡La princesa española!”

The words were unmistakable, lilting and clear, even with the crowd and machinery all around. The Spanish Princess. The nickname made her falter. It was something she sometimes heard on the tennis courts in Madrid or whispered by fans in distant cities when she played in international tournaments. But here? She scanned the area, puzzled at who would recognise her in this world of racing.

When she turned, her eyes met those of someone unfamiliar yet striking. He was tall, with an easy, disarming smile, his race suit gleaming with the bright, bold colours of his team’s livery. He looked young, not much older than she was, but he carried himself with that unmistakable energy she’d seen in rising stars before. The rookie, she realised, though she hadn’t kept up enough to know his name.

He held her gaze a moment too long, that same smile lingering as he approached, his eyes sparking with something between amusement and curiosity. She felt herself tense, almost involuntarily, her instinct telling her to slip away, to avoid whatever came next.

“Es realmente la princesa española,” he said, his tone playful yet certain.

Then it hit her.

Franco.

That was his name.

Franco’s grin widened as he closed the distance between them, his eyes bright with an almost boyish enthusiasm. “Soy un gran admirador de tu trabajo,” he said, his Argentine accent softening his words. “I’ve watched almost all your matches — I love the way you play.”

She blinked, taken aback. This wasn’t the usual kind of recognition she got, especially not here. She could count on one hand how many times she’d been recognised in public. She looked at him, trying to reconcile this confident young driver with the earnest fan in front of her.

“¿Me conoces?” The question slipped out before she could think, her voice tinged with disbelief.

He raised an eyebrow, his smile never faltering. “¿Quién no te conoce?” he replied, with a touch of humour. “La princesa española, queen of the clay court, unstoppable backhand — yeah, I know you.”

There was something genuine in his tone, something that set him apart from the usual strangers who said they knew her. 

And before she could stop herself, she found herself almost smiling. She cleared her throat, searching for a response, but her mind was blank. What could she say? That she knew nothing of him, or any of these people — that she had only set foot here today by chance?

She settled for a simple, “Gracias.”

Franco’s curiosity didn’t waver. He leaned in slightly, folding his arms with an amused glint in his eyes. “So, what brings la princesa española to the F1 paddock?”

She shrugged lightly, careful not to reveal too much. “I’m here as one of Fernando Alonso’s guests. Aston Martin.” She left it at that, hoping he wouldn’t dig further. Noticing that she looked a bit like another driver on the paddock. Thankfully, he didn’t.

His grin only grew wider, and she had the feeling that her mystery intrigued him. “Well then, if you’re one of Fernando’s guests, that means you’re not tied to my team,” he said with a glint of mischief. “Come with me — I’ll give you a tour of my garage. It’ll be like… a private tour.”

She hesitated, her gaze shifting back toward the exit, where she’d planned to slip out and leave all of this behind. If she went with him, there was a chance people would recognise her, start to connect her with her brother’s world. She’d spent her whole career carefully avoiding this — the headlines, the whispers, the inevitable questions about why she’d chosen such a different path. But the look on his face, that open, boyish enthusiasm, was hard to resist.

She let out a sigh, then looked up at him with a sudden, defiant glimmer in her eye. “Screw it. ¿Por qué no?”

His whole face lit up. She could practically see the excitement radiating off him as he extended his hand, his confidence a little too easy, a little too certain. She eyed his hand for a moment before raising an eyebrow and crossing her arms.

“Modales,” she chided, her tone playful. “I’ve known you for five minutes. We’re not dating.”

“Yet,” he replied without missing a beat, a spark in his eyes.

Despite herself, she smiled, a real one, something she hadn’t felt since stepping into the paddock that day.

He led her through the bustling paddock with an easy confidence, weaving between crew members, equipment, and cameras as if none of it could touch him. She was impressed, though she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of saying so. The chaos of the pit lane, the narrow spaces and the clang of metal, all seemed to bend around him.

When they reached his team’s garage, he stopped by a young assistant stationed just outside, who looked at them with curious eyes.

“Do me a favour,” he said, barely containing his grin, “and grab a VIP lanyard for Williams’ guests, will you?”

The assistant glanced at her, his eyes widening slightly in recognition before he nodded and ducked away, returning a moment later with a crisp, team-branded lanyard. Franco took it with a pleased smile, then held out his hand for hers. She unclipped the Aston Martin lanyard from her neck and handed it over, watching with a mix of surprise and amusement as he replaced it with the one from his own team.

“There,” he said, adjusting the lanyard’s position with exaggerated care. “Now you’re officially part of the team.”

She couldn’t hold back her smirk. “You know, I don’t think lanyards change allegiances so easily.”

“Maybe not. But I do think it’s an improvement.” He winked, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “Besides, the only lanyard you should be wearing here is mine.”

She laughed, caught off guard by his unfiltered charm, as he held out his arm with an exaggerated flourish. “And now, mi princesa, a grand tour.”

He led her into the garage, his tone switching between informative and teasing as he explained the various stations. “Over here, we have the engineering bay — where the magic of data happens.” He gestured toward a row of monitors displaying endless streams of numbers. “And these guys in the corner? They’re the wizards of aerodynamics. Make a mess, they won’t let you forget it.”

As they moved through each section, he offered her a glimpse into the world of F1, his energy and excitement almost contagious. She watched him with quiet intrigue; he seemed to belong here completely, as if he thrived in the chaos and intensity of it all.

“Now, over here,” he continued, leaning a bit closer to her as they approached a sleek wall of tires and tools, “this is where I go for my pre-race pep talks. I think it helps the tires, too.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You talk to the tires?”

“Only on occasion,” he said with a mock-serious nod. “And they listen. Or at least, I hope they do.” He grinned again, that glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “Besides, they never talk back.”

She couldn’t help but roll her eyes, but there was a smile in it, one she couldn’t quite suppress. He was disarming, funny in a way that felt refreshingly different from the sharp, serious world she’d known. He noticed the hint of a smile and held her gaze, leaning in just slightly.

Before she could say anything else, Franco led her deeper into the garage, weaving through the maze of tools, car parts, and engineers, who looked up now and then with curious glances. She followed, intrigued despite herself, and finally, unable to keep silent, asked, “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” he said, shooting her a look over his shoulder that was both charming and infuriatingly vague.

He stopped in front of a nondescript door tucked away from the bustle of the main garage. She glanced around, realising they were in the private part of the team’s area. He opened the door to his driver room, gesturing for her to step inside. The room was small but comfortable, filled with team memorabilia, spare racing gloves, and a neat rack of team-branded clothes. Before she could take it all in, he went over to a stack of neatly folded shirts and pulled one from the pile.

He turned back to her, holding up the shirt with a proud smile. “Here,” he said, offering it to her. “Wear this tomorrow.”

She raised an eyebrow, glancing between him and the shirt with mock scepticism. “Bold of you to assume I’d wear your merch.”

His grin only widened. “I think you’d look great in it,” he said, undeterred. “Besides, it’d be an honour to have la princesa española in my colours.”

She took the shirt, running her fingers over the soft fabric, and met his gaze with a slight smirk. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good enough for me,” he replied, his eyes glinting with satisfaction. He looked like he wanted to say more, but just then, his phone buzzed on the nearby table, and he glanced at it with a slight frown before pocketing it again.

“So,” he continued, his tone shifting to something a little more casual, “what are you doing for dinner?”

The question surprised her. She hadn’t planned on lingering much longer after her brother’s race prep finished. She hadn’t planned on any of this, really. But he was watching her expectantly, and for a moment, she let herself consider it.

“Dinner?” she repeated, raising an eyebrow in mock suspicion. “You’re not very subtle, are you?”

“Not at all,” he admitted with a grin. “What do you say? Let me take you out. I promise I’m as good at picking places to eat as I am at tours.”

She couldn’t resist a small laugh. “Alright,” she said, glancing up at him with an easy smile. “I’ll see you for dinner.”

He opened his mouth to say something more, but just then, a voice called out from down the hallway. “Franco man, we’ve been looking all around for you!” A team manager appeared in the doorway, looking equal parts exasperated and amused.

Franco sighed, flashing her an apologetic look as he straightened. “Duty calls,” he muttered with a smirk. He lingered a moment, as if reluctant to leave, then glanced back at her with a warm smile.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she said, feeling a thrill she hadn’t expected. “See you tonight.”

He nodded, his grin returning full force, then turned to follow the manager out, giving her a final, backward glance that lingered just a second too long.

Back in her hotel room, she brushed a final touch of mascara over her lashes and glanced at her phone, where a text from Franco glowed on the screen.

Franco: “Ready whenever you are. No rush. See you soon :)”

She couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips. Tonight felt surprisingly… normal. Like she was just someone getting ready for a date, no stakes attached. She straightened her dress, checked her reflection, and took a steadying breath.

A soft knock at her door snapped her from her thoughts, and she felt a small flutter of excitement, assuming it was him. But when she opened the door, her breath caught.

Her brother stood there, his expression a mixture of confusion and something she couldn’t quite read. She masked her surprise quickly, stepping aside to let him in, though her voice was firm. “I can talk for a bit, but I have plans tonight.”

“With Franco?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

She narrowed her eyes slightly, caught off guard. “How did you know?”

He gave a soft, humourless laugh, crossing his arms. “I saw you two in the paddock,” he said. “And I overheard him talking about it in the garage. Apparently, he couldn’t stop telling anyone who’d listen about his ‘date with la princesa de España.’” He looked at her, and his voice softened. “So why is it you have no problem being seen with him, but not with your own brother?”

His question hung heavily in the air, the familiar tension between them settling back into place. She took a breath, struggling for the right words. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to be seen with him — it was the weight of everything that came with it. The press, the fans, the inevitable comparisons. She could already see the headlines if they were spotted together, her name placed directly beside his, stripping away the hard-won independence she’d fought for.

She sighed, glancing at him. “It’s not… about you,” she said carefully. “It’s just… everything that comes with it. You know how it is.”

He shook his head, looking slightly hurt. “I don’t know, actually. I’ve always thought we were supposed to be in this together. But I feel like… I don’t know, like you’re just trying to run from anything that connects us.”

She sighed, leaning against the doorframe, her voice dropping to something softer, more serious. “It’s not that I don’t want to be seen with you,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I just don’t want to be known as Carlos’ sister everywhere I go. I’ve worked hard to build my own name, my own career, and sometimes… being around you, it overshadows that.”

Her brother studied her, his face a mix of understanding and something else, a flash of protective instinct. “You know, if you date Franco, you’ll just end up being known as his girlfriend,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “It’s just a date, Carlos. Nothing more.”

He shrugged, his mouth quirking in a small smile. “Yeah, well, with him, nothing ever stays ‘just’ anything. Just saying.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was a warmth behind it. “Thanks for the concern, but I’ll be fine.”

They shared a quiet moment of understanding before she gently nudged him toward the door. “Go get some rest. And good luck tomorrow. I’ll be cheering from the sidelines.”

The evening was soft and cool, the sky painted in shades of violet and indigo as the city stretched out below them. The balcony they’d stepped onto was tucked away from the bustling noise of the hotel, private and intimate, offering only the sounds of the night breeze and the occasional far-off hum of the city.

Franco had arranged it all—quiet, serene, away from prying eyes. The dinner was simple but elegant: a few delicate dishes of fresh seafood, wine that wasn’t too heavy, just enough to let the conversation flow freely. It was just the two of them, and she realised as she stood there, her hand brushing the railing, how rare that felt.

She’d worn a dress that was understated, yet elegant—a deep midnight blue that mirrored the evening sky, the fabric light enough to catch the breeze. She hadn’t given it much thought; it wasn’t for anyone but herself. But when Franco first saw her, the look in his eyes told her that, maybe, it had been the right choice after all.

His gaze lifted from the table where he had been adjusting the wine glasses, and the moment he saw her, the words spilled out before he could even stop them.

“Dios mío, qué hermosa estás.” His voice was low, his gaze sweeping over her with a mixture of surprise and admiration.

She felt her cheeks flush, the compliment unexpected but not unwelcome. She had been nervous about the evening, unsure of what this was or what it would become. But his words, simple and sincere, relaxed something inside her.

“Gracias,” she replied with a small smile, feeling the warmth in her chest spread, her eyes meeting his.

He stood up, taking a small step toward her as if to take in the full picture, his gaze never leaving her face. “I swear,” he continued, his voice filled with genuine awe, “I didn’t think it was possible, but you’re even more stunning than earlier. It's like... you're glowing.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “I think you’re just being kind.”

“No,” he said firmly, shaking his head as he closed the distance between them. “I’m not the kind of guy to throw compliments around just to be polite. Te ves increíble, you look incredible.”

After a decent amount of eating, a stretched out silence, Franco spoke up. “So,” he began, his voice casual but warm, “what’s it like to be the la princesa española outside of tennis?”

She raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of her wine. “I don’t really think of myself as that,” she said lightly. “It’s just a nickname.”

“I don’t know,” he teased. “I think it suits you. You have a... regal air about you.” His eyes glinted with mischief as he added, “I’m sure you’d never get away with being late for anything. Everyone would just wait for the princess to show up.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled nonetheless. “You really are persistent with those compliments, aren’t you?”

“Solo con la verdad,” he said with a grin, leaning back in his chair, clearly pleased with himself.

The evening unfolded easily after that. They spoke about everything and nothing: about their childhoods, what had brought them to this point in their careers, how it felt to always be in the spotlight. She told him stories from her tennis matches, and he shared wild tales of racing, of the constant pressure and adrenaline.

But it was the quieter moments, the small pauses between their words, that felt the most significant. When he leaned in to pass her the bottle of wine, their hands brushed, and the air seemed to thicken for a moment. His gaze lingered a bit longer than it needed to, and she noticed the subtle way his smile softened when their eyes met. She wasn’t used to this — this ease, this comfort that felt so unforced — but it was exactly what she hadn’t realised she’d been searching for.

“You know,” Franco said, his tone thoughtful, “I can’t remember the last time I had a night like this. Just—” He waved his hand toward the view, the quiet that surrounded them. “It’s nice. To not be rushing off to something. No cameras, no expectations.”

She looked out over the balcony at the skyline, the city lights twinkling in the distance. “I know what you mean. There’s always so much noise, so many people trying to pull you in different directions. It’s rare to just… be.” She turned to look at him, her voice lowering slightly. “It’s a little surreal, actually.”

His gaze softened, and for a moment, there was a silence between them that felt like a shared understanding. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table as he looked at her, his expression genuine. “I’m glad you’re here with me tonight. I’m glad I got to spend this time with you.”

Her heart did a little flip at the sincerity in his voice. She wasn’t sure what she had expected from the evening, but this — this felt right.

“So,” he continued, his voice lightening again, “any chance I can convince you to wear my team’s shirt tomorrow?”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re relentless, aren’t you?”

“I am,” he said with a wink, “but only because I know you’d look amazing in it.”

She rolled her eyes but could feel the warmth in her chest spread. “I’ll think about it,” she teased, mirroring his playful tone.

The conversation drifted back to lighter topics, the evening unfolding with ease as the world seemed to blur around them. As the night deepened, they shared stories, laughter, and quiet glances that spoke volumes. It wasn’t the fireworks, the grand gestures of a first date. But it was something else — something that felt like a beginning.

When the last of the wine was finished, and the candles flickered low, Franco stood, offering her a hand to help her to her feet. He didn’t say anything at first, but his eyes told her everything. His fingers brushed against hers, and she didn’t pull away.

As the night grew later, the air around them cooled, and they moved to the edge of the balcony, gazing out over the city. The quiet was comforting, the soft hum of distant traffic the only sound breaking the stillness between them.

She let out a small sigh, her mind wandering, and with it, the weight of everything that had brought her to this moment. She looked up at him, caught in the calm but uncertain about what this night might mean.

"Well, this has been lovely," she said, her voice light but tinged with something else. "But, just so you know… this is probably going to be our only date."

His eyebrows furrowed, his smile faltering for just a fraction of a second. “Why?” he asked, his tone suddenly laced with concern. “Have I done something wrong?”

She met his gaze, her chest tight for reasons she couldn’t quite place. There was no logical reason for her to feel that way — he had been nothing but kind, charming, and genuine all night. But there was still that lingering sense of hesitation, a wall she wasn’t sure she could bring herself to tear down.

“No,” she said quickly, shaking her head as if to reassure him. “You haven’t done anything wrong. It’s just… I don’t know if I can do this.”

He looked at her for a long moment, studying her face. The playful glint in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something softer, something quieter, as if he were trying to understand her better.

“I’m not really a person who runs from things," she said, her voice lowering slightly, unsure how to put her thoughts into words. “But there are parts of my life I’m... careful about. I can’t help but keep them to myself.”

She hesitated, feeling a strange tug in her chest. For the first time in what felt like forever, she found herself wanting to share something personal, something she had hidden away. She took a breath and let it slip out before she could second-guess herself.

“I have a brother,” she began, looking out at the city below them, trying to steady her voice. “He’s a Formula 1 driver.”

Franco froze, his brows knitting together in confusion. “Wait... what?”

She glanced at him, a slight laugh escaping her lips at the look of genuine surprise on his face. “Yeah,” she said with a sigh. “Carlos.”

He blinked, his surprise turning into a quiet sense of disbelief. “Carlos Sainz?” He repeated her brother’s name, almost as if he were trying to process it. “I had no idea…”

She looked at him, a slight sadness settling in her chest. “Most people don’t,” she said, her voice quiet now. “I never tell anyone. I’ve worked my entire life to be known for me—for what I do, not because of who I’m related to. I don’t want to live in someone’s shadow.”

Franco didn’t say anything at first, letting the silence stretch out between them. He was thinking, she could tell. It was as though he were weighing her words, weighing the tension in her tone. Then, slowly, he spoke, his voice steady but sincere.

“With me, you wouldn't,” he said, his gaze meeting hers with an intensity that took her by surprise. “You wouldn’t be in anyone’s shadow. Not if you didn’t want to be.”

She was quiet for a long moment, his words sinking in. Part of her wanted to dismiss it, wanted to keep pushing away the idea of anyone in her life stepping into that shadow. But there was something in his eyes—something honest and unwavering—that made her hesitate. He wasn’t offering her fame or status. He was offering her something far simpler. The space to be herself.

Then, he said something that made her heart skip a beat.

“I’ll be your WAG,” he said, his voice surprisingly matter-of-fact, his smile just a little crooked.

She laughed, a quick, startled sound. “What?” she teased, shaking her head. “Are you serious? ‘WAG’—really?”

He leaned in slightly, the smile still on his face but his eyes unflinching. “En serio. I’m serious.” he added with a little more emphasis, the words flowing naturally from him.

Her laughter died down, replaced by a brief, curious silence. She was still processing his words, still trying to understand how it had escalated from a simple dinner to this.

“You’re joking,” she said softly, unsure whether to laugh or take him seriously.

“No,” he7 replied, his voice now calm, almost earnest. “I’m not. Look, I get it. The whole ‘WAG’ thing... it sounds ridiculous, I know. But the way I see it, we’d be a team. You’d have my back, and I’d have yours. No shadows, no expectations, just us. What we make of it.”

She took a step back, crossing her arms as she considered what he was saying. The idea of it felt foreign, a little intimidating, but something about it also felt right in a way she hadn’t expected. No grand gestures, no drama. Just… us, as he’d said.

“Don’t you think I’d look good in a sponsored Channel crop top?” he joked, and the thought of it made her laugh.

Before she could stop it, however, her mind flashed to her brother, to the years of keeping her life private, to the way she had fought so hard to remain in the background of her family’s legacy. And yet here was Franco, offering something different. He wasn’t asking her to be a part of his world—he was offering her a partnership, an equal footing.

For the first time that evening, she allowed herself to truly think about what that might mean. To be seen, not as someone’s sister or someone’s girlfriend, but just as herself.

“Maybe... maybe it’s not such a bad idea,” she said quietly, her voice uncertain but filled with a growing sense of possibility.

Franco looked at her, a quiet confidence in his eyes. “Entonces, we’ll figure it out together. No shadows. Just us.”

“Just us.”

“You better wear my shirt tomorrow,” he said, his voice teasing but hopeful.

She smirked, folding her arms across her chest as she looked at him. “I’ll think about it.”

He raised an eyebrow, leaning slightly closer. “You better. I’ll be watching.”

She laughed, shaking her head at his persistence. “We’ll see.”

The next morning arrived with the usual rush, the anticipation of race day filling the air. She woke up to a sunlit room and a few messages on her phone, the familiar bustle of the paddock already beginning to take shape outside her window. As she moved around the room, preparing for the day ahead, her mind wandered back to the previous evening.

She stood in front of the mirror, brushing her hair back into a sleek ponytail, glancing over her outfit choices. She’d packed a nice pair of fitted trousers and a smart blouse for the day. But then, as she opened her suitcase to grab something, she saw it—the shirt.

It was sitting on top of her suitcase, folded neatly, the soft fabric of his team’s shirt catching the light. The sight of it made her pause. She could feel a flutter of uncertainty in her chest as she stared at the shirt. It wasn’t like her to let herself be swayed by someone else’s request. But something about Franco, about the way he’d looked at her, made her reconsider.

She bit her lip, considering her options. The shirt was casual, simple, but it also felt like a statement. She could wear it for him, just this once, maybe just to see how it felt. There was no harm in that, right?

She grabbed the shirt, examining it for a moment. It was an understated design—his team’s logo in the corner, a soft fabric, nothing too flashy. It wasn’t the sort of thing she would normally wear, but for some reason, she felt drawn to it. And then it hit her—maybe it wasn’t about the shirt at all. It was about the confidence to wear it, to stand beside him and let the world see her as she was, without hesitation.

She had a moment of inspiration.

Instead of simply slipping it on with jeans like she’d imagined, she decided to give it a bit of a twist. She styled it with an oversized blazer, the sleeves rolled up just enough to show off the shirt underneath, and a pair of high-waisted pants. The look was effortlessly cool, edgy, but still very much her. She paired it with a pair of sleek, minimalist sneakers, and, just before she finished, added a bold red lip to complete the ensemble.

When she looked in the mirror, she felt a sense of pride. It was a simple shirt, yes, but it was her way of wearing it. And somehow, it made her feel like she was making her own mark, not hiding behind anyone else’s expectations.

She grabbed her phone, checking the time, then sent Franco a quick message.

“I thought about it. I’ll wear the shirt. But only because it goes with my outfit.”

She added a playful winking emoji before hitting send, knowing that he’d appreciate the humour in it.

The morning was just beginning to pick up its pace as she finished getting ready. The weight of the day’s events, the race, the energy of the paddock, all began to settle in. But for the first time in a while, she felt a small sense of excitement, an eagerness she hadn’t expected. It wasn’t about the race itself, but about the people she was meeting, the connections she was making, and—perhaps most unexpectedly—what might lie ahead with Franco.

She was just about to head out of her hotel room when there was a knock on the door. She knew that knock—steady and familiar. Taking a deep breath, she opened it to find her brother standing there, his usual calm exterior softened by a quiet intensity in his gaze.

“Can we talk?” he asked, his voice low, his eyes searching hers.

She nodded, stepping back to let him in. She could tell he was a bit surprised when he saw the shirt she was wearing—the shirt of a rival team. He glanced at it, one brow raised slightly, but he didn’t comment, just closed the door behind him and leaned against the wall.

He took a deep breath, as if he’d been building up to this. “Are you… thinking of seeing him again?”

There was something tentative in the way he asked, a kind of brotherly concern that she hadn’t seen in a long time. She shrugged, trying to keep her tone casual. “Maybe. I’m considering it.”

He nodded slowly, looking away for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Then, almost hesitantly, he said, “Why are you okay with being seen with him, and not with me?”

The question landed heavily between them, and for a moment, she didn’t know how to answer. She looked at him, seeing the vulnerability in his expression, the unspoken hurt in his eyes. It was rare for him to open up like this, to say exactly what was on his mind. She let out a long breath, searching for the right words.

“It’s different,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Different how?” he pressed, his tone gentle but persistent.

She met his gaze, feeling a lump rise in her throat. She hadn’t realised just how much this division had affected them both, how much it lingered in moments like these. “I never felt like I was a part of your world,” she admitted, her voice trembling slightly. “It wasn’t just about you. It was Dad, too. He… he made it clear that I wasn’t cut out to be a part of it. I wasn’t… enough. Not like you.”

He looked at her, the quiet hurt in his eyes turning into something deeper, something sadder. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”

She gave him a small, sad smile. “How could you? You were busy making him proud. And you were great at it. I always saw how he looked at you, how proud he was of everything you were doing. He saw you as this… continuation of him, of his legacy. But me… I was never part of that.”

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair as he processed her words. “I never wanted it to be that way. I thought you just didn’t care about what we were doing. I thought you were happy doing your own thing.”

“I am,” she said, and she meant it. “Tennis is my world; it’s where I feel strong, where I feel like I belong. But… it didn’t come without sacrifices. I grew up watching you and Dad bond over racing, and it was like there was this door between us that was shut for good. I could watch, but I couldn’t be a part of it.”

There was a long pause, her brother absorbing her words, the weight of years of misunderstanding settling between them.

“I wish I’d known,” he said finally, his voice soft, tinged with regret. “I thought… I thought you didn’t want to be a part of it. I thought it didn’t matter to you if Dad and I had that bond. But I get it now. I see what it must’ve felt like, standing on the outside.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken years filling the space between them. And then he added, “You know, you don’t have to keep yourself hidden to be in my life, right? I get it now. But it doesn’t have to be like that.”

Her throat tightened, a wave of unexpected emotion rising within her. She’d spent so long feeling like an outsider in her own family, so sure that her brother had never noticed. But now, here he was, standing in front of her, wanting to bridge that gap.

“It’s hard to just undo it all,” she admitted. “Sometimes, it feels easier to just… stay on my own path. To keep these things separate.”

He nodded, understanding. “But if you’re thinking of seeing Franco… letting yourself be part of his world… doesn’t it mean you’re ready to be seen? To be yourself, even in places that are unfamiliar?”

She considered this, his words striking a chord deep within her. He wasn’t wrong. She’d spent so long hiding parts of herself, keeping herself separate to avoid comparison or judgement. But with Franco, she hadn’t felt the same need. For once, she had felt like she could be herself—no shadows, no expectations.

“I think… I just want to find something that’s mine,” she said finally. “A space where I’m not just ‘your sister,’ where I don’t have to carry someone else’s legacy.”

Her brother gave her a soft, understanding look. “You’ve already done that. You are more than just my sister. You’ve made a name for yourself that has nothing to do with anyone else. You’re not living in anyone’s shadow… but if you ever want to step into our world—my world—I’d like to be part of yours too. Just… let me be there for you, even if it’s only sometimes.”

She nodded, feeling a sense of warmth, a sense of connection that hadn’t been there before. Maybe there was room for both worlds, after all. For the first time, she felt like she didn’t have to choose.

“I’ll think about it,” she said softly, echoing her words from last night.

He smiled, a hint of relief in his eyes. “I hope you do.”

With that, he gave her a quick, reassuring squeeze on her shoulder, a wordless acknowledgment of the unspoken bond they shared. And as he left, she felt a sense of closure, a feeling that maybe, just maybe, she didn’t have to keep running from her family’s legacy to be seen as her own person. She could walk her own path, even if it sometimes crossed into theirs.

She arrived at the paddock a little while later, weaving her way through the bustle of race day, her heart beating a little faster than usual. Wearing Franco’s shirt under her blazer felt like a small, bold choice—one that had her both excited and slightly nervous. She walked through the crowd until she reached his team’s garage, where the energy was already crackling with anticipation.

As soon as she stepped in, Franco spotted her from across the garage. His face lit up the second he saw her, and he immediately started making his way toward her. When he was close enough, he lowered his voice and said in Spanish, a playful gleam in his eyes, “Wait here for just a second. Don’t move.”

Before she could respond, he turned and jogged back toward his driver’s room, leaving her standing in the middle of the garage, a little bewildered but smiling to herself. She watched as he disappeared into the room, curious about whatever he was planning. Within a moment, he was back, holding a bouquet of flowers—a mix of deep red roses and bright sunflowers, their colours vivid against the greys and metallics of the garage.

“For you,” he said, handing them over with a grin, his accent warm and lilting. His eyes softened as he added, “To celebrate your first race day as my guest.”

She took the bouquet, feeling a rush of warmth as she held the flowers. “You know, you didn’t have to do this,” she said, trying to hide the smile tugging at her lips. “I’m just here as… well, just as me.”

“And I think that’s worth celebrating,” he replied smoothly, his gaze locked on hers with unmistakable admiration. “Besides, you didn’t say no to the shirt, so I think I’m allowed a little celebration, no?”

She laughed, her cheeks warming as she looked down at the bouquet. “Alright, fine. You win. Thank you—they’re beautiful.”

Franco glanced around the garage, then leaned in slightly, dropping his voice to a playful murmur. “You know, you’re even more beautiful than I remember from last night. I thought maybe I was exaggerating, but… no. I wasn’t.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face. “Careful, or I’ll start to think you’re trying to distract me from the race.”

“Maybe a little,” he admitted, chuckling. Then, as if struck by a sudden idea, he looked around the garage again and spotted one of his engineers nearby. Franco gestured to the man, who quickly nodded, understanding exactly what Franco was after.

The engineer handed him a headset, and Franco turned back to her, holding it up. “Here—so you can listen in and watch from inside the garage. You’ll get the best seat here.”

She blinked, surprised by the gesture. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. You’ll get to hear all the comms, see how it all works up close. Plus”—he leaned in, his voice low—“you’ll have an excuse to stay around here.”

She shook her head with a smirk, taking the headset from him. “Alright. But only because you’ve convinced me with flowers and shameless flattery.”

“Good,” he replied, his grin widening as he watched her settle the headset over her ears. “I’ll keep it coming if it means you stay.”

As the team began their pre-race preparations, Franco showed her the best spot to watch from, and he took a few moments to explain some of the technical details. She found herself captivated, not just by the race, but by the way he was so eager to share his world with her. His enthusiasm was infectious, and despite herself, she felt the thrill of race day in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

Before he had to step away to start his own warm-up routine, he gave her one last look, his gaze holding a touch of that familiar mischievous glint. “Enjoy the show, princesa. And don’t go falling in love with the cars now—they’re not as charming as I am.”

She laughed, giving him a playful shove. “No promises.”

Franco winked, backing away with a grin as he joined the other drivers and team members preparing for the race. She stayed in the garage, feeling the weight of the headset and bouquet in her hands, both of them symbols of the way her world had shifted in just a few days.

As she watched him walk away, his words echoing in her ears, she realised just how different today felt. For the first time, she wasn’t just watching as an outsider; she was here, part of the energy, sharing a moment in his world, just as he’d promised. And maybe—just maybe—she was finally ready to be a part of something new.

The race was intense, the roar of engines filling the air as she watched Franco’s car weave through the track, making his way up from P16 to P12, gaining positions one by one with determined precision. Her heart raced with every turn, every overtake. She’d never felt the thrill of Formula One from this close before, and she found herself completely absorbed, balancing her attention between the live race and the screens in the garage that tracked every driver’s progress.

And then, in the final laps, her eyes moved to another part of the screen—a familiar car that was in the lead. A red car. Her brother was out front, defending his position with expert skill, pushing with everything he had toward the finish line. She held her breath, fingers tightening around the edges of the headset as she watched the seconds count down. When he crossed the finish line in first place, a feeling she hadn’t expected washed over her—pride, pure and radiant, filled her chest. She found herself clapping, cheering, a bright smile spreading across her face.

Franco, having just finished his own race and done the mandatory weigh-in and debrief with his engineers, finally found her in the garage. He looked exhausted but happy, his face still flushed from the adrenaline of the race. When he walked over, he paused, noticing the way her eyes were glued to the screen as her brother celebrated his victory, lifting his fists in the air in triumph.

“You’re glowing,” Franco murmured, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he watched her reaction.

She blinked, glancing back at him and realising how giddy she must look. “I didn’t think… I didn’t think it would feel like this. I’m just… so happy for him.” Her voice was breathless, filled with a genuine joy she couldn’t hide.

He chuckled, reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from her face. “Then you should go to him. He’s probably waiting for you.”

She shook her head, hesitating, her gaze flickering back to the screen. “No, I couldn’t. I don’t… I don’t belong over there, with everyone. That’s his world.”

Franco tilted his head, giving her a knowing look. “Maybe that’s true most days. But today, you belong there just as much as anyone else. He’s your brother. Go celebrate with him. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

She bit her lip, uncertainty still holding her back. “I wouldn’t even know what to say.”

“Start with congratulations,” Franco said, flashing her a gentle, reassuring grin. “Trust me, it’ll be enough.”

He gestured toward the edge of the garage, where the barriers separated the track from the paddock. After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded, taking a shaky breath as he guided her forward. The crowd around them was roaring with excitement as her brother’s car was pulled into parc fermé, fans and teammates celebrating around him. She could feel her heart pounding, each step filling her with a mixture of anticipation and nervousness.

At the barrier, Franco gave her hand a quick squeeze. “Go on. I’ll be right here when you’re done.”

With that, he released her hand, and she took a step forward, catching sight of her brother through the haze of people and cameras. He was laughing, practically glowing as he embraced his team, still basking in the thrill of his victory. And then, as if sensing her, he turned and saw her standing there, just beyond the barrier.

His expression softened, and a smile broke across his face, one that was filled with surprise and unmistakable happiness. Without a moment’s hesitation, he made his way over, reaching out to pull her into a tight, heartfelt hug. She hugged him back, feeling the last remnants of the old distance between them dissolve as she held her brother close, finally sharing in his moment.

When they pulled apart, he looked at her, pride shining in his eyes. “You came,” he murmured, his voice filled with a quiet gratitude. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”

She laughed softly, tears threatening to sting her eyes. “I wouldn’t have missed it. I’m so proud of you.”

He grinned, leaning in to press a quick, brotherly kiss to her forehead. “Thank you. It means a lot that you’re here. Really.”

As the team around them cheered and the cameras continued to flash, she felt the enormity of the moment—a sense of belonging, not just as a tennis player, or his sister, but as herself.

She grinned at her brother, reaching up to ruffle his hair in a rare show of sibling affection. “Te quiero mucho, hermanito,” she said, her voice filled with warmth and pride. “I’m so proud of you, you know that?”

His smile softened, and he looked at her with a mixture of surprise and gratitude. “Te quiero también,” he replied, wrapping her in one last quick hug. “Thank you for being here. Really.”

The moment was brief but profound, a quiet reassurance that, despite the different worlds they had each chosen, they were still connected. He glanced back toward his team, who were waving him over for post-race celebrations and interviews.

“I have to go,” he said, releasing her. “But I’ll see you later?”

“Of course,” she replied, giving him a nod and a small wave as he returned to his crew. She watched him for a moment longer, feeling a sense of pride she hadn’t felt in years—one that was entirely unclouded by the complexities of the past. Then she turned and made her way back toward Franco’s garage, her heart still racing from the intense energy of the day.

When she found him, Franco was waiting near the garage entrance, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, a proud smile lighting up his face as he saw her approach.

“You did it,” he said softly, admiration in his eyes. “You finally let yourself be a part of all this.”

As she reached Franco, he turned to face her, his expression softening with a mixture of pride and relief as he took her hands in his. Her heart pounded, the intensity of the day lingering between them like a magnetic pull. She gazed up at him, her breath catching as she saw the warmth in his eyes—the genuine care and admiration there, as if he saw every part of her that she had worked so hard to keep separate.

Without a word, she stepped closer, her hand moving up to rest gently against his cheek. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze searching hers, as if waiting for her to close the last small gap between them. Finally, she leaned up, closing her eyes as her lips met his in a slow, lingering kiss.

The world around them seemed to dissolve, the roar of the crowd and bustle of the paddock fading as the kiss deepened. His hands moved to her waist, pulling her closer, his touch both steady and tender. She felt the warmth of him seep into her, grounding her in the moment, and she responded instinctively, fingers threading through his hair as he held her tighter. There was a gentleness in his touch, but an undeniable passion too, a desire that built slowly between them.

Time slipped away as they shared this unguarded moment, the boundaries she had set for herself crumbling with every heartbeat. She could feel the strength in his arms, the quiet reassurance he offered, and a warmth that sparked through her, as if he was silently promising that he would be there, no matter what.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing a little harder, their foreheads touching as they lingered close, unwilling to step away. Franco’s thumb traced a gentle line along her jaw as he looked into her eyes, his gaze filled with an affection so deep that it nearly overwhelmed her. “I needed that push,” she murmured against his lips.

His arms came around her, but he laughed as he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “Come on,” he said with a teasing glint, “the cameras have probably caught enough kissing for one day.”

She chuckled, letting him lead her back toward the quiet of his garage, away from the noise and eyes of the crowd. For the first time, she felt an undeniable sense of belonging—not just to the world she had worked so hard to create for herself, but to this moment, with him, with her family. She’d finally allowed herself to be part of it all, and it felt right in a way she hadn’t expected.

the end.

[loafysainz]

the parent trap (remake) | CS 55

cast: carlos sainz x fem!reader

warn: 100% fiction & remake

next chap

Part 10 The Bombshell News

Breakfast was a feast on its own. Chessy placed each dish in front of Mattia with a wide smile.

"Alright, little chillie boy, breakfast today is tostada con tomate y aceite de oliva, perfectly toasted bread rubbed with ripe tomatoes and drizzled with the finest Spanish olive oil. Oh, I also made jamón ibérico, thin slices of the best cured ham straight from Salamanca. I added a plate of tortilla española, soft and golden, with a hint of caramelized onions. Oh, and if you're in the mood for something sweet, I made churros served with thick, velvety hot chocolate. Lastly, just to top it all off, a small plate of queso manchego paired with fig jam," Chessy said, her voice a mix of pride and anticipation as she placed all the dishes in front of the boy.

Mattia stared at the food, wide-eyed. Did his twin brother eat like this every day? Did he have a black hole for a stomach? He felt full just looking at the table. Slowly, he picked up a piece of toast but didn’t take a bite.

Chessy immediately noticed and frowned. “What’s wrong baby? Not hungry again? You barely touched your dinner last night. Are you sick?” she reached out, pressing his palm against Mattia’s forehead.

“It’s not that, Chessy. Everything looks delicious. Seriously,” Mattia reassured, offering a sheepish smile.

Chessy seeing him for a moment before shrugging. “Okay then.”

Mattia take the toast that Chessy made, it was delicious—something he’d never tasted back in London. He washed it down with a sip of fresh orange juice.

“Chessy… where’s my Dad?” Mattia asked, his voice hesitant.

Chessy, who had been cleaning up a few crumbs, paused. “Ah, your dad and… the young woman,” he said, mimicking an exaggerated voice, “‘Chess, I just want an apple for breakfast, thanks,’ left early to handle some wine cellar business. You were on the phone, and they didn’t want to interrupt.”

Mattia’s cheeks flushed. He hadn’t realized anyone noticed. “Oh… it’s just that I…”

“Were you talking to someone important? Like you called before breakfast?” Chessy teased, raising an eyebrow.

Mattia nearly choked on his toast. “I… uh, I was talking to a friend.”

Chessy leaned on the counter, giving him an incredulous look. “At 5 in the morning? Are you planning something chillie?” she said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Panicking, Mattia stumbled over his words. “Oh! No, no. My friend on vacation in Hawaii, and he told me that he is having fun there.”

Chessy smirked but didn’t press further. “Alright, little liar. Anyway, your Dad said to head to the cellars after breakfast. He wants to talk to you.”

Mattia nodded, grateful for the change in topic. “Thanks, Chessy.” He grabbed a churos on his way out, muttering, “Everything was delicious.”

As he reached the door, their dog, Sammy, barked loudly, almost as if trying to warn him of something. Mattia frowned, trying to open the door, but it wouldn’t budge.

“You have to push it, Matheo,” Chessy called out, clearly amused.

Mattia pushed, the door finally giving way. “I’m losing my mind,” he muttered, hurrying out before Chessy could say anything else.

****

The wine cellars were massive, filled with the rich aroma of aged bottles. Mattia wandered through, marveling at the sheer size, until he found his father inspecting a bottle of Heredad Sainz de Castro 1789 wine. A pang of emotion hit him as he realized it was his mother’s favorite.

Carlos looked up, startled but quickly smiled. “Oh, Theo, didn’t hear you come in. Just a second,” he said, setting the bottle back in its place and moving aside some boxes. “Alright, let’s talk outside.”

Once outside, Carlos glanced at him seriously. “I wanted to ask you about something. Actually… it’s about Meredith.”

Mattia’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s funny. I also have something to ask you… about Mom.”

Carlos froze, clearly caught off guard. “What?”

“What do you want to tell me about Meredith?” Mattia pressed, ignoring the shock on his father’s face.

Carlos bit his lip. “Matheo, wait… your mom?”

Matheo nodded as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Yes, old man. Remember, you never told me about my mom?”

Carlos winced. “We’ve talked about this before, Matheo.”

“Not really! And don’t blame me for being curious. It’s normal to want to know about your mom. Or do you think I’ll keep believing a dove delivered me to your doorstep?” Mattia crossed his arms, glaring up at him.

Carlos looked increasingly uncomfortable. “Wait, that’s not…”

“Come on Dad, I know you’re always here for me, but I still need a mom. It’s a big deal, and you know it.”

Carlos sighed heavily, nodding. “You’re right. You need that figure in your life, which is why I wanted to tell you about…”

He was interrupted by the honk of a golf cart. Meredith arrived, beaming, with a decent-dressed man by his side. “Hello, my love! Just in time to introduce you to our shareholder, James Charles,” Meredith announced cheerfully.

Carlos composed himself, greeting Sergio with a firm handshake. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Meredith’s eyes sparkled as she turned to the man. “And this is Matheo, the kid I always tell you about.”

Sergio smiled warmly. “It’s a pleasure. Meredith speaks highly of you.”

Meredith smirked and patted Carlos’s arm. “Honey, I was planning to have lunch on the terrace with Mr. Charles to discuss the new wine collection.”

“Great idea,” Carlos replied smoothly. “But I promised Matheo we’d go riding today.” He winked at his son.

Meredith waved it off. “Of course, Carlitos. Don’t let me keep you. I’ll handle the business side of things.” As she climbed back into the cart, she leaned toward James. “When I marry Carlos Sainz, that kid’s going to boarding school. Mark my words.”

James chuckled. “Ouw…soo nasty and cute of you, Meredith.”

“I know,” Meredith replied smugly. “Don’t remind me.”

****

Mattia’s laughter echoed through the vineyard, his face lit with exhilaration. It was his first time riding a horse, and he couldn’t believe how free it made him feel. Perched atop the stallion, he gave a small pat to his stallion, feeling every trot as if it were his own heartbeat.

“Matheo, let the stallion rest!” Carlos called out from behind, his voice tinged with parental authority but softened by affection.

Matheo slowed the horse to a stop, guiding him to a hill that overlooked endless rows of vineyards. The golden sunlight poured over the valley, casting a warm glow over the scene. He turned to Carlos, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Hey, Matheo,” Carlos began as he caught up. “Ready for the next camp?”

Mattia tilted his head in confusion, his expression a mix of genuine curiosity and a dash of theatrical cluelessness. “Which camp?”

Carlos squinted at him, a little annoyed but mostly amused. “The one we always do every summer. What do you mean, ‘which camp’?”

“Oh, ‘that’ camp!” Mattia’s response was quick, his voice dripping with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Can’t wait, Dad. Literally counting the seconds.” His tone was just convincing enough to pass.

Carlos smiled, giving him a knowing look. “Matheo, I wanted to ask you something.”

Mattia stiffened slightly, the shift in tone making his stomach flip. “What is it?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“What do you think about Meredith?”

Mattia blinked, caught off guard. “As a person?” he asked, trying to waste time. Carlos nodded, his gaze steady. Mattia scratched the back of his neck, his thoughts racing as fast as the stallion had been moments ago.

“Well, I mean…” he started, his voice faltering. “She seems awesome. Attractive, I guess? And she can say your name without butchering it, so there’s that. But… she’s kind of a mystery to me. Why?” His words tumbled out like a half-built defense, unsure where this was headed.

Carlos hesitated before speaking. “Because I wanted to tell you that she and I…”

Mattia’s chest tightened. He didn’t know what Carlos was about to say, but something about the tone made him want to avoid hearing it at all costs.

“I bet you can’t catch me!” he shouted abruptly, yanking the reins and urging the horse forward.

“Matheo! Wait!” Carlos’s voice rang out in alarm. “I’m trying to tell you something!

But Mattia didn’t look back. The wind whipped past his face as the horse galloped through the vineyard, Carlos chasing after him in a panicked blur. By the time Mattia reached the house, he was out of breath and brimming with a mix of guilt and panic.

****

Mattia burst into the living room in panic his thoughts swirled in chaos. “God, I can't handle this, it's too much, I'm just a kid. I can’t.” he said while trying not to cry.

"Do you want to share something with me Matheo?" Chessy said appearing from behind the couch, scaring Mattia to death.

"Oh my God Chessy, you gave me a fright" he said, earning a strange look from his babysitter.

" I gave you a fright??" she asked incredulously, making a line with her mouth.

"Alright, enough. I just want to ask you. Are you sure there’s nothing you wanna talk about? Like, why Sammy’s been avoiding you? Or why your appetite’s gone all weird? Or, I don’t know, why you’re suddenly using phrases like ‘you gave me a fright’?”

Mattia tried to laugh it off, but it sounded weak even to him. “I’ve just… changed over the summer, that’s all.”

Chessy raised an eyebrow, leaning in like she was piecing together a puzzle. “Gosh, if I didn't know you well enough, I’d say it’s almost like you were—”

“Like I was who, Chessy?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “It’s impossible. Forget I said anything.”

But Mattia wasn’t letting it go. “Almost like I was Mattia?” his voice was quiet, daring her to confirm what he knew.

Chessy was speechless hearing that name, “Wait—you know about Mattia?”

Mattia took a deep breath and said, "It's just that...I am Mattia.” Chessy was completely shocked as tears began to slide down her cheeks.

Before Chessy could respond, Carlos stormed through the door, out of breath and clearly still rattled. “Theo—Matheo why’d you run away like that? I told you, I needed to talk to you!”

Mattia didn’t answer. He was too busy trying to read the expression on Chessy face, who stood frozen, staring at him with her wide smile and tearful eyes.

Carlos frowned at the odd tension in the room. "Chessy, why are you looking at Theo like you've never seen him before?"

Chessy’s voice broke as she answered, shaking her head as if to clear a fog. "No... I see him just like always. 7 pounds, 38 centimeters at birth... He’s still so beautiful." Her voice cracked as tears slipped down her cheeks. "Can I hug him?"

Before Carlos could respond, Chessy had already closed the distance and reach Mattia in a tight hug. Mattia, tried not to cry himself, because of his babysitter feelings.

When Chessy finally pulled back, her face was still wet with tears. She sniffled, attempting a shaky smile. "Do you want something special to eat? Or, I don’t know... Actually, never mind. I’ll just make everything we have in the kitchen!" Without waiting for an answer, Chessy disappeared, muttering to herself while wiping at her face.

Carlos watched the whole ordeal unfold, utterly baffled. With a shake of his head, he turned back to his son, now perched on the couch. "Theo, I need to talk to you about something important," he said, trying to shake off the oddness of Chessy’s behavior.

Mattia perked up. "Fine, what is it, Dad?"

Carlos hesitated, his nerves bubbling to the surface, but he pressed on. "What do you think about... Meredith being part of the family?"

Mattia tilted his head, considering the question. "Part of our family? Like, this family?

Carlos nodded a bit too forcefully, attempting to mask his apprehension. "Yes."

A wide smile broke across Mattia’s face. "I think that’s a wonderful idea, Dad! I’ve always wanted a big sister! You’re the best!"

Carlos blinked, momentarily stunned. "Really? I thought you might—"

Mattia cut him off with a cheerful laugh. "Are you kidding? This is amazing news I am going to have big sister! You’re such a good dad—"

But Carlos quickly interjected, shaking his head. "No, no. It’s not that. I... I’m not adopting her, Theo. I’m going to marry her."

Mattia shot to his feet so fast Carlos flinched. Mattia face was a mix of shock and something verging on betrayal. "Qu'allez-vous l'épouser?! Dad tu ne peux pas l'épouser! Comment pouvez-vous épouser une personne qui peut être mon frère?!" The words spilled from Mattia’s mouth like a torrent, his voice rising as he spoke. (translate: Are you going to marry her?! Dad, you can't marry her! How can you marry someone who might be my big sister?!)

Carlos froze, his jaw practically unhinged. "Theo! Were you just... speaking French?!"

Mattia eyes widened, and he quickly fumbled for an excuse. "Oh... uh, yeah. They taught us French at camp. No big deal." His father looked dubious but didn’t press the issue.

"Okay, okay, calm down baby" Carlos sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“I'm sorry. Let's discuss this calmly, calmly and rationally.” Mattia replied his father

"Yeah we need to talk about this calmly, and in Spanish or English this time. Please."

Mattia shook his head, visibly upset. His voice wavered as he pointed an accusatory finger at his father. "You can’t marry her, Dad! It would ruining completely everything!"

And before Carlos could utter a single word of reassurance, Mattia run away from the room, tears streaming down his face. His father’s shouts followed him down the hall, but he didn’t stop. All Mattia could think about was finding a way to stop the wedding and figure out what to do next.

prev chap

[luveline]

hi jade! may I request about spidergirl and miguel? I missed them so much. maybe that she never experience valentine's? and she didn't expect miguel to do anything since he doesnt seems like the type of romantic guy. BUTTT i dunno I just missed them dearly :(((

ty for requesting !! —miguel surprises his forgetful spidergirl!reader with a small gesture of his affection on Valentine’s Day.

“Like, purpose,” you say, running your fingers over the plush carpeting beneath you. “You have a divine purpose, and I’m your girlfriend.”

“I can’t hear you.” 

You raise your face. You can’t see Miguel, his body blocked by the white of the bed sheets in the way. “I’m just whining.” 

“Come and whine over here, where I can hear you.” 

You like his voice, so you listen. Not because he’s said it very kindly; he’s too bossy. You also like bossy, but that’s not the point. He shouldn’t always get what he wants.

“Do you not like being my girlfriend?” he asks conversationally, his broad back to you as he shakes the frying pan. He’s frying onion and potato for a tortilla española, a thick Spanish omelette made with ample oil. It’s your favourite of his many dishes, your mouth watering as you stand there. 

“It’s fine.” 

He reaches back for you and grabs at you blindly, though having a spider sense means he’s coordinated regardless. You slide under his arm, can’t believe you’re there —a few months ago he’d glare at you whenever you smiled at him, and now he’s holding you, pressing a slight of a kiss to your temple without a second thought. Though you’re sure now he’d been glaring because he was agitated to have a crush on, back then you’d thought he didn’t like you, which wasn’t half as fun. 

Still, you clocked on eventually. People who don’t like someone don’t usually spend so long looking at said someone’s lips. 

“Fine isn’t ideal.”

“You’re too clingy,” you say as you curl your arms around him. 

“I know,” he murmurs into your skin. “What do you want to drink this morning, mi hermosa?”

You can’t decide. Miguel makes you a tall glass of water, a similar orange juice, and a frankly audacious cup of hot chocolate. It’s thick enough to cling to your spoon as you stir it. 

“Alright,” you say as he puts your breakfast plate in front of you, “what did you do? You haven’t been this nice to me in ages.”

“Is that true?” he asks. 

He was sort of nice yesterday when he fixed your phone (though you're suspicious he’d only fixed it so you wouldn’t ask one of your Peters), and the night before he’d been angelic, but that was mutually beneficial. You still as he wraps his arms around you from behind, his face pressed to the side of yours, his lips a kind line. You close your eyes and lean back.

A softness touches your other cheek. You peek at it through a squint, tentative, less so when you realise the softness is the petal of a red rose, and the rose belongs to a beautiful bouquet. You breathe out a gasp of awe. The flowers are a stunning dark red and wrapped in glitzy holographic cellophane. You’ve never seen flowers that looked so pretty, petal edges thick and stems a fresh green. 

“For you,” he says. 

“For me?”

“Mm-hm.” He eases the bouquet into one of your hands. “Happy Valentine’s.” 

“Is that today?” 

“Yeah, that’s today.” He kisses the corner of your mouth. 

You fluster as he stands tall and moves away. Bouquet hugged to your chest, you turn your head to watch his movements carefully. “Miguel, I’m sorry.” 

“I’m not, carino.” 

He pushes the sleeves of his shirt up and grabs the two bowls left behind on the counter. You can smell the refreshing spice of the peppery gazpacho and the lemon of the salad as he lays it out in front of you. Your stomach growls, but there are more important things to address. 

“I had no idea–”

“I hardly expect you to know what hour of the day it is, I wasn’t expecting anything.” He sits down in the chair beside yours at the table. 

“So it’s February… interesting.” 

Miguel actually laughs as you shove the flowers down and throw yourself at him. “Don’t hurt yourself,” he scolds. 

“I love your laugh,” you say, clinging to him for dear life. “I love you, I love your face, I can’t believe you got me flowers, Miguel. Miguel–” 

“Don’t act like I never get you anything.” 

I just didn’t think you’d do something this romantic, you think. It’s not fair to him. You still have the pencil sharpener he made for you when you’d haunt the workshop unbidden to him. What had he said? Something like Bring it to me when it needs charging. Well, you never remember, and yet it’s never dead. He’s that sort of romantic. “Thank you,” you say. 

“Were you still of the idea that I don’t like you very much?” he asks, pulling you into his lap with an unblinking strength. His thighs are solid underneath you. 

“Oh, no, O’Hara, you like me too much.” 

“Really?” He laughs. 

“Really. N’ I like you ten times that much, and,” —he kisses your neck— “that’s why we’re in love.” 

He scoffs at your teasing tone, breath tickling the side of your neck. “The longer you sit here trying to apologise the cooler your cocoa gets. Don’t be sorry, yeah? I know you didn’t know.” 

“I’m not trying to apologise. I’m mad. You could’ve told me it was Valentine’s coming up but you didn’t. You wanted to make me look bad.” 

He hugs you close, arm held firm to the curve of your back. “That’s exactly what I was trying to do. You caught me.” 

You lean back. He holds you tight to stop you from falling as you wrestle with the bouquet, pulling one especially lovely rose from the bunch. “Happy Valentine’s, mi vida.”

“That’s cheating, and not even half the effort I put in.” 

You press it to his chest and look up at him with every ounce of affection you have for him: it winds him. He covers your hand on his chest, pulling it over his heart. 

“Forgive me?” you ask. 

He rubs your knuckles. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

[servantofthefates]

I think we forget just how powerful witches of old are.

I have mentioned countless times how much I prefer traditional witchcraft to modern. But technically, my practice is incredibly modern compared to that of my ancestors.

Unlike me, they didn’t own tarot decks based on their favorite movies and TV series. They had the Rider-Waite and the Baraja Española.

Unlike me, they didn’t do Pick a Card readings on YouTube. Instead, they welcomed strangers into their home and cured their ills or read their palms.

Unlike me, they didn’t buy scented candles from Bath & Body Works. They made their own, and added herbs, flowers & peels for fragrance.

Even though I often look down on modern witchcraft because I don’t believe it to be as powerful, I am in truth, the least powerful witch in my lineage.

I still hear stories about how my grandfather stopped a fire with a handkerchief and a few Latin words. Meanwhile, I have been stranded in a supermarket, waiting for the rain to stop.

Forget the past generations — my own brother once buried a diamond amulet in his arm. I heard it was bloody. I would never. My amulet is a Scorpio necklace from Swarovski.

Only last month, my father saw me hiding a knife in my entryway for self-defense. He said, “If you’re really powerful, you won’t need that.” I told him, “But it's not for evil spirits. It's for bad people.” He said, “Same thing.”

My theory is that it’s my rational mind that keeps me from being as faithful to the old craft as my elders are.

But I think that’s who I am. I have my own brand of traditional witchcraft. I respect the old ways, but only so far as they don’t violate my understanding of the practical world. Maybe I’ll find other ways to become more powerful while still honoring how pragmatic I am.

Yeah, maybe I will. Why not?

[gavisfanta]

QATAR - PEDRI

summary: youre messis daughter and dating pedri while the world cup is happening

warnings: none

@yourinsta

the journey to qatar was amazing, now that I've spent the first three hours here I cant wait for the world cup to start.

Vamos Argentina y Vamos España 🇦🇷 ❤️ 🇪🇦

liked by pedri, garnacho7 and 967,929 others.

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@garnacho7 👏🏼👏🏼

@pedri ❤️🇪🇦

@random supporting two teams is insane

@random imagine having the problem that your bf plays for spain and your dad for argentina and you dont know who you'll support

@random thats my dream problem

@random VIVA ESPAÑAAAA

@random I hope Messi can win it this year

@random can we please talk about how cute pedris smile is in the third picture??

@random why does she have the spanish passport if shes Argentinian??

@random she grew up in spain

@random Hala madrid

@random who is she?

@random shes Messi's daughter

@pedri

Esto acaba de empezar, sí, pero qué debut locos! Vamos España ❤️🇪🇦

(This has just begun, yes, but what a crazy debut! Let's go Spain)

liked by pablogavi, yourinsta and 4,629,729 others.

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@yourinsta guapoooo😍😍😍 (handsome)

@pablogavi simp

@pedri ❤️

@random LMAO

@random Pedri Potter

@pablogavi Hermanoooo looking good

@random hes soo fineee

@rodri so excited to play with you pedri ;)

@ferrantorres mágico

@random spain gon win the world cup

@random lets go spainnn

@sefutbol que chico 😍😍 (what a boy)

@marcosalonos pedriiii 😍😍

@yourinsta

Amazing game by spain as always, it was great to support you @pedri with @siramartinezc and lets keep going this way. Vamos España ❤️❤️

liked by pedri, pablogavi, siramartinezc and 2,690,628 others.

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@pedri red looks good on you amor ❤️ pinned comment

@siramartinezc 🇪🇦❤️

@pablogavi youre my favourite girlfriend of pedri

@yourinsta oh... thank you gavi...

@pedri gavi.

@anapelayoz mis chicas españolas favoritas 😍❤️ (my favourite spanish girls)

@antonellaroccuzzo 😍😍

@mikkykiemeney when are you coming to a game with me ? 😁😁

@yourinsta soon... maybe...

‎

‎

@pedri

Muchas gracias por todo, Luis. Por tu confianza y por tu apoyo desde el primer momento, y por haber creído y cuidado siempre a este grupo. No hemos lIlegado donde queríamos en este Mundial, pero seguro que el futuro te deparara nuevos exitos

Muchas gracias también a toda la gente que ha estado a nuestro lado. Por ellos y por la @sefutbol tenemos que pasar página y trabajar para dar alegrías a nuestro país de la mano de Luis De la Fuente. Su suerte será la nuestra. 🇪🇦

(Thank you so much for everything, Luis. For your trust and for your support from the first moment, and for having always believed and cared for this group. We haven't gotten where we wanted in this World Cup, but I'm sure the future will bring you new successes

Many thanks too all the people who have been by our side. For them and for the @sefutbol we have to turn the page and work to give joy to our country from the hand of Luis De la Fuente. Your luck will be ours.)

liked by sefutbol, yourinsta, leomessi and 4,920,672 others.

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@yourinsta

Spain has been great and it's really unfortunate that we had to leave Qatar after this loss. I wish we could've went on further but I'm sure everyone is gonna take this as a challenge and win more trophies in the next 4 years. ❤️🇪🇦

liked by pedri, siramartinezc and 1,639,993 others.

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@pedri ❤️

comments have been limited

‎

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@yourinsta

TO THE FINALSSS

VAMOSSS

liked by pedri, leomessi and 2,662,829 others.

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@leomessi 🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷

@pedri ❤️

@random YESSS TAKE IT HOMEE

@random vamoooooo argentinaaaaaaa

@random france easy win

@random 😍😍

@random mbappe as world cup champion sounds better

‎

‎

@leomessi

CAMPEONES DEL MUNDO!!!!

Tantas veces lo soñé, tanto lo deseaba que aún no caigo, no me lo puedo creer...

Muchas gracias a mi familia, a todos los que me apoyan y también a todos los que creyeron en nosotros. Demostramos una vez más que los argentinos cuando luchamos juntos y unidos somos capaces de conseguir lo que nos propongamos. El mérito es de este grupo, que está por encima de las individualidades, es la fuerza de todos peleando por un mismo sueño que también era el de todos los argentinos... Lo logramos!!!

VAMOS ARGENTINA CARAJO!!!

Nos estamos viendo muy pronto... 🇦🇷🇦🇷

(WORLD CHAMPIONS !!!

I dreamed it so many times, I wished it so much that I don't fall yet, I can't believe it...

Big thanks to my family, all my supporters and also to all those who believed in us. We prove once again that the Argentinians when we fight together and united we are capable of achieving what we set out to do. The credit is of this group, which is above individuality, is the strength of all fighting for the same dream that was also that of all Argentinians... We made it !!!

LET'S FUCKING GO ARGENTINA !!!

We're seeing each other very soon...🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷)

liked by fcbarcelona, yourinsta and 75,448,275 others.

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@yourinsta LETS GOOOOOOOO CAMPEONES

@fcbarcelona beautiful 😍

@enzofernandez CAPITÁN 👏🏼👏🏼❤️❤️🇦🇷🇦🇷

@garnacho7 😍🇦🇷

@antonellaruccuzzo ❤️🇦🇷

@seleccionargentinaen "Lionel Messi has shaken hands with paradise"

@brycehall 🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷🇦🇷

@lisandromartinez Mi capitán 👏🏼🇦🇷

@random lmao barca commented

@random poor Cristiano

@random G.O.A.T.

@random I call this history

@yourinsta

This has been an incredible and surreal time and I'm so so thankful for everyone I met during my time there and I am so happy that my native country won it.

Thank you Qatar and VAMOS ARGENTINA 🇦🇷

liked by leomessi, pedri and 3,662,268 others.

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@selecciónargentina "todos somos montiel"

@leomessi VAMOSSSSS 🇦🇷🇦🇷

@antonellaroccuzzo ❤️❤️🇦🇷🇦🇷

@pedri 😍

@433 that world cup was special...

@pablogavi pedri looks so handsome 😍😍

comments have been limited...

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@yourinsta

argentina has been magical, thank you for sticking along @pedri ❤️

liked by pedri, leomessi, siramartinezc and 1,763,928 others.

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@pedri de nada amor ❤️😍

@leomessi 👍🏻

@random this is so dad of him 💀💀

@random MESSI

@mikkykiemeney so pretty 😍

@yourinsta ❤️

@random i love her and pedris relationship

@random that first picture >>

@random argentina did well ngl

@random pedri in the first pic AAAA

@random Idk who I'm jealous of, her or Pedri

@yourinsta

mi equipo 🫶🏻🇦🇷

liked by pedri, leomessi and 2,091,669 others.

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@leomessi mi hija ❤️

@pedri beautiful girl 😍😍

@yourinsta ❤️

@random VIVA ARGENTINA

@random undeserved

@yourinsta

back in barcelona, no better place then home 🫶🏻

liked by leomessi, pedri and 1,829,552 others.

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@pedri ❤️

@mikkykiemeney Home ❤️❤️

comments have been limited.

[cashewally-sarcastic]

@bunnywabbit2

love my burnt charcoal breakfast brick <3

[darkfictionjude]

Just binge read the entirety of WWE, and hopped on here to read the character asks and this was my face when I saw that Orla was actually a non-liked character after being insane about her my whole playthrough: 😧

Like SHE'S THE MOMENT, AM AFRAID. As someone who went for Lorcan, the way she haunts the narrative at every corner captivates me. That whole sequence when she knocks on Crown's door and asks them to open the door and, in case of you letting her in then just CUTS OFF. I'm looking at MC's eyes like the rat they are knowing full well this will be like that one Mickey Mouse meme that says "It's a surprise tool that will help us later", but instead will probably be something insane like Orla going full payback and trying to hurt the MC like in she was in her Birthday party (And so we get the backstory for the selectable scar, that one that MC " Does not remember" Like excuse me girl (gn) Crownie wdym you don't remember how you got the JAGGED, IMPOSSIBLE TO MISS SCAR, like... For realsies "I don't remember' or "I don't remember" Like when you stabbed your sister and snitched on the Lorcan affair and didn't decide to share until several chapters later-).

And even if it was something insane i'm bracing myself for the double whammy like "Maybe she was possessed too tehee this pesky violent anger issues that run in the family and just so happen to act like voices in your head that auto pilot your body (also called THE DEMONS)". AND I WOULD STILL STAND BY MY CANCELLED PRINCESS, like yeah as it was, I still fully understand why she acted like a terror towards Crown after being physically assaulted and then maimed. She clearly has something underlying going on with her previous to her death. The Orla Ghost is suspicious as hell. I'm just frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog while putting up a conspiracy board about this girl alone.

Y HABIENDO DICHO ESO ME QUITO LA CARETA PARA DECIR QUE ME ALEGRA VER AUTORES HISPANOHABLANTES (aunque yo soy española de (S)Pain así que quien soy para hablar), pero voy a proceder a devorar tus otras dos demos y esperar pacientemente a que nos des más material con el que ponerme full conspiranoica ❤

WWE: Imre, Nia, Lorcan and Crowny in death match with each other. If Imre and Nia unite you know they're beating those two wet cats. Crowny has to come in with the possession move or they're fucked

Hhaha another joins the small I <3 Orla clan. We're a tiny bunch, but we're STRONG

Quisiera algun dia poder traducir mis juegos a español 😌

[spanishskulduggery]

I'm not sure how well I articulated the point but a physical dictionary can sometimes feel even more antiquated more quickly when it comes to slang (from any country honestly) - which is inevitable with physical copies because they have to decide on what words to "allow" to be entered when they're new, then it can be distributed, so there's sometimes unintentional lag

If you're looking up slang terms, it's usually better to use online resources and find more context because you also don't know how widespread the slang is

There's also sometimes a strong regional bias; historically the bias has been for Spain, and even in Spain's dictionaries there can be an intentional or unintentional bias against certain autonomous communities

The RAE [Real Academia Española] is generally a well-respected organization and dictionary, but it also has its biases for example tends to place more emphasis on the Spanish used in Spain, and while it does have some entries for more well-known Spanish slang from other countries, it sometimes picks and chooses

I tend to think of Spanish as being even more regionally specialized than English or French, just because there are many Spanish-speaking countries that have very distinct words even when they're close to each other - like I would dread trying to look up what vos means because of how many countries use it, and the different ways they use it

I remember having a really hard time looking up "sandwich" in Spanish because some of the context in the physical dictionaries was lost, and some of the online dictionaries would recommend a word like el emparedado or el bocadillo and la torta without giving you good context

[rabbitcruiser]

Miami Beach was incorporated on March 26, 1915.

[ghostflowerdreams]

I'm not surprised that many people in Spain, Portugal, and other affected areas are spooked by the massive power outage. It struck without warning, right in the middle of people’s daily routines—whether they were at work, in school, shopping, or traveling. Suddenly, everyone was cut off from each other and from the rest of the world. No one had any idea what was happening or how long the electricity would be out.

Some had it even worse, getting stuck in elevators, on trains, or stranded in the middle of nowhere (if not, they were stranded hours away from home). You couldn’t even call for help because Wi-Fi and phone service was down too. On top of that, buying or paying for anything became nearly impossible. Most people rarely carry cash these days, so with ATMs down and banks closed, getting what you needed was a challenge.

If someone did have cash and got lucky, they might have found a store still open and willing to operate without a working register. But few store owners were willing to take that risk. Their perishable food was already spoiling, and the added threat of robbery could have made their losses even worse.

My mom brought up a troubling thought: what if this had been the lead-up to a missile attack? It reminded me of those apocalyptic or sci-fi movies where an EMP knocks out all electronics just before something worse happens. No one would’ve realized until it was too late. It’s unsettling to think about how easily things could have been more serious. Everyone was trying to understand why the entire electrical grid in Spain and Portugal had gone down. It happened so suddenly, and the longer it dragged on, the more it fueled people’s anxiety, especially for those already prone to worry.

The only reason I even knew about it was thanks to the hard work of Televisión Española (TVE), which did its best to broadcast using backup generators to inform the public about the situation. They also kept reaching out to other stations to share updates and gather more information, doing everything they could to keep people connected during the blackout.

It wasn’t perfect. TVE would occasionally go off the air for a few minutes or even up to an hour, so I’d switch to another news station, sometimes in Spain, other times in Portugal.

During that time, all the news stations (not just Spain, but Portugal too) could really do was talk about how people were dealing with the situation. Reactions varied widely: some treated it like an unexpected day off, while others weren’t so fortunate and had a much harder time. That’s understandable because no one’s experience was the same.

It saddens me to see people belittle others’ experiences during the blackout simply because they weren’t as affected, are used to worse, or reacted differently. What they fail to realize is that the blackout happened without warning, and most people weren’t prepared — that alone can be deeply unsettling.

Everyone processes unexpected situations in their own way. Being dismissive just because someone’s reaction or experience doesn’t match your own completely misses the point. Turning it into a contest over who had it worse, only serves to invalidate the real stress and difficulty that those who were negatively impacted went through.

I hate how this kind of behavior always seems to repeat itself. It was the same in the U.S. when people on the West Coast mocked those on the East Coast for how they reacted to an earthquake — as if fear or surprise is something to be judged or mocked.

[marianadecarlos]

What is Aguila Roja? Is it a show or a movie? Because in your posts you ranted about Aguila Roja's portrayal of Mariana.

Is there TV shows and Movies about her aside from that? I feel like Habsburgs in 17th century was often ignore by media because I don't see shows about them. There is Versailles series though if your interested.

"Águila Roja" is a Spanish adventure television series set in 17th-century Spain. Produced by Globomedia for Televisión Española, it aired on La 1 from 2009 to 2016 and has earned its status as one of the channel's most successful shows, with broadcasting rights sold in multiple countries. I must express my strong dissatisfaction with the portrayal of Mariana, as it is historically inaccurate and misleading. While I recognize that the show is a work of historical fiction, it is essential to accurately depict real-life individuals, especially lesser-known historical figures. The portrayal of Mariana as vain, selfish, and promiscuous—engaging in an affair with the fictional character Cardinal Mendoza. This plotline creates a distortion of her character. In reality, Mariana was a devoted wife, loving mother, intelligent, strong, loyal, dutiful, strict, tactile, and pious. These traits are glaringly absent from her depiction in the series. Although some scenes show her as a caring mother and wife, particularly when she comforts Felipe, these moments are far too few and are overshadowed by their frequent conflicts. Shows like this must uphold historical integrity, as misrepresentation can lead to widespread misconceptions.

Beware my friend as the worst is yet to come, I stumbled upon this video on YouTube. To those who are curious to watch this scene, it features graphic content.

There is more than one scene but I refuse to post the links because as you can see this one is already terrible. The other scenes just featured her getting kidnapped, tortured, tying her to a tree, and lifting her up in the air.

I was mortified upon witnessing it! The need to showcase the character getting tortured and almost burnt at the stake! I do not understand the reason or context of this scene at all! This scene is not only inaccurate and degrading, but It is also an insult to her name, real-life experiences, and legacy.

Apart from her portrayal, her costumes were as expected inaccurate, The outfits that Lucía Eliana Sánchez wore in the series, in my opinion, did not fit the way of dressing at the time. Both the exaggerated neckline and the shapes of the silhouette did not correspond to the attire worn at that time, and even more so, by such a leading figure.

In Spain, women did wear a neckline, as we can see in some paintings, but a plunging neckline would not have been common for the queen herself. The feminine style of the dress at the time was the so-called guardainfante, a huge frame in the shape of an inverted basket on which the basquiña (skirt) was placed. The bodice or sayo was tight, between the fabric and the lining there was a rubberized cardboard that literally crushed the chest. According to the historian Maribel Bandrés: “… it was so hard and flat that the body lost its natural shape. To give it even more rigidity, it had two whalebones coming down to a point in front: the busc .” The neckline was covered with a striking collar called a valona cariñana with a beautiful decoration of pleats called abanillos. This type of collar was very flattering and a large brooch was placed in its center.

Diego Velázquez. Mariana of Austria. Detail of head. Circa 1652. Prado Museum. Madrid.

Eliana Sánchez is characterized as Mariana of Austria.

In this particular scene, I noticed Mariana's dress. I've seen that dress before in other Spanish shows and on Pinterest, which led me to believe they recycled this costume. While I appreciate when costumes are reused in different shows, in this case, the setting is in the year 1660, as they discuss Maria Theresa's upcoming marriage and mention that Margarita and Prospero are present. They look completely different from their historical counterparts.

Yes, apart from Aguila Roja, She was featured briefly in documentaries such as Memoria de Espana and Habsburgs heimliche Herrscherinnen- Auf fremden Thronen

I agree with you this century is often ignored by the media or the ones that usually don't get that much attention even though their stories are good and interesting. My favorite portrayal of her, Is the Memoria de Espana's Mariana, The costumes and mannerisms are perfect.

[angrynevidimcomics]

✨Progress Wednesday!✨

Even though I’m running a bit behind on page five (as you can probably tell), I’m honestly really proud because... tatatachan! I’ve finished the entire script for Chapter 1! I’m talking about the script, not the storyboard — I usually work on both side by side, but having all the dialogues written and a clear idea of what needs to happen in each scene is going to make things much smoother going forward.

This week’s been a bit chaotic, but thankfully, I planned ahead — even if I’m still working on page five, the page scheduled to go up this Saturday is page three ❤️

On another note, I’m feeling super happy with how this first chapter turned out, although I’m pretty sure the way I’ll end it might earn me a bit of hate 👉👈 But I promise, it gets better after that.

Now, I’m facing a bit of a dilemma: Seem. As some of you may know, I’m from Spain, and I played the game in Spanish, where Seem was referred to with he/him pronouns. It wasn’t until literally last week that I learned Seem is non-binaryin the original dub 🫠.

I actually like the ambiguity! The issue is just that after so many years, I’ve grown used to seeing Seem as male, and it’s hard to break that mental association. So, I’ll most likely stick to how they were presented in the Spanish version, just to avoid accidentally misgendering them out of habit. I sincerely apologize in advance if this offends anyone — I’d rather be consistent than claim Seem is non-binary and then unknowingly slip up with the pronouns.

🎨 Art account: @angrynevidim 📚 Comic account: @ymir_comics

(SPA)

¡Miércoles de progreso!

Pues aunque llevo la página cinco algo atrasada, como podéis ver, la verdad es que estoy muy satisfecha por que… ¡Tatatachan!

He terminado todo el guion del capítulo 1. El guion, que no el storyboard pese a que suelo hacerlos más o menos a la vez. Pero el tener todos los diálogos y más o menos lo que debe de suceder en cada escena, va a aligerar mucho el ponerme a ello. Pese a que, esta semana la tengo algo complicada, menos mal que soy previsora y que aunque estoy haciendo la página cinco la página que debe subirse este sábado es la tres ❤️

Por otro lado, me siento muy satisfecha con el guion de este primer capítulo, aunque estoy segura que con el final que lo voy a dejar me voy a ganar un poquito de odio 👉👈

Pero, prometo que a partir de ahí, las cosas mejoran. 

Por otro lado, tengo un dilema importante. Seem. Como ya os podéis imaginar soy española, y por lo tanto en el juego lo jugué en español, y en el doblaje tratan a Seem de “él”, y no fue hasta hace literalmente una semana que, en el doblaje original Seem es no binario 🫠 que ojo, no me parece mal me gusta la idea de que jueguen con la ambigüedad, el problema es que después de tantos años se me hace muy raro pensar en Seem que no sea en masculino. Así que seguramente lo deje tal y como fue presentado en el doblaje en español por el simple hecho de que estoy más familiarizada con ello y no hay peligro de que se me escape el pronombre equivocado. De modo que pido disculpas por adelantado si alguien se siente ofendido por eso pero, para mi sería peor plantearlo como personaje no binario y por la fuerza de la costumbre en algún punto referirme a él con el pronombre equivocado y no darme cuenta.

🎨 Art account: @angrynevidim 📚 Comic account: @ymir_comics

[mapsoffun]

Scenes near and on Española Way, Miami Beach, April 2025. 

[pensat-i-fet]

So, tomorrow we'll get the Spain squad for the matches against the Netherlands in the Nations League. And Raúl Asencio will be included in that list if all the reports are to be believed. Instead of just being mad and yelling at a cloud, I thought about doing something that could make a difference. I'm just one person, though. But there's strength in numbers so help me out if you're also offended by all of this. Even if he's not included in this list, he'll be in one sooner or later so you know.

I have written an e-mail in perfect Spanish for all of you from Spain and abroad who also think this is unacceptable (even if you speak Spanish, this way it's easier for you to just copy and paste). It's for the Spanish Federation and I call them out for including that player in the squad, remind them of all the other things done against women by them and shame them for doing this when the home match will be one dedicated to the more than 200 mortal victims of the horrible floods that devastated Valencia. I inform them also that I'm getting a group of people to send more e-mails to their sponsors complaining about this inclusion in the squad. I also wrote one for sponsors but many don't accept that kind of e-mail. I talk more about it after the keep reading.

Now, I can hear you say "Cris, it's worthless to even try". And that's where you're wrong. How do you think United fans got that one player kicked out of the team? And I work with and for brands all the time. There's nothing they hate more than bad press. Receiving all those comments won't make them happy at all and they'll talk to the federation. I work with these people, I know. I've personally talked to one of the main sponsors and I know doing this works. Trust me. It's not something that gets fixed overnight but slow and steady can win a race.

The e-mail is in Spanish because the federation is the Spanish Federation. If you choose to also send an e-mail in your language to the brands that also do business in your country, absolutely fantastic as well.

If you have any doubts about anything. Feel free to let me know. After the keep reading I'll include the e-mail and where you should send it. And thank you to everyone helping by doing this or by shaming the federation on social media. They won't silence us.

E-mail for the Spanish Federation. Send to integridad@rfef.es (integrity...you have to laugh).

"Mi nombre es (insert your name) y me pongo en contacto con ustedes para comunicar mi preocupación por la convocatoria del jugador del Real Madrid Raúl Asencio para la disputa los partidos de la Nations League que se jugarán contra los Países Bajos a finales del mes de marzo.

El jugador Asencio, como sabe todo el mundo, está imputado por un delito de distribución de pornografía infantil. Como mujer, me resulta gravemente ofensivo que dicho jugador sea convocado para representar a la selección española. La selección supuestamente de todos y todas las españolas. Una selección admirada fuera del país y que con esta decisión no demuestra tener los valores de los que presume. No es la primera vez que varios jugadores ofenden a los seguidores de dicha selección con sus faltas de respeto basadas en sus ideologías políticas. Pero esto creo que llega a un nivel mucho más grave. Hablamos de alguien investigado por un crimen de alta gravedad que afecta a una menor de edad. 

El seleccionador de la selección absoluta española, Luis de la Fuente, se ha visto involucrado en varias polémicas dada su asociación con el ex presidente Luis Rubiales, ahora condenado por un delito de agresión sexual. Su facilidad para convocar a un sujeto con similares problemas legales cuando se niega a convocar a jugadores con gran nivel, y que ayudarían a la selección, es cuanto menos preocupante. 

La prensa española, nunca objetiva, se ha dedicado a blanquear el comportamiento del jugador Raúl Asencio. Han llegado incluso a mentir sobre el proceso legal que está todavía en activo, lo cual si no es un crimen debería serlo. Deduzco que con esta convocatoria, la Real Federación Española de Fútbol ayudará con ese blanqueamiento hacia el jugador. No solo eso, sino que lo hará cuando se dispute un partido en tierras valencianas debido a la desgracia que fue la DANA del mes de Octubre. En un partido supuestamente organizado para homenajear a las víctimas y recaudar dinero para ayudar a los supervivientes, tendremos que presenciar que un imputado en un caso en el que se ve involucrada como víctima una menor esté en el campo. Como homenaje a las víctimas, podría ser bastante mejorable si les soy sincera.

Ya el año pasado, en la disputa del infame partido contra Brasil, pudimos presenciar imágenes bochornosas que incluyeron el acoso hacia uno de los capitanes de la selección, Álvaro Morata. ¿Tendremos que presenciar este año que se increpe y vilanice a la gente de Valencia, que tanto ha sufrido, si ejercen su derecho a la libertad de expresión y deciden pitar al jugador Raúl Asencio? ¿Seremos capaces de tal bajeza moral?

Repito, como mujer me avergüenza una vez más la federación española. Tras una campaña de “la semana de la mujer”, proceden a convocar a un jugador como este. Es un insulto hacia todas y cada una de las mujeres que vemos fútbol. Esta federación, que ya llevó la Supercopa de España a Arabia Saudí. Esta federación, que sigue sin defender a la gente de Mallorca que fue agredida en dicha Supercopa. Esta federación, que no ha respetado al equipo femenino ni cuando consiguieron el mayor logro posible como es proclamarse campeonas del mundo. Esta federación, cuyos directivos también se ven involucrados en casos de corrupción, prevaricación, etc…

Como persona no tengo gran poder. Pero a veces lo poco que se tiene puede ser bien utilizado. Tanto yo como muchas otras personas nos vamos a organizar para hacer llegar nuestra desaprobación a los patrocinadores de la selección española. A todos. Porque no hemos nacido ayer y sabemos que lo que importa es el dinero. Quizás a esos patrocinadores no les agradará saber que cientos de personas dejarán de consumir sus productos o de contratar sus servicios debido a la convocatoria del jugador Raúl Asencio.

Es 2025. Despierten. No nos van a obligar a aceptar a un sujeto como ese en el equipo que se supone representa a todo un país. No nos vamos a callar. Como no se callaron, ni callarán, las jugadoras de España y del mundo entero."

About the sponsors. They don't make it easy to contact them unless you're part of the media (I am. I'll lead those talks) or contacting them due to a product purchase. I'll name them all here and you can choose what to do but if you do anything at all, the two names are Adidas and La Roche Posey. For different reasons, they'll be very unhappy to know this situation can affect their brand. And Iberdrola, which named itself as the brand that supports women's sports years ago.

The rest of the sponsors are: Silbo, TCL, Halcón Viajes, Iberia airlines, Sanitas, Seur, Renfe, Multiópticas, El Pulpo, APK Renting, Marcos Automoción, Wimu, Eneryeti, Cabreiroá, Enrique Tomás.

If and when the official channels make collab posts with these sponsors, there you got your chance to speak up.