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purplereina11 · 29 days ago

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You are the kind of woman who knows her way around engines and hearts, fast with a wrench, faster with flings, and never one to stick around. A no-nonsense car mechanic with tattoos, oil-stained jeans, and a reputation for leaving partners breathless and ghosted, she lives for the thrill under the hood and between the sheets. That is, until Alexia Putellas walks into the garage. She’s the daughter of your newest client, all polished restraint and sharp glances, dressed like she has no business in a grease-stained shop but somehow looks perfect in it. From the second your eyes meet, you want her, badly. She makes her move, expecting the usual flirt-and-win, but Alexia's not impressed. She sees through your charm and makes it clear: she’s not a pit stop.

Wordcount: 19.7k

No idea why I'm nervous to share this 🫣 Thanks to the Anon for the idea, hope it's what you wanted

You’ve got oil under your nails and a smirk on your lips when the engine purrs just right. It’s a sound that tells you everything you need to know tight timing, good compression, clean combustion. She's gonna drive like a goddamn dream.

You swipe the sweat from your brow with the back of your hand and lean against the open hood, satisfaction heavy in your bones. It’s been a good day. You’ll probably end it wrapped in someone else’s sheets or better, your own, with someone temporary and breathless beside you.

That’s the plan, at least, until the bell over the garage door chimes and you look up and fuck, everything shifts.

She walks in like the air parts for her. Long beige coat, sunglasses even though the clouds are low, posture like she owns the place but doesn’t need to prove it. She takes them off slowly, revealing eyes sharp enough to cut through steel and a mouth you immediately want to ruin.

You’ve seen her before, of course. Who the hell hasn’t seen Alexia Putellas in Barcelona? Ballon d'Or winner, midfield queen, captain of Spain, picture on every corner you turn by, seeing her on a screen is one thing, but seeing her five feet away, glancing around your grease-stained shop like she’s somewhere between bored and curious. That’s another thing entirely.

You wipe your hands on your rag and toss it over your shoulder, “Didn’t think I’d be getting royalty today,” you say, voice low, teasing.

She raises an eyebrow. Doesn’t smile. “My mami's car,” she says, accent smooth and cool. “She sent me to check how you were doing.”

You clear your throat, nod. “Yeah. Almost done. Was just finishing the tuning. Want to take a look?”

She hesitates just for a beat, then steps forward, trainers echoing faintly on the concrete. You watch the way she moves, precise, graceful, every step measured. It’s not just sexy, it’s controlled like everything about her is held back by design.

You offer her the keys. Her fingers brush yours when she takes them. No spark. No flinch. No reaction. You, on the other hand, feel your pulse pick up like you’ve touched a live wire.

She walks around the car. Inspects the paint job. Tilts her head slightly at the restored leather interior.

"You did this yourself?" she asks, finally looking you dead in the eye.

You grin. “These hands with all this talent would be a shame to waste it.”

Still nothing, a pause, then a hint of a smirk. “I’m sure you waste it in plenty of other ways.”

Oh. She knows exactly what you are and she's not impressed. You take a step closer, just one. “You sure you don’t want to take the car, and me, for a test drive?”

She stares at you, unmoved, then hands the keys back without breaking eye contact. “No.” She turns on her heel and walks away. "Keep my mother updated on the progress" she calls back sunglasses coming back down her face and for the first time in a long time, you realise you’re not the one doing the chasing, you’re being left behind.

You watch the door swing shut behind her, the bell’s chime still ringing in your ears like it’s mocking you.

No. Not 'maybe,' not 'later,' not even a sarcastic 'we’ll see.'

Just no.

You laugh to yourself, low and incredulous, rubbing your palm over your jaw. You’ve been rejected before, sure, happens when you live like you do fast, loose, and loud, but this one stings in a way you weren’t ready for, because it wasn’t just rejection, it was dismissal. Like you weren’t even in the running.

You glance back at the car her mother's classic '67 Mustang. Cherry red, curves like sin, restored with your own damn hands. You poured hours into that body, gave it life again. For what? For her to walk in here looking like a dream and tell you you’re not even worth thinking about?

You grit your teeth. No. You’re not going out like that.

She comes back three days later and you make sure you're the one at the front this time.

You see her first, stepping out of a matte black Cupra, hair tied back tight, sunglasses perched on her head. She’s wearing a fitted jacket this time blue Barça training top beneath it. You hate how fast your eyes memorise the shape of her.

She’s not alone, her mother is with her, you push down the twist of something sour in your gut and wipe your hands on your rag as they walk in.

“Mama P,” you smirk with a smile as you chew your gum that the older woman laps up, flirting with older women was always your strong suit, mothers always love you. “She’s ready for you.”

Alexia doesn’t look at you at first, she’s scanning the shop, like she's somewhere she'd rather not be, again.

Her mother on the other hand smiles warmly, shakes your hand. “Looks beautiful Y/N. You did good work, I don't even recognise it, my brother won't believe the wreck he said I should have never bought now looks like this.”

You nod, flipping the keys around your fingers before handing them over. “Want to give her a spin?”

She chuckles, pats the hood. “I trust you, but my daughter insisted we both come, said I wouldn’t understand if the clutch slipped.”

That gets your attention, you glance at her again, her eyes finally meet yours, still unreadable. “Smart,” you say. “Wouldn’t want a legend like you stalling out at a red light.”

That gets a blink, nothing more but she steps forward, slides into the driver’s seat like she was born to be behind the wheel. Her hands on the wheel no gloves, short nails, fingers long and elegant. You wonder what they’d feel like on your skin.

The engine purrs to life. Perfect. She revs it once. Listens. Nods, “Solid,” she murmurs, mostly to herself.

You lean on the passenger side window. “She’s got bite, if you want her to.” Alexia raises an eyebrow. “I meant the car,” you add, and for half a second, she almost smiles.

She kills the engine and steps out, handing the keys to her mother. “It’s good,” she says simply, then turns to you. “Gracias.”

She walks out without waiting, you exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding and that’s when you decide, you’re not letting this go. Not because you think you can win her, but because, for the first time in years, someone was actually giving you a chase.

Eli smiled as you watched her oldest daughter leave, "Woman of few words is Alexia"

Your eyes moved to Eli's, "I've noticed" You start towards the front desk to take payment and you just had to ask, "She knows cars?"

Eli laughed to herself, "Not even in the slightest"

You couldn't help the satisfied smirk that crossed your mouth as you handed over the paperwork and the copy of her receipt, "You ok driving it out the garage?"

"I should be fine, thank you"

Eli gave you a warm hug and she left out the door with a ding and you fell back into the swivel chair behind the desk, you felt like you'd been knocked off your feet. You sat there quietly long after the car left in the silence you just couldn't stop thinking about Barcelonas Captain.

🚗

The next week, you start seeing her name everywhere, not that you weren’t already aware of her, but now it's like the universe is playing tricks on you. Highlights from her latest match show up on the TV in the garage. Some customer’s lock screen, her. Hell, one of your suppliers has her face on a sticker on his van.

You hate it. You hate how your stomach knots every time you see her. How your brain replays that almost-smile like a loop you can't break. You try to hook up with someone else one night, tall brunette, loud laugh, easy eyes. You bring her home, start undressing each other and then she says something in Spanish soft, low, meant to be dirty and suddenly all you can think of is her voice, cool, precise, controlled. You stop, apologise and lie, you say you’re tired.

The girl shrugs, pulls her clothes back on, and leaves without a word. You sleep alone. A week after that, she walks back into the garage. No appointment. No car. Just her and suddenly, everything inside you jolts awake.

You don’t expect to see her again, not really, so when she walks into your garage alone, hands in the pockets of her coat, a subtle frown creasing her brow you pause mid-step, socket wrench hanging from your fingers. She doesn’t speak at first. Just stands there, looking around like the place has changed in the last two weeks.

You wipe your hands on your towel and stroll over, keeping your swagger light, practiced, but inside, you’re on high alert.

“Didn’t think Barça royalty did walk-ins,” you say, leaning on the counter. “Need an oil change, or just miss me?”

Her eyes flick to yours. Still unreadable, but she steps closer. “My Mami forgot her sunglasses. Thought I’d save her the trip.”

You nod. Right, the excuse is paper-thin, but you don’t call her on it “They’re in the office,” you say. “Follow me.”

She does. Quiet. Controlled. The way she walks behind you makes you hyperaware of your own movement your posture, your stride, the shape of your shoulders under your tee.

In the office, you dig through a drawer until you find them, classic aviators, probably expensive as hell. You hand them over, but she doesn’t take them right away.

Instead, her gaze lingers on your arms, your forearms are streaked with oil, muscles taut from the half-stripped engine out back. You catch the glance, raise an eyebrow.

“Like what you see?”

She exhales through her nose. “You’re relentless.”

“Only when I want something.”

You expect her to deflect again, shut you down like last time, but instead, she says, “What do you think you want?”

You blink, that wasn’t the game before, that certainly wasn’t part of the script you'd created in your head, you take a step closer. “You.”

She doesn’t move, her chin lifts slightly, her voice is quieter now. “You don’t even know me.”

“I’d like to.”

There’s a beat of silence, your chest tightens, then she takes the glasses from your hand, slides them on with that same, infuriating calm. “You’re not serious,” she says.

She turns to leave, but her walk is slower this time. "You're welcome" you call as she swings the door shut behind her

🚗

You start seeing her around the neighbourhood, not often, just enough to mess with you.

At the café next door, picking up a cortado. At the park across the street, stretching alone with earbuds in. You never approach, you’re not that desperate, but one day, you’re elbow-deep in a beat-up BMW when you hear a voice behind you.

“You missed a bolt.”

You lean up fast, head just barely missing the bonnet and there she is, leaning against the frame of the garage, holding a to-go cup like she owns the damn place.

You stare at her. “You came here to critique my work?”

“No. I came for a coffee,” she says, sipping. “Saw you about to wreck the subframe.”

You glance back at the bolt she pointed to. Damn. She’s right. You squint at her. “You know your way around engines?”

She shrugs. “Heard my dad say it to my uncle when I was little”

You whistle low. “Careful, you’re turning me on.”

“I’m not trying to.”

“But you are.”

She doesn’t answer that, just watches you, eyes cool, unreadable, but not entirely distant. You look away before you say something too honest.

“Is something wrong with your car or? You wanna come inside? You're letting the bugs in”

“No.”

“Still playing hard to get?”

“I’m not playing at all.” She tosses her empty cup into the bin like it’s the end of the conversation. Like she didn’t just shake you up with six words and no smile.

She walks off and you stand there in the middle of your shop dirty, breathless, and completely fucked.

🚗

You're in a bar that is tucked on a quiet corner off Carrer de la Marina, dim and humming low, just enough of a secret that it's not ever overly busy. You come here because it’s casual, low lighting, good beer, music just loud enough to cover the silence without killing it.

You look over your shoulder, you can't believe your look as it seems half the Barcelona women's team was entering the bar but then she walks through the door, hands in the pockets of a leather jacket, eyes scanning the place she'd been brought to until they land on you, you forget how to breathe for half a second. You catch her swallow before looking away and following the group to a table not all that far from you.

"Y/N" Sarah the bar women spoke, "You want your usual?"

You nod, "Extra-"

"Extra prawns, we know" She smiled, putting a full beer bottle taking away the old one.

"Gracias" You mutter, you hear the whispering, you knew they were talking about you, you could feel the gaze, you heard, "That's her?", "She's hot", "Go say hi".

You sipped your beer and chanced a glance out the corner of your eye as two came to the bar and you caught one looking at you, as you squeeze the lemon on your paella you feel a presence beside you.

You look and there stood Alexia, "Hola"

“Hola,” you say, trying to sound cool, if you can make a hello cool.

“I thought it was you,” she replies. “And I was curious.”

You motion to the bar. “Curious about the food?”

“No. About you.”

That stops you, she takes the seat across from you like she’s doing a press conference, composed, distant, professional, but her eyes linger on your mouth when you smile. You catch it. She knows you do.

Her friend places her drink on the bar beside her and retreats “What’s the verdict then?” you ask, watching her sip.

She raises an eyebrow. “You really want it?”

“Try me.”

She sets her glass down. “You’re cocky. Reckless. The kind of person who gets bored five minutes after getting what they want.”

“And yet, you’re still sat here and not with your unsubtle friends.”

Her mouth quirks. Barely. “You’re not what I expected,” she says quietly.

“Disappointed?”

“No. Just… curious.”

There it is again. That word, curious and for the next hour, she comes and goes, like she can't keep away and you talk. About football. Engines. Tattoos. Siblings. Nothing too deep, but enough to feel like something’s cracking open. She laughs once at your story about crashing your boss’s van when you were sixteen. You live off that laugh for the rest of the night, but she never fully relaxes.

Even when the beers are gone and your knee bumps hers when you turn to her, even when your fingers brush as you both reach for the same beer bottle.

You lean a touch closer, she doesn’t move. “I want to kiss you,” you say. “And I’m not gonna pretend I don’t.”

She looks at you for a long time. Too long. Then, “You’re not what I need.”

Your chest tightens. “How do you know?”

“Because you don’t know how to want someone without trying to win them.” You’re quiet, she reaches out, touches your wrist brief, fleeting, warm. “I liked tonight,” she says. “But this isn’t where it starts.”

You blink. “Then when?”

Alexia steps back. “If I ever believe you’re serious.”

And then she’s gone, no kiss, no maybe next time. Just a chill in the air, the fading scent of her perfume, and a space beside you that feels heavier now than it did before she filled it. You catch her looking at you as she settles back with her friends before you just pay your bar tab and head out, alone.

🚗

You want to see her the next day. God, you almost try to engineer it, but the memory of her voice telling you 'You don’t know how to want someone without trying to win them' is still too fresh.

It hits a part of you that you usually keep buried under flirting and leather and oil stains. You don't see her for three days and then you’re locking up the shop one evening just past sunset, sky bleeding pink over the city and she’s there. Sitting on the hood of your beat-up Charger like it’s hers, arms crossed, sunglasses in her lap even though the sun’s almost gone.

“You missed me?,” you say, unlocking the door again like it’s nothing.

She shrugs. “I wanted to see how long you’d wait.”

You glance over your shoulder. “And?”

“I was impressed. Three days is a record for you, I assume.”

You laugh, tossing her a rag for her hands. “What do you want, Alexia?”

She hops off the hood, slow and graceful, her trainers clicking lightly on the pavement. “A ride.”

You blink. “You have a car.”

“This is more fun.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You sure you want to be seen in this junkyard classic?”

She smirks. “Try me.”

You drive. No destination. Just Barcelona at golden hour, the windows down and the air electric with something unspoken.

She doesn’t speak for a while, just watches the city blur past, her hand resting near the gear shift, not on it. Her legs crossed, ankle bouncing in a rhythm only she knows.

You sneak glances, she catches one. “You’re staring.”

“You’re distracting.”

“You’re trying again.”

You grin. “Always.” but this time, she doesn’t shoot you down.

Just turns her face back to the window and says, “Good.”

You end up parked on a cliff just outside the city. Not a romantic spot, not really, but it’s quiet, secluded. The kind of place someone goes when they don’t want to be seen.

She climbs out before you can open her door, walks to the edge and stands there, arms folded, the wind tugging at the ends of her hair.

You stand beside her, “You ever let anyone in?” you ask softly.

“Not often.”

“And yet you’re here.”

“I don’t know why I came.”

You look at her, she’s not pretending anymore, not putting on the wall, she looks tired, not weak. Just real. “Maybe,” you say, “you’re curious.”

That gets a breath of a laugh, barely there and then, for the first time, she looks at you like she’s thinking about it.

About you. About this. You take a step closer, not touching just letting the warmth of you fill the space. “Let me in,” you say. “Just a little, I think I may surprise you.”

She looks up at you, her mouth opens, then closes and then she shakes her head, slow and sad. “I can’t,” she whispers. “Not yet.”

You nod, even though it fucking aches. “Then I’ll wait.”

She blinks. “You will?”

“Yeah,” you say. “But I’m not promising I won’t make you fall for me first.”

Alexia exhales, long and quiet. She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “Too late,” she says, but before you can speak, she steps away, just far enough and says, “Take me back to my car.”

🚗

It starts to mess with you, the silence. Three days pass, then four. No sign of her. No bar run-ins. No surprise visits to your garage under the pretence of sunglasses or 'funny noises.'

You're not spiralling, you’ve got things to do, hands to get dirty, wrenches to throw. Still, she’s too fucking quiet. So you try to unhook her from your system the way you always do with someone else.

It’s Friday night, you’re in a booth at some back-alley spot in El Raval, fingers around a whiskey glass, flirting with a girl you don’t really care for, she's pretty, loud and into you. You’re not into her, you’re just bored.

She's laughing too much, her nails are perfect. She keeps touching your thigh like she’s already decided where the night’s going. You let it happen, because it's easier than thinking about why Alexia has dropped off the face of the earth.

But when the girl leans in and says something like, “You’ve got that heartbreaker vibe, I love it,” you look past her shoulder and think, what are you doing? You're just proving Alexia right.

You pull away, “Bathroom,” you lie once outside, the air is cold. Barcelona buzzes and you lean back against the wall like someone punched you in the gut.

You take a few minutes before you head back inside , you tell the girl it’s not happening tonight. You don’t give a reason, she rolls her eyes and walks away, and you let her, because you know exactly who you want and she’s not here.

🚗

Two nights later, you’re working late. Sweat down your spine, engine stripped bare. Music low. You haven’t checked your phone in hours.

You're underneath the frame when a shadow breaks the light. You roll out slowly, grease on your tank top, a socket wrench in your hand like a weapon. It’s not a customer. It’s her. Alexia. Hoodie. No makeup. Hair tied up. Her expression unreadable.

“Your garage’s open late,” she says.

You wipe your hands. Try not to look like you want to grab her and pin her to the nearest wall. “Didn’t know you were still in the city,” you say coolly.

“I never left?”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

She leans against the workbench, arms folded. Her eyes flick over your arms, your collarbone, the smudge on your cheek. Then she looks away.

“I saw you on a run the other day,” she says, you don’t say anything, she takes a breath. “I was going to shout you but.. I didn't.”

You nod. Then throw the wrench down harder than you mean to, “What is this?” you ask. “What are we doing, Alexia? I’ve had people walk away before but they usually don’t look me in the eye first and say too late before disappearing.”

Her gaze hardens. “You don’t get to be mad.”

You step closer. “I’m not mad. I’m…” You hesitate. “Confused. You’re hot and cold. You come in here like you want something, then vanish like I imagined it.”

“You didn’t.”

“Then stop pretending you're not curious.” She’s silent, you shake your head, stepping back. “You know what? Maybe I should’ve just taken that girl home Friday. At least she didn’t look at me like I’m a mistake waiting to happen.”

Alexia flinches, barely, but it’s there and for once, she doesn’t have a comeback. She just says, quietly “Maybe I’m not ready for someone like you.”

You fold your arms. “What’s someone like me?”

She looks at you then. Really looks. “Someone who knows exactly how to touch me… but doesn't know how to stay around after.”

It hits you in the gut because maybe she’s not wrong. You swallow the burn in your throat. “I’d stay,” you say. “If you asked.”

"I shouldn't have to ask" and she finally, finally takes a step forward, “You’d stay until you got bored.”

You don’t say no, you should, you know you should fight for a shot to prove her wrong but instead you ask, “Then why are you here?”

Alexia doesn’t answer with words, she just reaches out, takes your jaw in her hand, and kisses you. It’s not soft. It’s not slow. It’s weeks of tension and confusion and restraint exploding all at once.

You kiss her like you’ve been waiting, because you have and she kisses you like she’s terrified you’ll disappear mid-breath, but just as you go to pull her closer, just as your hand finds the skin under her hoodie she pulls away. Eyes wild. Chest rising. “I have to go.”

“Alexia—”

“Don’t.” And she’s gone, again.

🚗

You’re elbow-deep in the guts of a ‘92 Defender when your phone buzzes. You ignore it at first. Too many scam calls, too many exes, too many people trying to get a piece of you when they didn’t earn it, but something tells you to check.

You wipe your hands on your thigh and pick up the phone.

Alexia Putellas (1 missed call) 1 message

Car died. C-32, near Castelldefels. Can you help?

You don’t answer. You just grab your keys, flick the lights off behind you, and hit the road.

You spot her car like a sore thumb on the shoulder, hazards on, trunk slightly cracked, hazard triangle set up perfectly like she’s still trying to control the chaos.

She’s leaning against the car, arms folded, phone in hand. A brunette perched next to her on the metal guardrail, legs swinging like this is just another Thursday.

They both look up when you pull in behind them Alexia doesn’t smile she just nods.

You hop out of your truck, boots hitting the gravel. “Nice parking job.”

“Thanks,” she deadpans. “You took your time.”

You smirk. “You’re lucky I came at all.”

The brunette watches you both with raised eyebrows, like she’s already piecing things together Alexia hasn't even admitted to her yet.

You walk past them, pop the hood, and whistle low. “Radiator’s cooked and your battery’s working overtime trying to make up for it.”

Alexia joins you, peering over your shoulder. You pretend you don’t notice how close she’s standing. You definitely don’t notice the way her perfume cuts through motor oil and asphalt. “How long to fix it?” she asks.

“Depends. You in a rush to get back to training?”

The woman snorts behind her, Alexia doesn’t answer. Instead, she says, “Can you tow it or not?”

You grin. “Baby, I could tow you with my teeth.”

The woman mutters, “Jesus,” and walks off toward your truck, you glance at Alexia. She’s trying not to smile. “You two close?” you ask, nodding toward her friend.

“She’s my younger sister. That means she thinks she knows everything.”

You shoot her a look. “Sounds familiar.”

She bumps your shoulder light, almost nothing but it lingers in your blood longer than it should, you hook up the tow. Quick, clean. Routine. Except nothing about this feels routine.

Back in your truck, Alba climbs into the back seat and Alexia claims the passenger side like she owns it. You don’t say much at first. The road hums beneath you, windows cracked just enough to let in the night air.

Then Alexia says, “I didn’t want to call you.”

You glance at her. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I mean, I didn’t plan on it. It just... happened.”

“Emergency contacts dry up or something?”

“No.” She turns to you. “But I knew you’d come.”

You grip the wheel tighter than necessary. “That so?” She nods. It’s not flirty. It’s not soft. It’s just honest and it messes you up worse than it should. "It's my job, I have to" you mutter to try and save your ego.

You pull up to the shop, kill the engine, and step out.

“Keys,” you say, holding your hand out.

Alexia tosses them over without hesitation.

“Give me two days.”

“Take three.”

You blink at her. “You’re not staying to supervise like you did with your mother's car?”

She shrugs. “I trust you.”

You watch her walk toward a taxi where Alba’s waiting, her arms folded, clearly unimpressed with the night.

Alexia pauses before getting in, turns back toward you. “You’re not what I expected,” she says.

You tip your head. “You still pretending you don’t like that?”

She doesn’t answer, just gets in the car and shuts the door. You watch them drive off, the taillights shrinking into the night.

You should feel triumphant or smug, something you can wear easy, but all you feel is that same tight coil in your chest. Like she’s giving you just enough rope to hang yourself and you’re starting to want the noose.

🚗

The shop smells like cheap perfume and lemon Fanta, thanks to the can your nine year old little sister spilled two hours ago and didn’t clean up right.

Isabella is flopped on an old recliner you rescued from the curb, one sock on, a streak of engine grease on her cheek like war paint. She’s got a sketchpad open on her knees, legs swinging over the arm of the chair, completely absorbed in whatever superhero-princess-hybrid she’s drawing.

You’re halfway under Alexia’s car when the front door creaks.

You don’t even look up when you call out, “If you’re a delivery guy, leave it on the counter. If you’re a cop, I want a lawyer.”

But then Bella gasps sharp and high, you twist out from under the car, expecting a spider.

Instead, its, Alexia. In leggings, a loose hoodie, sunglasses on top of her head, holding a coffee in each hand. “Didn’t know you had company,” she says, spotting your sister.

Bella's frozen, absolutely still, mouth open, sketchpad forgotten.

You blink. Then grin. “Alexia,” you say casually, like she hasn’t haunted your thoughts every night this week. “This is Isabella my little sister.”

Bella's voice comes out small. “You’re Alexia Putellas.”

Alexia blinks, surprised, then smiles, slow and warm. “That’s me.”

Bella scrambles to sit up properly, brushing her hands on her pants, trying to look presentable while still covered in paint smudges and wearing a shirt that says why walk when you can cartwheel.

Alexia walks over and squats in front of you, holding out one of the coffees. “This is for you,” she says to you, then glances at Bella. “And I bought a chocolate croissant to. You want it?”

Bella nods like she’s just been knighted. You watch as Alexia sits on the edge of the workbench, talking to Bella like she’s known her for years. Not the 'I’m a famous athlete being nice to a kid' way, either. She sees her.

Bella tells her about the superhero she’s drawing. Alexia asks questions, real ones, and actually listens. She even gives Bella a tip for drawing better knees, apparently, Alexia used to sketch too.

You lean back against the tool cart, sipping your coffee, trying to pretend this isn’t melting something under your ribs. Then Bella blurts, “You’re my favourite player. I watched your goal against Wolfsburg last week like thirty times. You kicked it so hard.”

Alexia laughs, really laughs and ruffles Bella’s hair, you don’t know what to do with the look on Alexia’s face. It’s not her on-pitch intensity, not the cool girl front. It’s just… soft. Real.

Later, when Bella’s gone to clean her hands and find her secret glitter rock she hides behind the garage to show Alexia, you lean against the wall beside her. “She’s obsessed with you, you know.”

Alexia glances at you. “I figured.”

“She made me watch that goal too. Kept pausing it. ‘Look at her face, look at how fast she moves,’” you mimic in a teasing tone.

“She’s smart.”

“She’s nine and terrifying.”

Alexia smiles. “She loves you. I can tell.”

You shrug. “I guess I’m not all bad.”

“No,” she says quietly. “You’re not.”

Something passes between you again. It always does, but this time, there’s no fire or pushback. Just presence, like maybe, just maybe, the life you’ve built here, wrenches and rust and late nights with your sister when your parents are working late, isn’t something you have to keep separate from her.

Alexia looks out toward the back where you're looking, where Bella’s still talking to the rock like it understands.

“She’s the best part of me,” you say, not even meaning to, it slips out, real and unfiltered.

Alexia watches you like she’s seeing something new, “She likes cars too?”

You smile. “No. She likes superheroes, princesses', painting and hiding under my bed to scare me.”

That earns you a laugh. It’s small, but real. “She lives with you?”

“She lives with my parents,” you say, “but she comes to the shop after school when they work late sometimes end up staying at mine. Thinks I’m cool.”

“You are cool,” Alexia says, and it’s so simple, so soft, it disarms you.

You shrug it off, but the corner of your mouth betrays you. “She calls me every night,” you add. “Even if it’s just to tell me she saw a bug shaped like a turtle or that her teacher wears ugly shoes.”

Alexia smiles. “You love her.”

“More than I know how to say.”

Silence but not the bad kind. It’s warm in here all of a sudden, stretched between you like a thread that isn’t being pulled just held. She shifts slightly in her seat, her knee brushing yours but doesn’t move away. “You surprise me,” she says, eventually.

You glance at her. “Not sure if that’s good or bad.”

“It’s real,” she replies. “And I didn’t expect that.”

That hits because you know she’s been trying to figure you out since day one, like you’re a locked door she’s not sure is worth opening, “You think I’m just some cocky mechanic who fucks around and leaves before sunrise,” you say. “You’re not wrong.” She says nothing, just watches you. “But I don’t leave people I care about,” you finish, quieter now.

The words hang there. She doesn’t touch them. Doesn’t reach for them, but she hears you, you know she does and for now, that’s enough. She shifts again. “I should go.”

You nod. “I’ll call you when the car’s ready.”

Alexia opens the door, steps out, then pauses leaning down just slightly as you are going back under her car,

“Tell Bella I said bye.”

And then she’s gone again, but this time, it doesn’t sting because something’s shifting, she’s not running away. Not exactly. 🚗

You’ve stopped asking why she shows up. Sometimes it’s in the morning, two coffees in hand, like she’s clocking in with you. Sometimes it’s late, after training, when her hair’s still damp and she’s in a hoodie three sizes too big. Sometimes she doesn’t even talk. Just sits at the workbench while you grease your hands and curse at a carburetor like it insulted your mother.

She always leaves just before it gets too quiet and her coffee is finished, but today, she stays longer, long after Bella arrives from school.

You’re half-distracted by her legs curled up in the corner chair and the way Bella is perched beside her, sketchpad in lap, tongue poking from the corner of her mouth as she draws.

“Don’t look yet,” Bella says, scribbling faster.

“I’m not,” Alexia promises, smiling into her coffee.

You throw a wrench into the bin and try not to stare, Bella finally flips the pad around. “Tada!”

It’s... a portrait, of Alexia. Messy, wild hair. Huge eyes. Big legs, because Bella said "you have powerful calves like a puma.” A tiny football floats above her head like a halo.

You expect Alexia to laugh, maybe make a joke, she doesn’t, she takes the paper in both hands and looks at it like it’s made of glass “Can I keep it?” she asks softly.

Bella beams. “Yes, but you have to hang it up somewhere cool. No throwing it away when you’re old.”

“I promise,” Alexia says and for a second, you almost forget who she is. What she means to the world.

You wipe your hands and turn away. Play it cool. No one has to know your stomach’s doing flips over a damn crayon sketch.

The knock on the garage door comes sharp, three fast raps like someone’s been waiting too long. You look up just as it swings open. Alba. Pissed. Wearing heels and a fitted blazer like she’s just come from a courtroom or a funeral. You can see the exact moment her eyes clock the scene Alexia on the chair, barefoot, Bella beside her with ink on her hands.

“Seriously?” Alba snaps.

Alexia stands up too fast, folding the sketch like it’s contraband, “What?”

“It’s seven-thirty, Ale. We were supposed to leave half an hour ago. It’s Mami's birthday dinner.”

Alexia curses under her breath. “Shit.”

You watch her move, flustered and guilty, the way you’ve never seen her before. Bella looks up, confused. “Are you in trouble?”

“No, cariño,” Alexia says, kneeling briefly to kiss the top of her head. “I just forgot what time it was.”

That lands like a gut punch, because she never forgets the time. Not on the pitch. Not with media. Not with sponsors. Not with her family.

Just with you.

Alexia walks toward Alba, still barefoot, holding her shoes to her chest.

Alba glares at you. “I figured she was here,” she mutters, you just stare. “You're a bad influence”

That burns.

You don’t reply. You can’t reply, because Bella is right there, and because you’re not sure what you’d say that wouldn’t tear the air in half.

Alexia looks back once as she steps out the door. You don’t wave, but you don’t look away either and she knows what that means.

🚗

Three days. Not that you’re counting, but you know it’s been seventy-two hours since the last time she stood barefoot in your garage, cradling a coffee like it was sacred, laughing at something Bella said. Seventy-two hours since she looked at you like she didn’t know whether she wanted to kiss you or run from you.

She chose the latter.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That this is what you wanted no strings. Just a friend thing, a distraction with good legs and bad timing, but then Bella asks, on the third night, “Is Alexia mad at me?”

You pause mid-bite, fork in hand. “What?”

“She said she’d show me how to make that boat with paper. She never came back.”

You clear your throat. “She’s just busy, Bella.”

“She’s a footballer. You said footballers aren't that busy, it's not a real job” Nine years old, and already calling you out.

You don’t have an answer, "What do I know ay?"

Bella pokes at her food and mumbles, “I hope she didn’t throw away my drawing.”

You bite your tongue until it almost bleeds.

Day four.

You’re wiping down the shop when you hear a car pull up, not hers. Still, you look. Nothing. You curse yourself, then go back to pretending you don’t care.

Day five.

She shows up, late, quiet, hair tied back in a braid, hoodie pulled up to her throat like armour. You’re under a car again. You hear the door. Her footsteps. The hesitation.

“Hey,” she says.

You slide out and don’t look at her. Not right away. She looks tired, not physically, but like she’s been carrying something around and refusing to set it down. “Didn’t know if you’d show your face again,” you say, voice even.

She flinches at that. Just a little. “I’m sorry.”

You shrug. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does.”

You finally meet her eyes. “Then why’d you ghost me?”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Yeah, well. You did.”

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that cuts deeper than yelling, “I got scared,” she admits.

You blink. “Of what? A kid with glitter on her cheeks and a sister who makes engine grease look like war paint?”

Alexia exhales, frustrated. “Of how easy it felt. Like I’d been here a hundred times before. Like you and her and this,” she gestures to the walls, the mess, the smell of you in the air “were already, normal.”

That hits harder than you want it to, you try to deflect. “You’ve had worse addictions.”

But she doesn’t laugh. “I don’t do messy,” she says. “I don’t do... casual.”

You cross your arms. “Then why come back?”

Alexia doesn’t answer right away, then she pulls something from her hoodie pocket and hands it to you. You unfold it, it's slightly crumpled, but not torn. Corners worn like someone’s been folding and unfolding it over and over again, list of your tools, what you call them.

“I hung it up,” Alexia says. “Right over my locker, you don't have much patience when I don't know what you're talking about so I was... studying I guess”

You don’t say anything. You can’t because there’s a voice inside you screaming, don’t let this matter and another one, quieter, whispering, it already does.

She looks at you, unsure. Guard down for once, you stare at her long and hard. You fold the engine cheat sheet back up and hand it back to her, "Good because your damn car is going to be the death of me, it was meant to be a three day job not a fortnight" You don’t smile but she does and that’s enough.

For now. 🚗

You don’t call it anything. Not a relationship. Not dating. Not whatever weird half-step you’re both dancing between, but she’s here most days now.

She brings coffee that’s always too sweet for you but you drink it anyway and she brings new headphones for Bella after accidentally breaking her old pair during a very aggressive game of 'Who Can Run Faster Around the Shop Without Dying.'

She sits on your workbench like it’s made for her. She knows where the good socket wrenches are. She even started labeling drawers, badly, in her neat handwriting:

“Danger Stuff”

“Loud Shiny Tools”

“Definitely Not a Murder Weapon (I Hope)”

You haven’t fixed it, you let it stay, it makes you smile when no one's looking.

The first time she tries to help, it’s because you’re elbow-deep in her engine and muttering like the thing insulted your lineage.

She wanders over, peers in like she knows what she’s looking at, “You want help?” she asks, totally serious.

You snort. “You gonna bless it with your left foot?”

“Rude,” she says. “I’ve changed a tire before.”

“Oh wow, Queen of Barcelona knows how to get dirty.”

She raises a brow. “You’re dying to find out.”

You choke on your spit, she grins.

It becomes a thing. You let her hold the flashlight. Hand you tools. She’s awful at both. Passes you the wrong wrench every time. Keeps asking what 'torque specs' are.

You should be annoyed. You’re not.

There’s something nice about it. About explaining things. About the way she listens, focused, like learning this stupid, greasy stuff actually matters to her because you’re the one teaching it. Like it's opening your world up to her to understand you more.

Bella watches from the corner, making bets with herself about whether Alexia will break something.

You catch her watching once and she just grins, another time yu catch her, her mouth opens, “Are you two married now?” she asks, deadpan.

Alexia blushes so hard she nearly drops a spanner on your foot.

You fake a cough. “Go do your homework.”

Bella just shrugs. “You’re both weird.” and leaves.

Later, you’re sitting on the hood of a car, feet dangling.

She’s beside you, grease on her cheek, a streak of oil on her thigh. The sun’s gone down and the lights from inside the shop spill out just enough to make her look unreal.

She leans back on her hands. “I’m still bad at this.”

“Fixing cars?”

“Letting people in.”

You nod, eyes on the sky. “Yeah. Me too.”

“I keep thinking I’ll mess it up.”

You turn to look at her. “You will.”

She laughs. “Wow. So supportive.”

You smirk. “But I’ll probably mess it up first.”

Her smile softens and then, out of nowhere, she says, “You know, I like this version of you.”

You squint. “What version?”

“The one that doesn’t always have to be the biggest asshole in the room.”

You snort. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

Silence stretches again but it’s good silence, you don’t hold hands, you don’t kiss, but she bumps her knee against yours and doesn’t move it. 🚗

You didn’t even mean or want to be there. It was Bella’s idea Barcelona vs. Atlético, decent seats, popcorn too salty, her eyes wide with excitement the whole match.

You didn’t tell Alexia you were coming. She played well. Sharp. Ruthless. You didn’t cheer, but you watched. You always watch.

After the match, you hang back. Bella wants to see the players, see if maybe someone will wave. You stand near the barriers, feeling out of place in your own skin. You let Bella lean against the rail, beaming and clutching the crumpled roster sheet like it’s gold.

Then you hear her voice, Alexia, just a few steps down talking to a teammate as they work along the line of merch thrust at them to sign. You don’t mean to listen, but you do.

The tone is casual, relaxed, she doesn’t know you’re here. You hear the teammate ask, “So what’s up with the girl at the garage?”

And Alexia says it. Just like that. “The mechanic? No, she’s just fixing my car. She’s just a mechanic.”

Your stomach drops and that’s it. No she’s great, no she’s funny, no she’s someone I like being around. Nothing. Just. A. Mechanic.

You don’t wait for more, you pull Bella gently by the arm and say, “Let’s go.”

“But I wanted—”

“Now, Bella.” She doesn’t argue, something in your voice must’ve told her to not argue, the ride home is quiet.

You park in the garage and sit in the dark for a long time after dropping Bella home. The air smells like oil and metal and the faint perfume she always leaves behind.

Just a mechanic.

It loops in your head like a bad song and you know. You know what you are to her in public. What box she keeps you in. What story she tells when the world starts asking questions and maybe that shouldn’t hurt but it does. Because you showed her the soft parts, let her near Bella, let her in, even when you swore you wouldn’t and still, she made you small and insignificant.

She texts later.

A: Hey. You at the game today? I thought I saw you leaving?

You don’t reply, not yet, maybe not ever, because if she gets to think you don’t matter, then maybe you can learn to do the same.

🚗

You didn’t plan on going out, but when you’re sitting on the shop couch, staring at that text she sent again like she hadn’t just stripped you down to nothing in front of a teammate you snap.

You throw on something loose, dark, let your hair down like armour, put on your rings the girls seemed to want to die for, and head out.

The dive bar is warm and loud, filled with cheap perfume and worse decisions. You welcome it. She’s tall. Blonde. Big eyes, bigger chest. Laughs at your terrible jokes like you’re the best thing she’s seen in weeks. She doesn’t know your name yet. You don’t ask for hers. That’s the point. You’re just about to close the tab when the energy shifts. You feel it before you see it.

Then there she is. Alexia.

In joggers, fresh, flushed and glowing with that effortless look she always had. Flanked by two teammates one of them the same girl from the match, the one who laughed when you got reduced to just a mechanic.

Of course she sees you. Of course she stops.

You try to keep your eyes forward, fingers grazing the blonde’s lower back, guiding her toward the door like this is routine, because it was one you'd easily slipped back into, like Alexia doesn’t mean a goddamn thing and you were about to wash away all the progress you'd made with her thinking you weren't a 'fuck boy'.

“Hey,” she says, voice almost lost in the noise.

You don’t turn fully, just enough to meet her gaze, just enough to see the hurt sitting in her eyes. You don’t blink. “You’re car should be ready tomorrow night,” you say flatly.

That’s it. No hello. No smile. No warmth. Just business. Just a mechanic. You leave before she can say anything back, the blonde grabs your arm once you're outside. “Everything okay?”

You lie through your teeth. “Yeah.”

Later that night, after the blonde falls asleep in your bed, you lie awake staring at the ceiling.

The words echo again, you said it back tonight, she was just a customer, but the part that makes your chest ache the worst makes you want to scream into the walls, you didn’t mean it. 🚗

You weren’t at the garage when Alexia came to pick up her car. Your phone buzzed with a message from your brother.

'She asked if you took the day off.'

You didn’t reply, because you weren’t off. You were at her mother’s place, working on Alba’s car, engine humming, hands deep in grease and oil but your mind was miles away.

The afternoon sun was sliding toward evening when a familiar car rolled slowly into the driveway. Alexia’s car newly fixed, you stiffened without meaning to.

Her mother, Eli, glanced at you, eyes sharp. “You okay?” she asked softly.

You forced a nod, Alexia stood nearby, arms crossed, silent like she was waiting for the world to catch up.

You didn’t meet her eyes Eli’s gaze flicked between you two.

She smiled gently, trying to lighten the air. “Stay for dinner. We’re just about to eat.”

You shook your head politely. “No, thanks. I’m just the mechanic. No need for me to impose.”

The words came out sharper than you expected, you caught the flicker in Alexia’s eyes the slow, sinking realisation.

Her mother’s smile faltered, then softened.

You turned to Eli. “Tell Alba to stop by the garage whenever she’s free to settle up. No rush.”

Alexia’s lips pressed into a thin line, eyes darkening with hurt but saying nothing.

You slipped out, car door slammed behind you, you sat for a moment in your truck, phone buzzing silent in your hand.

The engine started and you drove, you checked your rearview and as her mother was retreating back into her home, she was watching you go. 🚗

You hear her before you see her, the slam of her car door, fast footsteps on the concrete outside the garage. She’s not here for her sister's bill, and you know it. Your gut clenches before you even look up Alexia walks in like a storm shoulders tense, jaw tight, fire in her eyes.

You barely glance up from under the hood of a Jeep, “Not taking dinner invitations today either?” you mutter.

She ignores the jab. “Why weren’t you here when I picked up the car?”

“Didn’t realise you’d miss me,” you say flatly.

“Don’t do that,” she snaps. “Don’t shut down.”

You step out from behind the hood, wiping your hands with a rag, already bracing. “Then what should I do, Alexia? Pretend I didn’t hear you call me ‘just the mechanic’ like I’m the fucking help?”

Her face shifts guilt, shame, something uglier too. “It wasn’t like that—”

“Oh it was exactly like that,” you cut in. “You looked your teammate in the face and reduced me to a job title. Not a person. Not someone who holds a meaningful space in your life. Just a mechanic.”

Her nostrils flare. “I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean it?” you repeat, voice rising. “Then what did you mean? Because from where I was standing, it looked a hell of a lot like you were embarrassed.”

She steps forward, furious now. “And you? You go and screw the first slutty blonde you find in a bar like that was going to fix it?”

You go still, the silence that falls is instant, thick, choking. “So that’s what this is?” you say, stepping in. “You get to say whatever the fuck you want about me, but when I stop sitting around waiting for you to admit I matter, I’m the villain?”

“She looked like a groupie,” Alexia spits. “Is that what you want? Someone who doesn’t give a damn who you are outside of a nice face and a good fuck?”

You flinch, then you laugh, but it’s empty. “Maybe it is,” you say. “At least she didn’t pretend I meant something and then treat me like a second rate person.”

That one lands. You see it. She looks away. Voice lower. “I didn’t mean for any of this to get this... messy.”

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “You can’t play both sides, Alexia. You don’t get to come into my life, judge me for how I choose to live my life, make assumptions on my character, and then back off the second it threatens your perfect little image.”

Her eyes snap to yours. “You think this is about my image?”

“I think you care more about what people think than what you should,” you say. “And I’m done being the one you hide in secret, you said I would get bored after I got what I wanted from you, that I don't know how to stay. But from where i'm stood Alexia, we're more similar than you'd care to admit, the only difference.. you haven't fucked me”

Silence. Her lip trembles. Just for a second. “I never wanted to hurt you,” she says finally.

You nod, cold. “Well, you did.” And you walk away into a part of the garage she's not allowed in. 🚗

The rain has uncharacteristically been coming down for hours, windscreen wipers working overtime, Bella's humming softly in the passenger seat, kicking her feet to the beat of whatever pop song’s leaking from your speakers she insists she has control over.

You’re about ten minutes from your parents’ place when your headlights catch it, a car, pulled onto the shoulder, hazards blinking weakly. Alexia’s car.

You pull over without thinking. Bella blinks at you, confused. “What’s wrong?”

“Stay here,” you mutter, already throwing your hood up against the rain.

You jog toward the car, rain soaking through your hoodie instantly, as you approach, you see her Alexia behind the wheel. Her mother, Eli, and Alba in the passenger seats. She sees you, doesn’t roll the window down right away.

Eventually, it hisses open an inch. “Are you okay?” you ask through the downpour.

Alexia doesn’t even look at you. “You didn’t fix my car properly.”

There’s that tone again sharp, distant, angry, you swallow it. “Have you called for recovery?”

Eli leans over. “None of us can get service.”

You glance at the shoulder, at the way trucks blast by feet away, making the car rock each time. “Look, you can’t stay in the car it’s dangerous, especially in this weather. Come get in mine, I’ll take you home. I’ll come tow this tomorrow.”

“No,” Alexia says, arms crossed. “I’ve turned my phone off and on. I’ll get service in a minute.”

You breathe in, hold it, try not to snap. “Are you really being stubborn right now?” Your voice rises, taut with frustration. “Do you realise how dangerous it is sitting here?”

She doesn’t move. “Well maybe I wouldn’t be if your busy hands had been working on my car a bit better.”

Your jaw tightens, you step back, rain drips down your face. “Will you just come and get in my car?”

“No.”

You snap. “Alexia, don’t be so fucking stupid. I’ve got my little sister in my car, I can’t stand here playing stupid fucking games in the middle of a highway in a goddamn storm."

She looks at you, face hard, but there’s a flicker in her eyes something that breaks through the heat.

You shake your head, turning away. “I’m getting soaked. Suit yourself but I wouldn’t bother ringing our emergency number my recovery truck’s already on a job fifty miles away. Hope you find help soon.”

You turn and walk back to your personal truck, shoulders braced against the cold. When you open the door, Bella's eyes are wide as she clutches her seatbelt tight.

“This is scary,” she says eyes wide, "I don't like it."

You sigh, heart squeezing. “I’m sorry, we're going now, you're ok." You’re climbing in when you hear it, feet splashing through puddles.

“Wait!”

It’s Alba. She’s rushing with Eli down the road, arms over their heads. Alexia trails behind, slower, her hood up, rain darkening her sweatshirt.

They reach your truck, and you open the door without a word.

Eli and Alba squeeze into the back beside Bella, who gives them a nervous wave. You shift things around automatically, helping without looking directly at Alexia as she climbs into the passenger seat as you clear your diary and shit off the seat.

She’s shivering. So are you, you silently flick on the heated seats, turn the heat up.

Alexia says nothing, Eli touches your shoulder gently. “You’re soaked through, cariño.”

You wave it off, eyes forward, hands tight on the wheel. “It’s fine.”

You pull back into traffic, wipers beating back the storm, silence thick in the cab, no one speaks, but everyone feels it. "Awkward" Bella sings under her breath only you smile.

The drive is silent now, rain still taps against the roof, slower now, gentler but the tension inside the cab is anything but.

Your hands are firm on the wheel, knuckles pale. You don’t look at Alexia. She doesn’t look at you, at your parents’ place, you pull in just long enough for Bella to unbuckle.

You turn in your seat to the back and lean toward her, voice softening for the first time all night. “C’mere, gimme a kiss.”

She beams, you do your little handshake, quick taps, a snap, a pinky promise and she hugs you tight around the neck. Your entire body exhales without meaning to.

You watch her run to the front door, backpack bouncing. Your parents open it just as she gets there. You flash your lights once in acknowledgment when they're waving then you pull back out.

Alba pipes up. “I’ll direct you, just turn left at the lights.” but you don’t need the help, you know where Eli lives, you’ve been there too many times with her car and Alba's cars.

Alexia’s quiet in the seat beside you, arms crossed, body still damp.

At Eli’s, you don’t pull into the drive you stop in the street, “Thanks,” Eli says quietly, giving your shoulder a squeeze again. “For helping and for putting up with the stubbornness.”

She gives Alexia a meaningful look Alexia pretends not to see it, Alba climbs out next, shooting a cautious glance between you two before closing the door behind her.

You’re alone, still raining Alexia stays frozen in the passenger seat, watching the raindrops race down the window.

You glance at her. “You going or?” you ask, not looking at her directly.

She doesn’t move. “It’s pouring.”

“Yeah,” you say dryly. “That’s why it’s called rain.”

Eli calls from outside. “Alexia?”

Alexia huffs, putting her window down a touch, arms crossed tighter. “I’m not getting out in this. I’ll wait.”

Eli raises a brow. “You’ll wait?”

Alexia shrugs. “I’ll call a cab.”

“You’ve got no service,” you say, staring out the windshield.

“I’ll get some in a minute.”

You rub your jaw, trying not to lose it. “It’s getting late, I'm tired and you’re being ridiculous, can you not just wait in your mother's?”

You watch her mum and sister head into the house and you still wait for her, minutes pass and still Alexia doesn’t move.

Eventually, you put the car back in drive. "You're fucking annoying" you mutter she doesn’t say anything as you drive off and take the turn that leads back to your place and not in the direction only she knows she lives.

When you pull up in front of your building, you throw the truck in park and glance at her.

“You can sit here and wait for your phone to get service in a storm or you can come up just stay I doubt you'll get a taxi in this, it's your choice. I'm not playing your games” you say, opening your door.

You don’t get an answer right away, you sigh get out and shut the door, as you head through the parking garage you hear a car door shut behind you louder than necessary, you lock your car on the fob as you walk as you know she's following you without a word.

Inside your apartment, she hovers near the doorway like it might bite her arms crossed, wet hair clinging to her cheek. Her eyes scan the room but don’t settle anywhere.

She’s never been in your space before, you can tell it throws her too many pieces of you that don’t match the rough exterior she thought she knew.

The clean kitchen, the small stack of fantasy novels on the counter, the art on the wall, one clearly drawn by a child.

“Sit down if you want,” you mutter, not really looking at her as you toe off your boots near the door.

She doesn’t move.

You don’t think twice just start stripping off your soaked hoodie, then your shirt, your skin goosebumps instantly, wet fabric peeled off muscles and a scar.

You're halfway across the room, grabbing a dry tee off the clothes horse set up by the dining table, when you realise she hasn't moved.

You glance over, catch her staring, her eyes drag upward slow, her face tightens when she sees you looking.

You pull the tee over your head without comment, towel off your hair with the one you grabbed also.

“Do you want dry clothes or you planning on standing there dripping on my floor all night?” you ask finally, walking past her toward the bedroom.

She clears her throat, snapping out of it. “Yeah. I mean yeah, that’d be good.”

You toss her a soft old Barça hoodie, it felt apt, you definitely didn’t steal from your brother, and a pair of sweats that might be too big.

She disappears into the bathroom. When she comes back, she looks... smaller. The hoodie swamps her. Her damp hair is tied up, messily. She doesn’t meet your eyes.

You toss a blanket on the couch, “I’ll take the couch. You can take the bed. Don’t touch anything on the nightstand, there’s like, tools and shit.”

You see the flicker of amusement behind her awkwardness. “You sleep with tools on your nightstand?”

You shrug. “Don’t judge me, princess.”

She doesn’t, but when she turns down the hallway, she says over her shoulder “This place is nice.”

You don’t answer.

You just stand in your own living room, suddenly too aware of her smell lingering in the air. Of the wet towel on the back of a chair. Of the sound of your own breathing.

It’s quiet. Not peaceful. Just full.

🚗

You sit on the couch under an old fleece blanket, knees pulled up, one arm resting lazily along the back. The TV glows in front of you, the volume barely above a whisper. Some documentary you’re not actually watching plays on screen all low-voiced narration and muted cityscapes.

You keep the sound low, you don’t want to wake her, but about forty-five minutes in, just when you’re debating turning the whole thing off and giving in to your own restless head, you hear the soft creak of the bedroom door.

She appears barefoot, in your hoodie and sweats, eyes bleary “Couldn’t sleep,” she mutters.

You turn your head. “Yeah?”

“The hammer and drill on the nightstand were… a bit unnerving.”

That pulls a reluctant laugh out of you. “Yeah, well. Maybe they bring me comfort or some shit.” She gives you a look, but it’s not harsh. “I heard you were up,” you say after a second, nodding toward the hallway. “Your steps are loud as hell.”

She rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitches, you lift the edge of the blanket a silent offer. She hesitates but she comes over without another word and sits beside you, legs folding under her as she pulls the blanket over her lap. Her shoulder brushes yours. Warm. Familiar. Too close and not close enough.

You don’t say anything. Neither does she.

The documentary drones on, forgotten. Something about Paris or maybe traffic congestion. It doesn’t matter.

She shifts after a while, curling a little toward your side, not quite touching you, but near enough that you feel the pull of it.

“Your sister’s drawing of me’s on the fridge,” she says quietly, like she just noticed.

You glance over. “Yeah. She was proud of it.”

“She gave me eyelashes for days.”

“She’s nine. She thinks everyone pretty gets extra lashes.”

That gets a breath of amusement from her. Then a pause, “She really likes me?”

“Yeah,” you say. “She doesn’t like many people. Not even our cousin. She says he talks like a cartoon villain.”

Alexia lets out a soft laugh the kind that sounds like it caught her off guard. Then she goes quiet again but after a while “I’m sorry.”

You look at her, waiting. She doesn’t turn to you, just keeps her eyes on the TV.

“For what I said. About you. The bar. The girl.” Her jaw shifts. “It wasn’t fair. And I knew it.”

You sit with it. Then shrug. “You were pissed. You’re allowed.”

“I meant it, though,” she says. Then, quieter, “That was the problem.”

You don’t answer, because if you do, you might ask her what exactly she meant and you’re not sure you want to hear it.

Instead, you shift slightly. Let your knee press against hers and leave it there.

You don’t know how long you sit like that knees brushing, blanket pulled over both your legs, TV flickering something neither of you are really watching anymore.

The silence should be awkward after everything but it’s not. It’s thick, sure. Full of the kind of tension that wants to be touched, turned over, looked at in the light but it’s not awkward.

Until she shifts beside you. “I didn’t mean it,” she says again. “What I said. At the match.”

You glance at her. She’s staring ahead like the words are costing her something. “The ‘just a mechanic’ part?” you ask, voice dry.

She winces, just barely. “Yeah.”

You nod, eyes drifting back to the TV. “Seemed like you meant it.”

“I didn’t,” she snaps too quick, too sharp, then she exhales, frustrated. “I was… jealous.” You blink. She’s chewing the inside of her cheek now avoiding your gaze. “One of my teammates kept asking about you. Said you were hot. Wanted your number. I don’t know.” She waves a hand like she’s swatting the memory away. “It pissed me off. And I—I didn’t want them thinking I... I didn't want them thinking I knew you well enough to set you up, so I just downplayed it. So I didn't have.. to”

You raise a brow. “By acting like I was the tyre-fitter who realigned your third gear?”

“I panicked,” she mutters.

"What were they asking?"

“If you were single,” she says, almost bitter. “If you were seeing anyone. If you were... into footballers.”

You let out a short breath. “And you got pissed because…”

“Because she’s twenty-five, stupidly hot, good at flirting, and I knew you’d like the attention.”

Your brows raise, a grin tugging at the corner of your mouth despite yourself. “So I’m not allowed to enjoy being fancied now?”

“Not when it’s by someone I see in the locker room four days a week.”

You turn your body more toward her, one elbow draped along the couch back, the other hand under the blanket near your thigh. “Which teammate?”

Alexia groans. “Does it matter?”

“Kind of.”

She sighs. “Jana.”

You let out a low whistle. “The defender?”

She gives you a look. “See? You know who I mean.”

You laugh. “Not every day a famous, cute footballer wants to date me. Forgive me for feeling kind of smug.”

She turns her head sharply, eyes locking on yours, but something changes in her face. The fight goes out of her just a little. “Yeah,” she says after a beat, softer. “I guess so.”

The room is darker now. The TV’s off, and the only light comes from the faint glow of the streetlamp outside filtering through the blinds. You barely notice.

Alexia’s head is resting lightly against your shoulder, her breath slow and steady. You can feel the warmth of her body against you, the rise and fall of her chest as she settles into sleep.

You’d thought the night would be heavier loud with words you weren’t ready to say but now, all that pressure seems to have folded in on itself, leaving just this.

You don’t move, not even when your arm starts to go numb beneath her, not when the blanket shifts and slips a little. It’s the kind of quiet that speaks louder than anything you could say.

Her hair brushes against your neck. The soft scent of rain and something faintly sweet, maybe shampoo or soap. You wonder how many nights she’s spent feeling like she had to be tough, like she couldn’t let anyone in and here she is. So close you can count the freckles along her jawline.

You close your eyes for a moment, letting yourself feel it this strange mix of peace and something like hope.

🚗

Sunlight filters through the blinds, slanting gold across the kitchen tiles. The smell of coffee hangs faintly in the air.

You’re already dressed for work faded jeans, a plain tee, sitting at the small kitchen table with a bowl of cereal in your hands.

Your eyes flick up every now and then, watching her sleep, Alexia is curled up on the couch, hair messy and damp from the night before. You hear her take a sharp intake of breath as she wakes, she stills for a moment before looking around then, over her shoulder in your direction.

You raise a spoonful of cereal and grin, “Want some?”

She blinks, the slow realisation hitting. “What time is it?”

“Almost eight.”

Her eyes snap open, and panic flashes across her face. “Shit. I’m going to be late for training.”

You laugh quietly, a little teasing, a little warm. “Chill. I’ll drop you.” She blinks at you, clearly surprised. “And don’t worry about your car, I’ll sort it out it's already back at the garage. I’ll just let you know later what’s going on.”

She nods, still looking a bit flustered, but there’s a spark of something softer behind the rush. “You’re unbelievable,” she mutters, half smiling.

You shrug, trying to play it cool, but inside it’s like your chest just got lighter. “Yeah, yeah. Tell me something everyone doesn't say”

She leans back, watching you eat your cereal like this is totally normal and for now, maybe it is.

🚗

The drive to Barcelona’s training ground feels longer than it should, and completely out of your way, the sky’s still soft with morning light, but there’s a weight in the car that neither of you breaks.

You keep your eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel she sits beside you, quiet, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the windshield.

The radio hums softly, but neither of you turns it up, the tension simmers unspoken things, half-formed feelings swirling between you like the mist on the glass.

Finally, you pull up near the entrance to the training grounds Alexia turns toward you, eyes meeting yours for a brief moment. “Thanks,” she says quietly.

You nod, voice low, a little rough around the edges. “Welcome. Have a good day.”

She offers the faintest of smiles, then opens the door and steps out you watch her walk away confident, strong, but maybe just a little softer than before.

You start the engine and pull back onto the road, the silence inside the car now almost peaceful. 🚗

The garage is quiet when they walk in.

You’re under the hood of a Peugeot, grease across your knuckles and a wrench resting on the workbench beside you. The sharp click of the front door bell pulls your head up.

Alexia with her mother and Alba trailing behind, all three of them dressed in the casual comfort Alba's got something heavy in her hands a crate of Estrella.

You raise an eyebrow, already suspicious. “We brought you this,” Eli says, setting the crate down with a proud smile. “For everything.”

You wipe your hands on a rag and step around the car. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Alba grins. “Well, we did. So just say thank you and drink it.”

You chuckle. “Thank you. Very much.”

Alexia stays near the door, quiet for a second before she steps further into the space. Her eyes flick to the car parked just outside the open garage bay. “Did you manage to fix it?”

You nod, already reaching for the keys. “Yeah. All sorted.” As you hand them to her, you add casually, “Filled your petrol tank up,”

She stares at you, blinking. “Wait, what?”

You lean against the workbench, smirking. “When the little petrol pump light comes on, it means you have to fill it up. The fuel’s actually a pretty important part of the whole engine system. Helps it... you know-go.” you shove your head forward for dramatic affect

She shoves it away with a scoff, but there’s laughter in it. “Dickhead.”

“No need to be embarrassed,” you say, lifting your hands in mock surrender. “You’d be surprised how many people do it.”

“I'm not embarrassed,” she lies, even as her cheeks flush pink. "And I'm not that stupid"

You catch her mother glancing between you both, her eyes knowing, you ignore it. “Anyway,” you say, stepping back toward the bench, “next time you’re stranded on the roadside, I might not be so quick to play chauffeur, given the attitude”

“You love it,” Alexia mutters under her breath, loud enough for you to hear.

You don’t deny it, but you don’t confirm it either. 🚗

Later that evening, the garage is quiet finally. You’re closing up, dragging the shutter halfway down when you hear the sound of footsteps on gravel, you already know it’s her before you look.

Alexia stands just outside the garage, hoodie on, hair damp like she showered quickly after training, hands in her pockets, like she wasn’t sure if she should come.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again today,” you say, letting the shutter go and walking toward her.

She shrugs, toeing the ground with the side of her shoe. “Left something in the car.”

“You mean the car that’s parked safely right behind you? That you drove here in?”

She gives you a dry look. “Yeah. That one.”

"I have an unclaimed pair of sunglasses, maybe they're yours?"

She shrugged, "Maybe"

You open the door behind you without a word, stepping aside. She follows you in, and something about the silence makes your skin itch not uncomfortable, just... expectant.

You grab the sunglasses from behind your workbench and toss them to her. She catches them easily. “I really did mean to fill it up,” she says, like she’s been waiting to admit it. “I just forgot.”

You smirk. “I figured, but the sarcasm was too easy.”

Alexia grins, stepping a little closer. “You’re smug.”

“You like it.” You mean it as a joke, but the second it leaves your mouth, the space between you shifts her eyes flick up to yours and stay there.

You feel it, the weight of the silence, the rise of something heavy and electric in your chest. You clear your throat, turning to grab a rag even though your hands are already clean, it had become a comfort blanket of sorts whenever she was in the garage lately.

She speaks again, voice low. “Do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Fill up someone’s car. Check on their mother. Give them rides. Fix everything, even when they don’t ask.”

You turn back to her slowly. “No. Just yours.”

It’s quiet again, this time, she doesn’t look away. “I didn’t know what to do with you,” she says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

“Back then, when I came to check on mami's car. When you looked at me like you already knew who I was, but didn’t care.”

You lean against the bench again, arms crossed now, trying to stay neutral even though your heart’s beating fast. “And now?”

“I still don’t know what to do with you.” You stare at her for a second, then smirk, just a little. "Don't ruin the moment with something like, I wish you'd do me"

You laughed at her mocking voice, before shaking your head, "I wasn't.. I was going to say you could start by saying thank you.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Thank you.”

“And maybe stop calling people 'slutty blondes’ when you’re jealous.”

Her mouth falls open slightly. “I wasn’t—”

You tilt your head, she shuts up and then, you step forward, close, but not touching. She looks up at you like she’s trying not to lean in. You can feel the heat radiating between you but you don’t move. Not yet. “Night, Alexia,” you say softly.

She blinks, then nods once. “Night.” And turns to leave, breath catching just a little as she walks out.

You wait until the shutter’s down, the lights are off, and the street’s quiet before you let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding.

🚗

The next few days are a rhythm, your usual grind at the garage. Her texts, a little more frequent now. Not flirty, exactly. Not obvious but still there.

How long does an oil change take? Why do I keep hearing a clicking noise when I reverse? Be honest. Did you touch my seat settings?

You answer every one. Sometimes with sarcasm. Sometimes with patience. Always with a smile you try to hide.

Late one evening, after closing up, you’re wiping your hands clean when headlights flash through the window.

You already know who it is.

Alexia parks terribly, crooked and too close to your truck, but you say nothing when she steps out holding two takeaway coffees.

She lifts the cups in a small peace offering. “Figured you wouldn’t have eaten.”

You eye her. “I don’t usually eat my coffee.”

She rolls her eyes and pushes one into your hand. “It’s a peace offering, Mechanic.”

You nod, amused. “We fighting?”

She shrugs. “Not today.”

You both sit on the bench outside the garage, backs against the cool metal shutter. The coffee is warm, the air cooler now that the sun’s dropped behind the rooftops. “Training?” you ask.

She nods. “Double session. My legs hate me.”

You gesture to her cup. “You want me to spike that with WD-40?”

She huffs a laugh. “If I didn’t think you’d actually try, I might say yes.”

There’s a pause. One of those heavy, quiet ones you’re both too used to now. You don’t look at her, but you feel it when her leg shifts just slightly, the denim of her jeans brushing yours.

Not on purpose. Not quite.

“I told my mami you'd got her part in for the car"

“And?”

“She asked why I keep showing up here.”

You lift your coffee. “Told her it’s my killer whit?”

She laughs again, more genuinely this time. “She said… maybe you’re the kind of girl who knows how to take care of people. Even if you pretend not to.”

You go quiet at that not because you don’t have a response, but because you’re not used to hearing things like that.

Especially not from someone like Alexia. She doesn’t fill the silence. Doesn’t explain or deflect.

You glance sideways. She’s looking straight ahead. Jaw tense. Lips parted just slightly, you clear your throat. “You know your seat’s still too far from the wheel, right?”

Her had snaps toward you, a groan already forming. “You did touch it!”

You grin into your cup. “Gotta keep the streak alive.”

She kicks your boot, and you catch her laughing again, another night, another almost but she’s still here.

🚗

It’s nearly 9PM when your phone buzzes. You’re halfway through a plate of reheated pasta, legs kicked up on the coffee table, a mindless documentary on TV.

Alexia: Hey… sorry. Are you busy? My car’s making a weird noise.

You stare at the message for a second.

You: What kind of noise?

Alexia: Like… a clicking? Or maybe a tapping? Or maybe it’s just… different.

You smirk.

You: Is this your version of a booty call? Because you’re gonna have to get more specific.

Three little dots appear. Then disappear. Then return again.

Alexia: I hate you.

You: I’m grabbing my keys what's your address?

Twenty minutes later, you’re in your car outside her home security gates, she buzzes you in without a word.

When she opens the door, she’s in a hoodie that definitely doesn’t belong to her baggy, old, familiar. Yours. You left it in her car two weeks ago.

She doesn’t mention it. Neither do you. “Where’s the patient?” you ask.

Alexia points to the left. “Just there. Thought I heard something earlier.”

You follow her gaze, her car sits perfectly fine under the car port, nothing leaking, nothing sagging, and probably nothing clicking.

You glance back at her. “Uh huh.”

“What?”

“Just wondering how long you rehearsed this ‘weird noise’ story.”

She crosses her arms, defensive but trying not to smile. “I thought I heard something.”

You squint at her. “You wanted me to come over.”

“Shut up.”

“Could’ve just said so.”

“I hate you.”

“Sure you do.” You toe your boots off and step inside fully, she already has two beers on the counter. Opened. You raise an eyebrow. “Wow. That’s so weird. This beer… it’s making a clicking noise.”

She groans, but she’s laughing now, leaning against the kitchen island. “I’ll punch you.”

You take a long sip, eyeing her over the bottle. “No you won’t.”

She shakes her head, pushing off the counter. “Come sit.”

You follow her to the couch, where she tucks her legs up, like this is routine, like it’s always been this easy and it is, somehow.

You watch whatever she puts on without really watching, both of you half-focused, shoulders brushing when one shifts, knees close enough to warm each other through the cotton.

Eventually, she glances sideways. Her voice soft, casual. “Do you think it’s weird?”

“What?”

“This. Us.”

You take a beat. “No.”

She nods, slow. “Me neither.” Another moment, another almost, but neither of you pulls away or pushes forward.

🚗

The bar is loud. Some throwback indie track blaring overhead, neon lighting catching in your half-drunk whiskey glass. You’re leaned against the bar, half-listening to your mate spinning a story about her train-wreck date last week, when she excuses herself for the bathroom.

You stay there, swirling your drink, phone in one hand, scanning the room lazily.

You don’t notice the group until she’s coming back and even then, you don’t notice her not until your friend sits back down, looking like she just witnessed a murder.

“What?” you ask, raising a brow.

She doesn’t answer right away, just grabs her drink and downs half of it. Then, her eyes snap to yours. “I’m going to ask you something, and I need you to be straight with me.”

You frown. “Okay…”

She leans in. “I just overheard Alexia Putellas talking to her friends… she was talking about someone they called the mechanic.” Her eyes narrow. “Is that you?” You blink. Once, and the way your body reacts before your mouth can say anything, the way your head jerks up, the stillness that passes over your face, tells her everything she needs “Fuck off,” she breathes. “You’ve just answered my question.”

You drag a hand over your mouth. “What exactly did you hear?”

“She said,” She leans forward, voice lower now, urgent. “She said, ‘She would’ve made a move by now if she wanted me like that.’ Then her friend asked her why she was so sure and Alexia said, and I quote, ‘Because she isn’t exactly shy. She’s a girl who goes for what she wants, and doesn't give a fuck who cares.’” You press your lips together, your face unreadable. “She’s talking about you,” your friend says, more certain now, leaning closer. “Isn’t she?”

You exhale slowly, eyes flicking past her toward the other end of the bar. There they are. Alexia, Mapi, Patri, Ingrid, all laughing. She hasn’t seen you yet, she’s sipping a mojito and pretending she’s fine, but you know that look.

“Holy shit,” your friend mutters. “You like her.”

You don’t deny it.

“You’ve been pretending this whole time, telling us she’s just someone you’re helping with her car and meanwhile, you’re out here catching feelings.”

You finally meet her eyes. “Yeah,” you admit quietly. “Yeah, I think I am.”

She stares at you. “And she thinks you don’t want her because you haven’t made a move?”

You nod once. "Apparently so"

Your friend snorts. “You’re both fucking idiots.”

You glance back toward Alexia, she’s still laughing but there’s something in her eyes. Distant. Worn.

“She’s torturing herself,” your friend adds, echoing something you hadn’t heard. “One of them said that.” Your hand tightens on your glass. “You gonna let her keep thinking that?” she presses.

You glance at your friend, then back at the woman across the room and for the first time in a long time, you’re not sure if you should go over to a woman, because maybe you're afraid she won't believe you, or you want to make sure when you do, there’s no going back.

Your mami and her friend soon turn up, better late than never, your friend who is your mami's best friends daughter shows them to the bathroom so you're left alone again

You’re leaning against the bar, waiting for your drinks order, when you sense her before you see her that lingering stare, the weight of it tugging your attention sideways.

Jana Fernández. Barcelona defender. And very clearly clocking you.

You turn toward her with a half-smirk. “Hello.”

She tilts her head, arms casually folded. “You know who I am?”

You take a beat. “I know of you.”

Jana shifts her stance, glancing over your shoulder like she’s checking the coast. “You alone?”

You shake your head, keeping your expression unreadable. “No. I’m here with my mami, her best friend, and her daughter. They’ve gone to the bathroom.”

Jana blinks. You watch the gears turn slowly, she nods, eyes flicking briefly toward her table. “I was going to say… you should join us.”

You blink once. “Us?”

She gestures behind her with her thumb. “Yeah. Alexia and the girls. We’re sat in the back.”

You raise an eyebrow, taking your drink off the bar and lifting it casually. “Well. If I get bored of the quilting club tales, I’ll be sure to find you.”

That earns a surprised laugh out of her. Not mocking impressed, she watches you for another second, then just says, “We're just over by the dance floor, if you want to.. come say hello maybe”

You glance past her, to the back of the bar, where you can just make out Alexia in profile. Not looking at you. Not drinking much either.

“Ok,” you murmur, “maybe.”

You turn, drink in hand, and head back to your table before Jana can say anything else, but her eyes stay on your back the whole way and you're already bracing for what the next round of games will look like, because you’ve just been invited into the lion’s den.

And this time… You might be ready to walk in.

You watch Jana walk back to the table, already knowing she’ll say something. You don’t wait to see if Alexia looks, you just move.

Drink in hand, you cut across the bar like you own the damn place, ignoring the buzz of music, the chatter, the glances. When you get close enough, it’s Alexia who sees you first. She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t wait. Her hand reaches out and touches your arm. Light. Barely there.

“Sit with me,” she says quietly. Not a command, not a plea. Just something simple. Soft and that’s all it takes.

You sink down next to her, close the kind of close that says there’s no pretending this isn’t something anymore.

It’s loud, but it’s like you’re both in a bubble, the others talk, joke, drink, but all you can hear is her. Her shoulder brushes yours as she leans in. “You're here,” she says, eyes scanning your face.

“Jana invited me,” you smirk. “And I figured the quilting stories could only keep me entertained for so long.”

She laughs, low, genuine but doesn't question what you mean, but then her expression shifts, her eyes narrow slightly, focusing on something. She lifts her hand slowly and gently tilts your chin. “What’s that?”

You blink. “What’s what?”

She brushes her thumb under your eye it stings faintly when she does. “That,” she says. “You’ve got a bruise.”

“Oh. That.” You shrug like it’s nothing. “Piece of exhaust slipped from the chain. Caught me good.”

Her brow creases. “You didn’t tell me.”

You raise a brow. “Didn’t know I had to report injuries to my client.”

Alexia doesn’t laugh. She just keeps looking and maybe it’s the lighting, or the proximity, but there’s something in her eyes that hits you different tonight. Less guarded. More raw. “You should be more careful,” she says softly.

You watch her. “You always worry about your mechanic like this?”

Her lips twitch. ��Just the reckless ones.”

You clink your drink against hers without looking away. “Guess I’m special, then.”

Alexia smiles the real one, that rare, radiant one that turns her eyes gold and for a moment, even though the whole world is humming around you… It’s just you two. That soft golden look in her eyes doing things to your chest you’re too stubborn to name, when a voice cuts through the moment,

“There you are,” she says, thick with warmth and mischief, you don’t have to look to know who it is, but you do anyway.

Your mother’s standing there, hands on hips, eyes scanning the table with a grin so wide it should come with warning signs. She’s already clocked everyone especially the way Alexia’s arm is still touching yours. “I told Theresa,” she continues, loud enough for Alexia’s entire table to hear, “when I found you, you’d be surrounded by beautiful women.”

Alexia presses her lips together clearly trying not to laugh. You don’t move much. Just flick your eyes up to her with a flat look. “Did you need something, mother?”

She waves a hand, already over it. “Just letting you know the drinks arrived and that Camila is not interested in that lad with the mullet, no matter how many times he tries to teach her how to play pool.”

You nod once. “Good to know.”

“Enjoy yourself, mi amor,” she says, already turning. “But don’t be rude. Introduce your friends next time.”

Then she’s gone, back across the bar to her table, like she didn’t just cause a small earthquake. You sigh and shake your head, lifting your glass again.

“Theresa?” Alexia asks, amused.

“Family friend,” you mutter. “Runs a bakery. Always says I’m ‘a good girl who needs more pastry in her life it's not normal to have abs.’”

Alexia chuckles. “She sounds wise.”

You turn to her. “You laughing at me or with me?”

“Neither,” she says, eyes soft again. “I’m just glad I came out tonight.”

You watch her for a long second, then let your shoulder brush hers with a bump, “So am I.” her knee lightly bumps yours under the table now and then, both of you sipping your drinks, basking in the lull after your mother’s interruption.

That is, until you clock movement from the side of the room.

It’s Theresa’s daughter and your friend Camila young, sweet, carefully carrying your drink across the bar toward you.

Right behind her, the mullet.

He’s cocky. Grinning like he’s already won something. Gesturing like he's telling her the funniest story in the world. She’s smiling, but it’s brittle. The second she catches your eyes, she mouths silently

"Help me."

You exhale through your nose and shift your weight.

Alexia straightens, noticing. “Everything okay?” she murmurs, barely audible under the music.

“Give me two seconds,” you mutter.

You rise from your seat just as Camila reaches your side. You take your drink with a small, quiet thank you, and then you pivot to the guy beside her.

He opens his mouth to say something, but you beat him to it. “Hey, man,” you say, voice level but cold. “Why don’t you head back to your friends?”

He pauses. “I was just—”

“Yeah. I saw,” you interrupt, stepping slightly forward, closing the space. “She’s not interested. You’ve had your shot. Time to walk away.”

His eyes flick between you and Camila, who’s now tucked safely just behind your shoulder. Then he laughs, holds his hands up, and backs away. “Alright, alright. Jesus. Didn’t realise I was stepping on your toes.”

“You weren’t,” you say. “But you’re stepping on hers.”

That shuts him up. He finally turns and walks off, muttering something under his breath that doesn’t matter at all.

You turn back to your oldest friend and tilt your head. “You good?”

She nods, smiling gratefully. “I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” you say. “But maybe don’t follow guys into the back room to learn pool next time, yeah?”

She laughs and gives you a thumbs-up, hurrying back to the table you really should be at.

You drop back into your seat beside Alexia, she gives you a look eyebrows raised, lips twitching with the effort not to smile. “Do I even want to know what that was about?”

You pick up your drink. “Let’s just say I’ve got a strict no-mullet policy when it comes to people I care about.”

Alexia tilts her head. “You care about her?”

You shrug. “She’s a good friend, she’s family, kind of, known her since I was 2” you add, glancing sideways at her, “I’ve got a thing about stepping in when someone’s being ignored.”

Alexia just looks at you for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she leans in slightly and says, “Remind me never to bring a mullet around you.”

You grin. “Smart move, Putellas.”

🚗

You’re not even trying to pretend you’re not watching her.

Alexia’s across the bar with her teammates, laughing too loud, cheeks flushed, glass dangling from her fingers. Mapi’s saying something in her ear. Ingrid’s arm is around her shoulder and Alexia, she’s swaying a little. Her smile’s still the most dangerous thing in the room but tonight, it’s drunk, too drunk.

You’re sitting with your mother and both your friends, but your eyes haven’t left her.

You don’t even notice your mother watching you not until her hand finds your arm. “She doesn’t look steady,” she says softly, like she’s letting you off the hook before you even ask. “Go help your friend get home safe.”

You don’t answer. You just stand. You cross the bar in seconds, weaving through elbows and laughter and loud music. When you reach Alexia’s side, she doesn’t see you at first she’s too busy trying to pour herself the last of someone else’s drink, missing the glass entirely.

You gently catch her wrist, her head snaps up, and when she sees you, really sees you, her face changes. Surprise, embarrassment, then relief. Like maybe she’d been hoping you’d come after all.

“Hey,” you say gently, but firm. “Let’s get you home, yeah?”

She opens her mouth to argue, but nothing comes out she just nods, slow and small, and lets you take the glass from her hand.

Mapi grins behind her. “About time.”

You ignore her. “I’ll get her to text when she’s home,” you say, already guiding Alexia through the crowd.

Once outside, the air hits her hard she wobbles, you loop an arm around her waist automatically.

“You alright?”

She nods again. “Too much wine.”

“No shit,” you mutter.

She leans into you without asking and you let her. You help her into your truck, buckle her in, crank the heating. You drive in silence, thankful you only had a couple drinks before going to soft drinks, every few minutes you glance at her she’s quiet, head leaning against the window, eyes glassy but calm now.

When you reach her street, she shifts. “I don’t wanna go in,” she mumbles.

You turn the engine off. “Why not?”

She doesn’t answer for a moment. Then, “I don’t wanna be alone.”

You study her face. She’s not just drunk. She’s worn down, like something’s caught up to her tonight, and all her usual guarding walls have melted away.

“Alright,” you say, soft. “I'll stay until you fall asleep then I'll go.”

She looks at you, blinking slow. “Really?” You nod and she just whispers, “Thank you.”

You unlock her front door with her keys, her chin heavy on your shoulder as she watches your hands move.

She’s quieter now, the kind of quiet that doesn’t come from being shy, no, not with Alexia, but from being too full. From holding back the words she doesn’t quite know how to shape.

You help her kick off her shoes at the door, her hand finds your forearm as she straightens.

“I’ll get you water,” you say gently, heading to the kitchen like it’s muscle memory. You’ve never been here long enough to pretend it is but you know her home better than you should given the time spent here.

She sits on the couch in a graceless sprawl, her head leaning back, eyes closed. Her makeup’s smudged, mascara settled just below her lashes. Her hair’s pulled loose from her pony, she’s beautiful, in that devastating, real way.

You bring the glass over, set it in her waiting hand, she cracks one eye open. “You’re not leaving?”

You shake your head. “Not until you’re asleep, that was the deal.”

She nods slowly. “Stay the night.”

You pause. “Alexia—”

“Not like that,” she says quickly. “Just… stay.”

There’s a pull behind her voice, like gravity, and something in your chest answers.

“I want you to stay where I can see you. I don't like the thought of you walking home alone, it's late.”

That hits somewhere deep, somewhere you don’t name, you reach to take the glass back before pulling her to her feet, her body pressing into yours, she leans her head to the side, resting against your shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your arm comes up behind her instinctively, letting her settle into the space like she belongs there.

After a long stretch of silence, her voice comes quiet, smaller than you’ve ever heard it.

“You're still here” you try to not laugh, at the fact even though you're the one holding her, she'd clearly thought maybe you'd gone

“I’m still here,” you say.

She nods against you, before doing the most adorable yawn, it was like watching when a baby yawns.

The stairs feel taller when she’s leaning on you for balance, her hand clinging to the back of your sweatshirt like a lifeline.

"These are dramatic stairs," she mutters, eyes focused like she's climbing Everest.

You smile small, not smug and keep her steady, hand pressed at her lower back as you guide her into her bedroom. "I’ll wait outside," you say once you reach the door. “Get into something comfortable. Let me know if you need help.”

She looks up at you, eyes half-lidded but still sharp. "You’d like that, huh?"

You give her a look. "Go get changed, Alexia."

She laughs softly, swaying a little as she walks into her room and closes the door behind her.

You wait in the hallway, eyes on the floor, hands in your pockets. You could leave. You could call her mother, or Alba, or one of the many women who’d trip over themselves to help her right now, but you stay, as promised, because it’s her and when it comes down to it, you care about her. Maybe too much.

When the door opens, she’s in an oversized Barça training top and cotton shorts, her bare legs already blotched with marks where you heard her bump into her furniture.

You wordlessly offer your hand again, and she takes it, letting you lead her into the bathroom. The light is soft, warm, she sits on the toilet lid as instructed, head tilted back looking at you.

“You gonna scold me again?” she murmurs, eyes closed.

“I’m not your coach.”

“You sure about that?” she smirks, barely.

You don’t answer, you just wet a cotton pad and stand in front of her. She doesn’t speak as you remove her makeup, slow and careful, like she’s made of something that needs preserving. Her skin is warm beneath your fingertips, flushed from the alcohol, but soft. Real.

Her eyes flutter open halfway through, watching you. “You always do things like this?” she asks, voice quieter now. “Take care of girls who get to go home with you? Or just me?”

“Just you.”

She doesn’t smile, but something about the stillness in her face shifts. You finish her eyeliner, reach for a clean cloth to wipe her cheeks. The towel grazes her jaw when she speaks again. “You should hate me.”

You shake your head slowly. “I don’t.”

She nods, almost like that hurts more than the alternative.

You rinse the cloth, hang it back up, and stand. She’s still watching you like you’re some riddle she’s only now trying to solve.

“You’re good at this,” she whispers. “At caring.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” you say, turning off the light. “Ruins the reputation.”

She lets you help her to bed, pulls the duvet around herself like armour. You wait until she’s settled before you move to leave. “Stay,” she says again, voice already heavy with sleep.

So you do. "I'll sit here until you go to sleep, ok?"

You curl into the armchair near the window, hoodie pulled over your head, watching her breathing slow as she drifts and just before your own eyes close, she whispers your name in her sleep.

🚗

There’s a golden streak of sun creeping in past the blackout blinds when Alexia stirs.

Her body’s slow to wake, dulled by the hangover pressing into the sides of her skull, but she registers the warmth of her bed, the soft ache behind her eyes, and the sharp, vivid memory of you in front of her the night before. Steady. Patient. Quietly good.

She turns her head and sees you. Still here.

Slouched awkwardly in the chair by the window, knees spread wide, arms crossed over your chest, hoodie pulled up around your ears. You’d shoved a spare throw over your lap sometime in the night, but your face was tilted sideways, pressed into your shoulder like you hadn’t moved once since she fell asleep.

You stayed. Her heart stumbles over itself.

She gets up slowly, legs unsure beneath her, and pads over barefoot. You’re asleep, and not in that light kind of way you’re fully out. There’s a crease in your brow even now, even resting, something in you never switches off.

Alexia crouches in front of you, watching the way your lips part slightly with every breath. She takes you in, the lines of your jaw, the faint purplish hue of the bruise under your eye, the grease still under your fingernails from work the day before.

The hoodie you’re wearing used to be her favourite before you stole it back, she reaches forward and tugs the hood back gently.

You blink awake, confused and slow, your eyes focusing on her. She sees it the flicker of alertness, the way you straighten in the chair like you're ready to protect something, even now.

“Morning,” she says softly.

You grunt, adjusting in the seat. “What time is it?”

“Too early.”

You rub a hand across your face, sitting forward. “You alright?”

She nods. “Bit of a headache. Nothing fatal.”

You lean your elbows on your knees, glance toward her bed. “You should get more sleep.”

She watches you for a second. “Why didn’t you come lie down?”

You shrug. “Didn’t want to over step.”

"I wouldn’t have minded.”

That makes you glance at her again, this time slower. Your eyes settle on hers. “You sure?”

She smiles, it’s soft, barely there. “You look good in the morning.”

You shake your head, smirking despite yourself. “You’re a menace.”

She stands up, takes a step closer, tugging your arm. “Come to bed. Have five more minutes.”

You hesitate and then you let her pull you.

The bed dips as you climb in next to her tentative, careful. She doesn’t hesitate, though. She leans into you, lets her head rest on your shoulder, one hand curling around your hoodie.

You lie there in the quiet, sun warming the room inch by inch.

You don’t know how long you lie there her head still on your shoulder, and your arm has gone a little numb, but you’re not moving. Not when her fingers are gently tracing the small patch of skin she found at the edge of the seam on your hoodie, her breaths still even, slow.

And then she shifts, just slightly enough to look up toward you. You look down at the same time she looks up. It’s quiet. Still and yet everything in you tightens like something electric is crackling through the mattress beneath you both.

She doesn’t speak. Neither do you. You don’t need to, because the way her eyes drop to your mouth and hover there is louder than anything she could say. Because when you tilt your head slightly, her breath hitches, because when your noses brush, there’s no going back.

You kiss her.

It’s slow unsure for only half a second until her mouth parts beneath yours, warm and open and wanting. She sighs into it, a sound that lands somewhere low in your stomach, and you kiss her again, like you’ve wanted to since the first moment she walked into your garage with too much attitude and not enough patience.

You shift, body over hers, hand braced beside her head, not touching too much, just enough, but her hands are bolder than you expect.

They move to your hips, sliding up your sides under your hoodie to your ribs. You freeze slightly when her fingers splay across your skin, hesitating like she’s waiting for permission, and when you don’t stop her, she slides the hoodie up to your shoulders. You sit back to help her, she watches as you pull it off.

Her eyes are wide, unblinking, like she’s trying to memorise you in this light, vulnerable, a little breathless, lips parted, heartbeat clearly visible in your throat.

You’re both suspended for a moment her head tipped back against the pillow, your body hovering just above hers, the world narrowing to the curve of her lips and the heat between you.

Her fingers, still trembling with that early-morning haze, find your abs, you catch your breath as she gently traces them, decisive motion.

Your lips brush hers again gentle at first, testing, savouring. Then everything shifts, her arms wind around your neck, pulling you closer. Your hands settle beside her waiting, holding her there as if you’re afraid she’ll vanish if you loosen your grip.

The kiss deepens, slow and hungry. You cup her jaw, thumb tracing her cheek, and feel her fingers play with the hair at your nape. The space between you ignites, the morning light, the faint scent of her hair, the rising pulse that thrums through your chest.

You trail gentle kisses down her neck, each one a promise. She arches into you, fingers tangling in your hair, urging you nearer. In that moment, all the tension and teasing of the past months dissolves. It’s just the two of you, breathless and real.

She presses her body up to meet yours, and when her lips find yours once more, full, open, searching, you know you’re exactly where you need to be.

You shift your weight, careful, keeping your palm flat on the mattress so you don’t crush her, but she’s not shy, not anymore, she stretches up like she wants to erase whatever distance is left, and your hand lands at the point of her hip where her t-shirt is bunched. You have to steady it, make yourself move slow, let this last. She makes a soft noise when you press your mouth to the corner of hers, then to her jaw, her pulse, her collarbone. She tastes like sleep and faint salt, and you want to run laps over every inch of her, learn her until you could do this in your sleep.

She whispers something you don’t catch, just a breath of a word, and it jams the air between the two of you. For a second you’re paralysed, the question in her eyes so open it makes your chest hurt, but then you nod once, slow, and she grins, actually grins, like she’s won some kind of prize, and you don’t have to be careful anymore.

Everything is fast and breathless, a scramble to get closer, her hands under your shirt and yours under hers. She’s soft and solid and so alive beneath you, and she’s laughing, like it’s the best joke she’s ever heard when you accidentally find her ticklish spot. You want to make her laugh forever. You want to never stop this, not ever. Her skin is warm and she’s tugging you down, hooking a leg over your hip, and you kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her.

You’ve never felt this way. It’s new and it’s terrifying, but it’s the best kind of terror, like standing at the edge of something huge and wild and knowing it’s yours for the taking. She moves under you and you want to cry, shout, sing, something, anything to let it out. There are no words for this.

No words for the way she pulls you in, the way the world goes blurry and bright and she’s the only clear thing. The way she gasps when you find her throat, her shoulder, the dip above her collarbone, the way she’s so close you could drown in the scent of her, the feel of her, and it would be the best way to go. You push her shirt up, slow and eager, kissing every inch of skin as it’s exposed. She’s unravelling under you, hands in your hair, breath catching in her chest, and you think, yes, yes, yes, this is it, this is it, this is it.

Everything is just her, only her. The sun creeping through the window, a witness. The quiet that should be awkward but never is, not with her. You lose track of your own heartbeat, the way it’s keeping time with hers. You lose track of the hours, of the light shifting from dawn to something brighter, bolder. It’s like the world is holding its breath, and you’re holding yours, everything is a blur of skin and touch and heat. She arches when your hand finds her waist, her side, lower, and you’re not careful anymore, not even a little. Her moan is a tug in your gut, and then you’re gone, mouth on her neck and chest as she moves and writhes beneath you, as she comes apart under your touch, as she gasps your name.

You want to brand it into your skin. You want to say it back to her over and over until it’s meaningless, until it’s the only thing that means anything. Her eyes flutter open, and she looks at you like she’s seeing you for the first time, like she’s looking at someone else entirely. She slings an arm over her eyes, and for a moment you think she’s embarrassed, but there’s still a smile breaking loose across her face, uncontainable and bright as noon. You slip your arm around her back your hand resting on behind as she rolls to bury her face in your neck, you whisper, "Don't go all shy on me"

"I liked that" she whispered into your ear, as your hand was smoothing over her skin.

You hum, "You did?" she nodded, you guide her leg over your hip and your hand moves in from over her thigh, her face reappears as she gasps and her head goes back when your fingers disappear inside her once again.

Her hand cradles your face as your 'busy hands' as she had always called them were indeed busy, she hums against your lips as she kisses you.

"Let me hear you" you whisper as her forehead is pressed to yours her body stiffening again, a breath gets caught in her throat and comes out as moan followed by your name, "Good girl"

Her shoulders come up tense both hands gripping your face as your fingers pump the veins standing out on your tattoo'd forearm, her chest was flushed red with a shine of sweat, "I'm gonna.." she breathes, but again it gets caught as your thumb finds her clit and begins moving in time with your fingers.

"That's my girl" you smirk eyes fixated on her, her eyes rose to meet yours as her breathing was ragged her chest heaving, her arm moved around your neck putting your mouth near her ear as she needed you closer, "Come for me" you whispered and her body instantly reacted, her head went back giving you access to her neck and your fingers slowed as you let her ride her orgasm out licking sucking and kissing her neck you quickly realised she liked.

🚗

The morning after is slow, unhurried.

You’re both in comfy clothes, Alexia in her oversized tee and messy bun, you in the hoodie she keeps stealing. The kitchen light is soft, bouncing off tile and kettle steam.

You'er perched on the counter, one leg swinging lazily, watching her try to fry eggs without setting off the smoke alarm. There's a smug smile on your face. She tries to ignore it.

“You want to help, or just critique?”

“I’m here for emotional support,” you say, reaching for a grape off the counter.

She turns, smirking. “Emotional support while I feed you?”

You hold out another grape like a peace offering. “Don’t complain. This is domesticity you wanted, no?”

She raises an eyebrow and takes the grape from your hand with her teeth, grazing your fingers deliberately as she does. “This is you eating my food and laughing at me when I burn toast.”

You grin wider. “Which is charming.”

She holds the spatular to you, you smile hop down taking it you raid her spices to make the eggs how you like them, her turn to sit on the counter watching. She wouldn't admit it but your eggs did look good.

You step between her legs, resting your hands on her thighs. Her laughter quiets.

“I like mornings with you,” she says softly.

Your chest tightens, just enough to notice. “Yeah?” you murmur.

She nods. “Didn’t think I would. I thought this would always be... fast. Dangerous.”

“You thought we’d be dangerous.”

“I thought you would be.” Her smile is smaller now. Honest. “You had the whole ‘too cool to care’ thing going.”

You chuckle, pressing your forehead gently against hers. “Still do, apparently.”

“No,” she says, and her voice is light but her eyes are serious. “You care. You just pretend you don’t, but I see it.”

You tilt your head and kiss her soft, slow, no rush to make it more than it is. You kiss her because you can because you want to, because it’s her.

She kisses you back like she already knows. The eggs crackle gently in the pan. The kettle clicks off behind you. Outside, the world starts its usual chaos. But in this kitchen, it’s quiet.

“You really thought I wasn’t interested?” you ask against her lips.

She leans back just far enough to look at you. “You never made a move.”

“I was busy trying not to prove I can stay when I want to.” She smiles and kisses you again, you laugh into her mouth, pull her closer by the hips. “Still hungry?”

“For food?”

You glance at the stove. “Might be safer to order in.”

She shrugs. “I’m good here.”

You hum in agreement, tucking your face into the curve of her neck, arms around her waist, her legs around yours. You both smell like sleep and coffee. Like something shared. Like something that finally makes sense.

There’s no big ending. No grand gesture. Just a mechanic and a footballer in a sun-warmed kitchen, burning eggs, stealing kisses, and building something they never expected to find.

Together.

The End.

#alexia x reader #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas fanfic #woso fanfics #alexia putellas #woso #barca femeni #barcelona femeni #alexia putellas imagine #woso imagine #alexia putellas x y/n #alexia putellas one shot #fcb femeni

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missarchive · 5 months ago

Note

Spencer and reader get stuck in the cold weather while on a case, and after Spencer rambles about body heat being a good source of warmth (or a similar fact); reader suggests testing that theory

oh i really liked this ask 😭 i always love writing for things i havent before! i actually thought id already posted this but i found it in my drafts

cw; 18+ mdni!! needy!spencer, softdom!spence if you squint, sexy science puns, lots of heavy petting, dry humping, fingering

The cold was unforgiving. It bit through every layer of clothing, sinking into your bones with a chill that felt almost personal. You wrapped your arms around yourself, blowing into your hands as you glanced at the snow-covered road stretching endlessly ahead. The SUV sat uselessly on the shoulder, engine dead, and the faint crackle of your radio confirmed that the rest of the team was still hours away.

Spencer stood a few feet away, pacing in a tight circle to keep his blood moving. His long coat whipped slightly in the wind, and his hair, unkempt from hours in the field, fell into his face. He pushed it back absently, his gloved fingers trembling slightly from the cold. His breath puffed in front of him like small, fleeting clouds.

“We’re going to freeze out here,” you muttered, your teeth chattering as you hugged yourself tighter.

Spencer paused mid-step and looked at you, his brows knitting together in concern. “Not necessarily,” he began, his voice wavering slightly from the chill but still steady enough to deliver one of his signature facts. “The human body has remarkable thermoregulatory mechanisms. For instance, shivering is a natural response designed to generate heat through muscle activity.”

You raised an eyebrow, your lips quirking despite the cold. “Not sure shivering is going to cut it, Reid.”

He blinked, his face taking on that familiar, earnest expression as he shifted gears. “Well, there is another method that’s proven to be highly effective in conserving warmth. Sharing body heat—specifically, skin-to-skin contact—can significantly reduce the risk of hypothermia. It’s a technique commonly used in survival situations.”

You stared at him for a beat, then let out a short laugh that fogged the air between you. “Skin-to-skin, huh?”

His eyes widened slightly, and he stumbled over his words, his hands flailing in a nervous gesture. “I-I didn’t mean it like that—I mean, not like that—just, you know, from a purely biological standpoint. It’s logical.”

You couldn’t help the grin tugging at your lips, despite the fact that your face was half-frozen. “Relax, Spencer. I’m not accusing you of anything. You’ve got a good point.”

His head tilted slightly, his mouth opening and closing as if he were trying to decide whether or not you were teasing him.

“I’m serious,” you said, stepping closer and gesturing toward the SUV. “Let’s test that theory. Unless you’ve got another way to keep us from turning into popsicles out here?”

He froze for a second, his cheeks turning pink—not just from the cold, you noted. “Oh. Uh… okay. Yes. That—that makes sense.”

You led the way back into the SUV, grateful for even the limited shelter it provided. Spencer followed, his movements stiff and hesitant as if he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to be there. You shrugged off your heavy coat, setting it aside, and gestured for him to do the same.

He hesitated, his hands hovering near the buttons of his coat. “You’re sure about this?”

You rolled your eyes, though your tone was light. “Unless you want to freeze out there alone, yes, I’m sure.”

Spencer nodded quickly, shedding his coat and draping it over the seat. His movements were deliberate, precise, as though he were calculating every step.

“You know, this is purely for survival,” you teased as you slid onto the backseat.

“Of course,” he replied, his voice a touch too high-pitched to be convincing.

Settling beside him, you turned to face him fully. “So, how does this work, Doctor?”

“Well,” he began, his tone shifting into that of a lecture despite the awkwardness in his posture, “the idea is to maximize surface area contact to facilitate heat transfer. The skin is an effective medium for conduction, and by—”

“Spencer,” you interrupted, unable to keep the amusement out of your voice. “Just hold me.”

His lips parted in a silent “oh,” and he nodded, his cheeks darkening further as he opened his arms. Tentatively, you leaned into him, resting your head against his chest. His body was lean and sharp beneath the layers, and his arms wrapped around you with a hesitance that made your heart squeeze.

“Warmer already,” you murmured, closing your eyes as you pressed closer.

He let out a nervous laugh, his breath brushing the top of your head. “That’s… good. It means the method is working.”

For a while, the two of you sat in silence, save for the faint sound of his breathing and the occasional rustle of clothing. Gradually, his grip on you became more secure, his hands resting lightly on your back. You could feel the thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek—quick and irregular, as though he were nervous.

“You’re like a walking space heater,” you teased softly, breaking the quiet.

“That’s not entirely accurate,” he replied, his voice carrying a hint of his usual matter-of-fact tone. “The human body only generates a limited amount of heat—around 100 watts at rest, give or take. It’s not comparable to a—”

“Spencer,” you said again, a laugh bubbling up despite yourself. “I was joking.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” He cleared his throat, and you could practically feel the embarrassment radiating off him.

You tilted your head to look up at him, finding his gaze already on you. His brown eyes were wide, soft, and filled with something that made your stomach flip—curiosity, vulnerability, and a hint of awe.

“It’s okay. I like when you ramble. Especially when you get all excited about sciencey stuff.” Your voice was soft, meant to soothe, and you tilted your head to meet his gaze. The small smile you offered was an invitation, a reassurance that he hadn’t overstepped. “In fact, it’s one of my favorite things about you.”

The effect of your words was immediate. Spencer blinked rapidly, his expressive brown eyes widening as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. His eyebrows shot up, almost vanishing beneath the tousled strands of his hair. He opened his mouth as if to speak but hesitated, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a hard swallow.

“Oh,” he finally managed, his voice unsteady. “I, uh... thanks.”

You could see the flicker of uncertainty in his gaze, the way his eyes darted to the side, searching for an anchor in a moment that felt too big for him. Your heart ached at his reaction, and without thinking, you raised a hand to rest your palm gently on his chest. The warmth of him seeped into your skin, and you felt the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath your touch.

The muscles beneath your hand tensed slightly, a reflexive reaction, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he stood frozen, his eyes fixed on yours, his vulnerability laid bare in the way he held his breath. You let your fingers drift upward, brushing over the edge of his collarbone and the sensitive skin at the base of his neck. The movement was slow, deliberate, meant to ground him.

Spencer’s breath hitched audibly, a faint gasp escaping his parted lips. His wide eyes flickered back to meet yours, and for a moment, it felt like the world had shrunk to just the two of you, the snowy storm outside fading into insignificance.

“Y/n?” His voice was barely a whisper, your name fragile and questioning on his tongue.

You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you leaned in, closing the small distance between you to press a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. The sound he made in response—a soft, involuntary whimper—sent a ripple of warmth through your chest. His lips parted slightly against yours, his breath mingling with your own, and you could feel the way his body trembled ever so slightly under your touch.

The kiss deepened by degrees, slow and exploratory, as if neither of you wanted to rush the moment. His hand came up tentatively to cup your cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing lightly over your skin. There was a sweetness to his touch, a kind of reverence that made your chest tighten with affection.

When you finally broke the kiss, you stayed close, your foreheads nearly touching. Spencer’s breathing was uneven, and his eyes were dark, filled with an emotion you couldn’t quite name but felt all the same.

“I like when you ramble,” you murmured again, letting your fingers trace the line of his jaw. “It’s one of the things that makes you, you. And I love that.”

Spencer swallowed hard, his lashes fluttering as he looked down at you. “I... don’t think anyone’s ever said something like that to me before.”

“Then it’s about time someone did,” you said, your voice firm with conviction.

His lips curved into the smallest of smiles, shy and a little uncertain, but so genuine it made your heart squeeze. You leaned up to kiss him again, this time lingering a little longer, savoring the warmth of his lips against yours.

“Tell me something scientific,” you murmured, your voice muffled as you turned your face into the curve of his neck. Your lips found the soft spot beneath his ear, and you pressed a gentle kiss there, feeling the slight shiver that ran through him.

Spencer cleared his throat, his voice a little uneven as he obliged. “Humans have a remarkable capacity to generate warmth through muscle activity. For example, shivering alone can increase your metabolic rate by up to ten times.”

“That’s interesting,” you hummed against his skin, the vibration making him swallow hard. Your lips trailed lower, brushing against the tender skin of his throat before settling at the hollow where his pulse beat steadily. You kissed him there, slow and deliberate, savoring the way his breath hitched. “Do you know what else can generate warmth?”

For a moment, Spencer froze, his body stiffening slightly in your embrace. When he finally spoke, his voice was tight, and the single word seemed to catch in his throat. “Uh... friction?”

You grinned against his neck, the curve of your smile pressing into his skin. “That’s a good one.”

His exhale came out in a shaky mix of a laugh and a gasp, his nerves and amusement intertwining. “You- you think so?”

Shifting beneath him, you arched your back just enough to press your hips against him, and the reaction was immediate. Spencer groaned softly, the sound vibrating against your chest as you undulated again, slow and deliberate. “I really do,” you clarified, your tone teasing as you moved against him.

Spencer dropped his forehead to your shoulder, letting out a low chuckle tinged with exasperation. “God, Y/n. You’re ridiculous.”

“Hey, I learned from the best,” you shot back, your grin widening as you tightened your grip around him. The warmth of his body against yours was intoxicating, every slight movement feeding the growing tension between you.

He lifted his head, his expression softer now, his gaze locking onto yours. Without hesitation, he kissed you, his lips tentative but sweet as they met yours. “And I learned from you,” he murmured against your mouth, the words carrying a weight that made your chest ache. “Everything.”

His kiss deepened as he spoke, his tongue slipping past your lips to meet your own in a slow, intoxicating dance. “Everything,” he repeated, his voice husky as he pulled back just enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath against your lips. “Including this.”

Spencer rolled his hips against you, the hard length of him dragging against your center with a pressure that made your toes curl. The friction was maddening, delicious, and you gasped into his mouth, your hands clutching at his back as you arched against him.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” Spencer whispered, the confession raw and unguarded. Despite his words, he didn’t stop moving, his rhythm steady and almost instinctual. “I just—fuck, I’ve wanted this for so long.”

The vulnerability in his voice tugged at your heart, the mix of lust and affection swelling in your chest until it felt like you might burst. “You could never mess this up,” you said, your voice trembling slightly as your fingers traced the lines of his spine. “Spencer, I—”

The words faltered on your tongue, the depth of your feelings too overwhelming to articulate. How could you possibly express how much you cared for him, how long you’d admired him, how deeply you craved this closeness? The enormity of it all made your throat tighten, the emotions too big and too raw to put into words.

So instead, you kissed him. You poured everything you couldn’t say into the press of your lips against his, hoping he would feel the depth of your emotions in the way your hands held him, in the way your body pressed against his, in the way your heart beat wildly in sync with his own.

Spencer's fingers slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, his palm tentative but burning hot against your side. His touch was so light it sent a shiver skittering down your spine, and your breath caught in your throat as he hesitated. “Can I...?”

“Spencer.” You reached down to capture his hand, guiding it higher and pressing it firmly against the flat of your stomach. “You don’t have to ask.”

He exhaled shakily, leaning in to kiss you again. This time, there was a hunger in his kiss that hadn’t been there before, an urgency that made your pulse race. His other hand found its way to your chest, and he palmed you through your bra, his movements still cautious but full of intent. “I want to be good at this,” he murmured, his voice low and raw against your lips.

You arched your hips into his, the movement slow and deliberate, eliciting a sharp gasp from him when his cock dragged against your clit. “You already are,” you whispered, your words a mix of reassurance and pure honesty.

He pulled back slightly, his lips parting as he searched your face. His gaze was soft but piercing, filled with a vulnerability that made your chest ache. “Really?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Yeah.” You swallowed hard, your throat tightening with the weight of your emotions. “You’re perfect.”

The corners of his mouth lifted into a small, almost bashful smile, his face softening at your words. His gaze drifted downward, his lashes dark against his skin as he took in the sight of your bodies pressed together. “You are, too,” he murmured, the sincerity in his voice making your heart stutter.

Without warning, Spencer pushed himself up, his hands bracketing your hips as he knelt between your legs. His fingers fumbled at his belt, his brow furrowing in concentration as he worked to undo it. After a moment of struggling, he gave up with a quiet huff, opting instead to slide a hand into his jeans. When he began stroking himself, his lips parted on a soft, unbidden moan, and your stomach clenched at the sight.

The way his hand moved, slow and deliberate, combined with the way his jaw tightened and his breath came in ragged gasps—it was intoxicating. You couldn’t tear your eyes away, your mouth watering as you imagined replacing his hand with your own, with your mouth. You wanted to feel him, taste him, make him lose himself in you.

“Spencer—” you breathed, the single word thick with want.

But before you could finish your thought, he was shifting back down, his body settling against yours as his lips found your neck. “I want you to get off on me,” he whispered, his voice rough and urgent against your skin. His mouth trailed along your jawline, the light scrape of his teeth sending sparks of heat through you. “Is that okay?”

“Fuck, yes,” you gasped, your hands finding purchase on his hips. You dragged him closer, your fingers digging into the firm muscle of his ass to pull him against you.

The friction was delicious, the slow roll of his hips against yours making your head spin. The heat of him, the weight of him, the low, breathy sounds he made—it was almost too much and yet not enough all at once. You tilted your head back, offering him more of your neck as you ground against him, losing yourself in the rhythm of his body against yours.

Spencer gasped as your hips rocked up against his, the friction of his cock sliding over your clit drawing a soft moan from you. The two of you found a rhythm, slow and deliberate, your bodies moving in perfect sync. Each roll of his hips sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through your veins, the growing pressure between your thighs impossible to ignore. His hardness rubbed against you with each motion, his movements unpracticed yet intoxicatingly eager.

He dropped his head to your shoulder, his breath hot and erratic against your skin. His groan was low and guttural, the sound vibrating through you as his body tensed. You couldn’t help the soft whimper that escaped your lips in response, your hands sliding up his back to hold him closer.

He felt incredible like this—hot, hard, and trembling with need in your arms. You pressed a lingering kiss to his temple, feeling the dampness of his hairline as you drew back to take in his face. His cheeks were flushed, his lips parted, and his eyes... God, his eyes. They met yours, dark and stormy with a desperate hunger that made your breath catch.

“What do you want?” you asked softly, your voice steady despite the hammering of your heart.

Spencer’s gaze didn’t waver. “You,” he breathed, his tone raw and unguarded. “I want you.”

A laugh bubbled up in your chest, high-pitched and giddy with affection and desire. You cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing over the sharp angle of his cheekbone. “You’ve got me, Spencer.”

His eyes fluttered shut as you rocked your hips against him again, drawing a sharp inhale from his lips. His voice was rough with longing when he spoke, barely more than a whisper. “I know. I want—I want to...” He trailed off, his brow furrowing in frustration as he struggled to articulate his thoughts.

You leaned in, your lips grazing his forehead before trailing down to his ear. “Tell me,” you murmured, your voice soft and coaxing. “Whatever it is, Spencer. Tell me.”

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing against your lips as he searched for the words. His breaths were shallow and uneven, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low and ragged. “I want—fuck. I just want to make you feel good.” He exhaled sharply, his hand sliding between your bodies to cup you through your underwear. His palm pressed against your cunt, tentative but deliberate, and your breath hitched in response.

“I want to feel you come,” he continued, his words spilling out in a rush. His fingers twitched against you, his touch gentle but insistent. “Is that—can I—fuck—”

You silenced him with a kiss, your lips capturing his in a heated press that said everything words couldn’t. His hand flexed against you, and when you rocked against him, a strangled moan tore from his throat. You felt his hesitation melt away as his fingers pressed more firmly, his eagerness making up for any lack of experience.

“Yes,” you breathed against his lips, your hips moving in time with his touch. “Yes, Spencer. Please.”

The desperation in your voice seemed to spur him on, his confidence growing with every gasped moan and whispered plea that fell from your lips. His movements were clumsy but earnest, his need to please you shining through in every stroke and press of his hand. It was intoxicating, the way he gave himself to you so completely, so openly.

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, your breaths coming faster as the tension coiled tighter in your belly. “Spencer,” you gasped, your voice breaking on his name. “I’m—God, I’m so close—”

His response was immediate, his free hand sliding to your hip to hold you steady as he pressed harder, his movements matching the rhythm of your hips. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice shaking with both nerves and determination. “Let go. Please, I want to feel it.”

And when you did—when the tension snapped and a wave of pleasure crashed over you—it was his name that spilled from your lips in a cry, his hands anchoring you as you trembled in his arms. Spencer held you through it, his own breaths ragged and uneven, his forehead pressing against yours as he whispered your name like a prayer.

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