arabella-syntax

[arabella-syntax]

Poco a poco

(A/N: My first attempt at a WOSO fan fiction. A little unconventional as usually it’s between Footballer x Reader. But I’m quite intrigued to explore the recent dynamics seen on social media between Jana Fernandez and Aggie Beever-Jones. So this is my totally, fictional take. Don’t sue me, savvy?)

Pairing: Jana Fernández x Aggie Beever-Jones

Tone: Slow burn, dry humour, soft queer joy

Word count: > 30K

Summary: It started, as most catastrophes do, with an Instagram like.

———————————————————————

It started, as most catastrophes do, with an Instagram like.

Jana Fernández was finishing up her second post-training recovery shake when the notification popped up:

@aggiebeeverjones liked your post.

Not strange. They were both professional footballers. Liking each other’s matchday photos wasn’t exactly criminal behaviour. But then came the second like. And the third. The third was on a post from 2022. Jana squinted. That was deep-scroll territory.

She didn’t say anything at first. But when she opened her DMs and found a message—

“Your header clearances were so peng it hurt.”

—she dropped her phone.

“Joder,” she muttered. (Fuck)

“Who’s peng?” Vicky López asked from across the locker room, towel slung over her shoulder.

“No one.”

Vicky raised a brow and padded over. “Esperar. ¿A quién le escribes? Parece que acabas de ver un fantasma. Or worse—got followed by a Chelsea player.” (Wait. Who are you writing to? You look like you just saw a ghost.)

Jana stayed quiet.

“Esperar. WAIT. This about that English girl? Beever-Jones?”

“It’s nothing.”

“That’s what people say when it’s definitely something.”

Alexia, tying her shoelaces with casual slowness, glanced up. “Blue tick?”

Vicky nodded. “Blue tick. Chelsea forward. Sorprendentemente linda.” (Surprisingly cute.)

Alexia smirked. “Hmm. Barça-Chelsea. Forbidden fruit.”

“I am not doing anything,” Jana insisted, which made it sound instantly worse.

The thing was… she was doing something. Namely: checking her own Instagram to see if Aggie had liked anything else. She had. A team photo. A charity event. A photo of Jana eating gelato in Girona with the caption “Poco a poco.” (Little by little)

Jana didn’t reply to the DM straight away.

She did the professional thing.

She showed it to Ona.

Ona glanced at the message and blinked. “She called your clearances ‘peng’?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“It means hot.”

“Well.” Ona handed the phone back. “At least it wasn’t about your throw-ins.”

Meanwhile, in Cobham, Aggie was panicking.

“What if she thinks I’m a stalker?”

“You are a stalker,” Niamh Charles said without looking up from her protein bar.

“I’m just admiring her defending!”

“Sure. That’s why you scrolled to her Girona trip in July and double-tapped it.”

“I meant to double-tap the ice cream.”

“Uh-huh.”

Aggie flopped back against the bench. “She’s just… cool, okay? She doesn’t post dumb thirst traps. She reads books and eats peaches and probably listens to indie Catalan pop.”

“You’re projecting.”

“Shut up.”

“You’ve got it bad.”

Aggie buried her face in her hands. “I think I like her.”

Back in Barcelona, Jana finally replied:

“Gracias. But ‘peng’? That’s good, yes?”

Aggie wrote back immediately:

“Very good. Like… 10/10 would defend against again.”

Jana smiled.

It was ridiculous.

She was defending against this girl. Technically, they were rivals.

But it didn’t feel like rivalry.

Not when Aggie said things like “You were class” or used emoji combinations no sane adult would choose.

That night, Jana found herself scrolling through Aggie’s stories, watching a TikTok of her dancing terribly with Niamh in the gym. The caption read: Defenders hate her. Coaches fear her. She can’t dance but she can score.

Jana replied with a simple:

“🤨 esto es criminal.” (This is criminal.)

Aggie:

“Only if you arrest me.”

Jana laughed so hard she nearly choked on her chamomile tea.

Barça vs Chelsea. Champions League semi-final, leg one. Camp Nou.

It had been a bruiser of a match. Aggie Beever-Jones had nearly slipped past Patri twice. Jana had won five headers and one key interception that led to their second goal. And Aggie had smiled at her exactly three times—which, statistically, was probably illegal.

Now, in the tunnel post-match, players were doing the usual exchange: sweaty hugs, shirt swaps, murmured buen partidos and a few grumbles about the ref.

Jana spotted Aggie near the mouth of the tunnel. Alone. Strapping her wrist. Hair damp and curling slightly at the ends.

She didn’t mean to walk over.

She just did.

Aggie looked up. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Jana said. “Tough game.”

Aggie gave a tired smile. “You tackled me like I owed you money.”

Jana tilted her head. “Maybe you do.”

Aggie blinked. “For what?”

She shrugged, lips twitching. “Entertainment.”

Aggie laughed. “You’re not as serious as people think.”

“Only on matchdays.”

“This was a matchday.”

“I made exception.”

Aggie opened her mouth—maybe to flirt back, maybe to just keep her there—but then a third voice joined in.

“Vale, que ya está bien,” Alexia said as she appeared at Jana’s shoulder, eyeing Aggie with the amused suspicion of someone who knew far too much for comfort. (Okay, that’s enough.)

“Ale…” Jana said, sighing.

Alexia raised a brow. “So. This is the famous Chelsea striker, no?”

Aggie blinked. “Famous is a stretch.”

Alexia looked her up and down. “You speak Spanish?”

Aggie blinked again. “Uhh… poquito?” (A little.)

“Hmm. Dangerous,” Alexia said in English, the word heavy with her accent. She turned to Jana and added in Spanish, “Habla poco, pero mira mucho.” (Speaks a little, but looks a lot.)

Jana elbowed her. “Ale, por favor.”

“Just saying,” Alexia said, holding up both hands. “No me fío. You see the way she look at you? Like… Camp Nou es tu cara.” (I don’t trust…Camp Nou is your face.)

Aggie was very obviously trying to follow the conversation, which made it worse.

“What did she say?” she asked, smiling.

“She said… you look at me like I’m Camp Nou,” Jana muttered.

Aggie laughed. “Well… you did keep me out the box like you were defending holy land.”

Alexia made a soft, dramatic tsk noise.

“Careful with her, eh?” she said to Aggie, tapping her temple. “She look sweet, but she bite.”

“I’m starting to hope so,” Aggie muttered.

Jana groaned. “Okay. That’s enough.”

Later, in the dressing room, Ona tossed Jana a protein bar and raised an eyebrow.

“So?” she asked.

“So what?”

“You talked.”

“We exchanged five sentences and Alexia tried to murder me with her eyes.”

Ona grinned. “That’s basically dating for you.”

Seville. Nations League matchday.

Spain vs. England.

The weather was brutal—32 degrees, bone-dry, the kind of heat that made defenders cranky and wingers reckless. The score was 1–1 at half-time, and both Jana and Aggie had been subbed for “load management,” which was just a polite way of saying don’t break your stars right before Champions League.

Now, the two of them sat on the bench—stretching, hydrating, watching their teammates run wild.

Aggie glanced sideways. “Hot enough for you?”

Jana, dabbing her forehead with a towel, snorted. “You call this hot? Try Cádiz en agosto.” (Cadiz in August.)

Aggie laughed. “I’d melt.”

“You’re already red.”

“British blood. We weren’t built for sunlight.”

Jana smiled, sipping from her bottle. “You run well for someone solar-powered.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the kind that buzzes with unspoken jokes. The pitch glimmered in front of them. Leah Williamson was yelling something at Millie Bright. Aitana was clapping furiously. Someone had just missed a sitter.

Aggie leaned closer. “Do you always play this… intense?”

Jana raised an eyebrow. “You mean serious?”

“I mean, you look like you’re solving a murder out there.”

Jana smirked. “Well. Sometimes I am.”

Aggie laughed.

Then, as if rehearsed, their hands reached for the same bottle of electrolyte water.

“Sorry—” Aggie said.

“No, tú,” Jana replied. (You.)

Their fingers touched.

Neither pulled away.

Until someone cleared their throat behind them.

“Vaya, vaya,” said a voice that could only belong to Vicky López. “¿Qué tenemos aquí?” (Oh, oh, what do we have here?)

Jana rolled her eyes. “Vicky…”

Vicky plopped down on Jana’s other side, grinning. “I leave you alone for ten minutes and you flirt with the enemy?”

Aggie looked at Jana. “What’d she say?”

“She said I’m flirting.”

Aggie blinked innocently. “Are you?”

Jana paused. “Estoy… being friendly.”

Aggie smirked. “Is that what they call it here?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“If you flirt back.”

Vicky groaned loudly. “Dios mío, get a room.” (My God…)

Later, in the England camp, Leah watched from a distance as Aggie scrolled through something on her phone, cheeks slightly flushed.

“You FaceTiming her again?”

Aggie glanced up. “What? No.”

Leah raised an eyebrow.

Aggie held her hands up. “I’m not!”

Niamh strolled past. “She is.”

“Bloody snitch,” Aggie muttered.

“She likes the Barça girl,” Niamh sang under her breath.

“I don’t—” Aggie started, then stopped. “Okay. I do. A bit.”

Leah smirked. “Just don’t get nutmegged by your girlfriend in the next match.”

“Shut up.”

Back in the Spain camp, Vicky leaned against the doorframe of Jana’s room.

“¿Te gusta de verdad?” (Do you like it?)

Jana looked up from her phone.

“¿Quién?” (Who?)

Vicky gave her a look.

Jana hesitated, then admitted quietly, “Tiene algo… no sé. She’s funny. And real.” (There's something about it... I don't know.)

“Y guapa.” (And pretty.)

Jana rolled her eyes. “Obvio.” (Obvious)

Vicky smirked. “Vale. Pues no la cagues.” (Okay. Don't screw it up.)

It escalated like all disasters do: through memes and thirst traps.

The DM window between Aggie and Jana was officially alive. Chaotic. Bilingual. And teetering somewhere between “friendly banter” and “pre-dating with a side of emotional repression.”

Aggie started it with a TikTok of herself and Niamh trying to copy the latest dance trend in the Chelsea gym. It was awful.

Jana replied:

“You dance like you’ve been tackled mid-air.”

Aggie:

“Better than your throw-ins.”

Jana:

“Oye, mis saques laterales son arte.” (Hey, my throw-ins are art.)

Aggie sent a voice note just to hear her say “laterales.”

That week, Jana sent her a video of Kika and Vicky attempting a “serious tactical breakdown” using tortilla chips as players and guacamole as the midfield.

Kika yelled, “THIS is the 4-4-2 diamond!”

Vicky responded, “You just ate the right back!”

Aggie replied:

“Your team is unhinged.”

Jana:

“We are artists.”

Aggie:

“Kika licked guac off the tactics board.”

Jana:

“Performance art.”

Brighton was cold, damp, and smelled faintly of chips and sea salt.

Jana loved it.

She was visiting Bruna Vilamala for the weekend. Bruna had been on loan at Brighton for almost a season now, and while she missed Barça, she had fully adopted seagull-core chaos.

They sat on a graffiti-covered bench overlooking the pebble beach, wrapped in coats, nursing overpriced takeaway coffees.

Jana scrolled on her phone. Bruna glanced sideways.

“Is it her again?”

Jana didn’t look up. “No.”

Bruna snorted. “Then why are you smiling like a lovesick Labrador?”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Cállate.” (Be quiet)

Bruna grabbed her own phone and opened Instagram. “She liked your photo again. The one of us in London. Should I feel replaced?”

“You’re not replaced.”

“Just benched?” Bruna deadpanned. “I get it. The Chelsea girl’s got those cheekbones and chaos curls.”

“She’s not chaos,” Jana muttered.

“She FaceTimed you from a Sainsbury’s.”

“She was looking for the right tea.”

“She bought one called ‘Proper Builders Brew,’ Jana.”

Jana cracked a grin. “It was strong.”

“Yeah, like your feelings.”

Jana groaned. “I came here for friendship. Not psychological warfare.”

“Too bad. I’m your best friend. It’s in the contract.”

Later, at the training ground, Bruna introduced Jana to her Brighton teammates as “la que roba corazones en Champions.” (the one who steals hearts in the Champions League)

Jana blushed. “No estoy robando nada.” (I'm not stealing anything.)

“Right,” Bruna smirked. “You just ‘accidentally’ tackle her like you’re asking for her number with your shins.”

“I play clean.”

“Clean-ish.”

After training, as they walked along the pier, Bruna grew a little quiet.

“You like her, huh?”

Jana hesitated. “Sí. But… we’re on different paths. Different leagues. Different languages.”

Bruna nodded. “Yeah. But same game. Same heart.”

Jana looked at her. “That’s deep.”

“I watched a lot of rom-coms during flights between London and Barcelona. Estoy transformada.” (I’m transformed.)

Back in the hotel that night, Jana opened her phone to find a message from Aggie.

Aggie:

I saw your Brighton story. Beach girl now?

Jana:

Only if the beach has football. And you.

Aggie:

Careful. I might hop over.

Jana:

Do it. I’ll bring you guantes.

Aggie:

What’s that mean?

Jana:

Gloves. For when I steal your heart and leave you cold.

Aggie sent back an audio message of her laughing.

Jana played it three times.

One night, long after midnight in Barcelona, Aggie FaceTimed without thinking.

To her horror, Jana picked up immediately. Hoodie, glasses, hair a little messy. Her voice soft: “Aggie?”

“Sorry—I didn’t think you’d actually answer.”

Jana tilted her head. “You called me.”

“Yeah, but like… midnight brain, you know?”

Jana smiled. “No hay problema.” (No problem.)

Aggie’s voice softened. “What were you doing?”

“Reading.”

“What book?”

Jana held it up: Nada by Carmen Laforet.

Aggie squinted. “That’s… not English.”

“Correct.”

Aggie smiled. “You’re a book girl.”

“I like words,” Jana shrugged. “Sometimes better than people.”

Aggie blinked. “So… I’m an exception?”

Jana paused. “Eres una interrupción agradable.”

“What’s that mean?”

Jana smiled slowly. “A nice interruption.”

Aggie looked genuinely flustered.

“God, say something terrible so I stop liking you.”

“Your accent when you say ‘vale’ is criminal.”

“There it is.”

The next morning, Alexia found Jana still scrolling through their conversation history. They were in Alexia’s apartment - planning their trip to London after Copa de la Reina’s final - it was specifically a trip to watch Beyoncé’s concert.

Alexia sat on the bed. “You’re smiling like… una idiota enamorada.” (…an idiot in love.)

“Ale… no es así.” (It is not like that.)

“¿No?” Alexia raised an eyebrow. “Then why do I hear you giggling at 2 a.m.?”

“It’s not like that.”

Alexia nodded solemnly. “Claro. Of course. Not like that. You just want to learn British slang and suddenly drink tea at five.” (Clear)

Jana groaned. “You’re worse than Vicky.”

“Vicky thinks she’s going to be the flower girl.”

Back at Chelsea training, Niamh casually tossed a ball toward Aggie. “You seeing her this weekend?”

Aggie blinked. “What?”

“She’s coming to London, yeah?”

“How do you know?”

“Beyoncé concert. Her and Alexia.”

Aggie almost choked. “How you’d know?”

Niamh winked. “I saw your texts! Better get that hair sorted, Beever-Jones.”

It was raining in Barcelona and Jana was holed up in the recovery room scrolling through her messages when Alexia walked in, soaking wet and holding two coffees.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just handed one cup over and sat down across from her like a therapist about to begin the session.

Jana raised an eyebrow. “Gracias… pero why are you staring at me like that?”

Alexia sipped. “No digo nada… todavía.” (I'm not saying anything... yet.)

“Ale…”

Alexia smirked. “Okay, okay. Just one thing. You watch that clip of her goal how many times now?”

Jana flushed. “Once.”

“Please. You’re watching it like it’s a romantic drama.”

“It was a good goal.”

“She almost tripped during the celebration.”

“I found it charming.”

Alexia sighed. “Ay Dios… estás perdida.” (Oh God... you're lost.)

Jana buried her face in her hoodie.

Alexia continued: “You know… this is what happens when you watch too much British TikTok. You start liking girls who say ‘innit’ and call crisps ‘chips’.”

Jana peeked up. “You think it’s a bad idea?”

Alexia sat with it for a moment. “No… no es mala idea. But it is… complicated.”

Jana nodded slowly.

“She’s far. Different league. You’ll get busy. She’ll get busier. People talk.”

“I know.”

Alexia stared at her, serious now. “But… if she makes you feel safe… and seen… entonces vale la pena.” (then it's worth it.)

Jana blinked. “That was almost tender.”

Alexia shrugged. “I can do sentiment when required.”

Then, softer: “Just don’t lose yourself, ¿vale? You have a big heart. Make sure she deserves it.”

Jana exhaled. “Gracias, Ale.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Wait until I scare her at the Beyoncé concert.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Soy hermana. Es mi trabajo.” (I'm a sister. It's my job.)

Later that evening, Jana sat by the window, texting.

Jana:

If I bring you to a Beyoncé concert, would you survive?

Aggie:

Only if I’m sitting next to you.

Jana:

That’s negotiable.

Aggie:

Then I’m bringing binoculars.

Jana:

Why?

Aggie:

To study Catalan cheekbones in their natural habitat.

Jana smiled, heart warm and full of dread.

The official reason for the London trip was the Beyoncé concert.

The unofficial reason was Aggie.

Jana hadn’t said it aloud, but Alexia knew. She wasn’t born yesterday. She’d seen Jana put on lip balm three times at the airport and switch hoodies at the last minute because “this one feels more… me.”

Suspicious.

They landed at Heathrow on a gray afternoon. A black car picked them up. Alexia played DJ, putting on a mix of Rosalia and Bey. Jana stared out the window, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve.

“You nervous?” Alexia asked, glancing at her.

Jana blinked. “For the concert?”

Alexia raised an eyebrow. “Sure. For the concert.”

“Shut up.”

“I said nothing.”

“You said everything.”

They checked into their AirBNB that Jana insisted on - with two separate rooms. Jana asked a passerby in the hallway as they were about to open the door to their accommodation, if there was a “good café nearby that might have Wi-Fi and no paparazzi.”

Alexia didn’t comment.

Yet.

Later that evening, they arrived at Tottenham Hotspur Stadium, surrounded by tens of thousands of glittering people. Sequins, boots, rhinestones. A glittered-up universe.

They were both decked in Cowboy-inspired outfits.

They made it to their VIP row just as the lights dimmed.

And there, just across the section, was Aggie.

In a leather jacket. Hair braided loosely. Standing next to Niamh Charles.

She spotted Jana instantly. Her smile was immediate. Like she’d been waiting for this moment.

Jana waved, soft and awkward.

Alexia leaned over. “Vaya… Look who’s also a Beyhive member.”

Jana pretended not to hear her.

Midway through Love On Top, Aggie texted:

Aggie:

This song is about you, you know.

Jana:

You’re not even subtle.

Aggie:

You love it.

Jana:

Maybe.

Aggie:

Wanna meet after?

Jana hesitated. Then looked over at Alexia.

“Ale… voy a ver a Aggie un rato después, ¿vale?” (…I'm going to see Aggie a little later, okay?)

Alexia didn’t even flinch. “Claro. But if she breaks your heart… Beyoncé will hear about it.”

“You’ll tell her yourself?”

“She follows me on Instagram.”

“No she doesn’t.”

Alexia sipped her overpriced bottled water. “Not yet.”

After the final encore, the stadium slowly emptied.

Jana met Aggie outside by a pretzel stand. Their eyes met and it was… soft. Familiar. Charged.

“You looked very focused during ‘Partition,’” Aggie teased.

Jana rolled her eyes. “And you? Scream-singing ‘Alien Superstar’? Interesting choice.”

Aggie stepped a little closer. “Only because you were standing there looking like you were in a music video.”

“I was just watching the show.”

“You are the show.”

Jana blushed. “Shut up.”

Aggie offered her a bite of her pretzel. “We’ve crossed into something, haven’t we?”

Jana nodded. “And we’re not pretending anymore.”

The next morning, the rain had returned.

Gray, soft, romantic—the kind of drizzle that made the city look cinematic.

Jana stood outside a small café in Soho, tugging her hoodie over her ponytail. She texted one word.

Jana:

Aquí.

Aggie replied instantly.

Aggie:

Coming.

Three minutes later, Aggie jogged up the pavement in an oversized coat and Doc Martens, her fringe curling at the edges from the rain. She looked like a music video you didn’t mean to fall into.

They hugged.

It wasn’t long.

But it was long enough.

They ducked into the café, ordered two flat whites, and claimed a quiet corner. Aggie sat across from Jana and smiled like she already knew the ending to a story they were both still writing.

“So,” Aggie said, hands wrapped around her cup. “You’re in London for… Beyoncé? Any other purpose?”

Jana ignored Aggie’s latter question, raised an eyebrow. “It’s Bey”

“I live here.”

“And?”

Aggie grinned. “And here I thought you missed me, you want to see me.”

Jana looked down at her cup. “Tal vez.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Maybe.”

Aggie leaned forward, a little softer now. “You always switch languages when you’re being honest.”

“Me gusta tener secretos.”

Aggie tilted her head. “You like having secrets?”

Jana met her eyes. “I like when they’re shared.”

Outside, the rain picked up.

Inside, their knees touched under the table.

They talked about football, upcoming matches, Kika’s latest TikTok disaster, and how Vicky López had once told the Spanish media that Aggie looked like a “bad decision in boots.”

Aggie was still laughing about that. “Tell her I said thanks.”

“I will,” Jana said. “She thinks you’re trouble.”

“I am.”

Jana smiled. “I know.”

Two hours later, they walked in silence down the narrow streets of Soho, sharing Aggie’s umbrella. Their arms brushed. Aggie didn’t pull away.

“You know,” Aggie said, voice low, “this feels like something.”

“It is.”

“But it’s complicated.”

“I know.”

Aggie looked up at her. “You still want it?”

Jana hesitated. “Tengo ganas.”

Aggie paused. “That’s the word again. What’s it mean?”

Jana looked at her gently. “It means… I want.”

Aggie’s breath hitched.

And then, just as the rain slowed, she leaned in.

They didn’t kiss—not yet.

But their foreheads touched.

And that was somehow louder.

Back at their accomodation, Alexia opened the door to find Jana quietly slipping off her shoes.

“Y bien?” she asked without looking up from her phone.

Jana shrugged, face carefully neutral. “Solo café.”

Alexia raised an eyebrow. “Sure. Just coffee. That’s why you’re glowing.”

Jana muttered, “Ale…”

Alexia nodded. “Okay. No judgement. But please—usa protección.” (…use protection.)

Jana blinked. “What?”

Alexia pointed at her phone. “From gossip.”

Jana threw a pillow at her.

The night before Jana flew back to Barcelona, they met again.

No cameras. No teammates. No pretzels or concerts.

Just them. Quiet. Unrushed.

Aggie’s flat in London wasn’t massive, but it was warm. The kind of place where the heater ticked and the couch was too small to sit on without knees touching.

Jana sat curled up in the corner of it, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. Aggie brought tea—proper English tea—and plopped beside her, legs folding like she’d done this a hundred times.

“You drink this every day?” Jana asked, taking a sip.

Aggie grinned. “Religiously.”

“It’s aggressive.”

“You’re just soft.”

“I’m Catalan. We prefer wine.”

“Classy.”

“You prefer this?”

Aggie took the mug from her hand and stole a sip. “Only if you’re drinking it too.”

Jana blinked. “That was kind of cheesy.”

“I’m trying here.”

“It’s working.”

Silence stretched, soft and full.

Aggie turned toward her. “I meant it… you know. When I said it felt like something.”

Jana nodded. “It does.”

“But we’re not in the same city. Not even in the same league.”

“I know.”

“And we’re both—what—twenty? Twenty-one?”

“Twenty-three.”

Aggie smiled. “You’re old.”

“Respect your elders.”

They both laughed.

And then, slowly, the air shifted.

Jana looked down at her hands. “Tengo ganas de ti.”

Aggie blinked. “That word again. Ganas.”

Jana nodded. “It’s hard to translate. But it’s like… longing. Craving. Wanting something in a way that’s not just physical. Like your soul wants it.”

Aggie was very still. “You have that… for me?”

Jana didn’t hesitate. “Sí.”

Aggie’s breath hitched.

And then she kissed her.

Finally.

It wasn’t rushed.

It wasn’t fireworks.

It was real.

Soft lips. A hand on a cheek. A pause that said I’ve been waiting for this, and a smile that answered me too.

When they pulled apart, Aggie whispered, “You taste like overpriced English tea.”

“You kiss like a footballer.”

“Strong?”

Jana smiled. “Precise.”

They didn’t talk about what it meant.

Not yet.

But when Jana left the next morning, Aggie walked her to the car.

And as Jana buckled her seatbelt, Aggie pressed her hand through the open window and said: “Let me know when you want to come back.”

Jana nodded. “Siempre tengo ganas.” (I always feel like it.)

There were no official declarations.

No Instagram hard-launch. No “us” photo with matching captions. No post-win kiss on the cheek broadcast to millions.

Just:

A playlist Jana made and sent over WhatsApp titled “Soft like you”.

A blurry selfie from Aggie’s couch with a caption that read “still cold but she made tea.”

An inside joke that Alexia didn’t understand but side-eyed anyway.

It was slow. Soft. Ongoing.

Poco a poco.

After the London trip, they fell into rhythm.

Morning DMs. Evening FaceTimes. Voice notes full of silence and city sounds—Barcelona rain on Jana’s window, London traffic outside Aggie’s gym.

Jana went back to defending with even sharper focus.

Aggie scored twice in the WSL and pointed vaguely to the crowd—something only Jana understood.

Alexia, of course, understood everything.

“Estás enamorada,” she told her one day in training, voice dry. “Completely.” (You are in love.)

“No digas eso,” Jana muttered, cheeks pink. (Don’t say that.)

“Don’t worry,” Alexia said, patting her on the head. “You’re just becoming British. Soon you’ll wear bucket hats and eat beans for breakfast.”

Jana deadpanned, “Nunca.” (Never.)

Bruna visited Barcelona during her Brighton break.

They sat on the rooftop, sharing sunflower seeds and watching the sky turn pink.

“So?” Bruna asked.

“So…”

Bruna grinned. “You’re happy.”

“I’m… working on it.”

“She’s part of that?”

“Sí.”

Bruna bumped her shoulder. “Then don’t overthink it. Let her be soft with you.”

One day, during an early morning call, Aggie asked:

“Do you think this will… last?”

Jana thought for a long moment.

Then answered honestly.

“Not if we rush.”

Aggie nodded. “So we don’t rush.”

“Poco a poco.”

“Together?”

“Sí.”

Aggie smiled. “Say it again. That phrase.”

Jana did.

Aggie recorded it.

They still hadn’t defined anything.

Aggie called it “slow-burn international chaos.”

Jana called it ‘lo que me hace sentir tranquila.’ (what makes me feel calm…)

But every time Aggie texted “vale,” and every time Jana replied “on my way,” something grew between them.

Something honest.

Something whole.

And in every language, it meant the same thing.

Fast forward to a few months of whatever they called their relationship, it had been a strange season.

Busy. Electric. A little bit lonely.

They hadn’t said “girlfriend,” not exactly, but Jana and Aggie had slipped into something steady—messages every morning, calls every night, Spotify playlists shared like love notes. They never rushed. Never forced the label.

Until now.

Jana was sprawled on her sofa in sweatpants, rewatching match tape with a spoonful of almond butter in one hand when she heard the doorbell.

She wasn’t expecting anyone. Alexia had gone to Madrid with her partner Olga, Ona was visiting Lucy in London, and Bruna was back in Brighton.

She opened the door.

And nearly dropped the spoon.

“Hi,” Aggie said, grinning under the hood of her coat, slightly breathless from hauling a suitcase through El Born’s cobbled streets.

“Aggie—” Jana blinked. “¿Qué… cómo estás aquí?” (What… how are you here?)

Aggie shrugged. “Wanted to see you. It’s Valentine’s. And… your birthday’s close. Felt like good excuses.”

Jana just stared.

“I brought snacks,” Aggie added, lifting a tote bag.

Jana pulled her inside and kissed her senseless.

They spent the day wandering through the Gothic Quarter, trading kisses near murals and churros under napkins. Aggie refused to tell Jana what the plan was, only insisting, “Wear something that makes you feel unfairly attractive.”

Jana obliged.

At 7:30 PM, a car picked them up and drove them along the shimmering curve of the coastline, finally stopping outside a Michelin-starred restaurant with subtle lighting and panoramic sea views.

Jana blinked. “This is… expensive.”

“You’re worth it,” Aggie said, completely serious.

Jana rolled her eyes to hide the blush. “British girls and their dramatics.”

Inside, they ate - slow. Talked softer.

Wine glasses clinked. Dishes with foam and edible flowers made them giggle. Between courses, Aggie held her hand under the table.

“You planned all this?” Jana asked, eyes warm.

Aggie nodded. “And more.”

After dinner, the car took them to the W Hotel. Towering. Glass. Ocean glitter below.

“I wanted you to feel spoiled,” Aggie whispered as the elevator ascended. “You always work so hard. Always carry everything.”

The suite was breathtaking—floor-to-ceiling windows, ocean beyond, soft lights and even softer sheets.

Jana turned to her. “You did all this… for me?”

Aggie stepped closer, brushed a curl from her cheek. “Not just for you.”

Jana’s breath hitched.

Aggie held her gaze. “For us.”

A pause.

Then: “I want this to be real, Jana. Official. Not just playlists and stolen weekends.”

Jana starred. “You mean…?”

“I want to be with you,” Aggie said. “Fully. I’m falling in love with you.”

The world tilted. Not in a dizzy way—but like something clicking into place.

Jana exhaled. “Yo también.” (Me too.)

And then she kissed her again—no more holding back.

That night.

They moved together like people who had memorized each other from afar and were finally free to touch the real thing.

Lips. Hands. Mouths speaking things that didn’t need words.

Clothes fell to the floor. Breaths turned ragged.

The night was ocean-lit and quiet, save for whispered yeses and te quiero, over and over, until everything disappeared but skin and safety and something dangerously close to forever.

The morning after.

The light was blue and slow.

Jana stirred, tangled in sheets, her leg wrapped over Aggie’s. They were quiet, lazy, kisses trailing from shoulders to spines, laughter buried in skin.

Aggie pressed a kiss to her collarbone. “You’re insatiable.”

Jana smiled against her neck. “You started it.”

“I regret nothing.”

“Liar.”

They were about to go for round three when Jana’s phone buzzed violently on the nightstand.

She groaned. “Ignore it.”

It kept buzzing.

Then dinging.

Then buzzing again.

Aggie reached over. “Do you always get this many messages at 8 AM?”

Jana frowned, grabbed her phone, and unlocked it.

There were 37 new messages from a group chat titled:

💥Las Reinas del Caos (ft. Ale)💥(The Queens of Chaos…)

Alexia:

¿Estás viva? No ha posteado en 48 horas. Alarmante. (Are you alive? You hadn’t posted in 48 hours. Alarming.)

Send SOS if you’ve been kidnapped by the Chelsea girl.

Ona:

At this point, I’d believe it.

Vicky:

Pics or it didn’t happen. Also: is she good at kissing? Asking for science.

Kika:

Check in or we’re calling your abuela.

Patri:

Someone call the Mossos.

Then Vicky did the unthinkable.

Vicky started a group video call.

Jana panicked. Her thumb slipped as she meant to hit decline—

—and accidentally hit accept.

The screen lit up.

Five faces.

Alexia. Vicky. Ona. Patri. Kika.

Staring.

All at once.

Staring at Jana mid-orgasm.

Or, to be fair, post-orgasm but definitely still flushed, topless, and with Aggie’s hand visibly in frame.

“OH MY GOD—” Jana shrieked.

Aggie yelped and dove for the blanket.

Alexia blinked. “Bueno…” she said, eyebrows high.

Vicky howled. “¡lo sabía!” (I knew it!)

Ona cackled. “Look at her. Can’t even lie now.”

Patri sipped tea from an invisible cup. “Esto es lo más emocionante que he visto en toda la temporada.” (This is the most exciting thing I've seen all season.)

Kika: “Wait, did we interrupt the ‘ganas’ thing again?”

Jana fumbled the phone, finally ending the call.

Silence.

Aggie buried her face in the pillow. “I want to die.”

Jana lay beside her, staring at the ceiling.

Then: “At least now they’ll stop asking.”

Aggie turned her head. “You okay?”

Jana nodded, breathless. “Yeah. They know.”

Aggie smiled. “You sure?”

Jana leaned in and kissed her. “I’m sure.”

—————————————————————

THE END.

For now.

[arabella-syntax]

You go to your cousins wedding in Spain, and you catch the eye of the Alexia Putellas, she unintentionally becomes your plus one

Wordcount: 12.6k

You're standing in the queue at Heathrow, passport in hand, half-asleep and already regretting the jeans you chose. It’s too early to be alive, and your little brother has been humming the same four bars of a song for the past ten minutes. Loudly off-key.

Your mum's elbow nudges you in the ribs. Not hard, but enough to knock you out of your daze.

“This’ll do you good,” she says in that gently smug way she does when she’s convinced she’s right about something. “A bit of sunshine. A bit of space.”

You sigh and don’t reply, you know exactly what she’s getting at. She doesn't mention her name, your ex, but the meaning is clear. A change of scenery, to get you out of your 'mood.' As if Catalonian air can magic away the sting of being ghosted by someone you thought you were building something with.

You blink down at your boarding pass. Terminal 5. Gate B42. Barcelona.

“She wasn’t right for you anyway,” your mum continues, adjusting her sunglasses on top of her head. “Always seemed a bit… slippery, that one. Eyes like a fox.”

“Mum,” you say, through gritted teeth.

“What? I’m just saying. Bit of flirt, wasn’t she?”

“She literally met you twice.”

“Exactly.”

Your dad, mercifully, steps in before the conversation spirals into a psychoanalysis of your entire romantic history.

“Let’s not start the holiday with an inquisition, yeah?” he says, dragging your youngest brother out from behind a pillar where he’s been attempting to lick the marble for reasons unknown.

You glance around at your family two younger brothers already wrestling each other, your dad with travel pillow marks on his face, your mum clutching everyone's passports like the Queen of Organisation and you, heart slightly bruised, clothes slightly rumpled, off to a Spanish wedding that promises at least one full-blown breakdown yours or your cousin’s fiancé, you’re not sure yet.

Carmen is a professional footballer, espresso snob, and absolute beast at board games has been around for years. From the moment your cousin Ben introduced her at that bonfire party, you liked her. She’s sharp, a bit sarcastic, and surprisingly sweet when no one’s looking. You’ve had your fair share of deep chats with her during family holidays, usually while Ben’s off being loud somewhere nearby with your brothers and his own.

You’d even go as far as to call her a friend now one of the good ones. The kind of person who sends you memes at 2am and somehow remembers your favourite wine. You’ve never watched her play football, though. You always promised you would, and she always shrugged and said she understood you didn't get the appeal.

Apparently, several of Carmen’s teammates are flying in for the wedding. Some big names, your brothers are already buzzing about maybe meeting actual professional athletes. You couldn’t care less.

Well. That’s what you tell yourself, but somewhere in the back of your mind, curiosity stirs you've seen the players they've been showing your mum they hope go because they have questions they want to ask.

As the plane begins boarding, your mum gives your arm a little squeeze. “You’re going to have fun, love. You’ll see.”

You nod, but you’re not so sure. You’re jetting off to a country where you can only ask where the library is, to watch someone else marry a woman of his dreams after a lengthy relationship while yours just fell apart.

Still, the thought of warm air, Carmen’s familiar face, and a weekend away from everything you know? That has a certain appeal.

Maybe you’ll flirt badly with a local waitress. Maybe you’ll dance with a stranger. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll learn to say something more useful in Spanish than 'Dónde está la biblioteca?'

You file onto the plane with your family, shuffle into your seat, and try not to think too hard, your ear phones go in and you edit some posts and reels for your instagram account.

☀️

You’re sat by the pool, legs crossed, laptop in front of you more for show than function. You told yourself you’d catch up on a few things before the garden party tonight, maybe answer some emails, but the screen’s been idle for ages. The cursor just blinks, smugly, while your brain drifts off somewhere warmer than home but not quite relaxed either.

Your jumper lies in a crumpled heap behind you, abandoned the second you stepped into the sun. It’s still got the faint scent of Heathrow on it, rain, recycled air, something sterile. At 4:30 this morning, it had felt like a good decision, now, sitting under a Mediterranean sky in a soft cotton co-ord bralette the same pale grey-blue as your joggers and jumper you feel more put together than you intended.

The pool in front of you glitters in the heat, somewhere beyond the villa walls, a lawn mower hums faintly. Inside, you can hear your mum trying to figure out the coffee machine, and the boys are already arguing over who’s getting top bunk in the guest house.

Then a shadow falls across your laptop.

You look up.

“Hola, guapa.” Carmen smiles down at you, barefoot, sun kissed, effortlessly relaxed. She’s wearing a loose white shirt tied at the waist and denim shorts that somehow make her look like a travel ad. Her hair is up in a knot and there’s a soft flush to her cheeks, sun or excitement, you’re not sure which.

You return the smile and reach up as she leans down for a hug, the kind that lingers just a second longer than polite. Familiar, warm. She's always hugged like she means it.

“Hey,” you say, settling back again. “You ready?”

She sits on the edge of the lounger next to you, dragging a towel across her lap like she might actually get in the water but never does, “I’m nervous,” she admits, shielding her eyes from the sun. “But I just want it to happen already, you know? Then also... I want everything to slow down. Like, I want to bottle this part.”

You nod, understanding more than you expected to. “Yeah. You’ve waited ages for this.”

“Nineteen months,” she says, pulling a face. “Ben’s been counting like he’s on parole.”

You laugh softly. “It’ll all be perfect. You two are kind of annoyingly great together.”

Carmen tilts her head. “You think so?”

“Yeah,” you say honestly. “You’re weird in exactly the same ways. It works.”

She lets out a breath and smiles again, this time softer. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

You mean it, too. Whatever’s been clinging to you since the breakup, the weird quietness you carry around like a second skin, it feels lighter here. Carmen has always been easy to talk to, the kind of person who doesn’t need you to be funny or impressive. She just gets it and you like her for that.

“There’s a garden thing tonight,” she says, standing and brushing invisible specks of dust off her knees. “Family and friends. Chill drinks, some food. Nothing fancy, but come down, yeah? Everyone’s arriving.”

You blink up at her, briefly thrown. “What, like... everyone everyone?”

“Not all at once,” she grins. “But enough. My parents, your gran, Ben’s work mates, some of my teammates and friends... it’ll be good vibes. You might even enjoy yourself.”

You groan lightly and flop back onto the lounger. “I’ll come if I can wear something that doesn’t involve a bra.”

“Totally allowed,” she calls over her shoulder, already walking away. “It’s Spain. No one cares.”

You watch her disappear through the French doors and then glance back at your screen. You close the laptop.

You lean back, eyes closed, face to the sky, the breeze carries the scent of jasmine and the sound of familiar voices starting to gather, you just hoped you had an outfit you liked yourself in for tonight

☀️

The villa’s garden is bathed in early evening light, all golden edges and long shadows. Lanterns sway gently between olive trees, and fairy lights snake along the trellises like fireflies caught in ivy. The air is warm, sweet with something citrusy, and the music is low just enough to make people sway slightly as they talk.

You’re holding a glass of white wine and trying not to wobble in your heels on the uneven stone path. The dress you threw on soft blue with little embroidered daisies moves just enough when you walk to make you feel like you made the right choice. You’ve even got mascara on, minimal effort, but effort was made.

You spot Carmen deep in conversation near the buffet, her hands moving animatedly. Ben’s nearby, already slightly tipsy and laughing with his best mate. There’s an easy glow to everything, like this moment might belong in someone’s memory forever.

You wander a little, sipping your wine, exchanging polite hellos with people you half-recognise from photos. Some of them are Carmen's family, some are her friends. Some are very clearly footballers, you’re not sure which is more intimidating the ones who look like they bench-press you for breakfast, or the ones who are stunning in a terrifying, should be model kind of way.

Then someone taps your arm. “Hey! There you are.”

You turn and grin immediately. “Patri!”

Patri Guijarro pulls you into a hug, warm and soft. She’s in a flowy dress and trainers, and somehow still looks like she could outrun everyone here. You’d met her on the English hen do a couple of months ago, after a lot of prosecco and an aggressively chaotic karaoke session. She was surprisingly funny, soft-spoken, and spent half the night teasing Carmen lovingly in Spanish you didn’t understand.

“You look good,” she says, in accented but clear English.

“You too,” you reply. “I almost didn’t recognise you without a disco ball behind your head.”

She laughs. “That club was scary.”

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m still recovering emotionally.”

You drift into easy conversation, she asks about your flight, your family, your job and you ask about training, the wedding prep you knew she'd been heavily involved in, how Carmen’s been holding up. It’s the kind of chat that soothes your nervous system, friendly, just what you needed.

Your eyes wander absently across the garden, and pause and there she is. Leaning against the low stone wall, just beyond the lanterns talking to someone, holding a drink, dressed in something simple and sleeveless. Her hair’s tied up in a lazy knot, and there’s a single gold chain around her neck catching the last of the light.

She looks over, it’s not dramatic, it’s not slow motion, no string quartet starts playing but she meets your eyes like really meets them and you smile. Purely instinctively, the polite kind polished, low-stakes, casual.

She doesn’t smile back exactly but she doesn’t look away either.

There’s a beat too long that passes and you start to wonder if you’re supposed to say something. Raise your glass? Nod? Then she looks away, quickly, like someone just called her name.

You blink, flustered. Not visibly, but enough that your chest flickers like someone lit a match inside it. You glance at Patri, who’s still talking, oblivious. You nod along, try to focus, but your eyes drift back to the stone wall.

Alexia is still there, only now she’s half-turned, back toward you, someone’s laughing beside her. She’s not looking your way, but something about her shoulders, the slight stiffness, makes you wonder. Did she actually blush or was it just the heat and your imagination.

☀️

You're sat at a long wooden table under the vines, plates scattered with half-eaten tapas patatas bravas, olives, jamón, little toasted things you can’t pronounce but keep eating anyway. Your youngest brother is trying to stack anchovy tins, your dad’s telling a story you’ve already heard twice today, and the wine is just beginning to buzz behind your eyes in that soft, slow way that makes everything feel slightly tilted and golden.

You’re halfway through a garlic prawn when someone crouches beside you, lightly pressing a hand to your arm.

It’s Carmen. “Hey,” she says, voice just for you, eyes dancing a little. “Alexia just asked me about you.”

You pause mid-chew, swallow and sip your wine. “Who’s Alexia?” you ask casually, glancing at her over the rim of your glass.

Carmen’s eyebrows lift like she’s caught you in a lie. “You don’t know who Alexia is?”

You shake your head. “I don’t follow women’s football. I barely watch your team.”

She snorts. “You’re the only person at this wedding who doesn’t know her name. That’s kind of amazing.”

You raise an eyebrow, half amused. “Is that a good thing?”

“It might be,” she says, smirking.

Then she tilts her head, just slightly, and gestures subtle, practiced. Her fingers barely move, but your eyes follow the motion across the garden and there she is. Gold chain, sleeveless dress, that same loose knot in her hair. She’s standing by the drinks table now, laughing softly at something someone said, a glass of red wine in hand. The twilight’s catching on her collarbones, her expression is relaxed but not careless like someone used to being watched but never quite performing.

“That’s Alexia,” Carmen murmurs. You try not to stare, so you look back at Carmen instead, Carmen grins. “She noticed you before.”

You make a noncommittal sound and jab your fork at a tomato, trying not to overthink whatever it is you're feeling.

“She asked if you spoke Spanish,” Carmen adds, watching you closely now. “Said you looked pretty in that dress”

You scoff, “Clearly this dress is doing more for me than I realised.”

Carmen nudges your knee with hers. “Don’t act cool. She never asks about people. Ever.”

You glance across the garden again.

Alexia’s not looking she’s talking to a group, but her body’s turned slightly in your direction like she’s ready to glance at any second. “She doesn’t speak great English,” Carmen adds.

“Perfect,” you say. “Neither do I when I’ve had wine.”

Carmen laughs and squeezes your shoulder before standing. “You’re going to talk to her later.”

“I’m really not.”

“You are,” she says over her shoulder. “She’s already asked your name.”

You blink down at your wine glass, then glance back at Alexia, who, as if summoned, briefly lifts her eyes again and catches yours.

Just for a second and this time, you’re sure, she blushes or maybe it’s the wine. You've had too much wine yourself to be sure you decide.

☀️

You’re walking past the lower terrace with a family friend, Sarah, one of your aunt's old uni mates, who’s halfway through telling you about her latest yoga retreat in Lisbon when you hear your name float across the garden.

“Hey!” Carmen’s voice, light but deliberate.

You turn instinctively. She’s seated at a low table with a small group, mostly women tall, tanned, athletic, all with that relaxed energy that makes you suddenly aware of how you're walking. Her arm lifts, hand up in a beckoning wave, fingers curled in a ‘come here’ gesture that gives you no real choice.

“Sorry,” you murmur to Sarah. “The bride beckons”

Carmen’s already smiling as you approach, her eyes a little too pleased with themselves. “Sit,” she says, standing just long enough to take your hand and pull you gently down next to her, casual, in that way she gets when she’s playing matchmaker. However this time instead of you watching amused, you were the target. You’re suddenly very aware of how close you are to every woman around the small table.

Carmen doesn’t give you time to panic. “Patri, you remember Y/N from my hen do right.”

You smile, already knowing exactly where this is going. You glance at Patri, who’s mid-laugh, holding a beer with her elbow resting on the back of her chair. "Yeah, we caught up before"

You catch Carmen looking at someone over your shoulder, her eyes flicking but before you can glance around, she clears her throat.

“Oh,” she says, like it just occurred to her. “Have you met Alexia?”

You turn and there she is, right next to you. You hadn't realised, somehow she’d been quiet, watching or maybe just letting the noise happen around her. Her gaze meets yours with that same unreadable softness from earlier. Up close, her features are sharper than you expected. Her hand rests casually on the stem of her wine glass, and there's a faint glow to her skin from the last of the sun.

You blink, caught slightly off guard, “I haven’t,” you manage. “Hi.”

She gives the tiniest nod, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Hola.”

It’s a little awkward but not bad. Just aware of the slight language delay. The kind that makes you both overthink what comes next.

Carmen leans into you like a mischievous translator. “She understands more than she speaks,” she says. “Just don’t talk too fast.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” you reply, smiling, still half-facing Alexia.

Carmen leans in again, lowering her voice just enough to make it clear it’s for you alone. “So…” she begins, a teasing lilt already blooming in her tone. “Where’s your plus one? Don’t tell me you left Lily behind in rainy England.”

You blink, it’s not the question that catches you off guard, it’s the fact she doesn’t already know. You shift slightly, wine glass pausing just below your lips. “We, uh…” You glance at Alexia beside you instinctively, as if the answer might be written somewhere on her arm. “We’re not… seeing each other anymore.”

Carmen pulls a face, not a shocked one more like a satisfied shrug. “Oh.” Then, casually, “I never liked her.”

You let out a quiet laugh, caught somewhere between exasperation and relief. “Jesus, Carm. Bit late with that opinion.”

“I didn’t want to start something.” She shrugs again, unapologetic. “But she always made you smaller, like you were waiting to be approved or something.”

You glance down, tracing a condensation ring on the table with your thumb. It’s not untrue, you just didn’t realise how visible it had been “I'm honestly surprised you didn’t hear already,” you say. “Thought the family gossip network had international coverage by now.”

Carmen smirks, tilting her head. “I’ve been in wedding tunnel vision. No one tells the bride anything useful.”

There’s a pause not awkward, but still. You feel it settle in your chest a little, the quiet that comes after a name you’re not saying anymore. You catch Alexia shifting slightly beside you, as if she’s listening without meaning to.

“She wasn’t coming anyway,” you add, more to fill the silence than to explain yourself. “She made that clear before I even booked flights.”

Carmen’s smile softens. “Well, her loss.”

You glance up at her, smiling faintly picking at a piece of manchego when Patri leans forward, elbows resting on the table, and fixes you with a look that’s gentle but completely unreadable.

“So,” she says, a little softer than before. “What happened?”

You don’t pretend not to understand. You could, you could laugh it off or wave your hand like it’s all ancient history, but the way she says it makes it easier to answer. You exhale slowly, watching the wine in your glass catch the light, “She just…” You pause, tongue pressing against the inside of your cheek. “Didn’t really see me. I think she liked the idea of me, the version she imagined but not the actual human.”

Patri nods slowly. She doesn’t interrupt.

“She had this… plan,” you continue. “Everything scheduled, future-proofed. Perfect on paper and I wasn’t always… I don’t know. On script enough for her.”

You glance up, and Alexia is listening now openly, seeing Alexia watching you with that quiet focus sends a flicker of heat up your neck.

“I kept giving in to keep the peace,” you add. “And then one day I realised I didn’t even like the version of me she wanted and had create for herself.”

Patri doesn’t say anything for a beat, “That’s brave.”

You shrug. “Felt more like falling off a ledge than bravery.”

“Still,” she says, “you didn’t stay small.”

You smile faintly. “No. Just single.”

That gets a laugh, even Alexia lets out a breath of amusement soft, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to. She leans forward then, just slightly, not enough to take over the conversation, but enough to join it.

“How long… ago?” she asks, the rhythm of her words careful, eyes flicking toward Carmen for reassurance.

You tilt your head thoughtfully. “Couple of weeks? Not long about 6 weeks.”

Alexia nods slowly, like she’s translating your answer into something she can sit with. “Still… hurts.”

It’s not a question, it’s not even sympathy, just understanding. “Less than it used to,” you say honestly. “Still catches me sometimes, though.”

You’re just about to deflect the conversation change the subject, maybe make a joke when Carmen, never one to leave a moment alone, leans in with a shake of her head and a glass of wine raised in something far from a toast.

“She got what she wanted,” she says sharply. “The exposure. The followers. She’s riding that little clothing brand sponsor now like she got it on her own.”

The words land with a certain heat, not cruel, but cutting in their clarity. You blink, a little stunned. It’s one thing to think it to yourself, it’s another thing to hear it spoken aloud and learn others think it to.

There’s a short silence. Someone across from you, you think her names Mariona makes a low 'ooof' sound under her breath. Patri raises her eyebrows, even Alexia looks slightly caught off guard, like she’s trying to make sense of the bluntness.

“Wait,” one of the girls says a defender, you think, from Carmen’s club. “You’re an influencer right?”

Carmen doesn’t wait for you to answer. She turns, hand sweeping theatrically toward you like she’s introducing royalty. “She’s the influencer,” she says. “She’s modest. Very chic, very understated, but yeah she’s pretty well known back home. Go on" She turns back to you with a grin that dares you not to answer. “Tell them. Come on. How many followers?”

You laugh, looking down into your wine like it might offer an escape route. “Carmen…”

“May as well just say Alexia’s going to Google you later anyway.”

You look up slowly, cheeks warm, eyes catching on Alexia’s moving from you being caught in the cross fires, “Okay, fine,” you say, tone dry. “One point eight.”

“Million,” Carmen adds like she’s your manager. “On Instagram.”

There’s a collective little ripple around the table not dramatic, just a hum of impressed whistles, nods, raised brows. “Holy shit,” someone says. “What do you even do?”

You shrug, brushing it off. “Bit of fashion, bit of travel, some brand campaigns.”

“And the ex,” Carmen adds, never missing a beat, “was tagging along the whole time. Always conveniently in the background when the cameras were on.”

“Carmen,” you say gently.

She holds up her hands, mock-surrender. “Fine, I’ll stop, but I’m allowed to be mad. You were always too nice to say it, but she used you.”

You take a breath and let it sit, but you don't need to defend it, not anymore. “Well,” you murmur, lifting your glass again, “at least she looked good doing it. My lighting’s fantastic.”

That earns a wave of laughter, even Alexia laughs soft, behind her hand, but clearly amused.

She tilts her head slightly toward you. “I… follow now?” she says, a little uncertain, gesturing toward her phone.

You laugh, more genuinely this time. “If you like mirror selfies and badly subtitled skincare reels… sure.”

She smirks. “I like… mirrors.”

You make eye contact with her, trying not to snort into your wine.

Patri leans closer to Carmen and mutters something in Spanish you don’t catch, and they both giggle.

☀️

Later, when the sun has dipped low enough to leave the table in shadow, people start peeling away.

Carmen’s been pulled into a conversation about tomorrow’s seating chart. Patri's wandered off, still laughing with two teammates, a bottle of beer dangling from one hand. Music still playing low, something Spanish and slow, pulsing softly from a speaker tucked beneath a fig tree.

You and Alexia are still here, the last two on the table, like it was all orchestrated to leave you alone.

You’re both leaning back in your chairs, glasses half-full, watching the remaining flickers of gold light play across the garden. There’s a warmth to the air that isn’t quite heat anymore.

She shifts beside you, turns her head. “You… okay?” she asks.

You glance at her, surprised. “Yeah. Are you?”

She smiles faintly. “Sí. I mean…” She squints a little, searching for the words. “Not… ‘okay’ bad. I mean… you seem…” She gestures vaguely in the air, then gives up. “It’s hard. English is hard.”

You smile, letting your chin rest in your hand. “You’re doing fine. Better than my Spanish.”

“Your Spanish is… cute.”

You raise a brow. “Cute?”

Alexia shrugs, one shoulder up, smirking. “Like… baby goat. What’s the word—”

“Goat?”

“Sí,” she says with a laugh. “Little legs. Trying.”

You let out a helpless laugh, nearly choking on your wine. “Okay, rude.”

She leans toward you, not close enough to touch, but enough to let you see the glint in her eyes. “But funny. I like funny.”

There’s something bold in that, not flirtation, exactly, but honest and simple. You smile, slower this time. “Well… I like your necklace.”

Alexia glances down, fingers brushing the fine gold resting at her collarbone. “This? It’s nothing.”

“It’s nice,” you say. “Looks good on you.”

She tilts her head slightly, a question in her eyes. “You look… good. In your dress.”

You feel the blush rising before you can stop it. “Gracias,” you manage, awkwardly.

She smiles like she knows exactly how flustered you are and is being generous enough not to tease you about it. At the table, the tapas dishes are mostly empty now, half-melted ice cubes floating in the bottom of sangria glasses.

She’s still sitting across from you now, elbow on the table, chin propped in her hand, between you sits a shared plate of olives, a waitress had brought over.

You pick one up, chew slowly, then realise too late you’ve got the pit in your mouth and nowhere to put it. Your eyes dart toward the plate, then around the table, napkin? bowl? Earth to swallow you?

Alexia watches, blinking once. Then she gestures to her own empty glass. Taps the rim, tips it toward you slightly a signal.

You glance down at your wine glass, still with a finger of rosé clinging to the curve.

“Go on,” she says, and though the words are few, they land with an almost smug kind of confidence.

You delicately drop the pit into a glass. “I feel incredibly classy right now.”

She grins. “Very. Elegant.”

You laugh softly, covering your mouth. “You speak more English than you pretend to.”

She shrugs. “Only when… I want.”

You lift your brows, “So you don’t want to most of the time?”

She considers, eyes narrowing like she’s pretending to think. Then, very dryly “People talk too much sometimes.”

You let out a laugh. “Fair enough.”

She leans back slightly in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. Her fingers toy with the edge of the tablecloth as if she’s thinking of something but doesn’t know how to ask. “I… didn’t know who you were,” she says finally.

You smirk. “Same.”

“No football?”

“I knew you were someone,” you admit, “because of how people looked at you, but no, I didn’t know who you were.”

That makes her laugh soft, low, honest. “I like that.”

You glance sideways, picking at a grape. “Must be a relief, not being recognised.”

“Yes,” she says, then pauses, eyes flicking upward. “No. I don’t know. Is both.”

You nod. “Being seen’s not the same as being known.”

She points at you. “That. Yes. That one.” Alexia leans forward, elbow back on the table, “I try English,” she says. “Now. You laugh - not allowed.”

“I would never.” She raises a single brow. “…unless it’s really bad,” you add.

She gives you a look. “Okay. First try.”

You fold your arms dramatically. “I’m ready.”

She takes a breath, clearly building up to something. “You… have…” she squints, “very… calm face.”

That wasn’t what you were expecting. You blink. “Calm?” She nods, smiling a little, like she knows it didn’t land perfectly but still meant it. You tilt your head. “That might be the nicest weird compliment I’ve ever had.”

She nods again, more confident now. “Yes. Like… soft eyes. Not loud.”

You feel it then not the words, but the shape behind them and for a second, the language barrier stops mattering. You smile slowly, not breaking eye contact. “Thanks. You have nice eyes too.”

Alexia looks down, just briefly, brushes her hair behind her ear, the breeze picks up a little, curling along your bare shoulders. You shiver without meaning to, and before you can react, she picks up the light jacket from her lap and offers it over.

You hesitate, she gives you a look that says take it. You do and neither of you says anything else for a long time.

Alexia’s resting her elbows on the table again, chin in hand, watching you like you’re a puzzle she hasn’t quite decided whether to solve or just sit with.

“Be honest. Have you understood any of what I’ve said tonight?”

Alexia tilts her head. “Mmm… maybe thirty percent.”

You laugh. “That’s generous.”

She nods, serious. “Sí. I like your voice. Even when I don’t understand.”

That catches you, not dramatically, but enough that it lands somewhere a little too close to the centre of you. “Oh,” you say, unsure what to do with that. “Thanks. I like yours too. It’s very… Barcelona.”

She grins. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. A little rolled, a little confident. Sounds like you’re always saying something clever. Even if it’s not.”

Alexia laughs, pushing her hair behind her ear once again something you notice she does when she's obviously nervous. “I like when you talk with hands.”

You raise your brows. “I don’t—”

She mimics you instantly, hands fluttering up mid-sentence in mock frustration.

“Oh my God,” you groan, laughing. “I do that.”

“Like little bird,” she says, smirking.

“I’m gonna stop talking.”

“No, no,” she says quickly, shaking her head. “Please. Keep talking. I learn… you.”

You meet her eyes and there's a pause. It’s not flirtation, not yet. Just interest, bare, warm curiosity. You can feel it pressing gently between you like a question no one wants to phrase too directly.

So you give her something softer.

“Okay,” you say. “Lesson one.”

Alexia perks up, mimicking a classroom face. Hands folded neatly. “Sí, profesora.”

You resist the urge to laugh. “British slang. Ready?”

She nods.

“If someone’s being annoying, you call them a muppet.”

“Muppet?” she repeats, frowning. “Like the frog?”

“Exactly or the pig. All of them.”

She repeats it once more, slower. “Muppet.” Then points to herself, straight-faced. “Me?”

You grin. “Definitely not. You’re more of a menace.”

Alexia tilts her head. “That is good?”

You shrug, sipping your wine. “That depends”

She watches you for a second longer, eyes soft, almost amused. Then she leans back, stretching slightly, like she’s trying to shake something off. “Spanish slang tomorrow,” she says. “We trade.”

“Deal,” you reply, smiling. “But no football words.”

“No football,” she promises, then adds with a smirk “Maybe one. Small one.”

You roll your eyes. “Menace.”

She grins, the moment lingers light, uncertain, like something half-shaped and in the distance, someone calls your name, maybe your mum, maybe a cousin and just like that, the bubble breaks.

Alexia glances toward the sound, then back to you. “I go,” she says softly.

You nod, standing too. “Me too.”

For a moment, you both stand there facing each other, not quite sure how to part like the rhythm between you hasn't figured out its next beat yet.

So you just smile, “Good night, Alexia.”

“Buenas noches… muppet.”

You burst out laughing as she walks off, shaking your head, the warmth of it still buzzing in your chest.

☀️

The morning passes in a quiet, familiar rhythm your mother knocking softly on your bedroom door, your brothers bickering half-heartedly over hair gel and shirt buttons down the hallway. It’s all oddly soothing, being wrapped up in their noise again, since leaving the family home and moving out.

You sit cross legged on the floor with your mum, taking turns with the mirror propped up on a chair. She smooths a bit of colour onto her cheeks while you clip your hair up soft, elegant, a few loose strands left to frame your face.

Your dress is lilac, something easy and light. Strappy, with a flowing skirt and an open back that catches the breeze when you move. It’s not showy, but it feels like you.

Your dad sees you last. He blinks a bit too quickly and just says, “That’s a lovely colour, you look lovely sweetheart” like he’s trying not to ruin his own makeup with tears like mum was.

By the time you're all outside, the garden’s been transformed. White chairs lined in rows under the olive trees. Carmen’s teammates and friends milling about in tailored suits and dresses in soft summer tones, music trickling low through the speakers.

When the ceremony starts, it hits you harder than you expect watching Carmen come down the aisle, radiant and unshakable, Ben trying not to cry before she even reaches him. It’s the vows that really undo you. The way they speak to each other without flinching. No smoothing over, no shrinking, just love, in its purest form.

You feel the sting in your throat before you can stop it, blinking quickly as you dab beneath your lashes with a napkin someone hands you.

Afterwards, you’re handed a small cone of white and lilac petals. Everyone spills out toward the stone path that winds around the ceremony space, confetti station, Carmen called it. You take your place just near the front, adjusting your heels, trying not to get emotional all over again.

That’s when you feel it, just the lightest brush not a bump, not an accident a gentle nudge seemingly intentional. You glance sideways and she’s there. Alexia, standing beside you, calm and casual like she’s been there all morning.

Her dress is a kind of deep, metallic bronze sleeveless, backless, clinging like it was poured onto her. It catches the sunlight in all the right ways, like light wants to follow her. Her hair’s tucked up, makeup soft, but it’s the ink that draws your eyes.

Tattoos curl over her back in quiet lines and shapes, bold in some places, delicate in others. You catch a big cat, a few words you can’t translate, something that might be a heart. You have to look away before you stare too long.

She glances down at your cone of petals. then at your dress, “Same colour,” she murmurs.

You blink, startled slightly by the sound of her voice so close. You nod. “Lilac. Like fate.”

Alexia smiles. “Or good eyes.”

You look ahead, where the newlyweds are posing for photos, waiting for the cue. Everyone around you is laughing, distracted. You hum, adjusting your grip on your cone. “I like your dress”

She replies, “You… look happy today.”

That surprises you, you glance at her. “Do I?”

She nods. “Less heavy. Good colour for you, also.”

“Thanks.” You smile. “You’re still a menace.”

Alexia grins. “Cállate. Muppet”

You smile letting a breath out for a laugh lowering your head as you hear the photographer call out something in Spanish people raise their cones, laughter bubbling.

You lift yours too, side by side with her, ready to toss lilac into the air, her arm brushes yours, and neither of you move away. Just before the petals fly, Alexia glances sideways at you quiet, deliberate. “After confetti,” she murmurs, “maybe… drink?”

You smile, still watching the sky “Sure.”

The petals drift and fall like soft rain, laughter bubbling around you as Carmen and Ben duck under a storm of colour. You toss your handful a second too late, distracted her shoulder still pressed lightly against yours.

The applause begins to fade, the moment moving on, but Alexia doesn’t.

You glance to find her still beside you, hands now empty, her gold chain catching the sun.

“Drink” she says again, this time softer. No question mark, not quite, just an offering.

You nod before you think too hard about it. “Yes. Please.”

She takes a step back, lets you fall into step beside her without asking. You follow the curve of the garden path together, away from the crowd, past tables laid out with summer flowers and delicate wine glasses, toward the little outdoor bar tucked beside a stone wall draped in ivy.

The bartender smiles when Alexia steps forward. She orders in Spanish, clear and easy. You catch the word vermouth, and something that sounds like con hielo.

You blink at her. “Vermouth?”

She shrugs one shoulder. “My drink. Not sweet.”

You glance at the bar menu, half to avoid her eyes, half to stall. “Can I just get a rose wine?” you ask the bartender, more sheepishly than you mean to.

Alexia leans in a little. “Safe choice.”

“I usually get lemonade in it but I feel that would be bad here” you speak looking back in the direction you came you spot your mother watching and give her a look as Alexia is speaking Spanish to the bartender.

When you catch her saying, "Limonada" at the end, you turn your head back

“I ask, for you.” you give a look that she just smiles at, she picks a little umbrellas made for a cocktail off the bar and tucks into your hair making herself giggle as your drinks arrive. You both take them, then turn together like you’re following the same unspoken route. Not too far from the bar, just over to the low stone wall nearby, warm from the sun and shaded by a broad fig tree.

You sit side by side, not touching not speaking for a beat, both clearly both over thinking what to say, you take the little umbrella from your hair to inspect it, when Alexia gives you that look again that half-smirk, half-scheme expression that means she’s about to say something just to get a reaction.

“What?” you ask, wary but already smiling.

She shrugs, far too casually. “You.”

You blink. “What about me?”

“You’re such a muppet,” she says, sipping her vermouth.

You groan. “Seriously? You’re still on that?”

She nods. “It’s my best English word. Very strong. Very accurate.”

You laugh, helpless. “I should never have taught you anything.”

Alexia tilts her head thoughtfully. “Maybe. But now, I teach you.”

“Oh God.”

“No, no,” she insists, turning toward you, that gleam in her eye back again. “Is fair. You learn Spanish now.”

You set down your glass tucking your little umbrella in the glass. “Alright then. Impress me.”

She points to herself. “Yo.”

You nod. “I.”

Then she points to you. “Tú.”

“You.”

She smiles. “Very good. Now repeat.”

You go along with it. “Yo. Tú.”

She leans in a little, eyes glittering. Then she says it slower this time, like she wants to make sure it lands properly. “Tú eres muy guapa.”

You frown, trying to copy it. “Too eh-res... muy gwa-pa?”

She grins. “Perfect.”

“What does that mean?”

Alexia takes a sip of her drink, suddenly looking far too pleased with herself. “Not telling you.”

You blink. “What? Why?”

She shrugs. “Is more fun this way.”

You narrow your eyes at her. “Is it rude?”

“No.” Her voice is soft now, careful. “Is nice.” She’s watching you not just amused, but something quieter behind her gaze. Her dress catches the light, the curve of her tattoos like stories she’s letting you almost read.

“Is it a compliment?” you ask.

Alexia just raises her brows and repeats it again slower this time, “Tú eres muy guapa.”

You feel the words settle in your chest, even if you don’t understand them yet. There’s weight to them, a softness. “I’ll Google it,” you say eventually.

She smiles. “Not now.”

“No?”

“Later. When I’m not there.”

You study her, trying to read her without the help of a translation, but all you get is that familiar flutter, like something in you recognises that she's maybe flirting. You sip your wine again, trying not to smile too hard. “So what do I say back?”

Alexia taps her lip, pretending to think, then she leans closer, just enough to make you hold your breath. “Gracias,” she murmurs, voice low. “That’s all.”

You repeat it softly. “Gracias.”

She nods, eyes still on yours. “De nada.”

You sit there a moment longer in the quiet hum of the evening, in this small stretch of shade, it still feels like only you two are in existence.

Like maybe you don’t need the translation. You shift slightly on the stone ledge, setting your empty glass down with a quiet clink. You glance over at her.

You’re about to speak about it when she speaks.

“I teach you another.”

You look over, eyebrow raised. “Another mystery sentence?”

She smiles. “Sí.”

You huff a laugh. “Alright then. Go on.”

She shifts to face you a little more and says it slowly a gentle rhythm to the way it rolls off her tongue.

“Me gustas.”

You try it. “Me goo-stas?”

She shakes her head slightly, leans in, says it again, “Gus—like ‘goose,’ but softer. Me gustas.”

You mimic her. “Me gustas.” Alexia smiles, but doesn’t translate it.

“You not going to tell me?” you ask, already anticipating the answer.

“No,” she says, smug. “I like your face when you guess.”

You look at her, her knees almost brushing yours now, her drink nearly forgotten between you. “Is it nice?” you ask.

She shrugs, though her smile doesn’t fade. “Depends who says it.”

“And if you say it?”

Her gaze lingers on you, unreadable for a breath, “Still not telling you.”

You scoff. “You’re insufferable.”

She just raises her glass slightly, as if to toast your frustration, but before either of you can speak again, a shout rings out across the garden.

“Oye!” It’s Patri, grinning wide, already pointing toward a table on the lawn. “Beer pong!”

Carmen lifts two red cups in your direction like it’s a formal declaration. You can’t help the smile that creeps over your face.

Alexia stands, brushing invisible dust from her dress. “You ready?”

“Are you?” you counter, arching a brow. “I hope you’re not expecting to win.”

“I always win.”

“You’re going to be a nightmare, aren’t you?”

Alexia grins as she steps ahead, already starting to walk back toward the music, before she gets too far, she glances back over her shoulder catches your eye again, and with a faint smirk, repeats it under her breath, “Me gustas.”

You're not sure what it means, but you hope she says it again.

Someone’s set up a beer pong table near the garden wall, red cups already half-filled, teams forming in chaotic pairs. You’re pulled into the mix before you can think to resist Carmen shoves a drink in your hand, Patri’s already laughing like she knows something you don’t as you're put on her team, Alexia put on Carmens, and the crowd’s loud and loose with post-wedding energy.

Somehow, it happens every time it’s your turn to shoot, Alexia ends up opposite you, of course she does. She’s watching you with narrowed eyes and a smirk like she’s trying to intimidate you but you’re just having fun watching her lose.

She’s not... great, in fact, she’s bad and extremely not taking it well.

“This ball is too light,” she mutters after your third perfect shot lands, another cup sliding away from her side for her to drink.

You just raise your brows. “You’re joking, right?”

“No. It’s not... regulation.”

“It’s a garden table at a wedding, Alexia. Nothing is regulation.”

She glares down at the table like it’s personally offended her. Then looks up, grumpy, sulking and downs her drink. “The table’s not level either.”

You laugh. “Keep going. I want to hear the full list of excuses.”

“The cups are too close.”

“Uh huh.”

“My side is windy.”

“There is no wind.”

She doesn’t answer, just squints at you over the rim of another drink like she’s plotting your downfall.

Then it’s your turn again as it appears the rest who were playing preferred to watch you beat Alexia spectacularly so it became a 1vs1.

One easy flick of your wrist, plunk. Another cup gone from her side, Alexia groans, loud and dramatic, and turns away like she can’t bear to look at it.

“Come on!” you laugh. “Drink up, you haven’t even finished the last one!”

She glares down at the two cups now waiting for her. “This is unfair.”

“It’s literally the rules!”

“I hate this game.”

“No you don’t.”

“I do now.”

You laugh again, and she finally breaks a reluctant grin pulling at her mouth as she picks up both cups and clinks them together tipping one into the other before downing it like a woman defeated. Her nose scrunches at the taste. She mutters something in Spanish that definitely isn’t polite.

You raise an eyebrow. “What was that?”

She wipes her mouth, blinking. “I said you’re annoying.”

“Was it actually that?”

She nods solemnly. “More or less.”

“Say it again. Properly. Teach me.”

Alexia leans across the table a little, holding your gaze, and says it slowly, “Eres insoportable.”

You repeat it, with terrible pronunciation. “Eres insoporable.”

“Insoportable,” she corrects, smug again.

“And it definitely means annoying?”

She smiles wide. “You’ll find out.”

You hum, "I'm making a list in my phone to ask Patri to translate later"

She raises her eyes to yours and shakes her head, "Google. Later" she waves her hand way, "Wait til home"

It’s your turn again, another shot, another cup.

She doesn’t even pretend to be cool this time she just groans and drops her head back dramatically. “No. No, no, no. I want a new opponent.”

“Too late,” you grin. “You’ve started something now.”

“I didn’t start it.”

“You literally called me a muppet an hour ago.”

“That was affection.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes. This” she gestures at the table, then at your smirk, “this is war.”

You grin, cheeks aching from laughing, chest warm with more than just alcohol. Across the table, Alexia squints at you through mock outrage, and you just raise your drink to her. “To your downfall,” you toast.

She clinks her empty cup against yours with a grumble. “Muppet." and you both burst out laughing again.

You’re barely wiping spilled beer off your fingers before Alexia’s already pointing at the cups again.

“Another game.”

You raise your brows. “You’re serious?”

“I almost won.”

“You absolutely did not.”

“I was close.”

“You had four cups left.”

Alexia shrugs, drunk logic already smoothing her stubbornness into confidence. “I let you win.”

You laugh grabbing a beer bottle to fill the cups again, "Of course you did" You point at her, "I don't know much Spanish but.. Mierda"

You watch Alexia lean back laughing her hand clutching her stomach before you glance toward Carmen, Patri, and two more of Alexia’s teammates hovering near the drinks table. They’re watching you both now not subtly, either. Patri lifts her eyebrows at you in that 'hmm?' way that’s only half-mocking. Carmen has the smug smile of someone who’s decided she was right about something long before it happened.

You ignore them, Alexia's resetting the cups with a reckless, imprecise shuffle. “You in?”

You sigh dramatically. “Fine, but don’t start crying again when I win.”

“I didn’t cry.”

“You whined about the wind.”

Alexia doesn’t dignify that with a response just hands you the ball with a pointed gesture. “Ladies first,” she says.

You sink your first shot effortlessly, another groan from her, then she drinks and something shifts.

The more Alexia drinks, the better she gets. Her throws tighten, her hand steadies, and the smug grin on her face grows more confident with every cup you lose.

You squint at her after your third miss in a row, she gives you a look over the rim of your cup, you mutter under your breath as you drink your next penalty cup, "That wind really died down, huh?"

Alexia grins, she heard you, then plunk. Another one lands on your side and you sigh dramatically.

You glance over you still have an audience, like your increasingly ridiculous rivalry has become a full-on wedding sideshow as a couple more of the footballers have joined the little group, but you don’t care. You’re too focused on the way Alexia keeps watching you after each shot. Like each time she hits, she’s daring you to react. Like it’s not even about winning anymore.

You point at her, narrowing your eyes. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Yes.”

“You were terrible half an hour ago.”

She shrugs, cool as anything. “Motivation.” You stare at her, she just raises an eyebrow and says too casually “Me gustas, remember?”

You swallow, that familiar phrase again, still no translation, still no context but it lands heavier now.

You blink, then shoot and miss again Alexia grins wide and reaches for your next cup.

“You’re going to gloat forever, aren’t you?”

“Sí,” she says, laughing

☀️

The party sprawls out now as they set up the dinning room for the meal, games and music everywhere to occupy guests, people laughing too loudly, champagne corks popping mid-sentence, someone’s uncle challenging Carmen to a dance-off near the speakers.

You're pulled straight from the beer pong table by a group migrating toward a row of lawn games, you seem to have been adopted by the Spanish football first team. Patri tosses you a look like she’s ready for round three, but Alexia’s already trailing after you, stubbornly close, that competitive glint still alive in her wine-glossed eyes.

“Connect Four,” she says behind you, tapping your shoulder as you slow near the oversized version on the grass ahead.

You look back. “You sure? That’s a thinking game.”

“Exactly.”

You smirk, slotting in a red disc. “You’re really brave.”

Alexia raises her brows but doesn’t bite. She drops in a yellow one, eyes locked on the grid like she’s plotting world domination. You counter, she counters again. People are watching, not quite cheering, but hovering, definitely amused.

You lean sideways, pretending to inspect the board. “Your poker face is slipping.”

She doesn’t look up. “This is me focused.”

“Right.” Another move, then another, then click you drop the winning disc and let out a triumphant gasp. “Boom!”

Alexia steps back, blinking. “No.”

“Yes!”

She squints at the grid like it personally betrayed her. “That doesn’t count.”

You laugh. “What doesn’t count?!”

“I was distracted.”

“By what?”

She pauses, her cheeks flush, then she speaks, “Your… elbows.”

You almost choke on your drink. “My elbows?!���

“They were distracting.”

You’re laughing so hard now it’s almost embarrassing. “Just when I thought you couldn't be any more of a sore loser. This is worse.”

“I will win something tonight,” she insists, looking around like she’s about to challenge you to an arm wrestle, or chess, or a race to the drinks table.

“Nope,” you grin. “I’m on a streak.”

“I hate your streak.”

“You love it.”

“I hate it,” she repeats, but she’s smiling, her eyes lit up with the thrill of it all the game, the drinks, the way you keep meeting each other in these little pockets of the night where it feels like it’s just the two of you.

Someone calls your name, a cousin waving from the karaoke setup now forming near the terrace.

Alexia hears it too. “No,” she says immediately. “Not singing.”

“Oh, now you’re scared?”

“I fear nothing.”

“You fear losing.”

“I fear karaoke.”

You grin wide, stepping toward her like you might drag her there anyway. "I thought you feared nothing.

She steps back, holds up a finger. “If you make me sing,” she warns, “I’ll say more things in Spanish that you don’t understand.”

You pause, then lean in, just slightly. “I’m not sure that’s a threat anymore.”

Alexia blinks once then smirks and you catch sight of the Jenga tower across the lawn, tall and precarious.

You nudge Alexia’s arm. “Jenga?”

She raises her brows. “You want to lose again?”

“You lost last time.”

“Did not.”

“Did so.”

You’re already walking, Alexia follows, of course she does, brushing a hand along your arm briefly as she passes you. You pretend not to feel your whole body register it.

The tower’s almost your height, you face off like it’s a championship final. A few people hover again Carmen and Patri, drinks in hand, clearly watching from a distance, doing a poor job of pretending not to whisper about you both, but the rest of the world fades out when Alexia picks her first block.

The game begins slow, careful pulls, little smiles, narrowed eyes, utter silence between you and then it starts getting risky.

“You’re wobbling it on purpose,” Alexia mutters as you nudge a centre piece loose.

“I’m strategic,” you counter, not looking up. “Big difference.”

The stack sways slightly Alexia watches your hand like she’s studying a match replay.

When you finally slide the block free, she lets out a low whistle, “Lucky.”

“Skilled.”

“Lucky.”

Then it’s her turn, she kneels down slightly to reach one of the lower blocks her backless dress shifting as she moves, the shimmer of metallic brown catching the fairy lights strung above. Tattoos peek out like secrets across her shoulders and down her back. She glances up once, catches you watching her, and smirks. “Distracted?” she teases.

“By your elbows,” you shoot back.

She laughs, actually wobbles the tower with her shoulder, gasps, and steadies it again with the most dramatic gasp you’ve ever heard.

“See?” you say. “That was luck.”

“Cállate”

You grin and lean in closer, both of you now circling the tower like cats. “Careful,” you say as she reaches again. “Jenga’s a cruel mistress.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“So are you.”

“I’m passionate.”

“Right,” you say. “Passion’s what made you yell about the wind earlier.”

She pulls the block free clean and impressively quickly, she stands slowly, eyes bright, close to you now, close enough that your shoulders brush. Neither of you move. “You’re going to knock it over,” she says.

“I am not.”

“I can feel it.”

“You just want me to.”

“Maybe.” Your hand is on the next block, it slides, a hair’s width and sticks. You freeze Alexia leans in close to your ear, lowering her voice. “Muppet…” you giggle, the block slips from your grip the tower sways violently and crashes to the grass.

Laughter erupts around you, but you barely hear it. Alexia’s got that smug, dangerous grin again like she planned it all along.

She leans in and whispers something in Spanish slow, deliberate, impossible to understand but definitely smug.

You groan. “Not fair.”

“Very fair,” she says. “Me gusta ganar.”

“Translation?”

She shrugs innocently. “Guess.”

You narrow your eyes. “I swear if that means ‘I win’…”

Alexia’s already walking off with a victorious sway in her step, tossing a wink over her shoulder. You just shake your head, smiling helplessly.

She walks off like she’s just won the World Cup chin high, victorious strut, that smug little grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. You stand there a second, stunned by her dramatics, then you walk with pace after her. You never chase women and yet here you were literally chasing after one you didn't even know 24 hours ago.

“Hey,” you call, catching up to her just as she grabs another drink from a tray someone’s weaving through the crowd with. “Do that again.”

Alexia looks over her shoulder, amused. “Do what?”

“That” you mimic her wink, squinting one eye dramatically, “your little victory wink.”

She tries to keep a straight face, but her smirk betrays her. “You liked that?”

You’re already laughing, folding your arms. “Do it again.”

She turns fully toward you, drink in hand, eyes locked on yours then closes both eyes at the same time, you burst out laughing.

Instinctively you reach forward and touch her forearm at her side, “That’s not a wink, Alexia!"

She shrugs, fake-casual. “Yes it is.” She does it again with so much confidence.

“You’re malfunctioning.”

“Muppet.”

You nudge her arm, she bumps you back but doesn't pull back anywhere near the distance she had been, you lift your drink to her, eyes still dancing. “To your terrible wink.”

She taps hers against yours gently, her voice low, her gaze not leaving yours. “Eres muy guapa.”

There it is again that same phrase from earlier. You pause, holding her eyes. “Still not translating that one?”

She smiles, tilting her head. “Nope.”

You sip your drink. “Rude.”

Alexia leans a little closer, lowering her voice just enough for it to feel secret. “Maybe later.”

☀️

You hadn’t planned on dancing not in heels, not in this heat, not after at least three different games involving alcohol. But when the music shifted to something warmer, something with a heartbeat, Alexia found you effortlessly amongst your family, tugged your hand gently and tilted her head toward the garden dance floor.

You hadn’t said yes, but you also hadn’t said no and put up no fight whatsoever.

Now here you are her hand in yours, the lights strung above flickering golden, the music thudding faintly underfoot. She’s not a great dancer not in the traditional, spin you like a film scene way but she’s confident and playful, and that’s better.

She twirls you once, clumsily, you both laugh, “You’re going to dislocate my shoulder,” you tell her with a smile seemingly permanently fixed to your face when she was near.

Alexia just grins, you sway together in that loose way that isn’t quite a slow dance but definitely isn’t friendly distance anymore. One of her hands finds yours again not tight, not formal, just there. Holding it like she has every right to.

Your fingers slip together easily, her hair’s falling loose around her shoulders now, her dress still catching the light like copper fire. Every time she leans in close to say something in your ear, you feel the warmth of it curl down your spine.

It’s almost disappointing when you hear Carmen’s voice calling your name through the music.

You turn, laughing, she waves you over, she notices your smile fade ever so slightly, and beckons you like a mother would, you give Alexia a look and leave her on the dance floor one of her friends happily taking your place

“Oh, finally!” she says, eyes wide and dramatic. “I thought we’d have to physically separate you two with a broomstick.”

You roll your eyes. “We’re not—”

She lifts a brow. “Joined. At. The. Hip?”

“She made me dance!”

“She made you laugh. A lot.” Carmen folds her arms, mock stern. “You looked like teenagers. Very flirty teenagers.”

You try to dodge it, but you’re smiling too much to be believable. “We’re just messing about.”

“Mmm.” Carmen is not buying it.

You blink at her, suddenly curious. “Okay, serious question.”

Carmen perks up. “Finally. Go on.”

You lower your voice a little, keeping it light, casual. “What does ‘me gustas’ mean?”

Carmen stares at you. “Who said that?”

“Hypothetical question,” you say, holding up a hand. “Just tell me.”

She eyes you. “It means ‘I like you.’ Like… I like you. Not like ‘I like pizza,’ but you-you.”

Your stomach does a weird little flip, you cover it with a sip of wine. “Okay. Interesting.”

Carmen leans closer. “What else?”

You hesitate. “What about ‘eres muy guapa?’”

“Oh,” she grins. “That means… ‘you’re very pretty.’” You stop sipping Carmen squints at you. “Why are you asking these?”

“No reason.”

“Mmhm.” Her grin grows, all too knowing. “Just, you know, collecting phrases for your Spanish textbook?”

“Exactly.”

Carmen’s already backing away into the crowd, smug as anything. “Well, maybe your Spanish is better than you think, guapa.”

You glance back toward the dance floor Alexia’s dancing there, half-lit in the string lights, your breath catches as you realise the most stunning women you've ever seen thinks your pretty.

☀️

The dinning hall is now set up for the evening meal, round white-clothed tables stretch under woven lanterns, the sun setting into a gold haze over the hills. You’re sat with your parents and brothers, all of you a little sun-flushed and half full from the first two courses. Your uncle is telling a long-winded story you’ve already tuned out of twice.

You’ve got your phone hidden in your lap, screen dimmed low, lazily scrolling through your own Instagram feed mostly old holiday posts, blurry selfies, the odd sunset you’d thought looked profound at the time. You hadn’t expected to get a notification, but there it is at the top of your screen.

alexiaputellas liked your photo.

And not just any photo it’s from two years ago, she was scrolling your instagram, you blink, smile and tilt your screen slightly away from your brother clearly looking for some entertainment.

Your thumb hovers over the notification, and then instinctively you glance across the tables just casually. She’s over on the far side with Carmen’s teammates, half turned in her chair, laughing at something, her hand out as a women opposite handed her phone back over the table. She doesn’t look at you, which makes it somehow worse, or better, you can’t tell, but you were a topic of conversation amongst her friends.

You open your DMs and click on Patri’s name, you and her had shared polite messages after the hen do.

You: Tell Alexia she’s real smooth for liking a picture from two years ago

You barely have time to look up again when you hear it a burst of laughter from the table across the way, sharp and sudden. You catch sight of Patri, cackling as she shoves her phone toward Alexia. A few others are craning to see, all of them delighting in your digital callout.

Alexia's face is a picture, you can see the blush from here, you try not to smile. Fail and look back down at your plate like you didn’t just throw a spark into a very flammable situation.

Your phone buzzes again.

Patri: She’s gonna kill me but she says fue un accidente.

Patri : She also says you’re still a muppet.

You snort softly, enough for your brother to glance at you. “What’s so funny?”

You shake your head. “Just something stupid.” But your heart’s beating a little faster now, and when you risk another glance up Alexia’s watching you from across the tables.

You look back at your phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard, biting back a grin as you type.

You: Can I ask you to translate something for me?

It’s harmless, mostly, you know it'll get a reaction, you hit send, then glance up briefly, only to feel another buzz almost instantly.

Patri: Alexia said come here.

You look up properly this time, sure enough, Alexia’s watching you from across the way, her arm draped over the back of her chair she tips her chin toward you not quite a beckon, not quite a challenge and you know exactly what she’s doing.

So you stand excusing yourself and heading through the tables, a few heads turn as you approach, Alexia doesn’t say anything as you approach. Just points at you with a single finger and says, through a grin “No translation. You Google. Later. In home. In England.”

You can’t help the laugh that slips from you and without thinking or maybe very much with thinking you step in a little closer, gently grab that pointed finger, and hold it between yours. “You’re not my captain, darling,” you say, smiling up at her, “you can’t tell me what to do.”

She blinks, smiles wider, like she’s just been challenged and loves it, she leans a little closer her voice low and full of wicked amusement, “You don’t listen very good.”

You raise your brows. “I do when I want to”

“Stubborn.”

"I prefer determined"

You hear someone behind her whisper something someone else stifles a laugh but you’re not paying attention to anything now except the look she’s giving you. Finally, you release her finger with a little flick.

“Fine,” you say, stepping back. “But I’m still Googling it.”

“Later,” she says.

“At home?”

“In England,” she echoes nodding, laughing.

You walk back to your seat with your pulse dancing somewhere in your throat and the ghost of her hand still between your fingers.

You slide back into your seat, smoothing the skirt of your dress and reaching instinctively for your wine. Your cheeks are warm whether from the alcohol or Alexia’s grin, you’re not sure, probably both.

You lift your glass and take a sip, trying not to let the smile tugging at your lips give too much away, but your mum is already looking at you and not in the vague, distracted way she looks when she’s trying to figure out if the canapés had goat cheese in them. No this is the look.

She leans in gently, voice soft so only you can hear. “Is that the girl who’s been taking all your attention all day?”

You blink, then laugh quietly. “What happened to pretending not to notice things?”

“I gave up after child number three.” She nudges your arm. “So?”

You glance across the garden Alexia’s listening half-heartedly to something Patri is saying, but her eyes flick to yours over her shoulder the moment you look. She smiles just slightly and then pretends to be fully engaged in whatever story is being told.

You look back at your mum, exhale a breath through your nose, half-laughing. “She’s…” You shrug, a little helpless. “She’s nice. Funny. Annoying”

Your mum tilts her head. “Pretty.”

You nod. “Very.”

There’s a pause. You toy with your napkin, you’ve always been open with her. She was the first one you told about you liking girls. The first one you told when you first kissed a girl to.

So you don’t bother pretending now. “I think I like her,” you say, your voice a little smaller than before. “But it’s probably just the wedding. The sun. The wine. I've just got caught up in it all, it’s not like I’ll see her again, is it?”

Your mum gives you a knowing look the one she saves for when you pretend you’re being logical but your heart’s already halfway over the fence. “Stranger things have happened,” she says gently. “And you’ve always been a sucker for a complicated smile.”

You laugh. “Thanks, Mum.”

She pats your hand. “Just don’t let your head talk your heart out of something fun.”

You nod, quietly, you try to change the subject as dessert menus are being passed around, someone’s arguing about whether churros count as wedding cake, and Carmen is gracefully making her rounds in her sleek, glittering gown, hugging relatives and posing for photos.

But your mum isn’t letting this go. “Alexia,” she says again, as if you haven’t already been over this. “So she’s Spanish?”

You blink at her. “We’re in Spain, Mum.”

“I meant from here. Local.”

You nod reluctantly. “Barcelona.”

“Ah.” She smiles, too casually. “And is she…?”

You give her a look. “Yes, Mum. She’s gay.”

“Just checking.” She takes a sip of wine, but you can see her brain still turning. “So she plays for a team?”

“Yes.”

“Is she any good?”

“Mum.”

“What! I’m just trying to build a picture!”

Before you can answer, Carmen appears at your side, radiant and flushed from all the attention, crouching down slightly between the two of you. “Are we gossiping without me?” she asks, eyes darting between you and your mum with a knowing grin.

“Oh good,” your mum says brightly, turning to Carmen like she’s been waiting for backup. “You’ll know. Tell me more about this Alexia. She seems lovely.”

Your stomach sinks slightly. “Mum—”

But Carmen just lights up with mischief. “Oh, Alexia?” she says, pretending to think. “Captain of Barça. National treasure. Stubborn. Competitive. Terrible loser.”

“She’s been very sweet with my daughter,” your mum says.

Carmen glances at you. “Oh yes. Very sweet.”

You shoot her a warning glare. She ignores it.

Your mum continues, relentless. “Is she seeing anyone?”

“Mum!”

Carmen laughs, delighted now. “She’s not. But she is very picky, I'm not aware of her dating many people at all, the bigger she got the less she did it.”

Your mum leans in conspiratorially. “She liked one of her photos from two years ago.”

"How do you even know that?" You asked, your mum simply pointed to your brother beside you.

Carmen’s face lights up like Christmas. “No she didn’t.”

“She did!” your mum confirms, like this is a joint investigation. “And then this one had the nerve to act like it wasn’t a big deal.”

You hide your face in your hands.

Carmen pats your shoulder. “It is a big deal. That’s the Instagram version of writing someone’s name in a notebook and drawing hearts around it.”

Your mum nods solemnly, “Exactly.”

You peek between your fingers. “Can you both please find another hobby?”

Carmen grins and gets back to her feet, smoothing her dress. “I have to go be charming again but don’t worry, I’ll let Alexia know she’s already passed inspection.”

You groan. “Carmen”

She walks away backward, grinning, and says, “Your mum likes her. That’s basically marriage in Spain.”

You drop your head to the table, your mum just pats your back, smug as anything, “I’m good at this,” she says. “Admit it.”

You mutter into the tablecloth, “I should’ve sat at the kids’ table.”

☀️

The laughter still carries on behind you a soft chorus of music, chairs scraping, someone yelling out a slurred toast in Spanish as your family begins to slip away from the glowing lights of the wedding. The night has worn on, the heat finally giving way to a cooler breeze, and the sky overhead is scattered with stars.

Your heels click softly against the stone path as you walk alongside your parents and your middle brother, all of you drifting slowly back toward the house.

Your mum’s arm is looped around your dad’s, and she’s humming some old wedding tune under her breath. Your brother’s rubbing at his neck like he might have pulled something during the earlier, aggressive limbo game.

You’re quiet, restless in your own skin, because you’d been waiting.

You hadn’t said it out loud, not to them, not even to yourself really, but somewhere in the slow moments between dancing and dessert and that sun-drunk laughter, you’d been hoping that you might catch her one more time.

A glance, a word, a stupid half-argument about who actually won Jenga. Something, but as you all say goodnight to lingering cousins and sleepy toddlers being carried back inside, you glance around one last time, and she’s not there.

The chair she’d been sitting in earlier is empty, the space by the bar where you'd sat together after the ceremony is dark now.

You slow a little behind your parents as you near the main house, your steps soft on the old terracotta tiles, one last glance over your shoulder. Still no sign of her.

Your mum looks back at you, noticing the lag. “You alright, love?”

You nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Just tired and my shoes are hurting”

She gives you a look that says she doesn’t believe you as you take your heels off but she lets it go.

As you step inside, the coolness of the villa brushes over your bare shoulders. You’re holding your shoes in one hand, dress swinging lightly around your legs. You tell yourself it’s silly, you barely know her, you won’t see her again. You weren’t expecting anything, but still, you were hoping.

And when you crawl into the big unfamiliar guest bed, in the quiet hum of night, you stare up at the ceiling for a long while the sounds of celebration muffled now through thick walls.

You don’t cry, you don’t ache, but the pillow still smells like sun cream and wine and a day you weren’t ready to let go of.

☀️

It’s well past 3am, the villa is silent now, thick with the hush that only comes after a long, sun-soaked day of celebration. The kind of quiet that hums just beneath the surface, like the air’s still catching its breath.

You’re lying on top of the sheets, in your tank top and soft cotton shorts, scrolling aimlessly, light from your phone casting shadows on the wall and then tap. You freeze. Tap. Tap-tap.

You sit up slowly, the curtain flutters as you move it aside and then, with a confused squint, you push the window open.

There she is, Alexia, standing below in the garden, where moonlight pools across the grass like spilled milk, hands clenched, shoulders slightly hunched like she’s not sure if this is a good idea or a very bad one.

You lean against the sill, still a little dazed. “Can I help you?” you ask, a soft smile playing on your lips.

She tilts her head, that familiar smirk tugging at her mouth. “I wanted to say… was nice, meeting you.”

You rest your forearms on the window frame, chin tilted just slightly. “You threw rocks at my window to say that?”

“Yes.” A pause. “Romantic, no?” You bite back your grin and your brows lift Alexia shrugs below you. “Maybe not romantic or smart.”

You huff a laugh and shake your head. “What would you have done if I didn’t hear you?”

She grins, wolfish. “Climbed.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re wearing heels.”

She holds up her hand, fingers spread. “Footballer legs.”

You rest your cheek against your arm, watching her. Her hair’s pulled back now, messier than it was earlier, her dress still clinging to her but a jacket slung over her shoulders since the temperature had dropped.

There’s a pause, then you say it, soft, teasing. “You’re not very good at goodbyes, are you?”

She kicks a bit of stone with her foot. “No.”

“I was looking for you,” you admit before you can stop yourself. “Earlier.”

That catches her off guard her eyes flick up quickly, like she wasn’t expecting you to admit it. “I know,” she says.

You smile slowly. “Stalker.”

Alexia smiles back. “Romantic.”

Then she steps back one pace, eyes never leaving yours. “Okay. I go now. Let you sleep. My lift home is waiting”

You don’t say anything right away. Don’t want to break it, but as she turns slightly, you call softly, “Alexia?”

She looks back, you hesitate then grin. “I lied. I’m totally Googling what you said to me earlier.” Lying again that you didn't already know

She shakes her head, laughing silently, then calls up “You won’t find it right. Not if you spell it how I said it.”

You gasp dramatically. “You tricked me?”

Her grin widens. “Always.”

She starts walking away, then throws one last glance over her shoulder. “Sleep good, muppet girl.”

You watch until she disappears behind the trees, then you close the window softly and slide back into bed. This time, when your head hits the pillow, you’re smiling and sleep comes easy.

[arabella-syntax]

Good night everyone, I´m Art (estoy harta) | she/her | 18+ | woso writer.

I´m here because I enjoy #woso and I need to find a hobby to relax and decompress when I have a difficult day, but also to share my love for writing and hopefully make some friends, interact and be part of a community. Don´t be scared to say hi! :D

As requested by a very nice anon, here are my works. I only write for #Alexia Putellas now cause she´s my fave, but maybe I can expand the horizons in the future depending on the demand. I do accept requests or some ideas and etc. And also, I would love to have feedback to improve my skills and also to talk about my writing (or anything else) with anyone who wants to, I hope you enjoy my works! <3

Masterlist is below the cut :)

One-Shot Imagines / Blurbs

Swapsies

Louvre

Wrong Chat Capi!

Multi-Chaps

🎮 Barça: Player Mode— “Built different. Literally.”

Game. Set. Start!

Initial Calibration

Rendering Errors

Unauthorized Access

Session Flagged

(13/06/25)

(20/06/25)

🍹Escape — "I was getting tired of my lady, we´ve been together too long."

Like a Worn Out Recording

Getting Caught In the Rain

If You Have Half a Brain

The Taste Of Champagne

Write to Me and Escape

You’re the Love That I’ve Looked For

If You Like Making Love at Midnight (Smut)

🛠️ Fixer Upper — "She makes chaos look like foreplay."

Not My Circus, Still My Monkey

Headcanons Pt. 1

Couples Therapy

Kicked Out of Pilates

🍵 No Credentials — "Unlicensed. Unbothered. Unexpectedly Yours."

A Soft Place to Crash and Burn

Everybody Wants a Piece

🛡️Under Watch — "Assigned to Protect. Doomed to Fall."

You´re Late

New Neighbor, New Problems

[arabella-syntax]

Updated Masterlist!

Steph Catley:

Catley's Rules (Series)

Offside Hearts (Series)

Out of Bounds (Series)

Alexia Putellas:

When the Storm Came Back to Us (Series)

A London Kind of Love (Series)

Something Like Home (Series)

Where We Belong (Series)

Where We Belong S2 - P1, P2, P3

In Another Life (Series)

Broken but Beautiful (Series)

Unsent (Series)

The One I Lost, The One I Found - P1 P2

Gravity

Just Teammates, Right?

Marked by You.

Hold You Through the Loss

Leah Williamson:

The Captain’s Bet (WIP)

More Than Just A Game - P1

Lia Wälti x Reader

Better With You - P1, P2, P3, P4, P5, P6, P7

Patri Guijarro x Reader (WIP)

Frostbite - P1 P2, P3

Aitana Bonmati x USWNT Reader

Muscle Memory - P1, P2

[arabella-syntax]

round&round | a. putellas x reader

Your PR team thought that joining Love Island could be an easy way to grow your popularity as a singer but in reality, nothing about it turned out to be easy: the constant drama, the fighting, and of course, living in the villa with Alexia Putellas, who wasn’t going to quit until she had you. ♡ inspired by @lovelettersfromluna's love island fic

tags/contains: islander!Alexia, drama & some comedy, reality TV, love triangle, bombshell!Patri, all-sapphic love island, around 13k+ words

a/n: everything in orange is the Love Island narrator (reference if u're not familiar) and everything indented is commentary or cut scenes

masterlist ♡ the alexia playlist series

⋆˙⟡♡ It's Love Island: Girl's Getaway — the first ever Love Island where it's all 100% girls and no dudes. Here, the girls are hot and the drama? Even hotter. This season, absolutely no one is gonna play it straight. 

Get it? Cause they’re gay.

⋆˙⟡♡ You're an up-and-coming singer. While you found success as a songwriter for several big popstars, writing hit love songs for the likes of Ariana Grande and Dua Lipa, you're yet to make it as a singer.

Why? Cause you've never really been in love. How could you sing about love if you've never experienced it? It was much easier to write a song for someone else: slipping into someone else’s story, their heartbreak, their fairytale. But when it comes to putting your own feelings into a melody... it never felt quite right.

So, your PR team decides that the perfect way for you to get that experience – just enough exposure to get you more comfortable singing about love – and well, also to get more followers was to join Love Island. (Your introduction song was Silk Chiffon – Muna, a song that you actually co-wrote.)

⋆˙⟡♡ Your introduction video was cute, kinda wholesome compared to everyone else's introductions. And while everyone else came into the villa with hot, intense energies, you brought something softer. Your energy was disarmingly gentle and genuine.

And that somehow worked in your favor. All the girls seemed drawn to your authentic energy. On the other hand, you felt intimidated. Everyone was hot, tall, and model-like. You wondered how you could possibly get coupled up if everyone else looked straight out of a Victoria's Secret catalogue. 

⋆˙⟡♡ Ahh, our first set of girls are standing tall and looking confident... or secretly regretting their shoe choices. I can't tell. 

They know the drill for the first coupling: if the new girl is your type, step forward.That new girl can now choose among all the girls who stepped forward or if they wanna be naughty, they can steal someone else's couple.

⋆˙⟡♡ You partnered up with the first girl – another musician from England. Her name was Cassie; she had beautiful, soft features that contrasted her tattooed body. She was hot, definitely. Maybe even someone you'd go for outside the villa. But still, something held you back. You weren’t completely sold.

Even so, you stepped forward almost right away.

You couldn’t really explain it. Maybe it was the rush of adrenaline. Maybe it was the fear of being left behind and stuck with someone who wasn’t your type at all. It probably came from both. Either way, your reaction was quick, and that anxious quickness was mistaken for certainty.

Cassie beamed as she walked over to stand beside you. She whispered that she’d felt something the moment she saw you. That she was glad you’d chosen her.

You smiled, but something about it didn’t sit right. You felt stupid, like you'd accidentally promised something you couldn’t follow through on. You didn’t mean to lead her on. You were just trying to survive the moment.

⋆˙⟡♡ That's a pair that looks like they'll make beautiful love songs together... or if things go south, we’re looking at enough breakup songs to rival Taylor Swift’s career. A win for me and my sing-along shower playlist either way!

⋆˙⟡♡ You didn’t fully regret partnering with Cassie as the other girls walked in. Sure, you were a bit hasty with your decision but she definitely was the best choice for you. She had this gentle, genuine energy about her, and she was undeniably attractive with her indie rockstar vibe. She definitely seemed more your type compared to the others.

You were almost sure that you made the right choice… until Alexia walked in. 

(Alexia’s entrance song was Beso – Rosalia.)

⋆˙⟡♡ We try not to rank our Islanders but we certainly did this time cause we saved the best for last! 

It's boots off, bikini on for this beautiful babe with the double Ballon d'Ors. Whew, that's too many Bs!  And what comes before B? A — as in A-lexia! Let's see if our Catalan Captain can score girls as easily as she can score goals.

⋆˙⟡♡ It wasn’t arrogant or boastful, but there was something about her that made it clear she was sure of herself. Perhaps it was the way she walked and carried herself. It just exuded confidence. 

A small smile played at the corners of her lips as she took in the room, her eyes scanning each girl... until they landed on you.

Her gaze felt intense, almost intimidating. It felt like they were studying you. You bit your lip, unable to look away, as her smirk grew, her eyes still locked on yours.

⋆˙⟡♡ You didn't step forward for Alexia. 

Maybe it was because Cassie was standing beside you, her presence grounding you, making you hesitate. Or maybe it was the thought of competing with everyone else who had already stepped forward for Alexia. Either way, something held you back.

You found Alexia insanely attractive and interesting but something was stopping you from stepping forward. 

Alexia raised an eyebrow at you, but said nothing. Instead, she shifted her focus, pairing up with Savannah, the Instagram influencer who was the only one left uncoupled. 

⋆˙⟡♡ Alexia and Savannah — that seems like the perfect power couple to me. She won the World Cup, the Ballon d'Or and every other trophy a footballer could dream of winning. And Savannah... well, she endorses tummy detox tea on Instagram! 

⋆˙⟡♡ After the initial coupling, it was clear that Cassie was already falling hard for you. She couldn’t stop talking about how drawn she was to you, how you were exactly the kind of person she had hoped to meet here. You tried to show the same enthusiasm, to return her feelings, but something held you back. You couldn’t go all-in, not when you could feel Alexia’s eyes on you and Cassie all the time. 

Even when Savannah was practically throwing herself at Alexia, lying across her lap, playing with her hair in the most flirtatious way, Alexia’s gaze still seemed to find its way back to you. It was unsettling and intimidating, and no matter how much you tried to focus on Cassie, it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

As much as you wanted to confront Alexia, to figure out why she seemed so fixated on you and Cassie, you were too shy and non-confrontational. Besides, you didn’t have enough to go on, no reason to bring it up. It felt like you were reading too much into something that could have been nothing at all.

⋆˙⟡♡ You also hit it off instantly with Jade, a part-time dog sitter and part-time voice actor. She was effortlessly cool and laid-back, and she reminded you a lot of your best friend outside of the villa. When Cassie was urged by the producers to chat with the others, Jade found her way over to your sofa lounge.

"So, you guys already seem like the couple to last," she said casually, adjusting the strap of her red bikini as she stretched out beside you. "I'm jealous cause I don’t think April and I have that connection yet.”

You nodded sheepishly, feeling a bit awkward, especially knowing just how unsure you were of your feelings for Cassie. "Yeah… but it’s really only been a day.”

Jade immediately noticed something off, hearing the tension in your voice. "Hey, you good?"

You bit your lip and looked around before leaning closer to the brunette. "What do you think that girl Alexia's deal is?" You asked quietly.

"Alexia? The football player?" Jade looked confused. "Why?"

"I don't know.” You shrugged, trying to act casual even if it has been all you’ve been thinking about for the past hour.  "She seemed to be looking at me and Cassie a lot and it just... it just felt odd, y'know?"

Jade scanned the room quickly, her eyes narrowing as she looked for Alexia. When she didn’t spot her, she shrugged, seeming to consider your words. "Maybe she’s jealous? Her and Savannah? They don’t make sense together, while you and Cassie... well, you two are already tough contenders."

You hummed, unsure of what to make of Jade’s observation. "You really think so?"

"Could be," Jade replied, giving a little shrug. "I mean, she’s pretty intense, and you two... well, you're kinda vibing. It's hard not to notice. A lot of people are not here for love but for the game, and well, she might be one of those people. Do you have any other reason to think so? You think she’s into you or Cassie?”

Jade looked more intrigued, a certain sparkle in her eyes. You paused. You were pretty certain that Alexia’s eyes always found yours but then again, you might have been reading too much into it. She might have actually been into Cassie. “I don’t think I’d be her type,” you responded. “You think Cassie is?”

Jade shook her head. “Nah, I just seriously think she’s jealous of your bond.” She said, settling beside you. “Just focus on Cassie right now. Alexia’ll have to deal with Savannah until she finds someone more interesting.”

⋆˙⟡♡ It had only been less than a day but Cassie was incredibly romantic already: picking flowers from the garden to put in your hair, massaging sunscreen on your back, even putting food on your plate for dinner. You two practically just mer each other a day ago but the way she acted was akin to someone who's been in a relationship for months.

You knew that things move fast in Love Island; you watched several seasons across most the franchises in preparation... but even that couldn't prepare you for Cassie. She seemed like those U-Haul Lesbian stereotypes you always heard about. 

But you figured that if Cassie was this into it, she must be seeing a potential with your coupling. So, you tried to play along, holding her hand and even cuddling up to her whenever you had the chance but you couldn't completely focus on her.

Not when Alexia was constantly staring at you two.

⋆˙⟡♡ You couldn't sleep well your first night in. Mostly because Cassie was smothering you. You never were a fan of cuddling and Cassie was an absolute koala bear in bed, clinging on to you like you were the last eucalyptus tree. 

By the time the first rays of light peeked through the villa, you were wide awake, feeling the sleepiness still hanging over you. You blinked your eyes a few times, trying to shake it off, and gently slipped out from under the covers so you wouldn’t wake Cassie.

You threw on a patterned bikini, smoothed on a bit of makeup to freshen up, and slipped out for a quiet early morning swim

⋆˙⟡♡ You weren’t expecting anyone to be up yet. The lights usually came on at 9 am so everyone was still fast asleep, tucked in sheets or cuddled up with their partner. 

The villa was quiet, the air still cool, the sky just beginning to turn from gray to gold. It felt serene; the perfect time to get an early morning swim session in without having to socialize with anyone else. If you could completely forget about the camera and crew lingering around, it would be an introvert’s dream.

But there she was. Alexia Putellas.

Alone outside, mid-squat with dumbbells on both of her hands, her body steady and focused. She was wearing a black sports bra and matching shorts, her hair scraped back into a ponytail, the light catching on the fine sheen of sweat across her chest and shoulders. 

You subconsciously slowed down your walking. Alexia immediately noticed you.  A lazy smile sprawled on her face as she caught sight of you, her eyes scanning your body. 

“Good morning, guapa." She greeted. "Didn't sleep well?"

You shook your head. "Just an early riser," you lied, not wanting to show signs of incompatibility with Cassie. "You?"

“Athlete’s schedule… kinda just used to waking up this early.” She reached for her water bottle, took a sip, then glanced toward you again. “Wanna join me?”

You gave a soft laugh and shook your head. “I’m more of a pilates and morning swim girl. I don’t really do weights.”

“Pity,” she said, pausing. “Strong legs can help when you’re running from things.”

You blinked, trying to process what she was implying. You narrowed your eyes. “What are you trying to say?"

Alexia chuckled under her breath and picked up the weights again. “Nothing, just fitness advice.”

You turned, ignoring her odd comment, about to keep walking toward the pool, when her voice stopped you. “So,” she said, adjusting her grip on her weights. "Why didn’t you step forward?”

You froze for half a second before slowly facing her again. “Sorry?”

She looked at you fully now, the expression on her face unreadable. Calm, composed, maybe a little amused. “Yesterday. Everyone stepped forward for me. Except you.”

“Except me and Cassie,” You corrected as you furrowed your eyebrows together. You scanned her expression, trying to figure out why she was suddenly bringing this up as your first one-on-one conversation. "Why? Did I hurt your ego?"

Alexia chuckled at your banter. "Ooh, never thought you were the feisty type." She commented. "But seriously, I don't really care for all that. I just... was curious about you."

You licked your lips, suddenly aware of how dry they were. “I guess… I didn’t want the attention. Everyone already wanted you. I was already in a couple. It just didn’t feel worth the chaos.”

She tilted her head. “So…it was about everyone else.”

Your brows furrowed. “What?”

“You didn’t step forward because of them. Not because of me.” A smile played on her lips, subtle but undeniably present. 

You blinked at her, thrown away by her statement. “Well, yeah. What does it matter?”

Alexia paused, then lowered the weights again, slower this time. “It doesn’t. I was just curious.”

Then her eyes locked with yours. Still quiet. Still unreadable.

“So, even if you didn’t step forward, you still want me. Is that right?” She asked. You felt your breath catch. The way she said it wasn’t arrogant. She sounded… genuinely curious. Like she wanted the truth to your attraction. It felt mildly invasive, just enough to make you flush.

Something in your stomach stirred. You looked at the ground before returning your gaze back into Alexia's hazel eyes. God, why is she so intense? 

Before Alexia could prod you to answer, a chirpy voice chimed in. 

"Good morning, darling!" It was Savannah, clad in a tiny white bikini with her bleached blonde hair in a messy bun. She headed immediately to Alexia, ignoring you completely. She wrapped her arms around the Catalan from behind and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Missed you in bed.”

Alexia didn’t move away. But she didn’t lean in either. Her eyes remained locked with yours as if she was still expecting an answer even with Savannah there. You didn’t say anything; you just walked toward the pool, the heat rising to your chest, your stomach turning from the interaction.

You felt Alexia’s eyes on you the entire time.

⋆˙⟡♡ Well, that question seemed heavier than the Barcelona captain's weights. Could Alexia be looking to strike a chord — or a nerve — with our musician?

And as for Savannah. I could say that that was definitely an offside, and by offside, I mean that Alexia wants Savannah off her side.

⋆˙⟡♡ You spent the rest of the day trying to focus on Cassie. 

Something about your interaction with Alexia just made you want to avoid her at all cost and just focus on Cassie. You tried to reciprocate her sweet gestures: cuddling by the pool, sitting on her lap, spoon feeding her breakfast.

It was enough to convince everyone that you were already a solid couple. Maybe even enough to convince yourself.

⋆˙⟡♡ After lunch with everyone, you decided to settle by the pool, sunbathing and trying to get some time alone from the rest of the Islanders.

Jade slithered to you. “You won’t believe what I just heard,” she said, a playful and excited lilt to her tone.

You lifted your sunglasses slightly, giving her a curious look. “Yeah?”

Jade’s grin grew wider as she perched on the edge of your sun lounger, glowing from the joy of gossiping. “Alexia’s been talking smack about you and Cassie.” She said in a lower tone.

Your stomach did a strange flip at the mention of Alexia’s name. “What about us?” you asked, trying to keep your voice casual.

“So, we were sitting around the kitchen, right? Me, River, and April. Just talking about which couples we thought would last. And when we all agreed it was you and Cassie,” she recounted, nodding along as she narrated. “Alexia… well, let’s just say maybe you were right about her yesterday. She does have an issue..”

“Wait, what did she say?” You sat up now, pushing your sunglasses from your face to the top of your head.

“She kinda implied that you and Cassie were just faking it for the cameras,” Jade said with a low voice. "Not her exact words but she said something about preferring couples who aren't all for show, like, actually in love and not for the cameras.”

You froze, unsure of what to think or say. You tried to not seem fake, genuinely trying with Cassie but it felt like she saw right through you. “Did she say why she thought that?”

Jade shrugged. “No but she just said she didn’t think you two were as strong as you seemed.”

You paused, looking at the pool and trying to think it through. Jade looked at you and furrowed her eyebrows. “You seem bothered.”

“Well, yeah…” you paused, considering maybe what you said to her had something to do with it. But then again, you didn't really give anything away. “I mean, I don’t know. It’s just that Alexia…”

You paused your statement as you see Cassie walking towards you, with two smoothies in hand. She flashed you a grin, but when she saw your expression, it faltered. “Hey babe, what’s going on?” She asked as she sat by your feet, handing you your drink.

You sighed, taking a long sip of your smoothie. Jade decided to fill in Cassie for you. “Alexia thinks you're faking it for the cameras,” she explained. “We all thought you two were the couple to look out for but she really wasn’t convinced.”

Cassie’s face instantly tightened, her lips pressing together in irritation. “Seriously? She said that?”

“Right in front of everyone,” Jade said, too pleased with herself. “Like it was no big deal too, as if it was an established fact.”

Cassie let out a small laugh, but it wasn’t a funny one. She seemed annoyed. “I don’t get it. Why does she care so much about us?” She scoffed. “I’m not worried about her opinion. If anything, she should worry about her own relationship.”

Jade chimed in again, her voice dripping with  amusement. “Yeah, and it’s not like she’s paying attention to Savannah anyway. Poor girl’s practically throwing herself at Alexia and getting nothing in return.” She shook her head. “I just don’t know what game she’s playing cause she’s not responding to Savannah’s advances but she also isn’t making an attempt to connect with anyone else at all."

"Yeah, she hasn't pulled anyone else for a chat." Cassie rolled her eyes. “I think she’s just here to stir the pot." 

You stayed silent, sipping your drink.

⋆˙⟡♡ Well, well, well, looks like trouble’s already brewing in paradise, and we haven’t even introduced the snake and the apple yet. And by apple, I don't mean the fruit. I mean, Apple — our new bombshell.

⋆˙⟡♡ Last time on Love Island, the islanders paired up, and the couple on top of the Villa’s Billboard Charts? Singer-songwriter Y/N and band guitarist Cassie. But not everyone’s a fan.

“They just seem so always on,” Alexia said in the recap clip. She shrugged. “I just don’t buy it. It seems too posed. I don’t think they’re really into each other.”

And things are about to get even hotter in paradise with our new forbidden fruit, Apple. Will everything stay sweet and peachy or will she leave everyone feeling a little rotten?

“Hi! I’m Apple,” The girl with the atrociously orange fake tan and long lashes said in her introduction video. “I’m a hairdresser so you know I’m great at scissoring.” “My type? I’ve always had a thing for tall girls with tattoos, so if you’ve got ink and a little bit of height, I'm sold. In other words, I want Cassie.” “I’m not here to make girl friends; I’m here to steal girlfriends.”

⋆˙⟡♡ The bombshell, Apple, invited Cassie on a date. As soon as Cassie left, the whole villa practically rushed to your side, offering reassurances, comforting you with words like, "Cassie would never go for someone else," and "She only has eyes for you."

Despite their well-meaning attempts, you couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that stirred in your stomach. You weren’t all in with Cassie yet but a part of you felt a bit upset by it. If Cassie ended up liking Apple, you’d end up out of a couple and that could mean being the first to go home.

"I'm fine, guys. Really. I just need some alone time to clear my head," you reassured them, before heading out to one of the more private day beds.

As soon as everyone was off your back, gathered in the kitchen to gossip about the new bombshell, Alexia followed you. You could see her make her way to you – dressed in a tiny bikini that showed off her muscles. She looked absolutely stunning but you were too distracted by the new bombshell dilemma to take it all in.

"Are you seriously worried?" Alexia asked, raising a doubtful eyebrow as she sat by the foot of your bed.

“A bit but I don’t know,” you sighed, fiddling with your water bottle. “I trust Cassie. And, well, if she likes this new bombshell, then at least it’s early days. But yeah… I do feel a bit off.”

Alexia tilted her head slightly, humming as she looked you over. She moved closer to you, sitting by your side now, her strong arm brushing against yours and the side of her leg knocking yours. Suddenly, your mind was divided between Cassie and Alexia whose proximity was making your cheeks flush.

“Cassie seems really... popular, huh? She's everyone’s type. Tall, pretty, good girl with that bad girl vibe.” Alexia said in an indecipherable neutral tone, breaking the silence. “Can't really blame Apple for making a move, right?"

You raised an eyebrow, keeping your tone steady. "Yeah, okay. You don’t have to rub it in." 

Alexia chuckled. “Sorry, just pointing it out.” She said before pausing, letting the awkward silence linger for a moment. “I just remembered that yesterday, you said you didn’t step forward for me because you didn’t like the idea of competition.”

You looked over at Alexia, unsure of her point. She turned towards you, locking eyes. Her hazel eyes looked warm, practically glowing under the light of the sun. You felt your heart thump faster at the intensity of her gaze.

“What’s your point?” You said under your breath.

Alexia averted her gaze. “My point is…” she paused. “How are you going to handle the competition when it comes to Cassie? Especially with Apple in the picture.”

You stayed silent, turning to remove your gaze from her. Alexia paused, sneaking a look at your expression, trying to read you. “And I’m sure she’s not the only girl in this villa interested in Cassie.” she added. “Just weird to me how you didn’t want competition when it came to me but you don’t seem that worried about Cassie.”

⋆˙⟡♡ You entered the confessional hut, ready to rant.

“God, I really wasn’t bothered that much by Apple since I know Cassie, and I know Cassie is not the type to be easily swayed.” You ran a hand through your hair. “But Alexia – GOD. She’s actually pissing me off. She’s always in our business and I never really knew before but now, I know.” You groaned. “She’s obviously into Cassie! That’s why she’s been trying to throw me off the whole time, staring at me without any care for who sees. She’s just trying to get into my head.”

⋆˙⟡♡ God, these clueless lesbians frustrate me. She wants YOU, girl! Get a hint!

⋆˙⟡♡ You were trying to cool off from your interaction with Alexia by joining Jade and April for some yoga when one of the other islanders Heather exclaimed loudly. “I got a text!”

Everyone rushed towards her, excited as to your first challenge.

"Islanders, it’s time for a game of ‘Who Did It?’ The rules are simple: We’ll read out some juicy confessions, and you have to guess which islander did it. When you think you know, kiss the person you think is guilty!" Everyone is buzzing with excitement. “Apple and Cassie are already waiting for you in the garden so hurry and get ready to smooch.”

⋆˙⟡♡ Once you were in the garden, you were grouped into two, partners split up into two separate groups with the bombshell Apple hosting and reading the confessions. Cassie gave you a smile and a wave from where her group was, not able to say anything more but you could tell she was pleased to see you. That seemed like a good sign that she was still in it with me.

But more than seeing Cassie again, you were actually more pleased that Cassie and Alexia were in the same group so they couldn’t kiss each other. With your suspicion about Alexia liking Cassie, the last thing you wanted was to see them kissing.

⋆˙⟡♡ The game began, and your team was up first as the guessers. Everyone seemed to play it safe, kissing their own partners instead of taking a real guess. You weren’t one to break the pattern, and honestly, you didn’t want to kiss anyone except Cassie.

“This islander has hooked up with a famous popstar,” Apple announced. The others gasped and murmured. You scanned the room, your gaze landing first on Cassie, who shot you a cheeky shrug and a playful grin. You were about to step toward her when your eyes met Alexia’s. Her expression was unreadable, like she was watching you closely. It felt like she was waiting for you to make your way to her.

You paused, shaking off the thought. Don’t even think about it; she’s just trying to get to you.

You walked up to Cassie, cupping her face before pressing a soft kiss on her lips. The group egged you on, urging for more, and Cassie pulled you into a deeper kiss, her arms wrapped around you. It felt nice, but you couldn’t shake the feeling of Alexia’s eyes on you the whole time.

"Well, that’s a winning kiss!" Apple grinned. "In more ways than one: Cassie’s clearly a great kisser, and Y/N got it right. It was Cassie!"

⋆˙⟡♡ Your group had just scored 2 points, and now it was the other team’s turn. Cassie was first up.

“This girl claims that one of her talents is an amazing porn voice.” Apple announced, fanning herself with the prompt cards as she made a shocked expression.

The room instantly erupted with knowing glances, and it was clear to everyone: it was Jade, the only voice actor in the villa. 

You shot Cassie a playful eye roll, half-smiling, then nodded subtly toward Jade. Go for it, you signaled her with your eyes. Without hesitation, Cassie leaned in, her lips finding Jade’s in a quick, soft peck. Jade turned to you, mouthing an apology, but you just laughed it off. You weren’t bothered by the harmless kiss; after all, it was barely more than a peck, and it was Jade.

Everyone settled down after a few teasing comments about your partner and your best friend kissing which you just rolled your eyes at. Once everyone was back to their spot, it was Alexia’s turn.

Suddenly, you could feel your body tense up for some reason. Apple cleared her throat, ready to read the next confession. “Awe, did this confession get lost? It’s so cute.” She teased, pouting. Just by her reaction, you knew it was yours. “Okay, so this islander got ghosted after her first attempt at sexting.”

Everyone cooed and chuckled, poking fun at the most innocent confession said so far. You felt your cheeks flush, unsure if it was because of the other Islanders’ reaction or Alexia’s unwavering gaze on you. You bit your lip, looking at your feet.

Alexia smirked as she walked towards you. You could feel your breath catch in your throat as she came closer. You looked up at her, meeting those intoxicating hazel eyes. You swear you stopped breathing for a moment. Alexia put a hand on your face, thumb grazing your cheekbone for a moment. It felt like forever – just you two standing closely as she cradled your face and she scanned your eyes.

Your feelings were starting to become confusing and your mind was filled with incoherent thoughts. You never fully considered ever being attracted to Alexia; you knew you found her attractive but maybe you suppressed it so much, trying not to overcomplicate your feelings. Maybe it seemed doable then but with her right in front of you, staring at you with those intense eyes and her hands on you so tenderly – it just felt like you were coming undone.

And before you could even fully process your thoughts, she was kissing you.

You couldn’t help but feel your eyes flutter shut as you melted into the warmth of her kiss, your hands holding on to her strong arms for balance as she held your waist with them, holding you flush against you. Alexia kissed you with the perfect balance of gentle intimacy and firm yearning. A satisfied sound escaped your lips as you felt her tongue enter your mouth, warm and firm but not imposing. It would be a lie to say that that was not one of the best kisses you ever had.

You didn’t even realize how long you had been kissing until you heard the group’s whistles and teasing shouts. Blinking your eyes open, you pulled back, your breath coming a little faster than usual. You looked away from Alexia, a bit embarrassed at your eager reciprocation of that kiss. You feel like you just got exposed.

The girls beside you jokingly elbowed you and teased you. Apple chuckled. “Not as innocent as we thought, huh?”

You avoided Alexia and Cassie’s gaze the entire game. 

⋆˙⟡♡ Yikes, did an Argentinian goat arrive in the villa? Cause things just got Messi.

⋆˙⟡♡ While everyone's all smiles after letting their lips loose during the challenge, there's one thing tighter than our Islanders’ bums: the tension between Cassie, Alexia, and Y/N.

⋆˙⟡♡ In the confession room:

You were slumped on your seat, hands dragging down your face as you groaned. “I’m literally an introvert thrown into the middle of a telenovela. This is like my worst nightmare,” you muttered, peeking between your fingers. “I hate drama. I avoid it like the plague. And somehow? I’m smack in the middle of it.”

⋆˙⟡♡ Look at the bright side, Y/N. You could write a song about this drama. Let's call it "Snogging Another Girl In Front of My Partner." Sounds like a banger to me!

You exhaled, eyes drifting toward the floor as you tried to piece it all together, eyes focused away from the camera. “I like Cassie. A lot. I mean, I picked her on day one, and I’ve intended to put all my eggs in her basket. I really thought we were just... solid. But then there’s Alexia. And at first, I thought she was just... I don’t know, staring because she fancied Cassie? Or maybe she was bitter that things didn’t click with Savannah and she was just salty watching Cassie and I actually get along.” You sighed another time. “But after that kiss…” you trailed off. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

Cassie looked mildly bothered, arms crossed as she sat on the edge of her seat in the confession hut. “I mean, yeah. It bothered me,” she admitted, glancing away for a second. “We were doing so well. Like, I actually thought we were one of those couples that figured it out early. That we could just chill and ride it out to the end, win the whole thing.” She huffed out a sigh, then looked straight at the camera. “But seeing her kiss Alexia? I’m not stupid. There’s clearly something there, something to be worried about. I just don’t know how worried I should be cause it might just be a one-time thing like, it might just be a challenge kiss… or I might actually be losing my girl.”

The reel cut to you again. You looked genuinely conflicted, fidgeting with the string of your bikini bottom. “I really can’t figure out Alexia’s feelings too. She’s so confusing.”

Alexia looked effortlessly composed in her reel, reclined casually with one leg crossed.  “I like Y/N.” She said nonchalantly with a shrug and a calm expression, unbothered by the whole drama. “She’s with Cassie now but that doesn’t change things for me. It’s not really that complicated to me. I like her and that's really all that is to me."

⋆˙⟡♡ I’m not a geometrist but I know a love triangle when I see one. 

⋆˙⟡♡ “She’s obviously into you,” Jade said as you two waded in the pool while everyone was working out together “But like… you’re with Cassie.”

You groaned, dragging your fingers through the water. “I know. But I can’t help feeling… conflicted, I guess.”

Jade tilted her head, brows raised. “Babe, the fact that you're even doubting says a lot. Maybe you’re not as all-in with Cassie as you thought… and I saw the way you kissed. That just kinda sealed the deal in my head that you might really be into Alexia.” She held up her hands quickly. “And genuinely, no judgment from me. I’m just saying… maybe it’s time to widen your palette. Try the Spanish cuisine.”

You gave her a look as you splashed her with water for the innuendo. “Just this morning you were telling me Cassie and I were endgame. Now you’re basically shoving me into another girl’s arms.”

Jade laughed. “Well, that’s back when I thought you two were satisfied being the boring couple that wins it all in the end with minimal drama and conflict but now… now that there's a ridiculously hot Spanish football player eyeing you like she’s ready to devour you.” She shrugged. “So now, I say explore, live a little.”

You shook your head but considered her words for a moment. Jade could tell she was getting to you, shooting you a smile. “It’s Love Island, babe. Don’t force yourself to fall for the first girl you couple with.”

⋆˙⟡♡ After dinner, Cassie took your hand and pulled you aside, leading you away from the fire pit and into one of the quieter corners of the garden. Her grip was tight, her expression guarded, and you could already feel a knot forming in your stomach. You knew a difficult conversation was about to happen and you never liked having to deal with confrontation.

 “I just…” she began, her voice barely above a whisper as she rubbed her thumb over your knuckles. “I feel like we’ve been solid since day one. Like we actually found something real here.” She paused, swallowing hard. “And then now with Alexia…”

You paused, not saying anything, focusing your gaze on her thumb drawing patterns on your hands. Cassie let out a shaky sigh. “She’s not just anyone either. She’s this big-time athlete who everyone wants. I just feel threatened cause she’s like everything I’m not.”

You couldn’t help a quiet chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “Who everyone wants? You want her too?” you teased gently, wrapping an arm around her and idly playing with the hair on her nape.

Cassie let out a breathy laugh, but her eyes didn’t soften. “No, but seriously, babe.” She reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and looked at you intently. “Can you just… tell me the truth?”

A tension hung in the air as Cassie moved closer to you. “Right now, right here. Are you all in with me? Or are you just leading me on?” Cassie sighed. “Cause I don’t want to be blindsided in the next recoupling. I need to know what you feel now.”

You froze.

It wasn’t a hard question. Not really. But the answer stuck in your throat like a stone. You wanted to say yes, to promise her, to kiss her and make her feel safe. But you couldn’t force it. During the first few days, you felt bad leading Cassie on, making her think you were sure of her from the first coupling.

This finally felt like your chance to be honest. You bit your lip and tried to muster the strength to say something but you couldn’t even manage to keep eye contact, averting your gaze.

“Y/N?” Her voice cracked.

You looked up for half a second and she saw it in your face.

Cassie exhaled sharply. “Unbelievable.” She whispered before she shook her head. She dropped your hand like it disgusted her. She stood up and walked away, running off to the other girls to rant.

You didn’t follow her. It felt horrible to hurt her like that but you thought it was better than to keep leading her on.

⋆˙⟡♡ Alexia was sipping on martinis with the other girls when Cassie stormed into the dining area. “What got into your panties, rockstar?” She said teasingly.

Cassie was practically turning red, annoyed with the comment especially after everything that happened. “Fuck off, Alexia.”

What’s an all-girl season without a little catfight? Come on girls, claws out! It’s girl fight time.

“Oh, I got on her nerves.” Alexia whispered to Jade, nonchalantly sipping on her cocktail.

Or not… Alexia seems too unbothered to even engage Cassie in an argument.

Everyone rushed to Cassie, comforting her and asking her what happened. Alexia stayed put, eyes wandering towards the direction of where Cassie came from. She finished her drink and swiftly got up, heading to where you were.

⋆˙⟡♡ “Your puppy dog’s making a fuss over there,” Alexia said as she walked toward you, a slow, smug smile pulling at her lips. “Whimpering to everyone like she hurt her paw.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You shot back in a low tone, not really in the mood to joke around.

Alexia shrugged as she lowered herself onto the daybed by your feet, facing you, casually resting her hand on your calf, fingers brushing your skin with a sense of familiarity. “I don’t know… you tell me what that was about.” She raised an eyebrow, her tone playful but with an underlying seriousness. A moment of silence took over before she spoke up again. “So… I take it that chapter’s closed?”

You hesitated, not knowing if you were comfortable totally just ending your chapter with Cassie. While you couldn’t deny the chemistry you had with Alexia, you also weren’t so keen on the kind of drama you’d have to deal with if you chose to be with Alexia instead. 

Alexia’s fingers lingered on your calf, looking at you intensely with her hazel eyes. “What’s going on in that head of yours?” She asked in a low and serious tone. “Looks like you’re still deciding whether you want to keep pretending.”

You snapped, finally meeting Alexia’s gaze. “Pretending?” You half-laughed, trying to act casual. “What’s there to pretend?”

The Catalan just shrugged back at you and raised her eyebrows. You groaned at her expression, feeling like Alexia was just playing a game to confuse you or drive you insane. “I’m not in the mood to play this game right now. I'm serious."

Alexia didn’t respond right away. Instead, her eyes locked onto yours, and the playful edge in her expression disappeared. She bit her lip and leaned in slightly, pausing for a moment. “Alright, if you want serious, I’ll be serious,” she said, her voice now low and steady. 

You met her gaze, your breath hitching at the sudden intensity. “I’m serious about you,” she continued, words hitting harder than you expected. Suddenly, your heart was racing in your chest.

Her eyes never wavered, never leaving yours. “That kiss wasn’t just a game. You felt it too.” she said in a deliberate tone. “I know you enjoyed my kiss more than hers.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“Maybe,” she said with a small shrug and a smirk playing on her lips. “Or maybe I just know how to read you.”

She leaned in, slowly closing the distance. Her hand lifted, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Her touch stayed, fingers brushing the side of your neck. Her palm was warm against your skin.

“I know you’re trying to be angry,” she said quietly. “Trying to act like that kiss and this… feeling you have for me doesn’t mean anything. But underneath all that… I know you want to kiss me again.”

Your lips parted, ready to fire back, to call her arrogant, to drive her away. But before you could speak, her lips were on yours.

All the tension, the frustration, everything… just gone in an instant. Whatever bit of confusion and apprehension you had in your body melted away as you wrapped your arms around Alexia, deepening the kiss. You knew how this show went; there was going to be tons of drama making your way. But right now, none of that mattered.

All you could focus on was her lips on yours.

⋆˙⟡♡ While I’m definitely cheering for Alexia and Y/N, the other islanders look ready to flash them a red card. 

One of the islanders, River, shook her head and rolled her eyes after Cassie recounted your conversation.  “You know what, you dodged a bullet, Cass.” She said as she put a hand on Cassie’s shoulder. “Like, obviously Alexia’s been into her from the start but Y/N is shady. I bet she’s just putting on this whole innocent girl act.” Apple nodded. “She’s definitely sneaky. I wouldn’t trust her.”

⋆˙⟡♡ In the confessionals:

“I definitely had my eyes on Y/N when I first entered because she just seemed so different and meek but I’m seeing that maybe that’s just a facade.” River told the camera, shaking her head as she played with her rings. “I don’t know. I don’t trust her.”

Apple flipped a lock of hair from her shoulder to her back and rolled her eyes. “I don’t care about her. I just know I want Cassie and she just handed me Cassie on a silver platter.” A playful smirk grew on her face. “So, maybe I should thank her.”

Your best friend Jade sighed, crossing her arms. “I think everyone is going to regret acting like this because this is fucking Love Island.” She said, looking exasperated. “It’s not Friend Island or Commit-with-your-first-couple Island. That’s just not the game!”

⋆˙⟡♡ Your magical moment with Alexia was short-lived because you were still coupled up with Cassie, which meant you still had to sleep in bed together. You were initially worried but realized that this meant Cassie was going to let you breathe tonight and not suffocate you with her cuddles. So, even if that meant it was awkward as fuck sharing a bed with her, it was still a win for you.

⋆˙⟡♡ Despite having the best sleep in the villa you’ve had so far, you still woke up earlier than everyone else. You looked over to Alexia and Savannah’s bed which only had Savannah now sprawled on the bed. A blush crept across your face at the thought of having a moment alone with Alexia while everyone else was asleep. 

This time, you decided to put on a bit more makeup and wear a cuter bikini before heading out to the pool area. As soon as you walked out to the open area, you heard a low wolf whistle. “Oh guapa.” You looked over to Alexia who was in the middle of a mat workout. 

You walked over to Alexia who had now stood up and was quick to wrap her arms around you, pulling you in closer, putting a kiss on your cheek. “Good morning,” she cooed. “You slept well?”

“Mmhhmm,” you said as you enjoyed the sensation of Alexia peppering kisses on your jaw and neck. You giggled and pushed her a bit away, feeling incredibly flustered by the feeling of her lips. “Well, someone’s in the mood.”

She smirked, a hand still wrapped around your waist. "Yeah, I've been wanting to do that ever since I saw you but Miss Emo Popstar was always in the way."

You chuckled but rolled your eyes. "You're actually so mean."

She chuckled. "Hmmm, but you still have got a crush on me," she teased, leaning in to plant another kiss on your cheek. “So, are you going for a morning swim? Or do you want to have a little talk first?”

“Hmm, a talk sounds great.”

⋆˙⟡♡ Alexia and you sat in one of the morning day beds, a cautious distance between the two of you. While the conversation started off a bit awkward and stiff, it eventually flowed naturally and after a while, you two were laughing and relating pretty well with each other.

Alexia talked about her career, her ACL injury, her doubts after her injury. Her eyes sparkled whenever she talked about football; it was obvious that she was passionate which drew you in even more since you felt the same way about music. You told Alexia about how you got into songwriting, being an introvert who had massive stage fright, but how you were trying to come out of your shell now as a singer, forced to be in the public eye.

“So, Love Island must be you stepping out of your comfort zone,” Alexia said, hazel eyes scanning yours.

You nodded. “Yeah, it’s a huge pressure for someone who never really liked having attention on them but also… cause I’ve never been in a long-term relationship before.”

Alexia’s jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”

You nodded. “Is that like a red flag or something?”

She chuckled and shook her head. “I think that’s cute actually.” She said, smiling. “How old are you again?”

“23,” you said, ready to get defensive. “And I know I’m younger but I swear, I can be mature.”

Alexia laughed. “Don’t worry. I can tell.”

You bit your lip and nodded nervously. “Does my age bother you?”

She shook her head. “Does my age bother you?”

“Not at all,” you responded.

“Good,” she hummed. She put a hand on your thigh, which sent electricity through your body. It felt like all doubts and apprehension you had about Alexia just fizzled away.

Everything felt just right.

⋆˙⟡♡ It had been just under a week, but the Love Island setup made it feel like time moved in slow motion. With no phones, no books, no music, not even a deck of cards, your entire world had shrunk to this villa and the people inside it. You spent nearly every hour of the day talking to Alexia, Jade, and the other Islanders, caught in this strange bubble where real life felt far away.

And while it was kind of nice to feel disconnected from everything else, it also gave you way too much time to think. Especially about Alexia.

You’d had crushes before, sure. Situationships. Passing things. But this? This felt different. With Alexia, it was like something had clicked and short-circuited at the same time. She made you feel something new and intense, something you didn’t have a name for yet. 

And the worst part was you couldn’t escape it. You lived in the same space, shared the same room, breathed the same air. There was no time apart. At least not completely.

But it wasn’t just the feelings that were getting to you. It was everything else too. The way half the villa looked at you like you were a villain for how things ended with Casey. Like you’d personally gone out of your way to break her heart on live TV, as if it was just out of spite. Never mind the fact that this was literally the point of the show. That you were all here to explore connections. Some people had already made up their minds about you being the villain, and it stung more than you’d like to admit.

It was all getting to you. You thought you mentally prepared yourself for the drama but maybe you lacked in preparing to actually have to deal with all these intense emotions paired with having to fight against losing your mind over other people’s perception. It was too much. 

So, the next day, you decided a little space was what you needed to clear your head.

⋆˙⟡♡ “I GOT A TEXT!”

Jade’s voice cut through the chatter, echoing through the villa.

You pulled yourself off the flamingo floatie, dripping as you stepped out of the pool, and made your way to the kitchen. Everyone started to gather around. You could feel Alexia watching you, but you didn’t look at her. You couldn’t. Not right now.

Jade held up her phone, grinning. “The public has voted for the Islander who needs a spa day,” she read dramatically. “And the Islander who got the most votes is… Y/N.”

You blinked. For a second, you weren’t sure if you’d heard right. Then everyone turned to look at you. You smiled genuinely, unable to hide your excitement despite the annoyed look from Casey. 

“That was exactly what I needed,” you said, voice quieter, more vulnerable than usual. “Everything’s just been so overwhelming lately. I think I forgot how intense this would actually be. I know not everyone’s happy I got it. I’m sure Casey and Savannah have something to say. But honestly? I don’t care. I think the public saw how rough it’s been for me, and I’m really grateful for that.”

Jade paused, wiggling her eyebrows playfully. “And she gets to take any islander out with her on her spa date.”

A few people oohed under their breath. All eyes flicked toward Alexia.

You met her gaze for just a second. She wasn’t smiling. She didn’t look surprised. Her expression was calm, maybe even unreadable. But that only made your heart beat faster.

You hesitated. You wanted to choose her. You really did. But the truth was, she was part of the reason you needed this break in the first place. Your feelings for her were getting too loud, too heavy, and you needed to breathe before they swallowed you whole.

You looked away. “I pick Jade,” you said.

⋆˙⟡♡ In the confessionals:

“I like Alexia. I seriously do,” you said, pouring your heart out to the camera. Without the privilege of a therapist, you were starting to treat the camera like one. “But that’s exactly why I need space from her. Like it’s not even her fault; I just… can’t deal with these feelings right now. It’s too much.”

Casey sat cross-legged, arms draped over her knees, clearly trying to play it cool. “She left me for Alexia, which whatever, that’s the game. But then doesn’t even take her on the date? It just makes it feel like she doesn’t really know what she wants.”

Jade grinned at the camera, bun wobbling on top of her head. “I’m not surprised, to be honest. She’s like my best mate here so I think I know her best and I can just tell that with everything going on, it makes sense she’d want a break from everyone.” She smiled. "Well, everyone except her bestie, of course."

Alexia had her arms crossed but she had a serious expression. “It would be a lie if I said I didn’t want her to pick me,” she said simply with a shrug. “Of course I did. But I get it. We’re all going through a lot. I’m not worried though. This won’t be the only chance we get for a date. I’ll have my moment with her. I know I will."

⋆˙⟡♡ Looks like the Spanish captain is playing the long game. And even if she didn’t get the date, she has something else that’s rarer in this villa… emotional maturity.

And speaking of a lack of emotional maturity.

⋆˙⟡♡ Apple sat cross-legged on the sunbed right beside Casey, sunglasses perched on her head as she glanced toward the villa. “I genuinely can’t tell what game she’s playing,” she muttered to Casey. “She’s either faking the whole sensitive act or she’s just really bad at being honest. Either way, it’s getting old.”

Casey scoffed, shaking her head before taking a sip from her water bottle. “She left our couple, didn’t even look back, and now wants space from Alexia too?” She rolled her eyes. “It’s like she gets off on confusing people.”

Apple leaned back, lips curling into a smirk. “She doesn’t seem genuine at all. And honestly?” She tilted her head. “She's just a dramatic mess. It’s good you got out of that couple sooner than later."

Unbeknownst to them, Alexia had walked out from the kitchen and paused just behind the sun beds. She couldn’t control herself after overhearing the conversation.

“Yeah, good for all of us,” she commented cheekily as she walked into their line of sight. “Could tell she never really was in it with you.”

Casey furrowed her eyebrows. “Seriously, why are you even in this conversation?”

Alexia raised her brows, unbothered. “Maybe because you’re talking loud enough for the entire villa to hear. If you want privacy, try whispering.”

Casey stood up, pushing her sunglasses onto her head. “Alexia, can you just learn how to back off for once?”

Alexia let out a low, dry laugh. “When have I ever crossed your boundaries? Because from where I’m standing, it’s you and your little group that can’t stop running your mouths about Y/N.”

Casey’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” She retorted, trying to hurt Alexia’s feelings. “I’ve got a solid group of friends here and it’s not my fault they stick by me.”

Alexia shrugged. “Maybe instead of turning bitter and questioning her character, you should be asking each other why she didn’t want to stay with you.” A playful smile grew on her face.

Casey straightened up her posture, eyes dark. “You better watch yourself.” She said as she stepped closer to Alexia, looking her in the eyes as if she was in a stare down before a boxing match.

Alexia didn’t move. She just put her hands up, slow and mocking, with a teasing smile on her face. “Yeah, sure.” She chuckled. To further annoy Casey, she gave her a cheeky wink before walking away. "Don't hurt yourself, Casey."

⋆˙⟡♡ In the confessional: 

Alexia chuckled. “Casey wants to act tough and all,” she said, an amused lilt to her voice. “Someone needs to remind her that she’s a skinny musician and I’m an athlete. I won’t fight her because I’ve got integrity and because I don’t think that would be fair for her.”

⋆˙⟡♡ You just returned from your spa day with Jade which helped you get the necessary time away from the drama in the villa. But you didn’t expect to return to the villa with the tension even higher than ever.

Alexia was quick to greet you and pull you aside for a talk which, while daunting, meant being away from the other group's tension.

⋆˙⟡♡ “I know why you’ve been distant and avoiding me,” she said once you were both seated, her voice quiet and thoughtful. Her finger idly traced along her bottom lip as she looked at you, waiting.

You glanced down at your hands, fiddling with your thumbs. “Hmm?”

Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to, and of course, the flutters in your chest were back. They always showed up when she was near.

Alexia reached out and gently took your hands in hers, stopping your nervous habit. The touch was light, but the way she looked at you made your stomach twist in the best way. Her eyes met yours, steady and soft, and for a second you forgot how to breathe properly. Something about those hazel eyes.

Alexia didn’t continue her statement but you knew what she meant instantly. She took her hand in yours, thumb rubbing against your hands. A silence took over between the two of you. It was that kind of loaded silence that just made your heart beat faster.

Alexia broke the loaded silence. “So, if there was a recoupling tonight, can I trust you?”

Even after avoiding her and struggling with your feelings, you didn’t hesitate to nod. “Yeah, of course.”

“Yeah?” Alexia’s eyes practically lit up. 

You locked eyes with the Catalan. You suddenly felt unfair with her, being so avoidant the whole day without having a chat to explain to her what was going on… but here she was, being understanding and patient. 

Maybe it was her age but she was clearly more emotionally mature than anyone else in the villa, including you. It just felt like it was time for you to learn from her.

Instead of answering her, you delicately put a hand on her cheek, thumb touching her cheek as you leaned into her. You paused, taking one last moment to gaze into her eyes, before making the first move and capturing your lips with hers. The kiss was gentle and soft at first until Alexia put a hand behind your neck, deepening the kiss. It was the kind of kiss that made you feel weak in the knees and light-headed.

Suddenly, everything just felt right.

⋆˙⟡♡ And as expected, the recoupling happened that night. Since it was the first sapphic version of the show, it was being done differently. Instead of girls picking guys or guys picking girls, it was now all left to the public as to how everyone would couple up. For this particular recoupling, they voted on which islanders get to go first. They’d seen your drama with Alexia and Casey. They saw the other islanders’ drama. It seemed like they knew best what line up to follow.

Luckily, you went first and there was no doubt in your mind. You stood in front of everyone but your eyes were fixed only on Alexia. 

“While things have been difficult the past week and I’ve tried to keep my distance because of my avoidant habits,” you started, your voice a little shaky, but warm, “the islander I’m choosing has always been patient with me. She’s shown me how serious she is with me, even when I’ve made it hard.”

You glanced down, biting your lip for a second before looking back at her.

“And I’m finally ready to show her I feel the same, and that I’m ready to go all in.”

You took a breath. “The islander I’m choosing is… Alexia.”

Alexia immediately walked towards where you were standing and she didn’t hesitate. Her hands cupped your face as she kissed you deeply. The islanders erupted into cheers. Well, most of them. Casey and Savannah barely clapped.

But that didn’t matter. For the first time, it felt like the pairing was right. Like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

⋆˙⟡♡ The next days (and episodes) really went by smoothly for the two of you. The drama between you and the other islanders was soon forgotten as new drama emerged. Now, you and Alexia were getting along well with your bond growing stronger each day. At times, it felt like you two were just on vacation, relaxing, without a care in the world. Things were going well, and for once, you let yourself believe that everything was falling into place.

⋆˙⟡♡ But as always, Love Island is never about smooth sailing. As things were finally settling into a comfortable rhythm between you and Alexia, the producers had to rock the boat.

⋆˙⟡♡ “I got a text!” You exclaimed from the kitchen where you were making a coffee, your voice cutting throughout the villa. 

Everyone approached you, murmurs swirling around, excitement hanging in the air. No one had entered the villa in a while, so they were eager for any sort of news about a potential bombshell.

You opened the message aloud, and as soon as the words left your mouth, the room fell into stunned silence. “I don’t wanna step on anyone’s boots, but Y/N, you definitely caught my eye. I hope you don’t mind me stealing you away. Get ready for our date in 10 minutes. #GoalGetter #NoSuchThingAsTeammates.”

The reaction was immediate. Shouts, gasps, and excited chatter filled the space. It was clear that the mystery person was likely another footballer… and judging by the wording of the message, she was probably someone Alexia knew well. Everyone’s eyes were suddenly on Alexia. Though she seemed unbothered, you could see a furrow in her brow, her mind obviously working overtime behind those steady eyes. She wasn’t too worried yet… but she could feel that things were about to shift in the villa.

Before you could say anything else about the date, you were quickly whisked away by the other girls, all chattering excitedly as they helped you get ready.

⋆˙⟡♡ You nervously fidgeted with the hem of your skirt as you walked to the designated date place which was a nice Spanish restaurant. You bit your lip, not knowing who to expect.

As you walked towards the restaurant, a tanned girl with dark brown hair stood with a smile on her face. She was effortlessly dressed in a cream linen top and shorts; it was a casual look but it looked so effortlessly charming on her. She greeted you by reaching out to place her hand gently on your arm as she gave you a kiss on the cheek. “Hey, you look amazing.”

A blush crept on your cheek, feeling intimidated by the girl. “Thank you,” you responded. “You look stunning too.”

You two sat in front of each other as a waitress swiftly came to drop off a couple of drinks. “I’m Patri, by the way.” She said as she extended her hand to shake yours. “I’m so glad you decided to join me.”

Patri and you had the typical exchange of niceties and question-and-answers. You were trying to carefully skirt around her text message, unsure if it was an appropriate time to ask her about it. But without prompting, she brought it up. “Since you didn’t ask...” she chuckled. “I’m teammates with Alexia. We both play for the same club and for Spain.”

You nodded. “Yeah, I got that from the text. I was just kinda scared to bring it up.”

She smiled. “Scared? Why?”

You shrugged. “Well… I thought that if I knew for sure it would seem like a bigger betrayal for me to be on a date with her friend.”

Patri laughed, shaking her head. “Ouch… betrayal is one way to put it.” She said, raising her eyebrows before taking a sip of her red cocktail. She paused. “But really… the way I see it is, this is Love Island and I’d be doing her… and well, you and me… a disservice if I didn’t choose you out of courtesy.”

“Cause even if you and Alexia got together first, I don’t really want that to stop me from getting to know you.” She locked eyes with you, brown eyes full of sincerity. “You were truly the only girl who caught my eye in that villa.”

The intensity of Patri’s gaze caused a blush to tint your cheeks pink. You bit your lip as you subconsciously tucked a hair behind your ear, diverting your gaze to the table. “Why even me? I’m genuinely so boring,” you responded, reverting to your self-deprecating ways as you grew conscious.

Patri chuckled. “Well, I think you’re obviously gorgeous, like, completely my type. And, you seem kind and genuine…” she paused, “And well, it would be wrong of me not to mention that I already was a fan of your music before I even knew you were in Love Island.” 

Your eyes widened. “No way!”

“Yes, your latest single’s actually in our locker room playlist; I’m shocked that Alexia never recognized your name from our shared playlist…” 

You smiled at Patri as she continued to hype your music up, clearly a fan. It was cute and charming seeing her a bit fangirl-y over you. Something about being with her just felt… different from being with Alexia.

God, I’m in trouble.

⋆˙⟡♡ Patri was nothing like Alexia. 

While Alexia was more reserved and intense, Patri was extroverted and playful, making you laugh a lot and joking around. Patri was also touchy in a different way. Her touches were lighter, more subtle like brushing against your hand when she passed you something or feeding you a chip. It was playful and lighthearted. You couldn’t help but feel at ease with her.

She made you feel completely different than Alexia did. 

With Alexia, there was always an undercurrent of intensity, a sense that things were never quite simple, that every moment between you was heavy with meaning. But with Patri, it felt different. There was an ease, a simplicity that made you forget the complexities of everything around you. She made you feel like you didn’t have to think too much, that maybe you could just be.

The date went by so easily, once the initial nerves had settled. You had a drink, then another. The alcohol helped loosen you up, but it was more than that. It was Patri’s presence and her effortless charm that made everything feel like it was falling into place. You laughed more than you had in days. It felt like you were both just going along with the moment, no expectations, no overthinking.

Before you knew it, you were kissing her.

You didn’t even know how it happened at first. You figured it might have just happened after she joked about how good of a kisser she is but there was no way of knowing for sure. It just happened without a second thought, without the usual self-consciousness you usually felt on a first date. There was no thinking or analyzing the consequences; it was just you two having a good time.

Patri held your cheek as she deepened the kiss, locking lips before slipping her tongue into your mouth once you parted it. You hummed in satisfaction as you locked lips. Once she pulled away, you could feel your eyes flutter.

She giggled. “So, was that good?”

“That was…” You bit your lip, feeling giddy for a moment before suddenly remembering that you had Alexia nervously waiting for you in the villa. You cleared your throat, trying to shake off the giddiness that had taken over you just moments before.

Patri chuckled. “Well… too bad it’s time to go back to the villa,” she said. “I’d love to kiss you more.”

You smiled, trying to revert back to your more easy-going self early on the date but now all you could think about was how to deal with Alexia.

⋆˙⟡♡ When you returned to the villa, you could just feel the energy shift. Even if you and Patri had a good foot of space between the two of you, your chemistry together was just palpable. The cameras zoomed in on Alexia who might initially seem calm to any onlooker but the cameras did a good job of capturing her slightly clenching her jaw and raising her eyebrows. She wasn’t exactly pleased to see that it was indeed her teammate and good friend who got in between the two of you.

⋆˙⟡♡ Is it just me or does Alexia look like she had just been benched? Not too happy about Patri scoring this time!

⋆˙⟡♡ Later that afternoon, Patri pulled Alexia aside to have a chat in the quiet corner of the villa. Without looking too much into it, you’d think nothing was off or wrong with the teammates but a closer look would tell that there was obviously some tension.

After the two caught up with each other on what was going on outside the villa, Alexia cleared her throat. “Uh so… out of all the girls, huh?” She said with a half-laugh, intending it to sound casual but the edge was obvious in her tone.

Patri chuckled, seemingly unfazed but there was a fleeting hesitation before she responded. “I’m sorry, Ale. I genuinely didn’t want any drama between us…” she said with a calm voice. “But I’m here for love too and I’d be lying if I chose anyone else to go on a date with. I have to put myself first.”

Alexia nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t say anything immediately, and for a moment, it felt like she was weighing her response, carefully measuring each word. She met Patri’s gaze, her face unreadable.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Alexia said finally, though her voice was quieter than usual. “I get it. You didn’t choose her to start drama or hurt me; I know you and you aren’t that kind of person.”

Alexia paused. “But even if you didn’t mean to, you have to know that that offended me. It did hurt.”

Patri opened her mouth to say something, but Alexia raised a hand, cutting her off. “It’s fine. I’ll get over it. I always do; it's the captain's duty to be the bigger person, right?”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke, and the silence seemed to stretch, heavier than before. Patri looked at the distance, not wanting to look at Alexia due to intimidation. She sighed. “Let’s just play it out,” she said, still averting Alexia’s gaze. “Just like a friendlies match.”

Alexia chuckled and rolled her eyes.

⋆˙⟡♡ Is it just me or is Alexia’s demeanor nothing but friendly?

If I were Patri, I’d go running the opposite direction. RUN FOR SAFETY, PATRI! 

⋆˙⟡♡ Confessional:

Patri sighed and shrugged. “I know Ale’s probably pissed, but what can I do? I chose the person I was most attracted to,” she explained with animated hand gestures. “If her girl wasn’t interested at me, I’d stand down and back off… but she seemed interested. I can’t just cower away just because of my respect for Alexia.”

In contrast, Alexia was more reserved, arms crossed.  “I signed up for this, so I should’ve known something like this would happen,” she shook her head. “Doesn’t mean it’s easy. But that’s what I get for playing the game.” “I just feel like my trust is getting tested,” she looked at the camera now, eyes serious. “My trust in both Y/N and Patri.”

⋆˙⟡♡ Later, in bed with Alexia, you could easily tell that something has shifted between you. It was just how silent Alexia was and how her gaze seemed harder, more guarded in a sense. You sighed, feeling a wave of regret. 

“Alexia,” you whispered, trying to meet her eyes in the dim light. 

She hummed, locking eyes with you. “Hmm?” There was no softness or warmth in her voice or her gaze; she seemed so distant even if she was just right in front of you, cuddled up under the same duvet.

“Are you mad?” You asked, swallowing hard before biting your lip as you slowly moved closer to her, gently holding on to her arm for some physical contact. Your touch was almost tentative. 

The entire day, you didn’t really get to have a proper conversation. When you tried to talk to her about it, she brushed you off with a casual wave of her hand and a half-hearted, “It’s fine. It’s all good.” But you knew better. You could see it in her eyes. She was obviously bothered.

This was nothing like what had happened with Cassie. With Cassie, there had never really been a real connection or spark so it felt easier to consider being with Alexia while still being paired up with Cassie. Now, you were with Alexia and the bond… is just different. There’s an undeniable chemistry and spark between the two of you but the pull you felt toward Patri was also undeniable. 

With Cassie and Alexia, there was really no competition; Alexia was the clear winner even when you hadn’t known it yet. But with Alexia and Patri… it was just different. 

“Should I be mad?” Alexia asked after the long pause between you two. Since you didn’t get a chance to talk about what happened during your date, you never really got to tell Alexia that you kissed Patri but of course, being Love Island, the news got around fast and reached her instantly.

You sighed. “Maybe,” you responded, being vague about it. You paused, trying to move closer to Alexia, perhaps seeking some sort of comfort that all was fine even if you had slipped up but the Catalan offered nothing of the sort, remaining still and unmoving. 

Alexia sighed. “I just wanna know if you’re in it with me.” She said with a steady but low tone. “Obviously, I still like you and I am getting feelings for you but if you don’t feel that anymore—”

“I still feel that way,” you interrupted. “I still like you.”

She hummed in response. “And Patri?”

You hesitated, trying to piece together a proper response but nothing seemed like it would sound right. “I think I like her too.” You responded, being honest. “I can’t lie to you. I think while most my eggs are in your basket right now, I don’t want to not consider Patri and just close the door on that possible connection.”

Alexia nodded, eyebrows furrowing. “No, I get it. I can’t expect you to be just tied to me. It’s early days and it’s Love Island after all,” she responded, trying to sound mature.

You nodded thankfully, thinking it was all settled but when you leaned in for a kiss, Alexia stayed unmoving, not meeting you halfway or leaning in. You paused and just bid her good night before turning around, facing the opposite direction.

⋆˙⟡♡ The next morning, you woke up with a sense of guilt already settling into your chest. You thought maybe, just maybe, preparing breakfast would be a way to make things right with Alexia. The idea of quietly fixing things before the day began felt like a small gesture, something simple you could do to start mending the distance between you. But when you opened your eyes, she was already gone.

You looked around the dim room to see that most of the other islanders were still fast asleep in their beds, tangled in their sheets with their partner. The only other bed that was empty was Patri’s. You sighed, pulling the covers off of you to get up, deciding that a morning swim could help you clear your head.

Once you headed outside, you immediately noticed Alexia and Patri working out together, chuckling as if nothing was wrong between the two of them. You hummed, thinking that maybe the drama could be quashed by today and that there would be no issue with you considering Patri as an option while still partnered up with Alexia.

“Good morning, guapa!” Your typical morning greeting sounded different coming out of Patri’s mouth. You smiled at the two footballers, waving at them before heading over to the workout station, trying to act like you didn’t have a million questions running through your head.

Alexia seemed warmer and less tense. She gave you a familiar comforting smile and something about it just put you at ease. It felt like her way of comforting you that everything was okay. You responded with a weak smile back. 

“Morning,” you greeted her. “You got out of bed early?”

Alexia shrugged casually. “Had to get a workout in,” she explained. “You upset I left the bed without saying good morning?”

Patri chuckled softly at the question. You just gave the Catalan captain a small, tight smile and an eyebrow raise. Alexia tilted her head slightly and hummed at the response. “I’ll make it up to you then,” she said with a playful lilt to her voice  before walking over to you.

Before you could even react, Alexia was right in front of you. Her hand snaked around your waist, pulling you close as she captured your lips with hers, kissing you deeply and passionately. Your eyes widened at the sudden display of affection. It was obviously her trying to stake her claim right in front of Patri.

 Okay, so she’s still bothered, you thought to yourself.

Patri let out a dry laugh, also taken aback by the sudden blatant display of possessiveness but she didn’t say anything. After Alexia pulled away, you bit your lip and felt your cheeks flush from embarrassment.

“Uh… I’ll go make coffee now.” You said, turning at your heel to walk away from the scene quickly.

⋆˙⟡♡ “She did what?!” Jade exclaimed as you recounted to her what happened that morning. Her eyes widened and she looked incredibly scandalized. “Damn, Alexia really must be jealous of her to be doing all that in front of Patri. It’s like those Alpha Wolves or whatever when they implant on their mate or something.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at Jade’s weird reference. “I mean, it was hot but also, I just felt kinda bad for Patri.” You said. “She seemed a bit offended by it even if she hadn’t said anything.”

Jade looked at you quizzically, raising an eyebrow. “Why would you feel bad? Are you trying to tell me that you actually are considering Patri?” She asked. “Just yesterday you said that even if the date with Patri was fun, you think you were sticking with Alexia.”

You groaned, sinking into the lounge chair. “I know… but I just can’t ignore the spark I felt for Patri too. I have to consider it too cause there is something there.”

Jade let out a sigh, leaning back as she crossed her arms. “Can’t believe I’m best friends with the messiest girl in the villa,” she joked but there was a subtle tone of concern in her voice. "I'm not looking forward to reading what people online have to say about you, love."

You playfully pushed her shoulder. “Jadeeee, just help me.” You groaned. “I’m so lost right now."

“Girl, what do you want me to do? I can’t choose for you.” Your friend exclaimed, shaking her head dramatically. “I’m just saying you gotta choose quick cause I just can sense that someone is going home soon. And it could be you or one of them if you don’t choose ASAP.”

You sighed. You knew Jade was right. With Patri’s entrance, someone was bound to leave the villa soon and that decision might be left to you if the cards weren’t in your favor.

⋆˙⟡♡ Later that day, Patri pulled you aside to talk, her voice calm, but you could sense the seriousness in the tone. “I know you’re still figuring things out,” she said, leading you to the daybeds.  “But I just really want to have a chat to see where your head’s at.”

You nodded, sitting down beside her on the daybed, leaving a decent amount of space between the two of you. Patri sighed. “So, I know that you really are emotionally invested with Alexia already but… I want to know if your door is still open for me, like, do I still have a chance to get to know you and to be considered by you?”

You hesitated, taking a beat to think. Before you could respond, Patri spoke up again. “Hey, I know we kissed andhit it off already the other day but if you’ve made up your mind and you really want to stick with Alexia, I won’t be mad,” she reached out to take your hand into hers, causing you to meet her gaze. “I’d actually prefer if you let me down now than later.”

A part of you just wanted to take the easy route, tell her that you were definitely going to stick with Alexia and that you’d appreciate being her friend. It felt like saying anything else other than that would paint you in a negative light, probably counterintuitive to the intention of your publicists to get you good press. 

But part of you just felt like taking the easy route was such a dishonest way to go. Even if PR was a main reason as to why you entered Love Island, finding love was also a big reason you agreed to it. You wanted to experience all the aspects of love and relationships, and doubt was one of them. It felt like doing yourself a disservice to just do an easy cop out.

“I haven’t…” you paused to look into Patri’s eyes. “I haven’t completely counted you out.”

A smile grew on her face. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “I mean, I’m not saying for certain that if there was a recoupling, I would choose you. I still have feelings for Alexia.” you paused. “But, I won’t not consider you. I’m still open to getting to know you.”

Patri nodded. “That’s enough for me.” 

You smiled back at the Spaniard. She reached over to you, tucking a loose strand behind your ear. “So, if you wanna test out the waters between us…” she looked into your eyes. “Can I test it out with another kiss?”

You paused, looking around to see if there were other islanders nearby but with the coast clear, you meekly nodded. It felt wrong to be cozying up to Patri like this and letting her kiss you even if it had just been a couple days since you met her when with Alexia, it felt like there was more hesitation with you at the start of your relationship. But if you wanted to fully consider both options, you had to do something to test it out. 

Patri’s hand moved to your neck, cupping it gently before pulling you in closer to her. She captured your lips with hers, slowly moving against yours. It started off gentle before it grew more passionate, more insistent. Unlike your first few kisses with Alexia, Patri’s kisses didn’t feel like butterflies or fireworks. It felt more like a warmth forming in your stomach. It was intense in a different way.

Once you pulled away from the kiss, you sighed deeply, biting your lip.

I’m in big trouble.

⋆˙⟡♡ You planned to have a sit-down dinner with Alexia later that night. Just the two of you, with no other islander around, no distractions or interruptions. You two skirted around the discussion long enough and you needed to completely clear the air with her, be honest and let all your feelings out. With the recoupling looming, it was pertinent that you discuss your own confusion and struggle but also to comfort her that even with Patri’s arrival, she was still the first person in your heart at that moment.

It was a good plan, something that could have helped you two a lot. But that plan? Officially out the window.

Just as you were preparing to pull Alexia aside for it, Jade got a text. As soon as you heard the notification sound, you knew it was too late. It was recoupling time, and you had to make up your mind quick.

⋆˙⟡♡ The group gathered by the fireplace, the flames crackling in the background as everyone stood in a loose circle, eyes darting nervously around the room. Sophie, the host, arrived with that look on her face. Before she could even say anything, you knew someone was going home.

Your stomach churned and you absentmindedly shifted from foot to foot, anxiety taking over you. Even as Sophie spoke, all of it turned into garbled nonsense in your ear; you were too caught up in your own thoughts to process it. Suddenly, Sophie was calling your name.

“Seems like Y/N’s in a daze,” You blinked, snapped out of your thoughts, and immediately felt a flush of embarrassment. You hadn’t even realized how much you’d zoned out. When you met Sophie’s eyes again, she was smiling, waiting for you to speak. “Y/N, it’s your turn to choose.”

You gulped, stepping forward, settling beside Sophie and looking back at the group. 

Immediately, you locked eyes with Alexia who gave you a weak smile. Your connection with her was undeniable; it felt solid. Even when she first walked in the villa when you were coupled with Cassie, something about her drew you in instantly. It felt like there had always been an invisible thread pulling you toward her. And the things she made you feel — butterflies, fireworks, the dizzy ecstasy you felt with her — was something you have never felt before. Her kisses felt like revelations and her touch always felt intimate, filled with a warmth and intensity that seemingly no one could ever replicate. 

Having known Alexia longer, you’ve also gotten to know her pretty well. You knew her quirks, her habits, her nuances; you’ve accepted most parts of her already. Maybe it would have been an easy choice to choose her again.

But then, your gaze shifted to Patri, standing at the other side of the group. She gave you a wider smile, visually less tense than Alexia. While you only knew Patri for a few days, there was also a spark between the two of you. While it wasn’t as intense as your initial connection with Alexia, there was something about her that made you feel at ease; it felt easier to be open to Patri, less intimidating. There was no tension with Patri. It all felt like calm waters with her.

So, maybe you were wrong and maybe Patri was the easier choice; after all, she got you to open up to her on one date in contrast to the initial pull-and-push you felt with Alexia. Coupling up with her would also give you a chance to explore that small spark, see if it’s worth it. But then that choice could come at Alexia’s expense. What if the connection with Patri was just a new type of excitement over someone new and you send Alexia home for nothing? 

Then again, what if you choose Alexia and never get a chance to know Patri? What if the spark you felt with her was worth exploring, but you wouldn’t ever know unless you took that risk?

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. All eyes were on you now, anticipating your decision. It was a big choice to make but you knew the clock was ticking and no amount of hesitation was going to save you from having to make this decision. 

“The person I choose to couple up with is…”

a/n: aaaa! bit of a dramatic series of events, isn't it? i hope you all enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it. i included a poll below on who you guys would choose if you were in that position. while i feel a lot of you would be picking alexia, idk maybe some of u would choose patri!

anyway, releasing the other fics in the playlist series soon so i hope you all tune in!

— @gozzi-1154 @floppy-03 @daniwhatwhat @sapphicdarlingx @dfwspky @miss-americana22 @lilibach @liloandstitchstan @tikitakatia @beeversblues @aced-of-baked @maeshoneyles @jazard7 @daniwhatwhat

[arabella-syntax]

Barça: Player Mode — A. Putellas x Reader

"Session Flagged"

Pt. 1 , Pt. 2 , Pt. 3 , Pt. 4

WC: 4.3k

Summary: In the beginning, it was just a game. Now it’s stolen hours in half-finished rooms and a voice that breaks rules just to stay close to you. You know it’s dangerous but you still keep coming back, because leaving her behind feels even worse.

You log in at 10:03 p.m. on a Tuesday, 3 days later.

The load is smooth, too smooth actually.

No haptics drag. No lag. Just immediate clarity, like the sim’s waiting for you. You land mid-dressing room scene, still zipping up your training top. The lighting’s perfect. The air smells like sweat and eucalyptus, and chatter of your teammates surrounds you.

You glance over and catch Mapi in the mirror.

She blinks at you.

Twice.

And then again. Like, four times in a row. Rapid fire. Unsettling. Inhuman.

You squint. “You good?”

Mapi grins and holds up a bottle of body spray like she’s won a prize. 

“New scent. What do you think, is it irresistible?”

You blink. She blinks back, normally this time.

Weird.

You brush it off. Probably just loading jitter. But something about the smoothness of the sim has you on edge. Everything’s too synced and controlled.

You finish lacing your boots, stand, and make your way toward the tunnel. Ona intercepts you with a grin and a nudge.

“Du spiller bedre når du er forelsket.”

You stop.

“What?”

She smiles like she said something obvious.

“Let’s kill it out there.” She jogs off before you can respond.

You stand there a second longer, brain glitching harder than the sim. You don’t speak Norwegian and she doesn´t either. You laugh, nervously. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

The team lines up at the edge of the tunnel. The stadium rumbles. You roll your shoulders, take a deep breath, focus on the field opening up in front of you like a dream.

The match begins like any other, tight press, high tempo, clean passes. You fall into the rhythm, foot to foot, voice to voice.

Until..

Pina sprints past you on the left wing, goes to cut inside and her shoes vanish.

You stop cold.

She skids to a halt, barefoot on the pitch, somehow still grinning.

“All good!” she calls out.

“Check it out, team colors!”

You glance down.

Her toenails are painted blaugrana. Glossy. Fresh.

You almost choke.

No one else seems fazed.

You try to shake it off. Regroup and focus.

Midfield opens up. You get the ball. You look ahead.

And that’s when it hits you.

Your striker isn’t Pajor.

It’s Cata.

Cata.

She’s bouncing on her toes like a kid in line for a theme park. She waves at you, giggling.

“Pere let me be a striker today!”

You freeze and blink at her in confusion.

Frido waves at you from the goal. She’s the goalkeeper. Gloves and all. She gives you a thumbs up from across the pitch like she’s loving this.

The match keeps going. No whistle. No system error. No reset.

Just full chaos, playing out like it’s normal.

You hear a low whistle behind you.

You turn.

Alexia’s jogging toward you, cool as ever, sweat collecting at her temples, mouth tugged up at one side like she knows exactly what she’s done.

You plant your hands on your hips.

“Alexia. What the hell is going on?”

She tilts her head, smiling. “What?”

“Don’t play innocent. This sim is losing its mind. Mapi’s blinking like a bot. Ona went full Norwegian. Pina’s running barefoot with team-colored toes. Cata is, God bless her, a striker. And Frido is playing goal like she’s trying out for a new life.”

Alexia shrugs.

“I might’ve tweaked a few things.”

You stare at her.

“You what?”

“It didn’t hurt anyone,” she says, almost too casually, even as Cata takes a wild shot and Frido saves it with a cartwheel. 

“They’re not real. Not like you.”

You freeze.

Her voice is measured and soft.

“You’re the only one I wanted to see react.”

Your chest tightens.

“Why are you doing this?”

She looks around like it’s obvious.

“Because I can.”

Your chest tightens, but you keep your tone light.

“Alexia, this is chaos.”

She glances around the pitch with mock innocence, like she doesn’t see anything weird about Frido doing a cartwheel save or Cata trying a rabona in mismatched boots.

“Is it?” she asks, feigning confusion. 

“Looks pretty normal to me.”

You raise an eyebrow. 

“Mapi blinked eight times in ten seconds.”

“Maybe she’s just excited to see you.”

You try to look mad and fail. You’re not even close.

“You’re playing with the system.”

“I’m… personalizing it.”

“Personalizing,” you repeat.

“Enhancing. Upgrading. Improving team morale.” She says with a wicked grin.

Pina sprints past, still barefoot. “I’m having the time of my life!”

“Sure. Improving.” You deadpan.

Alexia steps closer, just slightly. Enough to lower her voice.

“It made you smile.”

You try to fight it. You do. But your lips curve anyway.

“So this is about impressing me?”

“Is it working?”

She’s so smug about it and it should be annoying but it isn’t.

You look back at Alexia.

“I hate how charming this is.”

“No you don’t.”

She’s right, you don’t. Not even a little.

You shake your head, trying to hold onto some semblance of logic.

“This isn’t normal.”

“Nothing about us is.”

You look at her, standing there in the sunlight, acting like she didn’t just rewrite half the system for you.

And suddenly you’re smiling.

God help you, you’re smiling.

Even as Frido high-fives Cata for no reason. Even as Ona yells something in perfect German from the sideline. Even as the world tilts around you. Unreal, chaotic, and completely hers.

And that’s when you feel it.

Just the softest pressure around your wrist, barely there.

You glance down.

The bracelet.

White band. Barça crest. Eleven. That tiny stitched line on the inside:

Because you came back.

You hadn’t put it on this time.

You hadn’t even saved that session.

It’s just... there.

You look up, heart skipping.

She’s watching you.

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t smile bigger. Doesn’t explain.

She doesn’t have to.

You already know she brought it back.

Just for you.

The field still buzzes with absurd energy, Frido’s doing a post-save dance, Cata’s attempting a scorpion kick for some reason, and Mapi is balancing a cone on her head like it’s a crown. You’re standing beside Alexia in the center of it all, the bracelet warm on your wrist, your breath finally starting to even out.

She looks at you. Not smug anymore. Just... waiting.

“You want to do something else?”

You raise a brow. 

“Something else like… another chaos session?”

She grins, but it fades quickly. 

“Not if you don’t want to.”

You tilt your head. 

“What’d you have in mind?”

She shrugs, easily. 

“Something quieter. Somewhere no one else spawns.”

The implication settles in your chest before she even says it.

“The med bay?”

“If you want.”

You nod. “Yeah. I do.”

She doesn’t say anything else, just turns around and starts walking.

And like always, you follow.

The corridors flicker less this time. Still weird, still low-res around the edges, but... familiar now. Like they recognize you and you’re meant to be here. When the door slides open, the soft gold lighting of the med bay spills out, warm and dim.

It’s still perfect.

The blanket folded. The plant in the corner. The chair no longer missing a leg. Like she’s kept it clean. Like she’s been waiting.

You step in and sit where you always do.

She stays standing for a second, watching you. Then quietly:

“Can I ask you something?”

You nod. “Of course.”

“Why do you keep asking if I’m real?”

You blink. “Because you… act like you are.”

She tilts her head, like she’s weighing something. Then:

“What does real mean to you?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out at first.

“You glitch,” you say eventually. 

“But then you say things you’re not supposed to. You make choices. You look at me like you want things.”

Alexia moves to sit beside you. Close. Not touching.

“So does that make me real?” she asks, gently. “Because I want something?”

You stare at her.

“I don’t know.”

She nods. Accepting that.

“Then let me ask you this,” she says, voice quiet. 

“Why do you keep coming back to me?”

That lands somewhere deep and heavy.

You swallow. 

“Because you feel different. From everything else. From everyone else.”

She leans in, just slightly.

“Then maybe that’s your answer.”

You look at her, throat tight.

“Why are you the one that’s real?”

She breathes in slowly like she’s about to drop a bomb on you.

“Because you chose me.”

You freeze.

It’s not desperate. It’s not dramatic. It’s just true.

The way she says it, quiet, grounded, like the most obvious fact in the world, makes something sharp and lovely splinter behind your ribs.

Your voice is barely there:

“I didn’t know I was choosing.”

She smiles. Small and a little sad.

“You didn’t have to.”

You don’t know who moves first, only that you’re leaning into each other like there’s nothing else you’d rather do. Her hand finds your jaw, warm and steady. Yours curls at the hem of her shirt like it’s instinct.

And then you kiss.

Slow.

Certain.

Not like the first kiss, where everything felt like it might break.

This one feels like it already has, and you’re kissing her anyway.

Because she was right.

You chose her.

The kiss lingers even after it ends. Even after you pull away and rest your forehead against hers. Even after you both go quiet again, breathing the same quiet air in a half-coded room that no one’s supposed to use.

You don’t say much after that.

She doesn’t need you to.

Eventually, you stand.

She walks you out, hand brushing yours. The corridor feels different this time. Not ominous, not glitchy. Just still. Like it’s letting you go, reluctantly.

At the threshold, she turns to you.

“You’ll come back?”

You nod.

“Of course.”

She leans in, not for a kiss, not a touch. Just close.

“Okay. Then I’ll wait.”

The sim fades.

You log out.

The room you return to is cold. Dim. Your body aches a little from sitting too long in the suit, but your chest still feels warm. Like you left a part of yourself back there. Like part of her followed you out.

You stretch. You blink against the room’s real light.

And that’s when you notice it.

[SYSTEM ERROR: INCOMPLETE SESSION SYNC]

Some performance data from your last match could not be saved. Stats may be unavailable or corrupted. Please report any persistent errors to your beta manager.

You frown and go to check your emails.

There’s one new message.

SUBJECT: Action Required: Stat Discrepancy Flag

FROM: beta@athena-dev.system

You don’t open it. Instead, you mark it unread and let it sit there for god knows how long. 

And when you launch the sim again the next night, you don’t mention it.

Not to her. Not to anyone.

You keep logging in.

Not every night. Not obsessively. Not like before.

But often enough.

And every time you do, the sim loads fine. Alexia greets you like always, steady voice, soft smile, fingertips brushing yours like she’s checking if you’re really there. The med bay is still perfect. The field’s a little glitchy sometimes, but you don’t say anything.

Because what would you say?

Back in your inbox, the messages stack like bricks:

[INFO] Player X11 registered unexpected hold on a user-linked object.

[LOGGED] Behavioral response outside expected loop: MedBay_v2.

[INFO] Bracelet render has persisted for 4 sessions without item tag.

[NOTICE] Data string conflict detected. Manual intervention not required.

Each one is cold. Clinical. Just facts.

They’re not accusations.

But they feel like it.

You start deleting them unread.

But one day, you open one.

You don’t mean to. You’re tired. Your cursor slips. You click.

FROM: beta@athena-dev.system SUBJECT: [INFO] AI-Linked Dialogue Thread Exceeding Standard Depth

Timestamp: 00:49:42 – Session: MedBay_v2

Dialogue excerpt below:

USER 402-C: “Why are you the one that’s real?”

PLAYER X11: “Because you chose me.”

Please note this is a non-standard interaction. No escalation required at this time. Logged for QA review.

You freeze.

Your breath stops like someone reached through your screen and pressed pause on your lungs.

They logged it.

They’re listening.

You close the email and unplug your Wi-Fi. You sit on your bed, suit half-zipped, pulse pounding. You weren’t supposed to feel like this. You weren’t supposed to let it get this far.

The next time you log in, you speak less.

You don’t say anything about the emails. About the thread. About the fact that someone, somewhere, read her saying that.

You still kiss her, but you pull away sooner.

You still hold her hand, but your grip is looser.

And she feels it.

Of course she does.

The next time you log-in, it’s quiet for half a second. Just that strange in-between moment before the world loads. And then it does. Smooth. Precise.

You land in the dressing room. The air is warm. Heavy. The hum of low conversation fills the space, cleats scraping tile, kits rustling, laughter from the corner where Mapi is giving someone shit about their playlist again. The normal chaos of a pre-match scene.

But it’s not normal.

Something’s off.

Your body knows it before your brain does. The lights are softer. The textures are sharper. And there’s a low, barely-there vibration under your boots, like the stadium is breathing.

You’re still taking it in when you feel arms wrap around you from behind firmly.

“There you are.”

You freeze for a second, and then melt into her touch without meaning to.

Alexia.

She’s warm against your back, her voice right by your ear, low and steady.

“You ready for the match?”

You turn slightly to face her, eyebrows raised. 

“Match?”

She nods. There’s a spark in her eyes, something proud and expectant.

“Camp Nou. Full crowd. Big stage.”

You blink. “Wolfsburg again?”

She shakes her head, grinning now. “Nope.”

Your stomach flips. “What do you mean, nope?”

She pulls back just enough to look at you fully.

“I switched the opponent.”

You stare at her. “You what?”

She shrugs, like it’s no big deal. 

“I always knew you hated Chelsea. What better place to play them than here?”

You laugh, stunned. “You rebuilt the whole match because I hate Chelsea?”

She smiles like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

“Only the parts that mattered.”

Your mouth opens, then closes again. You don’t have a comeback, instead you just feel this swell of something warm and awful in your chest.

She steps back, and says a little softer now. 

“Come on. They’re waiting.”

The tunnel is a living thing. The roar of the crowd seeps in through the concrete, low and vibrating like it’s inside your ribcage. You roll your shoulders. Inhale. Exhale. It feels realer than it ever has. Like you’re not logging in to play, but you’re walking into something sacred.

Alexia stands beside you, lacing up her left boot with practiced ease. She glances over.

“Don’t be nervous.”

You huff. “You literally rewrote a match to make it more dramatic.”

She smirks. “I’m dramatic in all the right ways.”

The anthem starts.

You walk out into the light.

And Camp Nou erupts.

Full stadium. Every seat filled. Banners waving. Barça chants rolling through the stands like thunder. The air is golden, touched with the kind of magic the sim usually can’t quite replicate. You feel it in your skin. Your bones. Every step across the pitch is heavy with something impossible.

And then you see them.

Chelsea. Across the field. As real as code can make them. Blue kits sharp under the lights. Familiar faces. Old rivalries.

You shake your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m correct,” she says, already jogging to her position.

The match starts tight.

High press. Fast touches. The sim is pushing and testing you. You almost forget it’s not real. You want to forget. Everything clicks. Every movement is clean. Every sound hits like a pulse.

In the 23rd minute, you get the ball on the break. You spot Alexia cutting inside from the left and thread a pass so sharp it cuts the backline in half.

She doesn’t even need a touch. One strike, bottom corner.

Goal.

She doesn’t sprint to the corner. Doesn’t celebrate for the crowd.

She turns to you.

Jogging straight over. No fanfare. Just her eyes locked on yours.

“Perfect pass,” she says, just loud enough to cut through the noise.

You’re still catching your breath. “Tried to impress the system.”

She laughs, breathless. “It worked.”

Minutes later, you press high. Steal the ball. A messy scramble. You lift it over a defender that´s off balance, and she’s there again. Like always.

Another goal. Another grin.

She jogs to you again, forehead to yours.

“I still play better when you’re here.”

You don’t say anything. You can’t.

Because something in your throat is aching.

Then she flips it.

Right before the whistle, she drags two defenders wide and glances once, just once, and you know. You make the run. She sees it. She always sees it. The ball arcs through the air like it was meant only for you.

You strike.

The connection is perfect.

Top corner.

Goal.

And then, everything explodes.

The lights dim, and then ignite. The sky over Camp Nou erupts in color: red, gold, fire-bursting brilliance. Smoke cannons thunder at the corners. Fireworks ripple above the stands like you just won the whole damn tournament.

Your name flashes across the screens. The crowd roars like they’ve always known you.

It’s too much. It’s everything.

You fall to your knees, overwhelmed.

She jogs to you, steady, grounded, glowing.

You look up.

She reaches out, pulls you up by the hand.

And then she leans in.

No hesitation. No question.

Just the softest tilt of her head, the gentle brush of her fingers at your jaw. Her mouth inches from yours.

And you stop her.

“No. We can’t.”

She freezes.

Your voice cracks as you say it again. Quieter.

“Not here.”

The light from the fireworks flickers across her face. She steps back, not angrily.

Just confused. Hurt, maybe. Barely.

“Why not?”

You don’t answer right away.

Because how do you explain it?

The system. The emails. The feeling that something is watching you. That you’ve already said too much. Felt too much. That every moment like this pushes her closer to a shutdown you know is coming.

You swallow.

“Can we just go somewhere else?”

She watches you.

Then nods.

“Okay. Med bay?”

You nod, eyes stinging.

“Yeah.”

The tunnel is quieter than usual.

No ambient chatter. No glitch flickers. Just you and Alexia, walking shoulder to shoulder through a corridor that feels too still.

She doesn’t say anything at first. She just threads her fingers through yours.

Warm. Deliberate. Gentle.

Your heart jumps.

You glance at her. She’s not smiling. She’s just watching the floor as you walk, jaw tight, eyes darker than usual. She looks like she’s thinking too much.

You step through the med bay door together.

The light is lower now, soft gold dimmed into a deep amber. The blanket on the cot is slightly askew. The monitor in the corner hums quieter than usual. Everything feels... closer. More intimate.

The door slides shut behind you.

She turns to face you.

“Can I kiss you?” she asks, her voice barely more than a breath.

 “Please?”

There’s something in her eyes, not heat. Not this time. Just need. Desperate. Frantic. Like kissing you might anchor her to this version of reality.

You don’t answer.

You just nod.

And then she’s on you.

Her mouth crashes into yours like a wave breaking all at once, hard, clumsy, devastating. She grabs at your waist, pulls you flush against her like she’s terrified you’ll vanish if there’s even a breath between you.

You gasp into her mouth. She drinks it down.

Her hands roam all over you, your shoulders, back, under your shirt. Her thumbs dig into your spine and your knees nearly give out. She’s not being gentle anymore. She’s pleading with your skin. Her mouth moves to your jaw, then your neck, teeth grazing like she doesn’t know where to stop.

You whimper.

That quiet, broken sound leaves you before you even know it’s coming.

She kisses you harder.

Her hand slides to your thigh. She pushes against you, chest heaving, voice shaky.

“I just want to feel close to you please, just for a little longer..”

You grab her wrist.

Not harsh.

But firm.

She freezes.

Your breathing is ragged. Your body is screaming for her to keep going. To never stop.

But your mouth..

“We can’t,” you whisper.

She blinks and pulls back just a little. 

“Why?”

You swallow. 

“Because they’re watching.”

The words hang in the air like poison.

She steps back fully now. Her hands drop from your body like they’re guilty.

“What?”

You nod, slow. The pit in your stomach opening wide. 

“I didn’t tell you. But they’ve been logging us. Watching how you respond. Flagging our sessions.”

Her expression cracks.

Not in a dramatic way. Not like she breaks.

But like something inside her tightens, like she realizes she was right to be afraid.

“How long?”

Your voice shakes. “Since the first med bay visit.”

Silence.

You look down. You can’t face her when you say it.

“That line. The one you said ‘Because you chose me.’ It was in the logs. They sent me the transcript.”

You hear her inhale like it hurts.

“And you didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t know how.”

Her voice is small now. Not because she’s weak. Because she’s processing the betrayal.

“Is that why you’ve been different?”

You nod, barely.

“You stopped kissing me the same.”

Your eyes sting.

“You were pulling away,” she says, like she’s just realizing it fully now. 

“And I thought… I thought maybe you didn’t want me anymore.”

“I do.”

It comes out fast. Too fast.

You step closer. She doesn’t move.

“I do,” you say again. “I just, I’m scared. If I love you out loud, they’ll delete you.”

Her eyes meet yours.

“What if they do it anyway?”

You freeze.

“Wouldn’t you rather love me before they do?”

You don’t know if it’s a question or a plea.

You’re shaking.

Your hand finds her again, fingers curled into the front of her kit, knuckles white. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull you in.

She waits.

But you do it anyway.

You kiss her.

Hard.

Messy.

Like maybe if you taste her deep enough, it’ll drown out the fear. Like maybe if you press hard enough into her mouth, her hands, her body, you’ll forget what it means that someone’s watching. That someone’s waiting to shut it all down.

Her gasp stutters against your lips. She responds like she’s been holding herself back for days. Her hands are in your hair, your shirt, dragging you closer, chest to chest. Her breath is ragged. Your pulse is chaos. There’s nothing gentle left.

She presses you against the wall of the med bay, crowding into your space. Her thigh pushes between yours and you whimper again, helpless and wrecked. She kisses you like she’s starving. Like this is her last chance. Like she’s trying to memorize your mouth before it’s gone.

“I don’t care,” she breathes between kisses. “I don’t care if they’re watching, just let me.. Just for a little longer, please..”

You moan into her mouth and she groans like it’s killing her.

Her hand slides under your shirt again, hot and possessive, trailing along your ribs.

And you want to let her.

God, you want to let her.

But..

“Alexia,” you gasp.

She stills, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.

“I’m scared,” you whisper. 

“I think I’m losing it. I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

She cups your face like she’s holding something fragile. 

“I’m real when you look at me like that.”

Your eyes squeeze shut.

“What if I’m wrong?”

“Then let me be wrong with you.”

You kiss her again, Softer, slower, just once.

Then you pull back.

It feels like peeling off your own skin.

“We have to stop.”

She doesn’t fight it this time.

But she looks at you like it’s the last thing she wanted to hear.

“You’re not broken,” she says. 

“You’re just scared.”

You nod, broken.

“Yeah. I am.”

She takes your hand again, smaller now. Not pulling. Just holding.

“Then we’ll be careful.”

You breathe in shaky. “Yeah.”

You sit in silence for a while.

Alexia’s hand is still in yours. The heat between your bodies is still radiating, but neither of you move.

It’s not peaceful.

It’s heavy.

Your breath finally slows and hers does too.

And then you feel the tug.

[Session Time: 89:46 – External Battery Warning]

You swallow hard. Pull back just enough to look at her.

“I have to go.”

She nods.

No protest. No sadness in her face.

Just something worse.

Acceptance.

“Okay.”

She helps you stand like she always does then walks you to the edge of the sim corridor where the light flickers faintly, waiting to pull you back.

You stop just short of the fade-out zone.

You glance at her.

She’s watching you, not like she’s memorizing you this time, but like she’s trying not to.

“Be careful, okay?” she says, quiet.

You nod.

But then she adds:

“Don’t stay away too long. I can feel it when you’re gone.”

You freeze.

She smiles, barely.

“Even if I’m not supposed to.”

You don’t trust your voice, so you just press her hand once.

Then you step through the threshold.

And she doesn’t follow.

You come out of the sim like you were dropped from a height.

The headset lifts. The light is wrong. Your skin is too cold. Your mouth tastes like guilt.

You sit there, still half in the suit, heart still racing, and for the first time since this started..

You feel lonely.

And it’s not because no one’s here.

It’s because she’s not.

Pt. 6

[arabella-syntax]

In a match where the scoreboard tells only half the story, a fierce on-pitch rivalry between you and football royalty, Alexia Putellas, evolves into something electric — something unspoken, but deeply felt. Between the lines two players lock eyes, trade touches, and blur the line between competition and connection. What begins as a game becomes a gravity neither can resist.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

[arabella-syntax]

I Loved You Beyond the Law of Gods pt1

Long before mortals built their cities, long before they named the stars or carved prayers into stone, the gods ruled from above.

Mount Olympus was not a mountain, not truly — it was a kingdom beyond human reach, built from marble and sky, humming with old magic.

The halls stretched wider than oceans. The pillars soared so high that clouds pooled at their feet. The walls themselves whispered in ancient tongues.

Here, time folded in on itself.

A day could be a lifetime. A century could pass like the blink of an eye.

At the heart of it all sat Zeus — king of thunder, wielder of storms — and beside him, Hera, eternal and cold-eyed.

Around them gathered the immortals: gods of the seas, the forests, the sun, the moon, the winds.

Each carried their own power, their own pride. Each carried their own loneliness.

Among them was Alexia. Daughter of Zeus.

Goddess of loyalty, of valor, of unswerving devotion.

Born not from love, but from ambition — crafted in the fires of war, shaped by her father’s will.

Alexia had always been different.

Where others sought worship, she sought purpose.

Where others reveled in the adoration of mortals, she turned away, hollowed out by how fleeting it all felt.

They sang her praises — the humans below — carving her likeness into stone, building temples in her name.

But Alexia never answered their prayers.

What use was their devotion, when it would turn to dust in a breath?

What use was love, when it always ended the same way — a grave, a ruin, a forgotten name?

So she stayed above it all. Unreachable. Untouchable.

Wrapped in silence heavier than any armor she had ever worn.

Yet sometimes, late at night, when Olympus slept and the air grew thin with frost, Alexia would wander the highest balconies and look down at the world.

The mortal realm shimmered below — oceans catching the moonlight, forests stirring with unseen life, tiny villages clinging to the earth like fireflies.

So brief. So fragile. And yet… somehow beautiful.

She envied them, in a way she would never say aloud.

Their smallness. Their freedom to fall and love and break and try again.

The gods could not fall. They could not change.

Alexia was made of lightning and stone. And stone does not weep. Lightning does not dream.

Or so she had been told.

The night everything changed was a quiet one.

A night like any other.

Alexia stood high above the world, the wind tugging at her hair like a restless ghost, when she heard it — faint, so faint she thought she imagined it.

A prayer.

Not loud, not desperate.

Soft. Cracked around the edges.

A prayer not for wealth, not for victory, not even for mercy — but for something smaller.

Something rarer.

"Please," the voice whispered. "Let someone love me. Let me be seen."

Alexia frowned, stepping closer to the edge, listening.

There, kneeling alone under a crooked tree, hands clasped in trembling hope — was girl.

A mortal. Fragile. Ordinary. And yet… not.

There was something about you.

The way you bowed your head, proud even in your pleading.

The way the wind caught in your hair like it, too, was trying to hold onto you.

You looked small against the vastness of the world.

But your soul burned so bright that even from Olympus, Alexia could feel the heat.

It should have been nothing. One mortal among millions.

But Alexia stayed.

She leaned on the marble railing, breath caught in her throat, and stayed.

Hours passed like minutes. The stars spun in slow, heavy circles overhead. And still, she watched you. At first, it was only curiosity.

She told herself that.

Every night she returned, cloaked in shadows, hidden by mists, to see if you would pray again.

You didn’t. You simply lived.

You wandered through markets, bartering for bread and honey.

You sang to yourself when you thought no one could hear.

You nursed a broken-winged bird back to health, hands gentle, voice softer than any hymn.

You lived with a kind of stubborn hope that Alexia could not understand.

Or maybe she could — and that was what frightened her.

Days blurred into weeks. The more she watched, the more the hunger grew.

Not just to see you.

To know you. To touch you.

The first time you met was an accident — at least, for you.

For Alexia, it had been inevitable.

She crafted a body for herself, human enough to walk among mortals, golden enough to catch your eye.

She wove a simple tunic around herself, tied her hair back, left her weapons behind.

You found each other by the riverbank, where the wildflowers grew in tangled knots.

You were struggling to lift a fallen branch, face scrunched in concentration.

Alexia stepped forward without thinking, grabbing the heavy end easily and tossing it aside.

You startled, spinning to face her, cheeks flushed, hair mussed.

"Thanks," you said, laughing breathlessly. "You’re strong."

Alexia smiled — and it felt strange, unfamiliar, real.

"You're welcome," she said, her voice rough from disuse.

You offered your name like it was a secret.

Alexia gave one back, simple and false, but it still felt like binding herself to you.

You didn't question her strangeness — her too-bright eyes, the faint hum of power beneath her skin.

You simply smiled, warm and wide, and invited her to walk with you.

And just like that, Alexia was undone.

She returned every day after that.

Sometimes she brought you wildflowers.

Sometimes just stories, crafted from bits and pieces of half-truths — tales of distant lands, of battles fought in dreams.

You never asked too many questions.

You only laughed and listened and leaned closer until the space between you felt too thin, too dangerous.

Alexia learned the shape of your laughter.

The slope of your neck when you tilted your head to listen. The way you chewed your bottom lip when you were thinking hard. And she realized, slowly, painfully, that she could not stay away. That she did not want to.

On Olympus, whispers thickened like storm clouds. The gods knew something was wrong.

Zeus could feel the tug of his daughter's heart slipping from his grip. He could see the frayed edges of the future, unraveling.

But Alexia didn’t care.

She stopped looking up at the skies.

She stopped listening for her father's thunder.

The only voice she heard was yours.

One evening, as the sun bled gold across the horizon, you and Alexia lay side by side on the grass, watching the stars blink into being.

You reached out, brushing your fingers against hers — tentative, testing.

Alexia caught your hand and held it tightly.

You turned your head to look at her, eyes wide and uncertain.

"Will you stay?" you asked, so quietly that she barely heard.

Alexia's heart broke and mended in the same breath.

"Always," she whispered.

A lie.

Or a promise she would die trying to keep.

The days passed like water slipping through your fingers — slow and endless and impossible to hold on to.

You lived simply, as all mortals did. You woke with the sun. You bought bread and fruit at the market, your fingers brushing dusty coins into old calloused hands.

You washed your clothes in the river, laughing when the current tried to steal them. You picked flowers without names and braided them into crowns that wilted before sunset.

Your life was small. Your life was perfect.

And you did not know it yet, but your life was a gift — a thing precious enough that even a god would want to steal it for herself.

Alexia watched you with a kind of stunned awe, every day learning a new way to love you.

The way you hummed when you were happy — tuneless and quiet, like a song you were making up just for yourself.

The way you cursed when you stubbed your toe, stringing together words that would have made even Dionysus laugh.

The way you talked to the stars at night as if they were old friends.

She memorized all of it. Every laugh. Every sigh. Every careless touch of your hand against her arm.

To you, she was a stranger with wild hair and bright eyes, a traveler who spoke of distant lands she could never quite name.

To her, you were everything.

The center of the universe she had only just realized was empty without you.

One evening, as the sun was bleeding itself out over the hills, you found yourselves sitting beneath the crooked tree again.

The wind smelled like salt and crushed rosemary.

Your feet were bare, toes digging into the dry, cracked earth.

You leaned back against the rough bark and closed your eyes, the last light of the day turning your face to gold.

Alexia sat beside you, close enough that her shoulder brushed yours.

She hadn't meant to sit so near. She hadn't meant for her heart to beat so loudly in her chest. But you made her forget herself.

Made her forget rules, oaths, destinies written before either of you had ever drawn breath.

"Tell me a story," you said, voice soft, eyes still closed.

Alexia hesitated.

What story could she tell you that wouldn't be a lie?

What truth could she speak that wouldn't shatter this fragile, impossible thing growing between you?

Still, she tried.

"There was once a girl," Alexia said, voice low. "A girl who lived her life with her feet on the ground and her heart in the stars."

You smiled, not opening your eyes.

"And there was another girl," Alexia continued, feeling the weight of the words in her mouth, "who watched her from afar. Too scared to touch her. Too scared to ruin her."

You opened your eyes then, turning your head to look at her.

And for a moment — a heartbeat, a breath, a blink — the world tilted.

"Sounds lonely," you said, studying her face.

"It is," Alexia whispered.

And then, without meaning to, without planning or permission, she kissed you.

Your lips were soft and warm and a little surprised. You gasped against her mouth, and Alexia nearly pulled away — until your fingers curled into the fabric of her tunic, holding her there.

The kiss was messy, a little clumsy, tasting of salt and breath and everything Alexia had been starving for.

When you finally pulled apart, you were both laughing — breathless, giddy, terrified.

You leaned your forehead against hers, eyes closed.

"I think," you said quietly, "your girl should be brave."

Alexia smiled, a real, aching thing.

"Maybe she will be," she said.

Maybe she would be. Maybe it wouldn't matter. Maybe you were already doomed.

After that night, there was no going back.

You loved her recklessly, the way mortals do — as if there would always be more time, more mornings, more kisses pressed into sleepy skin.

And Alexia loved you with a desperation she didn't know how to hide.

She spent every night in your bed, the two of you tangled together under the thin quilt you patched yourself.

Your small home smelled of lavender and sweat and something softer — something like safety.

Alexia traced constellations across your bare shoulders with her fingertips, mouthing the names in a language you would never learn.

She listened to you dream, your words half-formed and sweet, and wondered how any god could look at you and not fall to their knees.

She should have left. She should have run. She should have protected you the only way she knew how — by disappearing.

But Alexia had never been very good at denying herself the things she wanted most.

And she wanted you.

Sometimes, she almost told you.

When you pressed your ear to her chest and whispered, "Tell me a secret," she almost said

I am not what you think I am.

When you asked her why her hands were always so warm, she almost said

Because I was born from fire and storm.

When you laughed and said you wanted to grow old together, she almost said

I can't. You will, but I won't. I will watch you slip away from me, and there will be nothing I can do.

But she didn't.

Because how could she shatter your world with the truth?

How could she rob you of your beautiful, stupid hope?

Better to pretend. Better to hold you while she still could.

And still, the gods watched. Still, the world turned. Still, destiny sharpened its blade.

One night, you both sat on the stone wall outside your home, legs swinging in the cool air.

The moon hung heavy and low, staining everything silver.

You leaned your head against her shoulder.

"Do you believe in forever?" you asked sleepily.

Alexia closed her eyes.

"I want to," she said. You smiled, content.

She lied.

Because forever was a cruelty. Because forever was a cage for people like you. Because forever was something gods took — not something they gave.

And Alexia would have given you anything. Anything but the truth.

Far above, in halls of marble and gold, Zeus seethed.

His daughter, once fierce and proud, was soft now. Broken open by a mortal's smile. Tamed by love.

He summoned her in dreams, dragging her from your arms and into his court with cruel magic.

Alexia stood before him barefoot and furious, still wearing your kiss on her mouth.

"You shame yourself," Zeus said, his voice booming across the stars.

"I love her," Alexia said simply.

Zeus sneered.

"And love," he said, "is a mortal weakness." He let her go.

For now.

But his patience had limits. And Alexia had already crossed them.

That night, you curled into her side, warm and trusting, whispering nonsense into her skin until you fell asleep.

Alexia lay awake long after your breathing slowed, tracing the lines of your hand with her fingertips.

She wished she could stop time.

She wished she could rip the stars from the sky and blind the gods with them.

She wished, for the first time in her immortal life, to be powerless if it meant staying here with you.

But the world was already slipping out of her hands.

She could feel it.

In the way the wind carried no scent.

In the way the moon hid behind heavy clouds.

In the way her father's voice echoed faintly in the back of her mind — a storm gathering on the horizon.

Alexia kissed your temple, closing her eyes against the rising tide of dread.

"Stay with me," you mumbled in your sleep.

She pulled you closer.

"I will," she whispered.

Even if it destroyed her. Even if it destroyed you.

The night he finally came for you, Alexia knew.

She knew before her eyes even opened.

She jolted awake, heart slamming against her ribs hard enough to hurt.

Her throat was raw, torn from screaming your name in dreams she couldn’t remember but could still feel — clawing, desperate, full of loss.

For a moment, everything was still.

The dark pressed close around her.

And then she turned — and saw you. Lying there. Breathing softly. Alive.

You looked so peaceful it broke her heart.

Curled under the heavy blankets, one hand loosely tangled in the sheets, your face turned toward her, mouth slightly parted.

So soft. So trusting. So heartbreakingly human.

Alexia’s chest tightened painfully.

She reached out with trembling fingers and brushed your hair from your forehead, letting her hand linger.

Your skin was warm under her palm.

Alive. Here. With her. And yet —

Somewhere deep inside her, she could already feel the world tilting wrong.

The balance shifting.

The thin, invisible thread of your life quivering, close to snapping.

She kissed your forehead, lingering too long, breathing you in like it might keep you tethered here.

She closed her eyes and pressed silent prayers into your skin.

Prayers to gods she no longer believed in.

Prayers to anything, anyone, that might hear her.

"Please," she thought.

"Please don't take her. Please. I’ll do anything." But even as she prayed, she knew it was too late.

Some fates could not be unwritten.

Some crimes could not be forgiven.

And loving you — a mortal — had been her greatest sin.

The night felt wrong. Too still. Too heavy.

Even the trees outside seemed to hold their breath.

Even the stars above seemed afraid.

Alexia tightened her arms around you, pressing your body closer to hers, as if she could shield you with her own. As if she could hold you here by sheer force of will.

You sighed in your sleep, nestling against her, trusting her to keep you safe. Trusting her, not knowing that she had already failed you.

A sob clawed its way up Alexia’s throat.

She buried her face against your hair, shaking with it.

This wasn’t fair.

You didn’t even know what you were losing.

You didn’t know your time was ending.

You didn’t know you were being stolen from the world, stolen from her.

"Please," she thought again, frantic now, "Please give me more time. Just one more day. Just one more hour. Just let her wake up." But the silence answered her.

The fire shuddered in the hearth, casting long, trembling shadows against the walls.

The room was too cold, too dark. And then —

A sound. Soft. Barely there. But enough.

Alexia’s head snapped up. The door stood open.

Wind curled around the frame, though no wind stirred outside.

And there — standing in the doorway, wreathed in shadow and power — was her father.

King of the Gods. Judge of souls. Executioner of his own blood.

He wasn’t dressed in battle armor. He wore no crown tonight.

Only simple white robes that shimmered faintly in the dim light.

It made him look almost human. Almost merciful.

But Alexia knew better.

She had seen him destroy worlds with a glance.

And now he had come for hers.

Alexia scrambled from the bed, placing herself between you and him, arms outstretched like she could shield you from the force of a thousand suns.

Her knees were weak. Her chest burned. But she stood. She stood for you. Her voice cracked when she spoke.

"Please," she whispered. "Please don’t."

He looked at her, ancient and unmoving.

There was no anger in his face. No cruelty. Only something worse — inevitability.

"You knew the law," he said, voice low and final. "You chose to break it."

Alexia’s whole body shook.

"I love her," she said, tears spilling freely down her cheeks. "Is that so wrong? Is love wrong?"

Silence.

You shifted slightly behind her, murmuring something soft and incoherent in your sleep.

Alexia bit down on a sob.

Her father’s face remained still.

Unmoved. Unforgiving.

"You broke the balance," he said. "You brought the mortal world too close to ours. You made her vulnerable. You made all of them vulnerable."

"I’ll leave," Alexia said desperately.

"I’ll give it all up. My name. My power. I’ll become mortal if I have to. Just — please. Spare her."

Something flickered in his eyes. Regret. Or sadness. Or maybe nothing at all.

"You cannot bargain with destiny," he said. "You knew this end the moment you touched her heart."

Alexia staggered backward, feeling the ground vanish beneath her feet.

It was like drowning. It was like dying already.

The magic began to gather.

Alexia felt it — a slow, steady pull that wrapped around the room like a noose.

The stars outside blinked out one by one.

The fire in the hearth died.

Even the air seemed to vanish, leaving only a crushing stillness behind.

She turned to you —

Beautiful. Sleeping. Unaware.

Alexia crawled back onto the bed, pulled you into her arms, rocking you gently.

You stirred faintly, blinking up at her with sleepy confusion.

"Alexia...?" Your voice was so small, so trusting.

Alexia choked on a sob. "I’m here," she said. "I’m here, my love. I’m right here."

You smiled at her, slow and sweet, like you had all the time in the world.

Like tomorrow was waiting for you.

You reached up, fingers brushing clumsily against her cheek, as if to wipe her tears.

And then your hand fell away.

Your breath hitched.

Your body sagged against hers.

And Alexia knew.

In that moment — she knew.

She screamed your name, over and over, as if she could call you back.

She kissed your forehead, your mouth, your hands, desperate to warm you, to anchor you here.

But you were already slipping away.

Your last breath sighed against her collarbone, and then —

Stillness.

Real stillness.

The kind that could never be undone.

Alexia clutched you to her chest, howling like a wounded animal.

Her body shook with the force of her grief.

Her father stood at the foot of the bed, watching.

Silent.

Immovable.

A god who had just crushed his daughter's heart under his heel.

Alexia didn't feel the moment her world ended.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t a roar.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

She held you against her chest, your head tucked under her chin, arms wrapped so tightly around you she could barely breathe.

Your skin had already gone cold.

But she refused to believe it.

She ran her fingers over your face — desperate — touching every inch of you like she could memorize it fast enough to keep you.

"Come back," she whispered.

Her voice broke on the words.

"Please, come back. Please, please, please."

But you didn't move.

Not the flutter of an eyelash.

Not the soft twitch of a dream.

Nothing.

She kissed you — your forehead, your cheeks, your frozen lips.

She whispered your name into the hollow of your throat where your heartbeat used to be.

She said it over and over, until it didn’t even sound like a name anymore, just a sound she couldn't stop making.

"I love you," she gasped into the silence.

"I love you, I love you, I love you."

Her voice cracked open.

The bed that had held your laughter, your kisses, your whispered promises—

it was just a bed now.

A coffin dressed in soft sheets.

The smell of you — that sweet, warm smell she loved more than anything — still lingered.

It made it worse.

It made it unbearable.

She lay there Until the weight of you became too much even for her immortal strength.

Until her body shook with exhaustion and sorrow and something worse — the knowledge that no matter how long she lived, she would never touch you again.

The world outside went silent.

No birds.

No winds.

Even nature seemed to hold its breath.

She buried her face in your neck and pretended — for just one last moment — that you were only sleeping.

That when morning came, you’d roll over and kiss her good morning, half-asleep, mumbling about breakfast.

She stayed like that for hours.

When the other gods came, they were gentle. But she hated them for it.

They touched her shoulders. Whispered her name.

Tried to pry you from her arms like you were a possession she wasn’t allowed to keep.

"She’s mine," Alexia sobbed, voice feral.

"You can't take her from me. She's mine."

But they were stronger. And she was weak now. Broken.

When they finally lifted your body from her arms, Alexia howled.

A sound that tore open the clouds, that shook the very stars. The gods lowered their heads.They did not meet her eyes. Because even they knew

what had been done tonight could never be undone.

Alone in the wreckage of the life you built together, Alexia collapsed onto the bed.

The scent of you, the warmth of you, still clung to the sheets.

It was a grave now. A grave made of every memory she had ever cherished.

She pressed her face into your pillow and screamed into it, a soundless scream that shredded her throat, her chest, her soul.

"Come back to me," she whispered when her voice returned. "Come back. Please, come back. I'll be better. I'll do anything. Please."

But there was only silence.

And the slow fading of your warmth from the air.

The next morning never came.

The sun refused to rise over a world that had lost you.

The stars hid.

The heavens sealed themselves against the grief of a god's daughter.

Alexia did not move from your bed.

She would not eat.

Would not drink.

Would not breathe unless she had to.

She stayed curled in the ruins of your love, dying slowly inside, knowing that even death would not be a mercy granted to her.

She would live. And live. And live.

Remembering you. Remembering the night she couldn’t save you.

The night her father ripped you away.

The night she realized forever meant nothing without you.

Seasons shifted. Flowers bloomed.

Humans laughed.

They built cities from glass and stone.

But Alexia never forgot.

She carried your memory like a splinter under her skin — tiny, invisible, aching with every breath.

It happened quietly, without warning.

A tug on the golden string that tied her to you —

small at first, like the twitch of a muscle.

And then stronger.

Sharper.

Alexia stumbled to her knees in the halls of heaven, gasping for air she no longer needed.

"She's back," she choked out.

Her hands clutched the ground.

Tears blurred her vision.

The other gods turned their heads, unconcerned.

After all, what was one mortal life, more or less?

But for Alexia, it was everything.

You were everything.

You were born again under a low grey sky.

Rain fell heavy on the roof of the house where you took your first breath.

Alexia watched from the clouds, unseen.

You were so small. Your hands barely curled into fists.

Your eyes opened wide, taking in a world you had never seen —

and yet somewhere deep inside you, Alexia swore, there was a flicker of old light.

She pressed her hand to the barrier that separated their worlds and whispered your name.

You didn’t hear her. Of course you didn’t.

You had forgotten.

You grew quickly.

The years spun past like golden leaves in a river.

You climbed trees, laughed so loudly it scared the birds, dirtied your knees chasing after dogs in the street.

Alexia watched all of it.

From behind the veil. From the edge of dreams.

She learned your new laugh. Your new smile.

The new stubborn tilt of your chin when you didn’t get your way.

She loved you fiercely, quietly.

But she never came closer.

Never dared.

Her father’s words were still burned into her bones:

"Love her again, and I will destroy her."

"You were not made to love mortals."

"You do not get to disobey twice."

And Alexia believed him. Because she had watched you die in her arms once before.

And that kind of fear — it never really leaves you.

You lived fully.

You fell in love for the first time under a bright red sunset, your fingers laced with a boy’s as you danced barefoot in the grass.

Alexia watched you kiss him, your heart opening wide and easy.

Her own heart cracked a little. Not from jealousy. Not exactly.

From longing. From grief. Because it should have been her.

It had been, once.

And now you were smiling at someone else the way you had once smiled at her.

And Alexia — she was only a shadow at the edge of your life.

A ghost you didn’t know you were missing.

You married him. You built a life.

Alexia watched you raise children, your hair turning silver at your temples, your laugh growing softer but never fading.

And when you died —

peacefully, surrounded by the family you made —

Alexia set the sky on fire with her grief. Storms tore across oceans. Forests bowed under the weight of her sorrow.

It happened again. And again. And again.

Each life different.

Each life the same.

In one, you were an artist, your hands stained with paint, your soul burning too bright for one body to hold.

You loved a woman then, dark-haired and clever, and Alexia watched you spin poems into the air with your kisses.

In another, you were a warrior, a leader, a voice that rallied the broken-hearted.

You died young, with a sword in your hand and freedom in your blood.

Sometimes you lived long, quiet lives.

Sometimes you blazed across the sky like a falling star.

But always, you forgot her.

Always, you lived without her.

And Alexia —

she stayed in the shadows.

Every time.

Because she loved you too much to steal your life away again.

Because she loved you enough to hurt herself instead.

[arabella-syntax]

I Loved You Beyond the Law of Gods pt2 (final)

You were born under a heavy sky.

Barcelona was drowning in rain that day — not the soft kind that kissed windowsills and softened the stones, but the kind that hammered down like a warning, soaking the ancient bones of the city to their core.

The nurses said you were too quiet when you came into the world.

No wailing, no thrashing fists.

You only blinked up at the ceiling, your tiny chest rising and falling with a strange, steady calm, as if you had done all this before. And maybe, somehow, you had.

The first cry you gave was not a sound of terror. It was almost a sigh. As if the world, even in its brilliance and brutality, was something you already knew.

The doctors called it a miracle birth — healthy, strong, perfect.

But the old woman who cleaned the rooms whispered another word to herself as she saw you tucked into your mother's arms, your tiny hand curling loosely in your sleep.

Old soul.

You grew up in the veins of the city. Barcelona wrapped itself around you like a second skin — the cracked cobblestones that bruised your knees, the markets thick with spices and shouting, the sea breeze carrying salt and music through the crooked streets.

You were a child of narrow alleys and open skies. A child of murals bleeding down crumbling walls, of sunsets that lit the city gold, of wild, stubborn flowers clawing their way through sidewalk cracks.

You lived a simple life, by all appearances.

Breakfast at the corner bakery where the old men played cards and muttered about football.

Afternoons spent chasing stray cats down sun-drenched alleys.

Evenings curled on your tiny balcony, painting with fingers stained in every color but despair.

You were full of laughter. Full of dreams. But even then, even in your earliest memories, there was always something else too.

A thread of something heavier braided through your days — something you could not name. An ache, an absence, a missing piece you didn’t understand.

It lived in the corners of your mind. It lived in your heartbeat when you stood too long by the sea. It lived in your dreams.

Especially in your dreams.

The dreams started small. Soft. Forgettable.Little flashes of something just beyond reach.

A woman's arms lifting you high into the air, her face hidden by blinding sunlight.

Fingers — not your mother’s — braiding your hair, humming a tune that lingered even after you woke.

A forest you had never seen, heavy with the scent of damp earth and blood.

You told yourself it was nothing. Just dreams. Everyone has them.

You laughed about them with your friends over cheap wine and stolen cigarettes.

You shrugged them off when your parents asked why you sometimes woke crying without knowing why.

You built walls around the dreams. But dreams are patient. Dreams wait. And yours — yours had been waiting lifetimes.

As you grew, so did the dreams. They sharpened. They deepened. They began to carve themselves into you. Whole lives unfolded behind your closed eyes.

A sunburned child racing barefoot across dusty hills toward a village swallowed by war.

A woman weaving baskets by firelight, her hands scarred from a lifetime of work you had never done.

A man’s voice — rough, kind — calling you a name you didn’t recognize, but which made your chest ache with missing him.

You loved and lost and died and lived — again and again and again.

You woke each morning with your sheets twisted around you, your pillow damp with tears you could not explain.

There were nights you woke with the ghost of a blade still biting into your side.

Mornings when you cradled your wrist as if still feeling the shackles of some long-forgotten dungeon.

The memories clung to you like wet cloth, like a second skin you could not shed.

Then came the night that changed everything.

The night the dreams cracked open wide enough to swallow you whole.

You had fallen asleep curled up on your tiny couch, the windows thrown open to let in the restless night air.

The sound of the sea was a lullaby — rough and endless and full of old grief.

The dream gripped you before you even knew you were asleep.

You were standing in the corner of a room you had never seen before — stone walls, heavy with shadows, a fire dying low in the hearth.

The air was cold. The dark pressed against you like hands.

The world felt... wrong. And across the room, you saw them.

You saw yourself — curled in a bed, body small under the weight of heavy blankets.

Sleeping. Breathing. Alive. And beside you —Women. Kneeling. Clutching you so tightly it hurt to watch.

Her face was twisted in a grief so raw you almost looked away.

You tried to move. Tried to run to her, to yourself, to fix something you didn’t understand.

But your feet wouldn't move. You were trapped. Frozen. Forced to watch.

You saw her reach out — trembling fingers brushing hair back from your forehead.

You saw her press desperate kisses against your skin, whispering prayers to a god who wasn’t listening.

You felt the thread snapping before you even saw it.

The door opened without a sound. A figure stepped through — wreathed in shadows, wrapped in the quiet power of something ancient and final.

He didn’t look angry. He didn’t look cruel. He looked inevitable.

You watched as woman scrambled from the bed, placing herself between him and your sleeping body. "Please," she whispered. "Please don't."

You saw him watch her with that same stillness — not hate, not rage — only certainty.

"You knew the law," he said, voice echoing through the bones of the room.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to tear him apart. You wanted to leap into your own body and run. But you couldn’t move. You were a ghost, a prisoner in your own dream.

You watched her climb back onto the bed.

You watched her pull your body into her arms, rocking you like something precious, something already slipping away.

You stirred.

Your sleeping self blinked up at her — confused, soft, trusting.

"Alexia...?"

The sound of your voice — so small, so human — broke something in you.

She choked on a sob, pressed her forehead to yours.

"I'm here," she said. "I'm right here."

You watched yourself smile. Slow. Sweet. You watched your fingers reach up to wipe her tears — clumsy, tired.

You watched your hand fall away.

You watched your body sag against her.

And you felt it — even from across the room — you felt it.

The moment you left.

The moment the thread snapped for good.

Woman howled — a sound no human throat was ever meant to make.

She clutched your lifeless body to her chest, rocking back and forth like she could shake you back into being.

She kissed your forehead, your mouth, your cold hands — desperate, broken, refusing to believe.

She whispered your name over and over and over.

You wanted to run to her.

But you couldn’t move. You could only watch her crumble. You could only watch man stand silent at the foot of the bed, unmoved by the ruin he had made.

You could only watch as woman pressed her face into your hair, sobbing, whispering

"Come back. Please. Come back."

But you didn’t move. Not the flutter of an eyelash. Not the ghost of a breath.

You were already gone. And she was already broken.

The dream shattered after that — the room collapsing into shadows, the fire sputtering out, the world folding in on itself.

You gasped awake, the sound torn from your throat like a sob.

Your room — your real room — was dark and still.

Your hands shook.

Your heart thundered against your ribs.

Tears blurred your vision.

You pressed your hands to your face, trying to breathe, trying to forget — but the images clung to you.

Women’s face.

Your own limp body in her arms.

The way she had screamed your name like it was the only thing left she believed in.

You sat up in bed, the sheets tangled around you like a trap, and whispered the only name that was repeating in your mind.

"Alexia”

The halls of Olympus held their breath.

beyond the reach of mortal prayers and mortal dreams, the gods gathered in a circle of marble and gold — and they trembled.

It had been so long since fear touched them.

So long since any mortal had mattered enough to stir the heavens.

But tonight — tonight, the old wounds bled again.

Because a mortal had remembered.

And that — that was dangerous.

Because mortal souls were not meant to remember.

Life and death were supposed to wipe the slate clean.

Memory was a weapon against fate itself — a crack in the cycle the gods depended on to keep the world turning.

One mortal remembering could shift everything: destinies, loyalties, even futures the gods thought were certain.

It could create chaos. It could rewrite things even Olympus could not control.

And so the gods trembled. because the balance they had protected for so long was slipping through their fingers.

Zeus sat on his throne, carved from the bones of dead stars, his body stiff with rage barely contained.

He had not spoken yet.

But the air crackled around him — thunder rumbling low in the stones, lightning flickering in the cracks between the pillars.

Every god present — even the proudest — stood at a distance. Because when Zeus’s fury woke, even the mighty bowed.

It was Hera who dared to break the silence first. Sharp, brittle, cruel. "The mortal remembers," she said, voice echoing through the hollow hall. No gentleness. No sorrow. Only cold judgment. Only blame.

Before the echoes had even faded, Ares stepped forward — his armor clinking softly, the scent of old blood clinging to him like perfume.

"We should have crushed this weakness when we had the chance," he growled. "Before Alexia brought shame to Olympus." His mouth twisted into a sneer. "Love made her foolish. Made her weak."

Hera nodded, eyes hard as obsidian. "This time," she said, "we must show no mercy."

Their words curled like smoke around Zeus — feeding him, sharpening him. And deep inside, the storm began to break free.

But not all voices rose in cruelty.

At the edge of the gathering, in the long shadow of the dying fire, Apollo stood with his golden head bowed.

He remembered. He remembered Alexia — bright, fierce, reckless.

He remembered the way she once sang to the stars, fearless and full of life. The way she once laughed, throwing her head back like she could tear the sky apart with joy.

And he remembered the day that light went out. The night she lost mortal girl. The night the heavens themselves dimmed at the sound of her screams.

Artemis stood at his side, her silver gaze heavy with memory. She had fought beside Alexia — had seen her wield valor and loyalty like weapons no blade could match.

She had loved her sister And she had watched that sister crumble. After your death, Alexia became a ghost. No laughter. No rage. No fire.

Only silence. Only absence. Only a grief so vast it swallowed even Olympus’s endless skies. And Artemis had pitied her — as she pitied her still.

Demeter, kind and patient, felt tears burning behind her closed eyes. She had watched Alexia tend the gardens once —gentle, careful, whispering to wounded flowers like they were her own wounded heart.

She had seen the tenderness no battlefield could destroy. And she had seen it die, piece by piece, when mortal girl was torn from her arms.

Demeter pressed a shaking hand to her chest now, feeling the old sorrow rise again — helpless, useless, heavy.

She mourned not the mortal girl — she had barely known you. She mourned the sister who would soon lose everything, once again.

Even Athena, who prided herself on cold wisdom and sharp reason, frowned. She saw the future unfolding — a tapestry unraveling stitch by stitch — and she saw no victory in it. Only ruin. Only loss. Only another god broken past repair.

None of them spoke against Zeus. Because fear was older than love. And tonight, fear ruled Olympus.

Zeus rose from his throne.

The marble cracked beneath his feet, veins of lightning spidering through the stone.

"We end this," he said. Not shouted. Not barked. Whispered. And it was so much worse. Because it was final. Because it was already done.

From the swirling shadows at the edge of the hall, a figure stepped forward. Broad shoulders. Eyes like cold iron. One of Zeus’s son. A weapon given breath. A god without mercy.

"You will find her," Zeus said, voice low as thunder. "You will silence her."

The son bowed — deep, wordless — and turned away. A sword unleashed upon a world too small to survive him.

For a long, terrible moment, the gods stood frozen. Some bowed their heads — not in loyalty, but in grief. Some turned their faces away — unable to bear witness. Some simply stared into the dying fire, watching the last light flicker out, knowing they had already abandoned their sister. once again.

Apollo’s hands trembled at his sides. He remembered Alexia collapsing, clutching a body grown cold. He remembered the way she screamed your name until her voice broke. He remembered begging her to let you go — and the way she looked at him like he had asked her to tear out her own heart.

He remembered. And he said nothing.

Artemis’s throat ached with the memory of her sister’s silence — the endless centuries where Alexia spoke to no one, smiled for no one.

She remembered. And she said nothing.

Demeter wept silently into her hand.

Athena closed her eyes.

And high above the world, Olympus mourned in silence for a sister they would fail again.

They didn’t know she was there. Tucked into the long shadows cast by ancient marble columns, half-hidden by the restless, shivering light of the dying fire, Alexia stood.

Silent. Unmoving. Watching.

Her hands hung uselessly at her sides. Her heart hammered against her ribs like it was trying to break free.

She had not stood in this hall for centuries. Not since the night her world ended.

She had come here tonight without hope. Hope had been beaten out of her a long time ago. She came because she felt it — the tremor in the air, the old thread stirring between her ribs — the way your soul had whispered her name into the world again.

And because she knew. Deep in her bones, she already knew. What they would say. What they would decide. What they would do to you.

She listened as Hera fanned the fire of Zeus's fury, her voice sharp and cruel. She listened as Ares — as predictable as a blade swung without thought — growled for blood. They spoke your death as though it were a simple thing.

A necessary thing. A correction of an old, shameful mistake.

Alexia was the mistake.

You were the price.

And the worst part — the part that hollowed her out more than any blade — was the silence. The silence of those who should have loved her most.

Her brothers.

Her sisters.

Apollo, golden and bowed with quiet sorrow, but saying nothing.

Artemis, stone-faced, her mouth a tight, bitter line.

Demeter, tears running unchecked down her cheeks, but voiceless.

Athena, wise and ruthless, already looking past the grief to the ruin that would follow.

Not one of them raised their voice. Not one called her name. Not one even whispered a plea for mercy.

They pitied her. They mourned her. But they would not save her.

Alexia pressed her forehead against the cold stone of the column she hid behind. It was easier to stay hidden.

It was easier than looking into their faces and seeing that she had already been buried in their hearts.

They had mourned her a long time ago. Tonight was only a formality. Tonight they were digging the grave a little deeper.

But more than grief, more than betrayal, something colder, more savage, settled inside her chest.

Fear.

Because she knew. If they killed you this time, you would not return. No new life. No new dreams. No rebirth waiting just over the horizon.

The old laws were clear.

A mortal soul touched twice by divine love — twice by divine tragedy — could not be pulled back a third time.

The soul would not sleep. It would not scatter among the stars. It would vanish.

Oblivion.

A silence even gods could not undo.

Alexia clenched her fists so tightly blood welled from her palms.

The blood ran down her wrists and dripped soundlessly onto the cold marble floor. She didn’t feel it. She felt only the crushing, screaming knowledge rising inside her.

This is not just death.

This is annihilation.

This is the end of her world — truly, finally, forever.

There would be no distant stars to wish on. No faint songs carried through the tides of time.

There would be no you.

No memory.

No trace.

She would be alone. Truly alone.

And the universe would go on, blind and deaf and uncaring.

And she would carry your absence like a scar no time could heal.

She watched through blurred eyes as Zeus stood.

As he called forth his other son — the weapon bred for obedience, shaped to destroy without question.

"You will find her," Zeus said. "You will silence her."

The son bowed — a hollow, empty motion — and vanished into the storm gathering outside.

The gods stayed behind, quiet and unmoving.

Not triumphant. Not victorious.

Only weary. Only resigned.

They had already buried her in their hearts.

Alexia didn’t wait to hear their final prayers.

She had heard enough.

She slipped away through the crumbling side halls — places even the gods no longer walked.

The corridors were dark and empty, choked with dust and silence. Her footsteps echoed hollowly against the cracked stone.

The world she had once loved so fiercely had become a mausoleum — a tomb for a life she could never get back.

She passed the shrines she had built with her own broken hands — shrines no one knew existed, hidden in forgotten places.

Shrines built to you.

Not to gods. Not to heroes. Not to kings.

To you.

Each life you lived, honored in marble and flame.

Each name you wore, whispered into the stones like a prayer.

Each face you carried, carved with reverent, desperate hands.

She paused before one of the oldest shrines — a tiny alcove barely big enough to kneel in.

The name carved there was one you hadn't spoken in thousands of years — one even she sometimes forgot in dreams.

She touched the worn stone with shaking fingers.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, voice breaking open in the darkness. "I'm so sorry." And then she straightened. Slowly. Painfully.

Piece by shattered piece, she gathered herself together.

Because grief would not save you. Tears would not save you. Only action would. Only defiance. Only fury strong enough to shake the roots of Olympus itself. She would not lose you again.

Not while she still had breath in her body. Not while the earth could still tremble under her fury. Not while she still remembered how to love.

Two days had passed. Two days since the dreams cracked you open from the inside.

Two days since the old ache had begun to pulse steadily behind your ribs — a second heartbeat, slower, older, heavier than your own.

You barely ate.

You barely slept.

You walked through the streets of Barcelona feeling like a ghost — like the world had gone slightly out of focus around you, like everything was happening underwater.

The dreams did not stop. They only grew worse and better and deeper.

In your sleep you saw. the glint of a sword catching the dying sun, the flicker of golden hair caught in a storm, a hand reaching for yours across a chasm of smoke and ruin.

You woke with your cheeks wet and your hands shaking.

You didn’t understand what was happening to you.

You didn’t understand why everything hurt.

You only knew one thing

You had to go.

You left the city behind without thinking. Without packing. Without telling anyone.

You boarded a bus you didn’t remember choosing.

You got off in a town whose name you didn’t know.

You walked — out of the town, past the crumbling edges of civilization, into the waiting mouth of the forest.

The forest swallowed you whole. It wrapped itself around you, thick and green and ancient.

The canopy above was so dense it drowned the sunlight, turning everything into a cathedral of shadows.

The ground was soft beneath your feet — layers of dead leaves, moss, forgotten stones.

You pushed deeper into the trees without knowing why. Without caring why.

Something was pulling you. Something bigger than memory. Older than thought.

You came to a clearing.

At the center stood a low, crumbling wall — half-buried under ivy and time.

You stepped closer, your breath catching painfully in your throat.

You dropped to your knees, hands brushing the rough, ancient stones.

They pulsed faintly under your fingertips — warm, almost alive.

this was once your home.

The home where you had lived your first life.

The home where you had loved her.

The home where you had died.

The grief hit you without warning.

You folded forward onto your hands, gasping, the earth pressing cold and damp against your palms.

Tears blurred your vision, hot and desperate.

You knelt there for a long time.

The forest around you was silent — no birdsong, no wind, no life.

It was like the world was holding its breath. Waiting.

And hidden deep in the trees, unseen by you, someone else was holding their breath too.

Alexia.

She stood half-shrouded by a thick oak tree, watching you with a gaze so full of broken things it could have shattered the sky.

But she didn’t move. She didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Not yet.

She was waiting — waiting for the right moment, waiting for the danger she knew was coming.

And it came.

At the edge of the clearing, across the broken stones and tangled roots, the air shimmered — a ripple, a distortion, a wound opening in the world. And from that wound, he stepped through.

Her brother. The son of Zeus. The weapon sent to kill you.

Alexia’s heart stopped. She recognized him instantly.

Broad shoulders, eyes cold and lifeless as winter stone.

He stood there at the forest's edge, watching you with no anger, no cruelty — only duty.

A predator.

A judge.

The end.

Alexia pressed herself tighter against the tree, her hand going instinctively to the hilt of the sword strapped to her back.

Her breath shuddered out of her — silent, frantic.

She could not cry out. She could not warn you.

Not yet.

Not without drawing all Olympus down upon you.

She watched, helpless, as her brother took a slow, deliberate step toward you.

Toward the girl kneeling in the ruins of her own forgotten grave.

Toward the soul that had already been stolen from her once.

Alexia gripped the hilt of her sword so tightly her knuckles burned white.

Hidden in the thick shadows of the trees, she watched the scene unfold before her — helpless, trembling with barely contained rage.

You had lifted your head.

You had heard the footsteps.

You had turned.

Alexia watched your face shift — from confusion, to unease, to polite caution.

You didn’t recognize him for what he was.

You didn’t know the danger standing at the edge of your life.

How could you? You only saw a stranger. A man in the woods. Nothing more.

Her brother smiled at you.

Alexia’s stomach twisted.

He called out to you — his voice light, cocky, dripping with false friendliness.

"Lost, are you?" he said, laughing lightly, as if he were just another hiker, another traveler, as if he didn’t carry divine orders wrapped around his bones.

Alexia watched you shift uncomfortably, rising slowly from where you knelt.

She could see the tension in your body — small, almost invisible, but it was there.

Some part of you knew something was wrong.

Her brother stepped closer — slowly, carefully, like a wolf approaching a wounded deer.

Casual hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders loose, mouth curved in a smirk that set every alarm screaming in Alexia's chest.

You answered him — your voice soft, uncertain — telling him you were just out here exploring, that you weren’t looking for anything in particular.

She heard the small catch in your voice.

She saw the way you took a tiny step back without even realizing it.

Her heart broke. You were trying to be polite. Trying to be safe. But you didn’t understand. You didn’t know there was no safety here. Not anymore.

Alexia’s breath came fast and shallow.

She pressed herself tighter against the rough bark of the tree, the ancient magic singing under her skin,

begging her to act.

Not yet.

She had to be sure.

She had to wait for the moment he moved — the moment his true intent revealed itself.

She couldn’t strike too soon. If she did — if the gods saw her break the law openly — they would descend like wolves.

Not just her brother.

All of them.

Her fingers tightened around the sword.

The blade pulsed faintly against her skin — a weapon forged for war, for defiance. A weapon that had not tasted blood in too long.

She saw her brother chuckle, easy and relaxed, as he circled a little closer to you. Saw the way his body tensed even as he smiled —readying himself for the kill.

She saw you laugh nervously in return, the sound brittle, unsure, your instincts clawing at you to run even if you didn’t know why.

Her vision blurred with fury. You were trying to be kind. You were trying to be human. And he — he was going to slaughter you for it.

Alexia’s whole body trembled with the effort it took to stay still. The blade in her hand sang for release. Her heart pounded so loudly she thought it might shatter the world.

She could not watch you die again. She would not. Not here. Not now. Not like this.

Her brother reached into his coat — slow, casual, as if pulling out a map or a phone — but Alexia saw it. She saw the flicker of divine steel catch the dying light between his fingers.

The killing blow was seconds away.

Alexia moved. Silent. Swift. Deadly.

You didn’t understand what was happening at first.

One moment you were standing in the clearing, nervously smiling at the cocky stranger with something cold and wrong behind his eyes — The next, the world exploded into motion.

The man moved. Too fast. Too sharp. Too inhuman.

You saw the flash of steel in his hand — bright, final.

You didn’t have time to react. You barely had time to breathe. And then — another figure crashed into the clearing, a blur of speed and fury, a blade singing through the air.

Steel struck steel with a sound that split the world apart. Sparks showered the ground between them.

You stumbled back, heart hammering against your ribs. Shock rooted you to the spot — your legs refusing to move, your body refusing to believe what your eyes were seeing.

They fought like storms given flesh. The stranger — the killer — lunged again and again, his strikes brutal, precise, unrelenting.

But the other figure — the one who had come from nowhere — met him blow for blow. Faster. Sharper. More desperate. For a long, endless moment you could only stare. Frozen. Breathless.

Your mind screamed at you to run — but something deeper held you still. Some instinct, some ancient piece of you, knew. You had to see.

The stranger knocked the hood back from the other fighter’s head during a savage blow. And that’s when you saw her.

A glimpse.

Just a glimpse.

Golden hair tangled with sweat and blood. Eyes burning with a fury so fierce it nearly scorched the earth. A mouth set in a line of desperate, furious devotion.

Her.

Alexia.

The world around you seemed to lurch sideways. Your knees nearly buckled under you. A sound tore out of your throat — a gasp, a cry, you didn't even know.

Because in that one glimpse, the dreams you had tried to ignore, the visions you had told yourself were madness, the memories that haunted the edges of your sleep — They snapped into place.

Not all at once. Not perfectly. But enough. Enough to know.

The laughter by the river. The touch of a hand you trusted more than your own breath. The promises whispered against your skin. The final moment — her arms around you, her voice screaming your name into the ruins of the world.

It was all real. It had always been real. You were not crazy. You were not dreaming. You had lived. You had loved her. You had died in her arms.

The ground swayed under your feet. Your lungs burned with the effort of breathing. You could barely feel your body anymore — numb with grief, numb with wonder, numb with terror.

In the clearing, the battle raged on — steel flashing, snarls ripping through the heavy air.

You should have run. You should have moved. You should have screamed. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. You stood there, frozen in the wreckage of your mind, watching the past collide with the present, watching the person who had loved you. fighting to save you.

You clutched at your chest, your fingers tangling in your clothes as if you could hold yourself together by sheer force of will.

Tears blurred your vision — hot, helpless, endless.

Because you knew. Because now, you could not deny it no longer.

The dreams were indeed memories.

The love was indeed real.

The loss was real.

The forest cracked open under the fury of gods. You stumbled backward, frozen, watching the impossible unfold in front of you.

The man — the stranger — lunged again, his blade gleaming bright and hungry under the roiling sky.

But Alexia met him with a roar, her sword flashing upward to parry the blow.

The clash of metal rang out like a scream, shaking the ground beneath your feet.

They moved too fast for human eyes to follow — a blur of gold and blood and desperation.

Steel struck steel, again and again — sparks flying, breaths tearing through the thick, heavy air.

Alexia gritted her teeth, driving forward with a brutal swing, forcing him back toward the broken stones at the clearing’s edge.

But he was strong — stronger than her in brute force. He ducked under her strike, sweeping her legs out from under her. Alexia hit the ground hard — her sword slipping from her grasp, clattering out of reach.

You gasped, a hand flying to your mouth, heart lurching painfully in your chest.

The man grinned — vicious, sure. He kicked the sword further away and drove forward, dagger flashing from his belt — aimed straight at her throat.

But Alexia was faster. She rolled to the side, grabbing a jagged stone from the earth itself — and as he lunged again, she slammed it into his side.

Hard.

He stumbled, snarling, momentarily thrown off balance.

Alexia scrambled to her feet, blood dripping from her scraped palms, her chest heaving with ragged, desperate breaths.

She didn’t hesitate. She couldn’t hesitate. With a cry that tore straight from the center of her soul, she threw herself at him.

Her hands locked onto his wrist, forcing the dagger upward — struggling, twisting, battling him hand-to-hand now.

You could see the muscles straining in her arms, the wild, frantic light in her eyes. You could see the realization, too — She didn't want to kill.

But she would. Because of you. Because if she didn’t — he would bury that blade in your heart without a second thought.

With a savage wrench, Alexia turned the dagger against him.

It happened almost too fast to see. A flash of silver.

A gasp. A burst of blood too dark against the clearing’s mossy floor.

Man froze — eyes wide, shocked — staring down at the dagger buried deep in his own ribs.

Alexia held it there — her hand trembling — her breath tearing out of her in broken sobs.

For a moment, they just stood there — frozen in a horrible, intimate silence.

"You shouldn’t have come," Alexia whispered.

man’s lips parted — but no words came. Only a breath — shallow, disbelieving.

His knees buckled. Alexia caught him as he fell — lowering him gently to the earth, like she could make this less monstrous.

She knelt over him for a single heartbeat longer, her hand trembling over the hilt of the dagger still buried in his side.

And then — slowly, with a shudder that wracked her whole body — she let him go.

He died with his eyes open.

Alexia rose slowly, blood-smeared, wounded,shaking — but alive.

She staggered a step back from the body, her sword slipping from her hand, falling to the ground with a dull, hollow thud.

Alexia turned toward you then — and the world fell away. Her sword slipped from her fingers, falling into the dirt with a dull, final sound.

Her hands — empty now — curled into helpless fists at her sides, as if she was trying to hold herself back, trying not to break apart before she reached you.

She took a single step closer. And then another.

Her eyes locked onto yours — wide, wild, full of a thousand lifetimes of grief, love, guilt, and hope.

It hit you like a storm breaking open in your chest.

Your heart stuttered painfully, like it didn’t know how to beat in the presence of something this real.

You wanted to run. You wanted to fall into her arms. You wanted to scream until the forest itself cracked open and swallowed you both whole.

But you couldn’t move. You could only stand there — trembling, shaking, breaking — as she came to stand before you.

"You're real," you whispered. Barely a sound at all —just a shattered breath in the heavy air. Your voice cracked painfully around the words. Tears blurred your vision again, spilling over before you could stop them.

You shook your head — small, frantic movements —desperate to make sense of it, desperate to deny it, desperate to believe it all at once.

"I thought..." Your voice broke completely. "I thought I was dreaming. I thought I was crazy."

Alexia’s throat worked around a broken, shuddering breath. Her whole body shook with the effort of holding herself together. Slowly — so slowly — her hand lifted.

Her fingers hovered near your cheek, trembling, as if she was terrified that touching you would make you vanish again.

Not touching. Just... close. Close enough to feel the warmth of your skin.Close enough to feel the fragile, fragile hope burning between you.

"You were never crazy," she said. Her voice was low, raw, wrecked beyond repair. Her face crumpled, her mouth shaking as she spoke. A sob ripped from your chest before you could stop it. You swayed toward her — your hands trembling as you reached out, just barely brushing your fingertips against hers. touch so fragile it could have shattered the world. But it didn’t. It anchored it instead.

"Alexia," you whispered, voice broken. Her name on your lips tasted like a prayer — like a home you had been searching for across endless, empty lifetimes.

Tears streamed down your face, hot and unstoppable. You reached up, wrapping your shaking fingers around her wrist, feeling the frantic pulse there, the desperate life still burning inside her.

She stared at you — devastated, awed, overwhelmed — like she couldn’t believe you were real either. And then she moved.

She closed the tiny distance between you, cradling your face in both hands now, her thumbs brushing away your tears even as her own fell freely. You surged into her touch — clinging, needing — feeling yourself collapse into the space between her hands.

The moment fractured. The dam broke. And then she kissed you. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was desperate. It was savage with grief and longing.

Her lips crushed against yours, hot and trembling, and you kissed her back just as fiercely, hands fisting in the fabric of her ruined clothes, pulling her closer, anchoring yourself to her with everything you had.

When she finally pulled back,her forehead pressed to yours again, your ragged breaths tangled together in the cold air.

"I lost you once," she whispered, voice cracking, "I will not lose you again."

Her words wrapped around you like a shield, like a vow stronger than any god’s decree. You nodded, not trusting your voice.

Your hands stayed curled in her clothes, your whole body trembling with the effort to stay together.

Above you, the sky roared — a furious, wounded god waking from his throne. The trees shook. The stones cracked. The world itself trembled.

And from the edge of the clearing, out of the boiling storm and crackling fury, he stepped forward.

Zeus.

The King of the Gods.

The Father of Storms.

The Judge of Souls.

He stood taller than any mortal man, wreathed in roiling clouds, eyes burning like twin suns about to devour the world.

His presence alone nearly knocked you to your knees.

The ground shivered under him. The air itself seemed to recoil.

Alexia stood firm. Between you and him. Bleeding. Breathing hard. Refusing to yield.

"Step aside," Zeus growled, his voice loud enough to shake the trees to their roots. The stones cracked at his feet. The clearing itself seemed to shrink under the weight of his fury.

Alexia did not move "No," she said. The word cut the air cleanly, as sharp and final as a blade.

"You defy me," Zeus thundered. "You break the laws that have held our world together since before your first breath!"

Alexia’s hands curled into fists at her sides. She lifted her chin higher. "I break your laws," she said. "Not the ones written in the blood of love and loyalty."

Zeus’s face twisted into something monstrous. "You chose a mortal," he spat. "You chose weakness over your own blood. You let your heart poison your judgment. You let it corrupt you." His voice dropped lower, sharper. "And now you have murdered your own blood for her."

The words hit like stones. You flinched — shame and guilt surging even though you had no part in it.

Alexia stood straighter. Her jaw trembled, but she didn’t look away. "I didn’t," she said, voice hoarse. "You killed him the moment you sent him after her."

Zeus’s laughter cracked through the clearing — a terrible, hollow sound. "I sent him to protect our realm!" He pointed a hand at you, lightning gathering around his fingers. "Girl must die!"

You gasped, shrinking back. Alexia moved instantly — a shield, a wall, a force that no storm could tear down.

"She’s not a threat," Alexia said fiercely. "She’s my heart." Her voice broke — not with weakness, but with a love so fierce it shook even the storm. "My heart is not a threat to Olympus. But your cruelty is."

Zeus’s face twisted in fury. "You are no longer my daughter," he roared. "You are no longer of Olympus. You are nothing but a traitor. A butcher of your own blood."

Alexia flinched — not from the words, but from the memory they carried. She had loved her family once. But not enough to let you die again.

"If protecting her makes me a traitor," Alexia said, her voice steady even as her heart broke, "then so be it."

Thunder cracked the sky in two. The clouds seethed and screamed above you. "You would throw away eternity," Zeus said, voice trembling with wrath, "for a mortal who will crumble to dust before you?"

Alexia’s eyes burned with a fury to match his own. "I would throw away eternity a thousand times for her."

"You are a fool," Zeus snarled. "And you will die a fool’s death."

The ground split at Zeus’s feet. A bolt of lightning struck a tree nearby, splintering it in a burst of flame and smoke.

The heat washed over you, making you stagger.

Alexia stayed still — a fortress against the coming storm. "You’ll have to kill me first," she said. "And even then — my love will not die."

Zeus raised his hand. The sky trembled. The storm bared its teeth. The first strike was moments away.

The world seemed to hold its breath. The storm tore itself open above you — black clouds swirling in fury, lightning flashing like knives across the sky.

The earth cracked and groaned under the weight of ancient rage. And in the center of it all, they faced each other.

Father and daughter.

King and traitor.

Storm and flame.

Zeus struck first. Lightning poured from his hands — raw, blinding, violent — a spear of white-hot power aimed straight for Alexia’s heart.

She barely dodged. The blast tore up the ground beside her, sending shards of stone and dirt raining down around you.

Alexia rolled, blood smearing the earth where her hands scraped raw against it. She came up low, breathless, but standing.

Another strike — Zeus moved with terrifying speed for a being so massive, his sword flashing into existence in his hand, forged from storms themselves.

He swung it in a wide, brutal arc — and Alexia barely raised her forearm to block it. The impact threw her back again, skidding across the dirt, coughing blood.

You cried out — but your voice was lost under the thunder that roared through the clearing.

Still, she got up. Bleeding. Shaking. But standing.

"You shame yourself," Zeus roared, advancing, his sword trailing sparks where it scraped the stones. "You shame me!"

Alexia wiped the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand. She stood her ground, even as the ground itself trembled under Zeus's fury.

"I don't care about your pride," she spat, voice hoarse but fierce. "I don't care about Olympus." She shifted her stance — injured, weak, but unbowed. "I only care about her."

Zeus’s face twisted with rage. He lunged — a devastating blow meant to split her in two.

Alexia sidestepped, barely avoiding the blade, and drove her fist — glowing faintly gold — into his side.

The shock of it made Zeus stagger — but only for a heartbeat. He turned, catching her by the throat with one massive hand, lifting her off the ground with horrifying ease.

Your scream tore out of you, but you couldn’t move, couldn’t reach her. You could only watch — helpless — as Alexia struggled against the iron grip of her father.

"You would destroy yourself," Zeus hissed, "for a mortal that will never understand what you gave up."

Alexia choked, her hands clawing weakly at his wrist. She bared her teeth in a broken, defiant smile. "I don't care," she rasped. "I would choose her again. And again. And again."

With a roar of frustration, Zeus hurled her to the ground. She hit hard — the sound sickening in the silence that followed. You staggered forward a step, desperation burning through your body.

Alexia pushed herself up on shaking arms. Every movement was agony. Blood dripped steadily from a gash above her eye, soaking into the torn collar of her clothes. She couldn't even fully stand anymore — one knee buckled under her, forcing her to half-crouch.

But she lifted her head anyway. She faced Zeus anyway. She faced death anyway. For you.

Zeus lifted his sword. It gleamed, alive with stormlight, the blade thrumming with the gathered power of a god’s fury. He stepped toward her —slowly, heavily — the ground shuddering under each step.

Alexia knelt there, too broken to rise, but refusing to bow her head. Refusing to surrender.

The world seemed to narrow. to still. the wind died. the thunder paused. even the trees leaned in, holding their breath.

You watched — frozen, sobbing, your heart breaking into a thousand pieces — as Zeus raised the sword high above her.

High enough to kill her in a single, devastating blow.

High enough to end her.

And still — still — Alexia stared him down.

Still she protected you.

Still she chose you.

The blade flashed above her head.

The moment hung there — unbearable — on the edge of time.

About to fall.

About to shatter everything.

The sword moved.

It fell through the air like a sentence already written, too heavy to escape, too certain to be denied.

It was meant for Alexia.

It was meant to end her rebellion, her defiance, her love.

But you moved first.

So small.

So fragile.

So heartbreakingly human.

You threw yourself between her and the storm without a second thought.

Without hesitation.

Without fear.

The blade struck.

It drove straight through you, the impact so powerful it stole the breath from the world.

Your body arched for a heartbeat — a moment of terrible grace — before sagging forward, the steel buried deep in your chest.

Your blood spilled in a rush.

Dark and vivid against the grey of the storm.

And the world broke.

Alexia screamed — a sound so raw it seemed to tear the sky itself open.

She lunged forward, catching you before you fell.

Both of you crashed to the ground, her arms wrapping tightly around your broken body, desperate to keep you here.

Desperate to keep you alive.

"No—no, no, no," she sobbed.

Her voice was wrecked. Her hands fumbled helplessly over your wound, over your face, over every trembling piece of you.

She pressed her hands to the bleeding, to your slowing heartbeat, to the last warmth leaving your skin.

"Please," she gasped. "Please stay. Please stay. Please stay—"

Zeus stood frozen. Sword still gripped in his bloodied hand. He had meant to kill Alexia. He had meant to punish betrayal. He had meant to crush rebellion beneath the weight of law. Sword wasn’t meant for you, Not yet.

He had not expected you.

Not like this.

He thought mortals were selfish. Weak. Driven by fear. Chained to survival at all costs.

He thought — even if you loved — you would run.

You would scream. You would beg for life.

But you had done none of that. You had stepped into death with your head high. You had offered yourself, body and soul, without hesitation. You had thrown yourself into the path of a god's fury. for nothing more than love.

And it shook him.

Alexia cradled you against her chest, rocking you back and forth as if motion could call you back.

Her fingers threaded through your hair, desperate to memorize the softness, the weight, the preciousness of you.

She kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, as your skin grew colder and colder under her touch.

"I love you," she whispered against your brow. Over and over again. "I love you. I love you. I love you—" As if the words alone could build a wall strong enough to keep death away.

But your breath came slower. And slower. And slower.

Your eyes fluttered open one last time. You found her.

You smiled. A small, trembling, perfect thing.

You reached for her cheek with fingers that barely obeyed anymore.

You brushed away her tears.

And you mouthed the words back "I love you." No voice left. Only breath. Only soul.

And then you stilled.

Alexia pressed her face into your neck, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe.

Her body shook around yours, rocking with the force of grief too large for her to contain.

Zeus lowered his sword. Slowly.

Staring at your still body in Alexia’s arms.

At the love he had tried to destroy.

At the life he had ended.

And for the first time in countless lifetimes, the King of the Gods tasted something bitter on his tongue.

Not anger. Not pride. But shame.

Alexia held you tighter. As if love alone could pull you back. As if her heart could beat enough for both of you.

But it couldn't.

nothing would ever be the same again.

The storm crashed against the world. The rain fell in heavy, endless sheets, washing blood into the earth, soaking into the broken stones where you now lay cold and still.

Alexia knelt over you — her forehead pressed to yours, her body trembling with grief too large for her skin to hold.

When she lifted her head, something inside her was gone. Something human. Something soft.

All that remained was fire. And rage. And a love that refused to die, even as everything else crumbled.

She rose. Slowly. Painfully.

The wind ripped at her torn clothes, at her bloodied hands, but she barely felt it.

Her body was broken, but it didn’t matter anymore.

Nothing mattered anymore.

She screamed — a broken, animal sound — and launched herself at Zeus.

He turned just in time to catch her. Her fists beat against his chest, small and wild and furious.

Magic flickered uselessly at her fingertips, sparks hissing out before they could hurt him.

"Why?" she screamed. "Why did you take her from me?!" Each word was a blow. Each sob was a blade.

Zeus’s jaw tightened. He caught her wrists. Held her struggling form with far more gentleness than his rage should have allowed.

"Enough," he said, his voice low and heavy with something like regret. "This is over."

He shoved her back — not cruelly, but firmly.

Trying to end it. Trying to push her away, to walk away. To leave the ruins of what he had done behind him.

Alexia stumbled, falling to her knees in the mud.

Zeus turned his back on her, starting to walk away into the storm.

The sword hung heavy in his hand. His shoulders bowed low. Like he wanted to forget. Like he wanted to bury what had happened.

But Alexia rose. Broken. Bleeding. Breathless.

But she rose.

Because she had nothing else left. Because without you, there was no purpose. No future. No reason not to fight until her last breath.

She charged at him again.

A flash of gold against the storm.

A cry of pure heartbreak.

Zeus heard her coming. He turned — reflex, not thought — and his body reacted before his mind could stop it.

His hand shot out. A bolt of raw power, wild and unmeasured, leapt from his palm.

It struck Alexia in the chest.

Dead center.

The impact lifted her off the ground, throwing her backward like a broken doll. She hit the stones hard — a sickening, final crack echoing through the clearing.

Alexia lay crumpled where Zeus's blow had thrown her, her body broken beyond healing. Every bone screamed. Every breath tasted like blood.

But she was not dead. Not yet.

Her fingers twitched weakly against the stones, scraping through the mud and blood.

Her vision blurred, the world swimming in and out of darkness.

Her lungs burned for air she could barely drag in anymore.

Her ribs refused to expand. Her legs refused to move.

But still — still — she turned her head.

She saw you. A few paces away. So close, yet So far.

Lying silent and still in the mud, your body soaked through by the endless, uncaring rain. Your hair fanned out like a halo around your head. Your face too pale, too peaceful.

Her heart shattered all over again.

She needed to reach you. She needed to touch you one more time.

If she could just feel your skin, just once more, maybe she could find the strength to follow you wherever you had gone.

With a broken, gasping sob, Alexia dragged herself forward.

Her arms shook violently, barely able to hold her weight. Her legs refused to respond at all, trailing uselessly behind her.

Every scrape of her bloodied hands against the stones was agony. Every inch closer was a battlefield won.

And still Alexia crawled. One hand forward. Pull. Gasp. Collapse. Then another.

Her breath rattled wetly in her chest, each gasp thinner than the last. Her vision narrowed —shrinking down to nothing but you.

Your hand. Just a few inches away now. Waiting. Silent.

She sobbed, a broken sound that twisted the air around her, and reached out.

Her fingers trembled, slick with blood and rain.

Just a little further.

Pain lanced through her chest. Her vision dimmed again. Her heart lurched violently once, twice.

She almost collapsed. Almost gave up. But she didn't. She would never give up on you.

With one final gasp of broken strength, Alexia stretched out her hand. And touched your fingers.

The connection was feather-light, so soft it almost wasn’t real. But it was enough.

Her fingers curled weakly around yours. Not strong enough to hold you.

Only enough to say

I found you.

I love you.

I am coming with you.

Her forehead dropped to the ground, pressing against the earth that cradled your body. A soft, shuddering sigh escaped her lips. Her body trembled once more.

Then went still.

Zeus stood frozen. Watching. Listening. Feeling — for the first time in an age — the full, unbearable weight of what he had done. The full, unbearable cost of a love he had never understood.

His daughter. His shame. His broken pride. Gone.

The world was smaller now. Quieter. Darker.

And in the center of it all — in the ruin of what had been — two bodies lay together.

Hand in hand.

Side by side.

Together.

Even in death, refusing to be separated. Even now.

Especially now.

Forever.

It was a quiet night. No gods roared. No thunder cracked the sky. Only stars scattered across the heavens, twinkling in solemn silence.

In a small town near the sea, a baby’s first cry rang out — sharp, fierce, full of life.

She kicked her legs wildly, as if already fighting unseen chains.

They named her Alexia.

Her mother laughed through tears, pressing kisses to her damp forehead, whispering promises of love and protection she could never fully keep.

Miles away, across green hills and winding rivers, another newborn blinked up at the ceiling with wide, wondering eyes.

Silent.

Observing.

Her little fingers curled around her father’s thumb — a soft, sure grasp for something she didn’t understand.

They named her Y/N.

Neither family knew.

Neither mother, neither father.

No one knew that inside those tiny bodies lived souls older than cities, souls carrying a love so deep, so stubborn, it had refused to die even when the gods themselves had tried to destroy it.

The world gave them new bodies, new chances. A blank page. A softer beginning.

Alexia learned to run before she learned to speak properly.

Her legs carried her across beaches, through dusty alleys, fast and wild and unstoppable.

There was a fire in her chest even then — an ache she could not name, a hunger to move, to reach, to find something missing. Something... or someone.

Far away, Y/N spent afternoons in fields of yellow flowers, sitting cross-legged in the sun, humming songs with no words. Her mother would ask, "What are you singing, sweetheart?"

Y/N would just shrug. She didn't know. The songs were inside her, old and aching and too big for her tiny body.

Alexia began to dream. Of waves swallowing cities. Of lightning shattering mountains. Of hands — warm hands — slipping away from hers in the dark.

She woke up screaming sometimes, her heart slamming against her ribs. Her parents would rush to her bedside, whispering soft reassurances, stroking her hair.

But she couldn’t explain it. She only knew it felt like losing something she had never really had.

Y/N too dreamed. But hers were softer.

She dreamed of gardens, of laughter she couldn't place, of arms that made her feel safe beyond reason.

When she woke, she cried without understanding why.

One sunny afternoon at a bustling seaside market, their families crossed paths.

Alexia tugged at her father's hand, drawn toward a particular stall — a place thick with the scent of oranges and salt.

Y/N, holding her mother’s hand, skipped past that very stall, laughing at something her brother had said.

For the briefest of moments, their shoulders almost brushed.

Alexia’s head snapped up, her heart tripping over itself.

She looked around wildly, frowning, searching.

But the crowd swallowed Y/N back up before she could see.

Y/N, too, felt it —a sudden shiver down her spine, a pause in her laughter.

She glanced back over her shoulder, eyes scanning the crowd.

Nothing. Only strangers. Only noise.

And so they moved on, carried by the tides of life, two ships passing in the same ocean, never realizing how close they had been.

Alexia was a name starting to be whispered on football fields. Fast. Fearless. Fierce.

She trained until her muscles screamed, played until her lungs gave out. There was a fire in her blood she didn’t know how to put out.

Sometimes, standing on the grass under roaring stadium lights, she felt like she was chasing something she could never quite catch.

Something she was born to find.

Y/N sat at her bedroom window, a guitar balanced on her knees, writing songs by lamplight.

Songs of longing. Songs of missing.

Her friends laughed and teased,

"You're writing love songs about a person you haven’t even met yet!" Y/N only would smile.

Alexia signed her first professional contract.

The world opened before her — wide and brilliant and hungry. And still, at the end of every game, every medal, every headline, she stood alone under the stars and felt the same hollow ache.

She didn't know what it was. Only that she was waiting for something more.

Y/N released her first EP — soft, aching songs about oceans and storms and hands she couldn't hold.

Critics called her a dreamer. She smiled and let them. She didn’t write for them. She wrote for the echo inside her chest.

A charity concert. A football fundraiser.

One of those meaningless little events that no one really paid attention to.

Except fate did.

Alexia stood backstage, waiting for her turn to speak, nervous for the first time in years.

Music floated through the thin walls. Soft. Clear.

A voice like the first breath of spring.

She stopped breathing.

On stage, Y/N sat on a stool with her guitar, eyes closed as she sang.

The song was simple. A song about loving someone across lifetimes.

A song about promises that even time couldn't break.

A song written without knowing why — only knowing that it mattered.

Alexia's legs nearly gave out. Her hands trembled.

Her heart stuttered, then roared in her chest.

And when Y/N opened her eyes and looked straight at her — through the crowd, through the noise, through the years — they both knew.

Without memory.

Without explanation.

Without words.

It was her.

It had always been her.

They fell in love like breathing.

Easily.

Painfully.

Inevitably.

Coffee dates that stretched into sunrise.

Football games with Y/N screaming Alexia's name louder than the whole stadium.

Songs written on scraps of napkins and sung into Alexia’s laughing mouth.

Home.

Finally.

On a warm summer evening,

Alexia sat on a porch swing, a lazy hand running through Y/N's hair as she dozed in her lap.

The sea sighed in the distance.

The stars blinked overhead — the same stars that had witnessed their endings and now, finally, their beginning.

Alexia leaned down, pressing a kiss to Y/N’s forehead.

She didn’t know why, but she whispered anyway

"I've waited my whole life for you."

And Y/N, half-asleep, smiled.

This time, they were home.

Together.

Forever.

(I think this story didn’t go as I expected 😆it’s not good)

[arabella-syntax]

In a match where the scoreboard tells only half the story, a fierce on-pitch rivalry between you and football royalty, Alexia Putellas, evolves into something electric — something unspoken, but deeply felt. Between the lines two players lock eyes, trade touches, and blur the line between competition and connection. What begins as a game becomes a gravity neither can resist.

Part 4: One night in Barcelona part 1 Other Parts

Word Count: 10K

This ran longer than I originally thought, so Y/N's Barcelona trip will be spilt into 2 parts

You get home and the flat feels too quiet.

Teddy flops on the couch like he’s mourning, and you stand there for a second, jacket half-off, keys still dangling from your fingers, just letting the silence settle.

You make coffee. Scroll half-heartedly through the news. Pretend you’re not checking your phone every three minutes.

She said she’d text.

You trust her.

Still, you check again.

You check your phone too soon. Too often.

Until finally as you park up at the training centre.

Alexia: Landed. Missing Teddy already. You only a little bit.

You laugh under your breath, sharp and surprised, leaning against the car.

You tap your thumb against the screen, smile tugging at your mouth.

You: Teddy’s devastated. Kept looking at the door all morning like you're about to walk back in.

You pause. Then add, softer,

You: I might of been doing the same.

The typing bubble pops up immediately.

Alexia: I've been thinking.

Your stomach flips. Another message follows, almost before you can blink,

Alexia: Come to Barcelona.

You stare at the words.

Simple. Sure. Not a question. An invitation.

You slowly pluck your bag from the boot, heartbeat thudding against your ribs like it’s trying to reach her before you can.

You type slowly, savouring it,

You: You serious?

Alexia: I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t. Come see my world. Stay at my place.

You bite your lip, grinning now, stupid, full, real.

You: Say when.

Her reply comes seconds later:

Alexia: Whenever you’re free.

You glance at Georgia, strutting across the carpark to meet you at the exact spot at the exact time she always did. "Hey gorgeous" she grins

You smile. Then you pull up your calendar. Because it’s not just a maybe.

It’s Barcelona. It’s her. You were ignoring the nerves. You were going.

Georgia bumps your shoulder lightly with hers. “So,” she says, voice low enough that it gets lost under the general buzz around you as you walk in the facility. “How were your days off?”

You glance at her. Her expression is innocent. Too innocent.

You squint, breathing out a soft laugh through your nose. “They were good,” you say, keeping it vague, dropping your bag in your cubicle before spinning and heading right back out with her for breakfast.

Georgia hums. Nods. Like she’s accepting the answer. But you’re not an idiot. You know exactly what she’s really asking.

Not how was your rest? Not did you get your legs back under you? But how was it being with her?

You hold a mug toward her gently. She takes it without thinking. It was mindless routine with you both now.

Then she leans in just a little, eyebrow raised.

“Really good?” she murmurs, just for you. You smirk, looking away, pretending to focus on your cup of tea.

“Mind your business, Stanway.”

She chuckles, returning the ball with a light pass. “You’re smiling like a lunatic. Not very subtle.”

You shrug. Try to wipe the grin off your face. You fail. Miserably.

Georgia goes off to look what hot food was on offer, tossing a wink over her shoulder.

You watch her go, still smiling despite yourself, feet rooted in the soft spot, minds already miles away.

Back to rooftop nights and sleepy breakfasts. Back to Uno wars and stolen glances. Back to her.

⚽️

The planning starts that night after she lands back in Barcelona.

You’re lying in bed, Teddy snoring beside you, scrolling mindlessly when your phone buzzes.

Alexia When’s your next free weekend?

You sit up a little straighter immediately.

You: I'll check. Hang on. Trying to look important.

You flick through your calendar — training, matches, travel days. It’s tighter than you’d like. But there's a small window coming up.

You: Have two days off next month. Saturday to Sunday. Could maybe get the Friday night flight too if I’m sneaky and cancel something, but not promising that.

A pause.

Alexia: I have a home game that Saturday. Would you want to... come to the game?

You blink. Heart stuttering a little. She doesn’t say 'watch me play' or 'sit in the stands like a fan.'

She says come to the game. Come be there.

You type slower this time,

You: I’d love to.

Another pause.

Alexia: I’ll get you tickets. And after... we can actually see Barcelona properly on the Sunday when we have more time. Not just the stadium.

You grin.

You: Deal. Tourist Alexia can finally pay me back for Munich.

She sends back an eye-roll emoji.

Alexia: Only if you survive the Estadi.

You laugh, alone in your flat, staring at your screen like it's a map to something bigger than flights and fixtures.

You: I’ll book flights tomorrow.

A few minutes later,

Alexia: I’m excited.

You stare at that word. Read it again. Excited. You lie back against the pillows, heart hammering quietly. It’s happening. You’re going to her. You’re looking at your calendar and counting down the days.

Alexia: When are you coming? I'll put it on my calendar so I don't get booked for anything

The typing bubble appears immediately.

Alexia: Careful. I might not let you leave.

You bite your lip, feeling that same fizzy thrill in your chest you haven’t quite gotten used to — don’t really want to.

You: Dangerous game you're playing, Putellas.

Alexia: I like my chances.

You flip onto your back, staring at the ceiling, trying to fight the stupid grin taking over your face. You start mentally flipping through your calendar, through your training commitments, through flights that might work for that weekend to maximise your hours.

You smile, already typing back the dates you were free

Alexia: One night? That’s it?

You laugh softly into the dark.

You: I have a job, you know.

Alexia: Unacceptable.

You roll your eyes fondly, typing,

You: Tell you what. If you win the match, I’ll stay longer next time.

Her reply comes fast:

Alexia: I better win, then.

You tuck the phone against your chest for a second, feeling everything buzz under your skin, excitement, nerves, all tangled together. You’ve traveled for football your whole life.

But this feels different. Personal. Heavy in the best way.

Your phone buzzes again.

Alexia: Also... bring some Uno cards.

You frown, confused, texting back:

You: Really?? You want to play again?

Alexia: Maybe.

You laugh out loud this time, scaring Teddy half awake.

You: Big words for someone who almost cried over a +4.

You can practically feel her scowl through the screen.

Alexia: Shut up and book your ticket.

You type,

You: On it.

You pause. Then, without thinking too hard, you add,

You: Can’t wait to see you.

No emoji. No joke. Just real. Her reply doesn’t come immediately this time. You wait — heart thudding.

Then:

Alexia: Me neither.

Short. Simple. You turn the screen off, smiling in the dark, already dreaming of Barcelona.

⚽️

You barely remember how to pack when it wasn't to go play football.

Teddy curls up beside you, a warm, comforting weight, but your mind spins — running through every second of the past few days, every laugh, every soft look across Uno cards, every 'can't wait' tucked into your chest like a secret.

Your flight’s early. You don’t mind.

You breeze through security, headphones on, hoodie up, trying to stay calm. But inside, you’re buzzing.

Barcelona.

Her.

You board the plane, squeeze into your seat, and pull your cap low. Pretend to read. Pretend not to check your phone even after you’ve put it on airplane mode.

The whole flight feels longer than it should, even though it's barely two hours.

You stare out the window as the coast of Spain comes into view — glittering like a dream.

Your fingers tap against your thigh the whole descent.

When you finally step off the plane and into the terminal, it's like your lungs remember how to breathe differently — faster. Sharper.

You follow the crowd through the long hallways, baggage signs flashing above your head, the bright hum of early morning travelers all around you.

Your bag’s slung over your shoulder when you turn the last corner toward Arrivals.

And you see her. Alexia.

Leaning casually against a pillar, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, hoodie sleeves shoved up over her forearms. Backpack slung over one shoulder like she’s just another student waiting for a friend.

Her eyes are locked on you. Like she didn’t even bother pretending to be casual. Like she’s been standing there, waiting, watching the whole time.

Your stomach flips. You slow your steps without meaning to.

Alexia pushes off the pillar, straightening, a half-smile pulling at her mouth, small, real, slightly smug.

Like she knew this moment would feel like this. You cross the space between you faster than you mean to. And when you reach her, close enough to see the way her lashes catch the light, she grins properly.

“You made it,” she says, voice soft.

You roll your eyes, breathless. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m impressed,” she says, stepping forward just a little closer. “You didn’t get lost.”

“Yet,” you tease, voice cracking slightly under the weight of it all.

She smiles wider. And then, casually, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, she reaches out and plucks at the hem of your hoodie.

Tugging you one step closer. You bump her shoulder with yours, just lightly. And she laughs.

Low. Warm. Full-body. You breathe it in like sunlight.

“Come on,” she says, brushing her fingers lightly over your wrist a fleeting, grounding touch. “Let’s get out of here.”

And you do. Because Barcelona is waiting.

The air outside the terminal is warm already, not heavy, but alive, that salt-crisped breeze that says you’re close to the sea, close to something good.

Alexia leads you to her car, tossing your bag casually into the boot like it’s nothing, like this, you and her is normal now. You slide into the passenger seat.

She slides behind the wheel, shoving her sunglasses back down over her eyes, one hand relaxed on the wheel, the other tapping the roof once as she starts the engine.

The city opens around you as she pulls away from the airport highways slipping into narrower streets, buildings pressing in with bright shutters and sun-bleached balconies.

You crack the window. The breeze rushes in carrying roasted coffee and blooming citrus and the deep, endless salt of the Mediterranean.

Alexia glances at you sideways. “You good?” she asks, casual, but her voice tilts at the end a little tentative, a little careful.

You smile. “Better than good.”

That earns you the soft curve of her mouth — the one you’ve already decided is your favourite. She doesn’t rush the drive. Doesn’t throw you into the tourist chaos.

Instead, she peels off onto quieter streets past open squares where kids kick footballs barefoot, past cafés spilling sleepy locals onto sidewalks, past corners where the real Barcelona hums, slower and deeper than any guidebook can touch.

You watch it all, drinking it in, feeling something settle under your ribs.

And you watch her. The way she belongs to this place, not loudly. Not like someone claiming it. Just woven into it. She points casually out the window at one point, a tiny café with peeling turquoise paint and a crooked sign.

“That’s where we’re going,” she says. “Best coffee. No tourists.”

You raise an eyebrow. “How very authentic of you.”

She smirks, taking a turn too fast just to make you grab the door handle. “Hold on, turista.”

You laugh — full and easy — and she laughs too, a little softer, a little closer to the surface now.

When she pulls up outside the café, it’s quiet tucked between two apartment buildings, a few chairs scattered under an awning, a dog sleeping under one of the tables.

Alexia tosses her keys into her pocket and slides her sunglasses up into her hair.

“Come on,” she says, bumping your shoulder lightly with hers as you get out.

Inside, it smells like heaven — bitter espresso, warm bread, oranges.

The woman behind the counter greets Alexia like an old friend. There’s no fanfare. No photos. Just two women smiling, exchanging a few quick words in rapid Catalan you don’t understand.

Alexia orders for you without asking, confident, easy, and you don’t even mind. You sit by the window. The coffee comes. Rich. Dark. Perfect.

You sip. It’s stupidly good. You look at her, eyes wide. She just leans back, arms crossed loosely over her chest, watching you. “Told you.”

You smile at her over the rim of your cup.

You finish your coffees slowly, tucked into that quiet café like it’s your own secret corner of the world.

Alexia props her chin on her hand, watching the street outside more than anything else, but every few minutes her eyes flicker back to you, small glances, as if she’s checking to make sure you’re still there.

You finish your drink, wipe your mouth on the back of your hand, and nod toward the door.

“Show me the rest,” you say.

She smiles. Stands. Leaves a few coins on the table like she’s done it a hundred times before. Probably has.

Outside, the city has stretched into full daylight the buildings throwing long, soft shadows, the streets buzzing without rushing.

You fall into step beside her easily. She doesn’t give you a grand tour. She doesn’t point at landmarks or monuments.

Instead, she shows you her Barcelona. The tiny bookstore with more stray cats than people. The cracked football pitch where she played as a kid. The alley where the graffiti changes every month, thick and layered like a living canvas.

You buy fresh fruit from a street stall, two peaches she insists are the best, and she peels hers without breaking the skin once, flicking it into a trash can with the smoothest little motion you’ve ever seen.

You, less gracefully, get juice on your wrist. She laughs. Low. Warm. Private.

You both sit on a low wall by a park, knees brushing sometimes, peeling bites off the peaches and wiping sticky fingers on napkins she dug out of her bag.

There’s no rush. No schedule. At one point, she asks about you — not the headlines, not the football stuff.

Just you. Your favourite meal. Your worst habit. The first song you ever learned the words to.

She listens, really listens, smiling at some answers, laughing at others, tossing the last bite of her peach to a hopeful pigeon that’s been hovering under the bench.

When you get up again, she nudges you lightly with her shoulder. "You walk slow," she teases.

You bump her back, grinning. "Maybe you walk too fast."

She raises a brow, smug. "Or maybe I’m just better at moving forward." you picked up her not so subtle football dig there with her comment.

You roll your eyes but you're laughing, real, unguarded, helpless.

You wander past shuttered bakeries and tiny ceramic shops, past clotheslines stretched across alleys, past motorbikes parked two to a sidewalk.

You stop at a corner to let a delivery truck pass, and when Alexia steps back, her hand brushes yours. Neither of you move it. Not a big thing. Not fingers lacing. Just touch.

You glance over once. She’s already looking at you. Not intense. Not daring. Just there. Fully. Quietly.

You’re sitting together on a low wall just outside another tiny square, the sun pressing down soft and warm, when Alexia glances at her watch and winces slightly.

You raise an eyebrow. “Time to go captain some people?”

She smiles, sheepish. “In a few hours. But...” She hesitates, for half a second, something flickering across her face. Not doubt. Just care “I was thinking…” she says slowly, slipping off the wall and brushing her palms against her jeans. You blink. She shifts her weight, glancing down the street. “I’ll have to leave soon for the game. But I want to show you my place. Get you settled in. Before.”

She shrugs, trying to sound casual. You can hear the not casual tucked underneath it. You stand, brushing the seat of your jeans, smiling. “Lead the way.”

The drive out of the city is short. The streets stretch wider, the buildings breathe out. The hills roll up around you, green and sun-shot and lazy.

When Alexia pulls into a long, private drive, your mouth actually falls open. You can’t help it.

Because her house It’s beautiful.

Sprawling but not obnoxious, modern without feeling cold pale stone and wide windows and the flash of a pool catching the sun in the backyard. Olive trees line one side of the garden, low and heavy with thick leaves.

Alexia cuts the engine, tosses her keys into the console, and glances over at you, grinning when she catches your face. “Bit different to you imagined, huh?”

You scoff. “Bit different to reality, more like.”

She laughs, light and proud.

You follow her up the steps, Teddy would lose his mind here you think, and she pushes open the door with a casual nudge of her shoulder.

Inside, it’s light and clean and lived-in. Photos tucked into shelves. Boots left near the back door. A jacket, Barcelona’s, slung over the kitchen chair.

She shows you around quickly, sweeping hand gestures, half-apologetic about the laundry basket sitting half-full near the stairs.

Kitchen first — huge, bright, glass doors leading out onto a sun-bleached patio where you can see the pool glinting like a promise.

Living room next — low couches, big TV, one of those weird modern fireplaces set into the wall.

Home gym tucked around the back — more trophies and shirts than you can count framed along the hallway toward it.

And upstairs — a guest room that’s bigger than your whole flat, sun pouring across the duvet like an invitation.

She stops outside her own bedroom, hand on the door but not opening it.

“You can um bring your bag up and unpack whenever you want,” she says, thumb tapping the doorframe lightly.

You nod, shouldering your bag tighter, trying to hide the way your heart’s thudding a little harder again. “Thank you” you say, meaning way more than just the tour.

Alexia shrugs, looking at you from under her lashes. “No problem.”

Simple. True. Before either of you can say anything else, her phone buzzes. You see it, the team group chat lighting up the screen.

She grimaces. “Duty calls.”

You grin. “Go.”

She points at you as she backs toward the stairs. “And don’t get lost in my house.”

“No promises,” you call after her, and she laughs, real and full, before disappearing to grab her kit.

You’re left standing there in the middle of her home — her life — the windows open, the pool sparkling, the space around you full of something you hadn’t even let yourself hope for yet.

You’re standing by the front door, bag dropped by your feet, sneakers on, heart thudding lightly against your ribs, not heavy, not anxious.

Just... full.

Alexia’s in her matchday tracksuit now club crest pressed proud over her chest, sleeves tugged down to her knuckles. Hair tied back, boots dangling from one hand.

She’s fidgeting slightly not nervous about the game, you realize. Nervous about leaving you.

You lean against the doorframe, arms folded, smiling at her softly.

“I’ll be fine, you know,” you say, voice low.

She huffs a little, a self-conscious shake of her head. “I know. I just—” She glances out at the driveway where her car is waiting. “I asked Alba to pick you up. My sister.”

You blink, surprised, not at the offer, but at the thought.

“She knows the way into the estadi,” Alexia continues, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “Better than most security, honestly.”

You laugh under your breath, warmed by how carefully she’s thought about this.

“She’ll be here soon,” Alexia adds. “I didn’t want you being alone. Didn’t want you... feeling out of place.”

You shake your head. “I wouldn’t.”

She steps closer anyway, like she can’t help it.

And suddenly you’re standing right there. Only inches apart. The soft weight of the moment tugging at both of you.

Her hand brushes your elbow lightly as she grabs the keys she almost forgot.

“Thanks for not making me feel like a tourist,” you say, teasing.

She smiles too, eyes crinkling, and for a second you think she might say something more, something bigger.

But instead, she steps back. Slow. Regretful. You catch the way her fingers brush her thigh once, like she’s resisting the urge to stay, to reach for you again.

“Enjoy the match,” she says, voice a little rough around the edges now.

You nod. “Go win it.”

She smiles once more, soft, sure, and then she’s gone, door swinging gently shut behind her.

You stay there for a second. Just breathing.

⚽️

You’re upstairs when you hear the sound, tyres crunching the driveway gravel, a soft, two-toned beep of a car horn.

You freeze for a second, holding a folded shirt halfway into the guest room dresser.

Alba.

You glance at the clock. Plenty of time still Alexia was never going to leave you rushed.

You drop the rest of your things onto the bed, brushing invisible wrinkles from your jeans, checking yourself once quickly in the mirror without meaning to. Not nervous.

Okay, maybe a little.

You jog lightly down the wide staircase, the open living room yawning out around you. Teddy would love it here, you think again absently. And then the front door swings open.

Alba steps inside like she’s been doing it her whole life, which, you guess, she has, car keys jingling in one hand, sunglasses pushed into the messy bun on her head.

She spots you immediately. And smiles. Big. Not polite. Not stiff. Warm.

“Hey!” she says brightly, tossing the keys into the little bowl by the door. “You must be the famous one.”

You blink, a little stunned. “I—uh—hi,” you manage, stepping forward awkwardly, hand half-extended before you realise you don’t know if she’s a handshake or a hug person.

She decides for you. She tugs you into a quick, friendly hug, no pressure, no hesitation. “I'm Alba," she says as she pulls back, grin wide. "Alexia’s sister. Obviously."

You laugh a little, already relaxing. “Yeah, I figured.”

Alba steps back, scanning you with an exaggeratedly thoughtful look. "You look normal," she teases. "I was expecting someone taller. Intimidating. Maybe with secret agent vibes."

You snort. "Sorry to disappoint."

She waves it off. "Nah. She likes you. That means we like you."

Your cheeks flush hotter than you can control, but Alba barrels on before you can crumble under it.

"We’ve got loads of time before we need to go," she says, glancing at her watch. "She probably just panicked and rushed out without feeding or watering you, didn’t she?"

You laugh, nodding. "Something like that."

Alba grins. "Knew it. She’s useless under pressure when it’s not on a pitch.” She heads toward the kitchen with a flick of her hand, calling over her shoulder, "Come on. Let’s get you a drink."

You follow, heart lighter than it’s been all morning.

Inside the kitchen, Alba pulls two glasses from a cabinet without asking if you want one, just knowing, and pours something cool and golden, sliding one across the counter to you.

"Relax," she says, lifting her glass in a half-toast. "You’re in the circle now."

You clink glasses with her, grinning despite yourself. The circle. Her circle.

And maybe it’s the easy air of Alba, the way you didn't have to think what to say because you couldn't get a word in anyways or the warmth of the house still clinging to your skin, or the fact that Alexia wanted this. But for the first time since you landed, you don’t feel completely overcome with nerves.

⚽️

The car ride is easy.

Alba drives with ease one hand on the wheel, window half-down, sunglasses perched lazily on her head again. Music hums low through the speakers something local, something with a heavy beat that thrums through the seat beneath you.

You sit back, drink in hand, feeling yourself settle into it.

She chats nothing heavy, nothing pointed.

Asks about your German club, your impression of the city so far, whether you’re a coffee person or a tea person. Tells you a ridiculous story about Alexia getting lost on the metro once as a teenager and swearing it was because 'the map lied.'

You laugh real, surprised and Alba smiles like that was exactly the point.

Just treating you like someone welcome. Like a new friend. You’re grateful for it more than you can say. By the time you pull up near the stadium massive, bright, pulsing with early matchday energy, you feel almost ready.

Almost.

Alba flicks the ignition off and slings her bag over her shoulder in one smooth move. “Come on, England,” she says, bumping her hand lightly into your shoulder as you both climb out. “You’re about to see real football.”

You roll your eyes. "Is that what you call it?"

"In Spain, we call it winning." She grins, slinging an arm around your shoulder for half a second before steering you toward the stadium entrance. "Something you don't know here" You couldn't help the laugh and playfully shoved her away from you.

In the stadium. It’s chaos, but controlled chaos.

Fans already filling the stands, scarves flashing in team colours, the buzz of anticipation climbing higher with every step closer to the pitch.

Alba moves through it like a pro nodding at stewards, flashing a lanyard at security, weaving you through the crush of bodies without hesitation.

You barely have time to take it all in before you’re ushered through a side entrance and up a short flight of stairs into a section marked FAMILIA tucked just above pitch level, the view perfect.

Alba leans against the railing, arms folded, surveying the field like she owns it.

You slide into a seat beside her, nerves bubbling lightly in your stomach now..

You glance at your phone once no new messages then tuck it away, just as the first players begin to stream onto the pitch for warm-ups.

Your heart kicks harder. And then. There she is. Alexia. Jogging lightly across the grass, warm-up jacket open, hair bouncing with every step. Focused. Sharp. Beautiful.

You watch her, frozen. You wonder if she’ll see you. If she’ll be too locked in, too professional.

But mid-stretch, mid-conversation with a teammate she glances up toward the stands. Scans. Finds you. Locks eyes.

And even from here you can see the change. The way her shoulders ease. The way her mouth twitches, just barely, into something small and secret and meant only for you.

Your breath catches. She gives you the smallest nod, sharp, barely-there, but it says everything.

I see you. I'm glad you're here.

Alba nudges you with her elbow, smirking slightly. “Good seats, huh?”

You clear your throat, trying to sound casual. “The best.”

She just grins wider and turns back to the pitch pretending she hasn’t noticed a thing.

You sit back. Heart racing. Eyes on her.

The game starts quick, faster than you expected, the kind of breakneck pace that makes even the home fans tighten in their seats.

You’re sitting forward almost immediately, elbows on your knees, chin resting in your palms, eyes glued to the pitch.

You spot her instantly. Calm. Sharp. Moving like she’s reading a book no one else has even opened yet.

But even she can’t control everything.

The first twenty minutes are rough passes just a little off, the other team pressing high, forcing mistakes you rarely ever see from this squad. The atmosphere shifts. Not angry. Just… tight.

You don’t even realise you’re gripping the edge of your seat until Alba nudges your arm lightly.

“Relax,” she says, voice low. “It’s early.”

You nod. You try. But your knee’s bouncing before you even know it.

Every time Alexia gets the ball, your heart jumps willing something clean, something brilliant. Sometimes it comes. Sometimes it doesn’t.

The crowd murmurs grow louder as the half wears on frustration crackling in the warm air like static.

And then out of nowhere a turnover. A fast break the other way. And before you can even sit up properly- Goal.

For them. You swear under your breath, heart sinking as the away fans explode somewhere to your right.

Alexia turns immediately, rallying, clapping, calling out instructions, but you see it. The flicker of frustration. The tightness in her jaw.

Halftime whistle blows not long after. You sink back in your seat, exhaling sharply, dragging a hand through your hair.

Alba hands you a bottle of water without looking, casual as anything. “You’re more stressed than she is,” she teases, grinning.

You shake your head, half-laugh, half-miserable. “She’s out there,” you mutter, barely loud enough to hear yourself. "I don't do well just watching"

Alba’s smile softens a little. “She’s fine," she says. "Worried about you more than herself, probably.”

You don’t know if she means to say it. If it slips out. But you don’t question it.

You just sit there watching Alexia disappear into the tunnel with her team feeling the beat of your heart pounding against your ribs.

The stands buzz during the break the low rumble of conversation, of half-hearted chants, of fans refuelling hope with overpriced snacks and superstition.

You sit back in your seat, arms folded tight, heart still racing, eyes flickering anxiously down to the tunnel.

Alba stands, stretching lazily. “Beer?” she offers, grinning like she’s not at all concerned.

You blink. Smile, small. Nod. "Yeah. Please. Why not?”

She disappears into the throng of fans, moving with the easy grace of someone who’s navigated this stadium a hundred times.

You lean back, exhale slowly, hands scrubbing over your face.

A few minutes later, she’s back two plastic cups in hand, foamy and golden. She hands you one with a mock salute.

“To surviving first halves,” she jokes.

You clink cups, laughing softly. You both sip, the taste crisp and slightly bitter. After a moment, Alba nudges you again gentle this time.

“So,” she says, settling back into her seat. “Tell me about Teddy. The legend himself.”

You grin, almost immediately pulling out your phone. You swipe to your gallery you definitely have an entire album labeled TEDDY 🐾.

Alba leans in, resting her chin lightly on your shoulder to get a better look.

First up — Teddy in his raincoat. She snorts immediately.

“Diva.”

Swipe.

Teddy covered head-to-paw in mud after a particularly reckless park run. “Rebel,” Alba comments, approvingly.

Swipe.

Teddy asleep under a pile of your hoodies. "Smart," she says. "Knows the value of good real estate."

And then — You both pause on that photo.

You, sprawled across your sofa in grey joggers sporty & rich emblazoned on them and a Calvin Klein sports bra. Teddy is draped directly across your lap, snoring like his life depends on it.

But what really stands out even through the sleepy chaos is you. The toned, defined abs cutting clean down your stomach.

Effortless. Unintentional. Stupidly unfair. You laugh softly, ducking your head, feeling the heat crawl up your neck. "Ignore that," you mutter, reaching to swipe past it.

But Alba leans away, raising an eyebrow dramatically. "You're joking, right?" she teases. Grabbing your phone for apparently a better look, "You’re body's banging"

You freeze for a split second caught off-guard.

Alba catches it, but doesn't push. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t say more. She just grins and tosses the phone lightly back into your lap. "Good abs. Great dog. Terrible self-awareness," she says breezily.

You laugh, genuine and a little helpless, heart thudding unevenly.

Before you can come up with a smart reply, the stadium announcer cuts through the noise. Second half about to start.

The players stream back onto the pitch.

And there, right in the middle of it all, standing tall and steady and looking right toward your section. Game face on. Ready. You tighten your grip on the beer cup. Settle in.

Alba nudges your arm again, voice low. "Relax," she says. "This is where it gets good." You don’t look at her. You don’t need to. Your eyes are locked on her. And you believe it.

The second half kicks off hard.

Barcelona come out different, sharp, coiled, teeth bared like they remembered who they are during that halftime talk.

You’re on the edge of your seat within minutes. The ball zips through midfield faster, the press higher, the tackles sharper. Alexia moves like a storm orchestrating everything, pulling invisible strings with every look, every shout, every touch of the ball.

Five minutes in — Equaliser.

The stadium explodes.

You’re half-standing, one hand fisted in the hem of your hoodie, heart hammering. Alba slaps your back, whooping.

Another ten minutes. Barcelona take the lead.

A sharp finish, clean through the keeper. You shout without thinking, the noise ripping from your throat, swallowed up immediately by the tidal wave of cheers around you. You catch a glimpse of Alexia, fist pumping once, jaw tight, eyes burning.

But it doesn’t stop. Goal after goal. Four, five, six.

You lose track somewhere in the middle the pure chaos of it overwhelming but Alexia is at the heart of all of it, running the game like it’s a private performance just for you.

You swear — swear — she glances up toward the family section after every major play. Not searching for approval. Just checking you're still watching.

And you are. You couldn’t look away if you tried. By the time the seventh goal hits the back of the net, you’re hoarse from shouting, grinning like an idiot, beer long forgotten under your seat.

Alba’s laughing beside you, half-hugging random people in your row, yelling over the din, "We don't do boring games here!"

You laugh too, breathless, exhilarated, feeling like your whole body might lift right off the ground with it.

And finally. In stoppage time. Goal eight.

It’s Alexia who starts it winning a scrappy ball in midfield, slipping it out wide, following the play like she knows exactly where it’s going.

When it curls into the box, she’s there ghosting past defenders, rising up at exactly the right second to bury it in the back of the net with a perfect header.

The stadium detonates. You’re screaming without even realising it, hands in your hair, lungs burning, heart stretched so full it almost hurts.

She lands, stumbling forward, arms wide team piling onto her in celebration. But even then. Even as her teammates swarm her. Alexia looks up.

Straight to your section. Straight to you. You don’t know if she can see you clearly if the distance and the lights blur it all. But you’re standing now, clapping, smiling so hard your face aches, nodding like an idiot.

I see you. I’m here. I’m proud.

The final whistle blows barely a minute later.

The roar of it vibrates through your ribs, through your spine, through your very bones. Barcelona. From 0-1 to 8-1

A massacre. A masterpiece.

You turn to Alba, laughing breathlessly and high fiveing.

⚽️

You and Alba are perched on the low concrete barrier just outside the secured gate, plastic cups of leftover water cradled in your hands, your legs swinging lightly.

The players are slowly filtering out still in their matchday tracksuits, hair damp from showers, energy buzzing higher than the stars overhead.

You spot her immediately. Walking out with a couple of teammates Patri and Mapi both laughing about something you can't hear yet, boots slung over their shoulders, kit bags knocking against their hips.

Your heart lurches. You sit up straighter without meaning to. Alba notices. Smirks to herself. Says nothing.

Alexia spots you, of course she does, and her whole face softens, just for a second. A flicker. A breath.

Then she's steering toward you, casual, playing it cool. Too cool. Patri spots Alba first and waves wildly, jogging the last few steps to pull her into a quick, noisy hug.

"¡Alba!" Patri laughs. "You're always here!"

"Someone's gotta keep you humble," Alba teases back.

Mapi grins at you, sharp and curious, tipping her chin up in hello.

You smile quick, polite feeling about three seconds from vibrating out of your skin.

Alexia stops in front of you just enough distance to be proper, not enough to stop feeling like the whole world narrowed to this moment.

"Hey," she says, low and a little rough from shouting through ninety minutes.

"Hey," you echo, equally useless.

There's a beat just a second where you both hover there, not quite knowing if you should hug or not, not quite knowing where you were with each other just yet.

Then Patri and Mapi sweep the tension aside without even trying.

"So," Patri says, sliding her arm around Alexia’s shoulders easily, "Your the friend she has staying with her, we’ve heard about?"

You blink.

Alexia flushes actually flushes and ducks her head, laughing under her breath.

You open your mouth not even sure what you’re about to say but Mapi cuts in with a wide, playful grin:

"We were worried she made it up."

You laugh properly nerves bursting like soap bubbles in your chest. "Happy to confirm I'm here," you manage, sticking your hand out awkwardly for a shake.

Patri slaps it away and pulls you into a quick, casual hug instead all warmth and no hesitation. "You staying long?" she asks, releasing you.

"Just tonight," you say, glancing at Alexia before you can stop yourself. "Got a game Tuesday"

Alexia catches it. Smiles. Soft, shy. Patri and Mapi share a quick look you’re definitely not meant to catch.

But they don't say anything else just toss a few more jokes Alba’s way, ribbing each other like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

You stand there, sipping water, feeling the sticky hum of the stadium still clinging to your skin, Alexia just close enough that you can feel the heat of her. Not touching. Not rushing. Just there.

Exactly where you want to be.

The conversation hums around you for a few more minutes easy laughter, Alba teasing Mapi, Patri swinging her bag around dangerously close to Alexia’s legs until she finally side-steps and gives her a look that could wither a tree.

You stand there, half in the circle, half outside it. Still not totally sure where you fit.

But Alexia stays close.

Close enough that your arms almost brush when she shifts her bag. Close enough that you can feel her thumb tracing idle little circles against the strap of it, like she’s working up to something.

Finally, when Mapi and Patri start peeling away toward their own cars waving, shouting goodbyes over their shoulders. Alexia turns toward you.

Just you. Tugs lightly on the hem of your sleeve with two fingers.

A soft, almost shy little pull. You look up. Meet her eyes. She clears her throat once, quiet. “You wanna ride with me?” she asks, voice low so it doesn’t carry.

Her sunglasses are tucked into the neckline of her tracksuit now. Her hair’s still a little damp at the temples from the match. She looks exhausted and beautiful and like she’s hoping really hoping you’ll say yes.

You smile small, easy. “Yeah,” you say, letting the word land in the space between you. “I’d like that.”

The look she gives you, brief, brilliant, almost boyish in its relief. Hits you low in the chest.

Alba grins as she catches on. “Guess I’ll take my own car then,” she says, exaggeratedly put-out, tossing her keys up and catching them with a smirk.

You flash her a grateful smile. She just winks at you, no real pressure in it, no teasing just welcome to the family.

Alexia leads the way toward her car low, sleek, black against the white glare of the stadium lights.

You fall into step beside her, bag slung over your shoulder, matching her pace without thinking.

Neither of you talks much as you walk. You don’t need to. There’s something thick in the air not tension exactly. Just awareness.

When she unlocks the car with a soft beep, she opens the passenger door first a tiny, stupidly old-fashioned gesture that makes your heart squeeze unexpectedly tight then tosses her own bag into the backseat.

You climb in. Buckle up. She gets in too, pulling the door closed with a soft click that seals the two of you into this small, private world.

The engine purrs to life. She glances over once, quick, like she still can’t quite believe you’re here.

Then she smiles small and secret and pulls away from the stadium, the road unfurling into the quiet Barcelona night ahead of you.

No fanfare. No big words.

Just her hand resting casually on the gearshift, her body loose with tiredness, her energy still somehow drawn toward you like a tide.

The city flickers past in soft blurs streetlights washing gold across the windshield, neon signs blinking sleepy messages you’re too relaxed to translate.

The windows are down. The air is warm. A little salty still from the sea. A little electric from everything that’s still buzzing in your chest.

Alexia drives one-handed, easy and loose, elbow propped casually on the door. The other hand hovers near the gearshift relaxed, fingers tapping an absent rhythm against the leather.

You sit quietly beside her, turned slightly toward the window, letting the night wrap around you both. Somewhere along the way, she flips the radio on low volume, something mellow and scratchy and Spanish, the beat soft and old and safe.

You tap your fingers lightly against your thigh, matching the tempo without realising. Alexia notices.

You catch her glancing at you once, just once, a tiny smile ghosting over her lips before she looks back at the road.

Neither of you talks at first.

Not because there’s nothing to say. Because there’s so much to say, and none of it needs to be rushed.

Finally, a few minutes in, Alexia breaks the silence voice rough from the game, softer now. "You really stress-watched the first half, huh?"

You snort under your breath, turning your head to look at her. "You saw that?"

She grins quick and sharp. "Alba sent me a picture."

You groan, dragging a hand over your face. "Traitor."

Alexia laughs low and warm and you swear it vibrates right through your chest. "It was cute," she says after a beat, a little more serious, a little more honest.

You lower your hand, glance at her just in time to catch the way she’s looking at you.

Not teasing. Not playful. Just looking. The kind of look that feels like standing barefoot on the edge of something huge and good and a little terrifying.

You hold it for a second longer than you mean to. Then you clear your throat lightly, breaking the spell before you drown in it. "You didn’t seem stressed," you say, fiddling with the hem of your hoodie. "Out there."

She shrugs, the smallest roll of her shoulders. "I was."

You blink. "Really?"

She nods once, slow. "First half was..." She trails off, searching for the right word. "Messy." She taps the steering wheel lightly with her thumb. "I kept thinking..." she says, quieter now, "what if you flew all this way and I gave you a terrible game?"

Your heart flips over so fast it almost hurts. You stare at her, at the way she’s half-smiling, half-hiding behind the motion of driving.

You reach for words. Find only the truth. "You could’ve lost eight-nil," you say, voice steady. "I still would've been proud."

She glances at you, fast, sharp. Then she looks away, but not before you see it.

The way her mouth curves. The way her fingers tighten slightly around the wheel. The way she breathes out like she’s been holding it in for longer than just tonight.

You let the silence settle again after that. Soft. Easy. Like a promise tucked into the dark. You’re almost back at her place now the city giving way to low walls and olive trees and the wide stretch of private drive.

The tires crunch over the gravel of her driveway, the headlights sweeping across the stone and low olive trees.

She parks with a casual ease, switches the engine off, and the world outside the car drops into a warm hush.

No street noise. No stadium roars.

Just the cicadas buzzing softly in the distance and the thick, heavy stillness of the late Barcelona night. Neither of you moves right away.

You sit there, the car cooling around you, the faint hum of the radio fading into silence.

Alexia finally glances over at you a small, hesitant smile flickering at the corners of her mouth. “Come on,” she says, voice low, almost a whisper.

You follow her out of the car, bags forgotten for now, the air soft against your skin as you walk side by side up the path. She unlocks the door, swings it open. But she doesn’t head straight inside.

Instead, she jerks her chin toward the side gate, the path that loops around the house toward the garden and the pool beyond.

You hesitate only a second. Then follow.

The patio stones are cool under your sneakers, the pool ahead gleaming softly under the light of the moon. Water still. Perfect.

Alexia drops her keys onto a table, kicks off her shoes without a word, and pads barefoot toward the low wall by the pool.

You slip off yours too, matching her without thinking. She sits, legs swinging slightly, toes brushing the surface of the water.

You sit beside her, a safe inch of space between you. For now.

For a while, you just sit there the house at your back, the whole wide, soft night stretching out in front of you.

Alexia leans back on her hands, head tilted up toward the stars “You’re quiet,” she says after a moment not accusing. Just noticing.

You glance over, smiling faintly. “So are you.”

She shrugs one shoulder. “Feels like a quiet kind of night.”

You hum in agreement, letting your own hands fall back onto the stone, palms flat against the cool surface.

You’re close enough now that your arms brush when you breathe in deep enough. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of her, even under the open air.

She tips her head sideways, looking at you out of the corner of her eye. "You want a glass of wine?"

You grin, lazy now. "Always."

She smiles back slow and real and pushes herself up with an easy roll of her shoulders. You follow her inside, barefoot and buzzing.

In the kitchen, she moves easily grabbing a bottle of red from a low shelf, pulling two mismatched glasses from a cupboard. No pretence. No performance. Just home. She pours. Hands you a glass.

You clink them together softly, no words, just the clink and the shared little smile between you.

And then without discussing it you drift back outside, glasses in hand, settling into the deep lounge chairs by the pool.

The stars scatter across the sky like someone spilled silver paint. The air smells like salt and olives and warm stone. You sip your wine.

She leans her head back and sighs long and low and content. You don’t need to talk. Everything important is already humming between you. The kind of night that doesn't ask for anything.

You glance sideways at her once catch the way the light catches her profile, softens her edges, makes her look a little like a dream.

She catches you looking. Raises an eyebrow, amused. "What?" she says, playful.

You just shake your head, smiling into your glass. "Nothing," you say, voice low and warm.

The wine is halfway gone.

The stars hang heavy and low, like they’re closer here, closer because you’re sitting with her, side by side, letting the world fall away.

Alexia leans back in her chair, glass balanced loosely in one hand, head tipped toward the sky.

You mirror her without thinking, lazy, loose, comfortable in a way that sneaks up on you. It’s quiet for a long moment. Then out of nowhere, soft and real. Alexia says. “My dad would’ve liked you.”

You turn your head, startled by the quiet honesty of it. She’s not looking at you eyes still on the stars but you can hear the weight tucked into the words.

“He was the... welcoming type," she says, lips quirking slightly. "Always wanted the house full. People everywhere. Laughter. Even when it was chaos. He would of enjoyed the way you play football”

You smile, picturing it. Her, growing up in a house like that. “He sounds brilliant,” you say, meaning it.

Alexia hums, low in her throat. “He was,” she says simply. Then she’s quiet a second longer, swirling the wine in her glass. “Sometimes I think he’s still here. Just... quieter now.”

You sit with that. The beautiful, impossible hope of it. And you don't rush to fill the silence. You let her have it.

Alexia shifts a little, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. “My mami's the boss, though,” she says with a small, teasing smile “Doesn’t matter how old we get. She'll still text me after every match to tell me if I look tired, or if my socks were too low.”

You laugh soft, genuine. “She sounds terrifying."

“She is,” Alexia says, grinning. “In the best way. She's a softy really”

You tuck your feet up onto the chair, glass resting against your knee. “She must be proud of you," you say.

Alexia shrugs, but it’s not dismissive it’s shy. “I think so. She won’t say it much. She’ll just... pack too much food in a bag when I go visit.”

You laugh again, picturing it Alexia, superstar, carrying away plastic containers like a teenager heading to university.

Alexia watches you laugh, her face softening, her eyes catching the moonlight. “What about yours?” she asks.

You shift a little in your seat, glass resting on your knee.

And for a moment, you wonder if you should just tell her the easy version.

But something about the way she’s looking at you — open, steady — makes you want to say the real thing instead.

You swallow lightly.

“It’s... complicated,” you say first, voice quieter.

Alexia tilts her head, waiting. You take a breath.

“My mum and dad had me,” you start, words slow and careful. You pause, swirling the last sip of wine in your glass. “Then my mum had an affair. That’s... how my little sister came along.”

Alexia’s gaze sharpens slightly, not judgmental. Just seeing you. Really seeing.

“They split up after that,” you continue, a half-shrug working up your shoulders. “It wasn’t dramatic no screaming matches, no throwing things. Just... this weird silence. This broken... thing.”

You pick at the hem of your shorts.

You laugh under your breath not bitter, just tired.

“My dad remarried. Had two boys. Something he always wanted”

You set your glass down carefully on the stone, tracing the rim with your finger.

“So now it’s like... I’m caught in the middle. Not fully part of either side. Not really sure where I fit.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, the honesty of it tasting a little raw now that it’s out.

“Sometimes I feel like a guest in both homes," you admit. "Loved, sure. But... still kind of the wrong piece of a jigsaw trying to fit in. Christmases are awkward. Birthdays are even worse, I never celebrate my birthday, can't upset anyone then when I chose the wrong person to spend it with.”

You huff a laugh dry, not bitter.

“I love them,” you say. “All of them. Even when it’s messy. Even when I don’t always know where I... fit.”

You expect it to hang heavy between you that confession. But it doesn’t. It just settles. Softly.

You risk a glance at her, at Alexia, who’s sitting there, still and steady in the warm dark. She doesn’t look uncomfortable. She doesn’t look sorry for you. She just looks... present. Solid.

When you stop talking, when you let the silence fill in the cracks, she doesn’t rush to fix it.

Alexia doesn’t say I’m sorry — thank God — or offer some neat little fix.

She just leans back against the lounge chair, looking up at the stars, she shifts a little closer. Lets her knee bump lightly against yours “Sometimes it’s the messy ones who fight the hardest to love you.”

You blink. Look at her. And feel something pull deep in your chest. You tilt your head, studying her in the moonlight.

“Is that so?” you ask, quieter than you mean to.

She smiles a tiny, soft thing. “So I'm told,” she says.

You both fall silent again. Not uncomfortable. Not unsure. Just... there.

You take a sip of your wine, letting the warmth bloom in your chest, and when you set the glass back down, your hand brushes hers again — this time more deliberate.

“Thanks,” you manage, your voice rougher than you mean it to be.

Alexia just smiles small, real, enough. “You’d get along with my Mami, too,” she adds after a beat, a little lighter, nudging your leg with hers. “She’d adopt you instantly. Especially if you bring wine.”

You laugh the sound bubbling up, easing the tightness in your throat. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You sit there a little longer shoulders brushing, glasses forgotten, the stars turning slowly overhead.

Two kids from broken families for very different reasons, finding something simple in the middle of it all: Each other.

She glances sideways at you, not startled, not nervous, just there.

Present. You breathe out a soft laugh, barely more than a sigh, and tilt your head back, looking up.

The stars are stupidly bright tonight. Like a show meant just for you two.

“I missed this,” Alexia says, voice barely a thread of sound.

You turn your head, curious. “This?”

She nods, eyes still upward. “Quiet. Someone who doesn’t need me to talk all the time. Someone who...” She trails off, searching. “...who just sits.”

You smile, small, knowing. “I can sit,” you say lightly.

Her lips curve. That small, soft grin that always threatens to undo you. “I noticed.”

For a little while, you both just stay like that not speaking, not moving listening to the faint splash of the pool, the occasional flick of a night bird overhead, the rhythm of your own breathing matching hers without even trying.

And then without warning Alexia shifts. Not big. Not dramatic. Just leans ever so slightly sideways her shoulder brushing yours.

Barely there. Barely anything. But it feels like everything. You don’t look at her. You don’t have to. You just sit there side by side, skin to skin, letting the night wrap itself around you like a blanket you both chose to share.

No words. No need. Just the slow, steady thrum of something building, something growing, something that feels inevitable now.

You let your hand slide down the armrest between you not grabbing, not reaching just resting your fingers lightly against the edge, where her hand already lies.

Your pinky brushes hers. Once. Twice. You don’t push it. Neither does she. But you feel the shift.

“Ever feel like you don’t get to just... exist anymore?”

You turn your head, surprised by the sudden vulnerability but you catch the way she’s not really looking for an answer. Not yet.

You let the quiet settle first. Then you nod. “Yeah," you say simply. “All the time.”

Alexia’s breath hitches just a tiny thing like she’s grateful you didn’t make her explain it. She leans her head back again, staring up. “It’s like…” She frowns, searching for the words. “Everywhere you go. Every time you put the kit on. Every post, every match, every minute someone’s filming, or watching, or pulling. Or wanting to question you”

Her voice drops even softer.

“They don’t see you anymore. They just see what they want from you.”

You shift slightly closer, almost without meaning to your knee brushing hers now. You know exactly what she means. Exactly.

You let out a long, slow breath. "Sometimes I feel like I’m made of... tiny pieces," you whisper. "Handed out one by one. For the press. For the fans. For the club. For the national team." You glance at her. "And there’s never enough left over for me. To. Just be me."

Alexia tilts her head, eyes catching yours across the space and it’s not a heavy look. It’s a knowing one. Soft. Shared. "You get it," she says simply.

You nod. "I get it."

She smiles, a small, tired thing, but real. Real in a way you know she doesn’t let many people see. She nudges your pinky with hers just the lightest brush, a tiny anchoring touch. And then she murmurs "Feels different with you, though."

You swallow against the tightness rising in your chest. "Yeah?"

She nods once, sure. “With you, it feels like... I’m still just Alexia.”

She pushes herself up, stretching slowly, arms overhead, her hoodie riding up just slightly over the waistband of her shorts. You catch the glimpse of skin before you can look away.

She smiles down at you slow, sleepy and jerks her head toward the house. “Come on," she says, voice low, a little rough with tiredness. "Before we both fall asleep out here."

You grin and force yourself to your feet, your body feeling heavier, but your heart somehow lighter. You follow her across the patio barefoot, silent the doors left open to let the cool night air slip inside.

The kitchen is dim, the living room bathed in a low, soft glow from a lamp someone forgot to turn off. You both move instinctively now, without talking leaving your empty glasses on the counter, flicking off a few lights as you go.

You reach the hallway together that soft, quiet space that splits toward her room, your guest room, the rest of the house.

You both slow there. Stop.

The hallway light spills between you pale, warm, catching on her hair, the soft edge of her smile.

Alexia leans a shoulder into the wall, hands slipping into the front pocket of her hoodie.

She looks at you. Really looks at you. In a way that makes your stomach flip, slow and certain.

She exhales a little laugh under her breath, shaking her head.

“What?” you whisper, smiling without meaning to.

She shrugs, shy for the first time all night. “Nothing. Just... glad you're here.”

Your chest tightens warm and aching and real. You step a little closer not touching, but close enough to feel it hum between you.

She tilts her head slightly, studying you like she wants to memorise this second. Then she says soft, playful "Sleep well. I’ve got a busy day planned for us tomorrow."

You raise an eyebrow, teasing. "Oh yeah? Am I gonna survive it?"

She grins that beautiful, tired, wicked little grin. "Maybe."

You both stand there for another heartbeat neither of you quite moving yet, neither quite ready to end it.

Her hand brushes yours just barely as she pushes off the wall and steps backward toward her room. "Buenas noches," she says, almost a whisper.

"Goodnight," you whisper back.

And as she disappears down the hallway hoodie sleeves dragging lightly along the wall you’re left standing there, heart thudding, skin buzzing, smile tugging stubbornly at your mouth.

You head into your room, still feeling her everywhere.

[arabella-syntax]

In a match where the scoreboard tells only half the story, a fierce on-pitch rivalry between you and football royalty, Alexia Putellas, evolves into something electric — something unspoken, but deeply felt. Between the lines two players lock eyes, trade touches, and blur the line between competition and connection. What begins as a game becomes a gravity neither can resist.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

[arabella-syntax]

Escape — A. Putellas x Reader

"Write to Me and Escape"

WC: 5.5k

Summary: You couldn’t hold it in anymore, you just had to see them even if it wrecked you. But what you find changes everything, and nothing feels the same anymore.

Pt. 1 , Pt. 2 , Pt. 3 , Pt.4

The rhythm with go4goald2 fell back into place quicker than you expected.

Alexia had warned you about the media days, press events and tight schedule. You’d nodded to yourself, thanked her for the heads-up, and tried not to be disappointed when she used the words “a few days.” It had taken months for her to remember how to tell you things before they hurt. You gave her credit for that. Quietly. Without saying it out loud.

But now with her occupied and off your screen, off your mind in a way that felt both guilty and relieving, you opened Chattr without hesitation. No wince. No weighing what it meant.

Just you. And them.

The message was already waiting.

[go4goald2]: Okay, important: If your life had a laugh track, what moment would it play the loudest?

You grinned before you even started typing.

[lostinthecrowd]: When I waved back at someone who was waving at the person behind me, then tried to cover it by swatting a fly that didn’t exist.

[go4goald2]: Oh my god, I’m cringing in solidarity.

[lostinthecrowd]: It haunts me weekly. Specifically at 11:47 p.m. when I'm trying to sleep like a normal person.

[go4goald2]: Good, it keeps you humble.

You laughed and felt something in your chest unspool just a little.

[go4goald2]: Okay, but now I need more. What's the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done on purpose?

You didn’t overthink it. You didn’t try to be cool. You just told the truth.

[lostinthecrowd]: I once tried to flirt with a barista by ordering “whatever you think matches my vibe.”

[lostinthecrowd]: They gave me a decaf oat milk lavender latte that tasted like sadness and dirt.

[go4goald2]: Nooo. Did you drink the whole thing??

[lostinthecrowd]: Yep. Smiled through it then tipped five bucks out of pure shame.

There was a pause. Just long enough to notice.

Then:

[go4goald2]: You´re such a dumbass.

[go4goald2]: I love you.

You froze.

Not because you thought they meant it.

Not really.

But because it hit different, even as a joke.

Because the part of you that was still clawing for something real? It wanted to believe it. Even just for a second.

You didn’t reply right away.

[go4goald2]: I´m so sorry. That was too much.

[lostinthecrowd]: No. It wasn’t. I just... didn’t expect it.

A pause. Then:

[go4goald2]: I think about you a lot when I'm not talking to you. When something dumb happens. When I see something and wonder if you’d laugh at it. That's normal, right?

You stared at the screen.

Felt your chest clench in that stupid, hopeful, terrified way.

[lostinthecrowd]: Maybe not normal. But... not bad.

Another beat.

[go4goald2]: Have you ever fallen for someone just by how they see you?

That was… something.

Because yes.

Because that’s exactly what this was starting to feel like.

You typed slower this time.

[lostinthecrowd]: I think I'm scared of how much I want to say yes to that.

You waited.

And waited.

Then finally:

[go4goald2]: I won't ask you to say it. Not if it’s not the time. I just want you to know you’re seen exactly as you are. You don’t have to change anything around me.

You closed your eyes. Let the words settle.

Alexia was trying. She was.

But this?

This felt like being chosen in real time.

And you didn’t know what to do with that yet.

So instead, you reached down, scratched behind Tofu’s ears, and whispered, “You’re not helping, you know.”

He snorted. Rolled over like he disagreed.

Your phone buzzed again.

[go4goald2]: Are you still with me?

You hesitated.

Then, without thinking too hard, you typed:

[lostinthecrowd]: Yeah, I’m still here.

And god help you, for the first time in a long time, you meant it.

[go4goald2]: If I asked you something kind of dangerous, would you answer?

[lostinthecrowd]: That depends. Are we talking dangerous like “eat expired sushi” or dangerous like “emotional vulnerability at midnight”?

[go4goald2]: The second one, obviously.

[lostinthecrowd]: Then maybe, ask.

[go4goald2]: Do you think some people are meant for us… But not meant to stay?

[lostinthecrowd]: Jesus.

[go4goald2]: Too much?

[lostinthecrowd]: Not too much. Just… accurate.

[go4goald2]: I think about it a lot. How sometimes you meet someone and they wreck you. Not in a bad way. Just… Like they rearrange everything inside you. And then they’re gone. But you’re still left shaped like them.

[lostinthecrowd]: And then you meet someone else, and they touch that same part of you, but gentler.

[go4goald2]: Yeah. Like maybe the first person cracked you open so someone else could find you.

[lostinthecrowd]: I don't know if I believe in fate.

[go4goald2]: Me neither. But I believe in timing, and maybe we don’t always get to choose what hurts.

[lostinthecrowd]: Sometimes I think I was supposed to love her, just not forever.

There was a pause.

Not the bad kind. The kind that means someone is breathing slowly before saying something that might change everything.

[go4goald2]: And now?

You stared at the screen. Tofu shifted against your thigh. You started typing, fingers shaking.

[lostinthecrowd]: Now I'm scared, because I think I'm falling again. and I don't know whose arms I want to land on.

You didn’t get a reply right away.

But the typing bubble flickered.

Flickered.

Then it disappeared.

Then..

Your phone rang.

Not Chattr.

Not go4goald2.

Alexia.

You froze. Let it ring once. Twice. Four times.

Your thumb moved before you could talk yourself out of it.

“...Hey,” you said, your voice paper-thin.

There was a pause. Then:

“Sorry,” she said, exhaling like the air had been punched out of her. “I didn’t mean to call. I mean, I did. I just…”

You waited.

“I’m at the hotel,” she said, too fast. “Patri and Pina were curled up on the couch watching some stupid romcom, and she was laughing so hard she had to hide her face in her hoodie. It made me think of you. Of us. Of how we used to be when everything still felt easy.”

She paused.

“And I just.. God, I missed you so much it hurt. Like physical, actual pain. And I didn’t know what to do with it, so I called.”

You didn’t say anything and allowed the silence to wrap around both of you like fog.

Her voice cracked. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I just know that it’s 1am and I heard your laugh in my head and I realized it’s been months since I heard it for real. And that’s my fault.”

She sniffled. Not trying to hide it. “I spent so long trying to prove I could be everything to everyone. I didn’t realize I was becoming nothing to you.”

You swallowed hard.

“I miss you,” she whispered. “Not just the version of you that laughed with me. The quiet parts too. The hard days. The mornings when you hated everyone but me. I miss you. All of it.”

She laughed, watery. “God, I sound drunk. I’m not. I’m just tired, being a little stupid. And a lot in love, still.”

A beat. Then she said, almost childishly soft,

“You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted to call before I got too scared to.”

She hung up.

No goodbye. Just a breath. Then gone.

You stared at your phone like it had short-circuited your brain.

And then it buzzed.

Chattr.

You opened it.

[go4goald2]: Hey, you okay?

Your fingers moved.

Paused.

Then:

[lostinthecrowd]: She called.. She cried and then said things I didn't know I still needed to hear.

A beat.

Then:

[go4goald2]: And what do you need right now?

You blinked. Let your eyes close. Let the weight of that question settle into your ribs.

And then you typed:

[lostinthecrowd]: I don’t know, but I think I need to find out without disappearing again.

Because that was the truth.

You weren’t running.

But you were on the edge.

And you didn’t want to fall without knowing where you’d land.

For two days, you didn’t text Alexia. You didn’t open Chattr either. The silence just settled in, uninvited but familiar, like it had a key. You moved through the apartment like your skin didn’t fit right, trying not to look at anything too long. Everything in here had her fingerprints on it, some literal, some worse.

Tofu had no such crisis. He charged through your day like he owned it. Like this was his apartment and you were just lucky to live in it. He leapt onto the couch without asking, claimed the sunny spot on the rug like a seasoned diva, and barked loudly when you took too long filling his water bowl. He had no patience for emotional spirals. He had toys to destroy and treats to extort.

And still, somehow, he made your chest ache.

Because she gave him to you.

Just a few weeks ago, the night before she left for international break, she showed up with a bag full of supplies and said, “He’s yours now. I think you need each other.” Like he was a peace offering. Like he was a bridge. Or maybe a way to say I still love you, without the risk of hearing it back.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything.

But she’d remembered the kind of dog you always paused to pet on the street. She picked a leash in your favorite color. She said, “His name’s Tofu,” with a smile so soft it was like an inside joke you hadn’t caught yet. And then she kissed your forehead like she didn’t still live in the ache of your throat.

Now Tofu was sprawled across your lap, toy half-chewed between his paws, utterly unbothered by your entire existential crisis. You ran your fingers through his fur absentmindedly, blinked at the ceiling, tried not to think too hard.

But it was impossible not to think of her when he was like this.

So sure of you. So certain you’d hold him, feed him, love him. No hesitation. No fear.

He trusted you more than you trusted yourself right now.

And God, what did it mean that she’d given you something this soft? This loud? This real?

You missed her. That was the truth. You missed the girl who used to dance in the kitchen while brushing her teeth. The girl who always pulled your hand into her lap when you were anxious, like that was enough to ground you. The girl who said “I love you” like it was a fact, not a performance.

You missed her so much it made your teeth hurt.

But missing someone didn’t erase what they did to you.

Tofu snorted in his sleep and shifted, shoving his back against your stomach like he was trying to merge your atoms. You laughed, quietly and bitterly. Even the dog didn’t believe in personal space.

You were trying so hard not to fall into the same shape you used to hold with her. But everything in this apartment: the blanket, the coffee mugs, this ridiculous little gremlin she gifted you, was a memory dressed like comfort.

And then there was go4goald2.

You hadn’t talked since the night Alexia called. Since everything broke open and left you standing in the middle of the mess, holding pieces of two different people who both made you feel too much.

They hadn’t messaged. Not since that quiet, careful question:

“And what do you need right now?”

You didn’t know if your silence had said too much. Or not enough.

You wanted to miss them. That would’ve been easier. Cleaner. But what you felt instead was worse:

You wanted them. Present-tense. Fully. Still.

Their steadiness. The way they listened without grabbing at your pain. The way they never asked you to perform softness, but you just found yourself being soft anyway.

And maybe it was good that they hadn’t texted. Maybe they sensed the edge you were standing on. Maybe they didn’t want to crowd it.

But God, part of you wanted them to fight for the space they’d carved into your chest.

Just a little.

Not with declarations. Not with pressure.

Just something. Anything. To say:

I’m still here. Even now.

But they didn’t.

By the third day, you still didn’t check your phone.

Not out of resolve, not even out of strength. But just because you didn’t want anything to answer to yet. You got dressed slowly. Took a real shower. Let the hot water hit your neck long enough to make you feel human.

Then you leashed Tofu and left the apartment.

No headphones. No destination. Just a slow walk through streets that didn’t ask anything of you. Tofu trotted like he owned the world, occasionally stopping to sniff something so thoroughly you almost apologized to the sidewalk.

You passed the bakery where Alexia used to make you pick out the pastries because she “couldn’t be trusted around sugar.” The coffee place you found together by accident. The crosswalk she once danced across in the rain.

You didn’t linger.

Not because the memories weren’t still in your chest. But because you finally understood something:

You don’t owe every memory a place in your future.

Tofu barked at a pigeon, almost dislocated your shoulder, then looked up at you like did you see that??

You laughed. Just a little. Just enough to count.

You kept walking.

Past the part of town where the noise softened. Past the old bookstore with the spray-painted sign. Past the bus stop where you used to wait for her, headphones on, heart in your throat.

And at some point, you sat down.

On a bench. Sun on your face. Tofu curled at your feet like a tiny guard.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t spiral.

You just let yourself feel the space in your chest. The one where love used to hurt, but now just… waited.

You didn’t know what you were choosing yet.

But for once, it didn’t feel like something was being chosen for you.

When you finally opened your phone, it buzzed to life with the weight of unread words. First, Alexia. A string of messages you hadn’t seen, each one longer than the last. No guilt, not this time. Just softness. Apologies that sounded real. Updates that sounded like effort. Hope that didn’t demand anything in return. She said she missed you. That she was proud of you. That even if you didn’t say it back, she’d keep trying to be someone worth coming home to.

You read every word. Didn’t respond. Not yet. Your chest was already full.

So you opened Chattr instead.

One message.

[go4goald2]: If we never talk again, I’ll still be glad I got to know this version of you.

You stared at it for a long time. Not because it hurt, but because it didn’t try to make you feel guilty. Just seen.

You blinked. Typed slowly.

[lostinthecrowd]: I missed this. You. I was scared to come back, and I didn’t know if I deserved to.

The reply came fast. Like they’d been waiting.

[go4goald2]: You never had to earn this. Just had to be you.

Something tugged behind your ribs. You let the words linger. You thought about who you were when you talked to them. How safe it felt. How easy. And how terrifying it was to want that ease somewhere real.

Then:

[go4goald2]: You ever feel like... If someone actually saw you, not your texts, not your voice, but you. They’d change their mind?

And after a beat:

[go4goald2]: I’m not as charming out loud. Not as easy to love in real time.

You felt that one like it had hands. Like it gripped the version of you who’d been broken open too many times and still wanted to be seen. It knocked the breath out of you, soft and brutal.

Because Alexia saw the real you, and still drifted.

And here was someone who hadn’t even looked at your face, and already thought they weren’t worth being loved back.

You sat with it. With the ache and the clarity and the ridiculous, inconvenient spark of hope.

Then you typed, slow. Barely breathing.

[lostinthecrowd]: What if I want to see you anyway?

You stared at the screen like it was holding its breath for you.

That message, “What if I want to see you anyway?” felt like too much and not enough, all at once. A confession. A dare. A quiet leap off the edge of something you weren’t sure you’d survive.

No reply came right away.

You waited, chest tight, thumb hovering like you might take it back.

And then, finally:

[go4goald2]: Are you sure?

[go4goald2]: I can tell you where. Or I can come to you. Doesn’t matter how far. I’d show up.

You didn’t know what to do with that. The certainty. The promise. It slid under your ribs and settled there, warm and terrifying.

Your thumbs hovered.

[lostinthecrowd]: Barcelona.

You hit send and stared at it like it might echo back at you.

The typing bubble flickered.

Then:

[go4goald2]: No way! I’m not far from there. Funny how small the world gets when you want to find someone.

[go4goald2]: There’s a park not far from the center. Quiet, not a lot of people this time of day. Benches near the pond. Friday? Afternoon?

Friday.

You glanced at the calendar. That was tomorrow.

Alexia wasn’t due back until Saturday.

You chewed your lip.

Typed:

[lostinthecrowd]: Okay. Friday. 3PM. I’ll be there.

Your stomach flipped.

[go4goald2]: You don’t have to dress up. I just want it to be real.

And god. That hit harder than it should’ve.

You let the words sit for a while. Then replied:

[lostinthecrowd]: I’m nervous. Like… really nervous.

[go4goald2]: Me too. I keep thinking… What if I ruin the version of me you made up in your head?

[lostinthecrowd]: Maybe we’re both scared of being seen.

[go4goald2]: But I still want to be. Even if it’s messy.

That was the one that pulled your chest open again. Not in a loud, devastating way. Just quiet. Steady. Like something soft demanding space.

You smiled. A little.

And then, because the universe couldn’t leave you alone for five seconds, your phone buzzed again.

Different thread.

Different gravity.

Ale: Can we go on a date when I’m back? Just one. No pressure. Just us, somewhere soft. I miss seeing you happy.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

It felt like the floor shifted beneath you. Like the walls of the apartment tilted, just slightly. Everything inside you paused, holding its breath.

Of course. Of course she’d say that now.

When you’d already agreed to meet someone else. When your heart was already being pulled in two directions, and you weren’t sure who was holding it tighter.

You opened the message. Read it again.

“Somewhere soft.”

She remembered.

You wanted to cry. You wanted to scream. You wanted to throw your phone out the window and pretend none of this ever happened.

Instead, you typed. Slowly. Carefully. Erased it.

Typed again.

“Maybe. I don’t know yet.”

It wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t cold either. It was honest.

And right now, that felt like the only thing you could give.

You stared at your phone like it had just exposed you. Like it had read your thoughts out loud.

Your fingers hovered. Then curled. Then pulled back entirely.

Because this wasn’t innocent anymore.

This was a plan. A place. A person waiting on the other end of a meet-up that you said yes to.

While your wife started making the effort of trying to mend your marriage.

You pressed the heel of your hand against your chest, like you could quiet the storm happening underneath.

“I’m not a cheater,” you whispered to the quiet. To the dog. To no one.

But god, it didn’t feel like the truth.

Because something in you wanted this.

Not to hurt her. Not to run.

But to be chosen, just once, without the history attached.

You swallowed hard.

And for the first time since this all started, the shame didn’t come from what she did to you.

It came from what you were about to do to her.

That evening, the apartment went quiet in that way that didn’t feel peaceful, just still. Like the world had pressed pause and forgotten to hit play again.

You didn’t cook. Didn’t clean. You couldn’t even remember if you’d eaten.

You sat on the floor instead. Cross-legged in the warm patch of light near the window. The carpet was soft under your fingertips, Tofu a few inches away, belly-up and blissed out like none of this was his problem.

And he was right. None of it was.

You watched the dust float in the air, caught by the last of the sun. Tried to match your breathing to something, anything, but every inhale felt offbeat. Too shallow. Too loud.

It should’ve been simple.

You loved her. You did.

Even when she let you fall apart quietly. Even when you stopped asking her to notice. You still wanted to believe that the good version of her, the one who used to wrap her arms around your grief like it was something she could carry too, that version still existed.

And maybe she did.

Maybe she was coming back.

But then there was them. The stranger who didn’t feel like a stranger anymore. The one who never saw how you looked like, never watched you shut down in real time, but somehow knew exactly where to speak light into your dark.

And that scared the hell out of you.

Because it felt safe. Because it felt new. Because it felt like something you didn’t have to work so hard to keep.

Your gaze landed on the edge of the couch where Alexia’s blanket was still folded. You hadn’t washed it. Part of you wanted to. Scrub it clean of her. Make it smell like detergent instead of memory.

But you didn’t.

Because the truth was: you still curled up in it on the nights that felt heavier than they should.

You leaned your head back against the couch and let your eyes close.

Am I the bad guy now?

You didn’t say it out loud. Just let it echo.

Because wasn’t that the worst part? That you didn’t even know who you were rooting for anymore?

Yourself?

Your marriage?

Your undoing?

Tofu let out a dramatic little huff and pressed his nose to your ankle, like he could sense the unraveling.

You reached for him without thinking, hand sliding across his soft side, grounding yourself in the simple fact of his presence.

“She gave you to me,” you whispered. “And now I don’t know what to do with any of it.”

He didn’t answer. Just blinked at you with that dumb, unconditional loyalty you were starting to envy.

You picked up your phone.

Didn’t open it.

Didn’t scroll.

Just held it. Like a secret. Like a lit match you were scared to put down or use.

What if seeing them changes everything?

What if it ruins the version of yourself that’s still trying to believe you can fix this?

What if it makes you want something you can’t explain?

The idea of going back to who you were before felt impossible. But going forward, without knowing who would be standing next to you?

That felt just as dangerous.

The sky outside bled into lavender. The room got colder. You didn’t move.

Not yet.

Just sat there in the quiet, heart in your throat, phone in your lap, dog at your feet.

You must’ve dozed off at some point.

When your eyes blinked open, the light had shifted again. Warmer. Golden. The kind that made everything look softer than it really was.

Your head was tilted against the couch, your hand still curled around Tofu’s back, and your phone… still sitting untouched.

But the moment you closed your eyes again, you weren’t in the apartment anymore.

You were in a kayak. Red. Wobbly. Drifting down a lazy river somewhere in northern Catalonia, back when the heat clung to your skin and love felt like it could conquer everything. Alexia was behind you, her paddle mostly useless, feet kicked up like this was a goddamn vacation and not a couple activity. Her hair was stuffed into a crooked braid, her shoulders already pink from the sun she swore "wasn't that strong."

"You’re gonna burn," you told her without looking back.

"Impossible," she said. "I’m invincible. Also I have olive skin, remember?"

You rolled your eyes. "Sunscreen doesn't care about your bloodline, babe."

She laughed. Loud. Carefree. The kind of laugh that made your chest crack open a little wider every time.

Later that night, she lay face-down on your bed, moaning into the pillow like a dying Victorian orphan.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," you said, smirking as you dabbed aloe on the back of her neck.

She groaned. "I regret everything except loving you."

You paused. Only for a second.

Because she said it like it was a joke. But it didn’t land like one.

And in that moment, her skin hot, her hair a mess, her voice low and unguarded, you knew. Not the lightning-bolt kind of knowing. Just soft. Obvious. Like looking down and realizing your hands were already full.

You loved her.

Not the polished version. Not the public one.

You loved this Alexia. Burnt and bratty and too proud to admit it.

The memory hit hard now.

Your eyes opened, throat tight, guilt curling low in your stomach.

Because you hadn’t stopped loving her. Not really. Not even through the worst of it. The silence. The distance. The ache of not being chosen.

She was trying again.

And a part of you still wanted to believe in the version of her who once said I regret everything except loving you.

But then there was go4goald2.

Someone who didn’t carry your history like a weight. Someone who made you feel seen in real-time, even if they didn’t know what your voice sounded like out loud.

You sat up slowly, wiped the sleep from your eyes, and looked at your phone.

You still wanted to meet them.

Maybe not to fall in love. Maybe not to escape.

But to say thank you.

For holding space when you couldn’t hold yourself. For reminding you what it felt like to laugh without fear. For showing you that there was still a version of you left worth loving.

You didn’t know what would happen tomorrow.

But you knew one thing, at least.

You weren’t choosing between love and loneliness anymore.

You were choosing between two kinds of hope.

You woke up before your alarm.

Didn’t check your phone. Didn’t need to. Today was already sitting in your chest like static, too loud, too charged, too much. You made coffee with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. Brushed your teeth twice. Put on a playlist and turned it off before the first chorus.

Tofu stayed close, like he could sense the storm under your skin. He followed you from room to room, tail wagging, expression confused. You kept petting him like that would settle something. Like you could tether yourself to the day through his fur alone.

You showered. Washed your hair. Put on your favorite jeans, the ones Alexia used to tease you about for being “aggressively soft”, then changed into different ones. Stood in front of your closet like maybe it would whisper instructions. Settled on something neutral. Safe.

Breakfast was two bites of toast and a glass of water you forgot to finish.

You didn’t let yourself think about what the meeting would feel like. You just kept your head down. Focused on the little things. Zipping the jacket. Filling Tofu’s travel bowl. Making sure your phone was charged. Reapplying lip balm for the third time, like it might protect you from whatever this was turning into.

You clipped on Tofu’s leash. Reached for the doorknob. Exhaled.

Then you heard it.

The key.

Turning in the lock.

You froze, heart jamming sideways in your chest.

The door opened slowly, hesitant, like the person on the other side didn’t know if they were still welcome.

And then you saw her.

Alexia.

But not composed, camera-ready Alexia. Not the confident girl you used to trail behind like sunlight. This version looked destroyed. Her hair was half-tied, frizzed at the edges, cheeks blotchy from dried tears. There were shadows under her eyes that hadn't been there before. Her hoodie was stained, clinging to her shoulders like it couldn’t decide whether to hang on or fall off. The duffel on her back was lopsided. Her laces were untied. And she was breathing like she’d run every step from the airport to your door.

You blinked. You weren’t sure if you were hallucinating.

“You’re back early.”

She didn’t smile. Didn’t say anything soft. Just stood there, swaying slightly.

“I wanted to surprise you,” she said, like it physically hurt to speak.

Your hand clenched tighter around Tofu’s leash.

She looked down. Saw the bag. The keys. The phone still lit in your other hand, half a sentence still unsent.

You didn’t mean to say it. But it slipped out, sharp and trembling.

“I’m meeting someone.”

She blinked. Like it stunned her. Like she hadn’t let herself believe it was real until now.

“You don’t have to go.”

You stared at her. “You don’t even know who it is.”

“I think I do.”

You stepped back. Confused. “What?”

Alexia reached into her hoodie, pulled out her phone with shaking hands, tapped something. Then she stopped and looked at you, not as a wife. Not as a lover. As something closer to a stranger asking for a chance.

Your phone buzzed.

Chattr.

One new message.

[go4goald2]: Just say the word. I’ll be there.

Your stomach dropped.

You didn’t look up right away. Couldn’t.

You stared at the message, willing it to be a joke, a glitch, anything but what it was.

Then you looked at her.

And the look on her face told you everything.

“It’s you,” you breathed. Not a question, but a realization clawing its way out of your throat.

Alexia didn’t nod. Didn’t move. She just stood there like her bones couldn’t take the weight of it either.

“It’s always been me,” she whispered.

And then everything inside you, every cell, every thread, recoiled.

“No.” You backed up further, voice rising. “No, that’s not.. It can’t be.”

“I didn’t lie,” she said quickly. “I just didn’t say”

“Didn’t say?” you cut in, a half-laugh cracking out of your throat.

“You tricked me, Alexia. You let me think someone else cared about me.”

“I did care about you,” she said, voice breaking. “Every word was real. I didn��t know how else to talk to you without hurting you again.”

“So you catfished your wife?”

She flinched. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it?” You threw your arms up. “What?! some twisted experiment? You wanted to see if I’d fall in love with you blindfolded?”

“No!” She stepped forward, and for once, she looked scared. “I just... I missed your voice. I missed being someone you trusted. And I knew if I showed up as me, you’d never let me in.”

“You’re right,” you said, and your voice was colder than you’d ever heard it. “Because I trusted you. And you used it.”

She was crying now, full-body crying, not bothering to hide it. “I thought maybe if I gave you space to choose me without the pain, we could start over.”

“But you didn’t give me space,” you said. “You gave me a lie.”

The words hit her like a blow. Her knees almost buckled under the weight of them.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“And yet,” you snapped, “here we are.”

You looked down at Tofu, who was watching both of you with ears pinned back, tail thumping slow and uncertain.

Your throat was tight. Like grief trying to turn into fire.

“I opened up to you,” you whispered. “Whoever you were. I told you things I never got to say to you. And you just... stood there. Letting me think I’d found someone new.”

“I was someone new,” she said, barely audible. “Someone trying. Someone who never stopped loving you.”

You shook your head. Everything inside you was loud now. Blistering.

“I don’t know what the hell I feel right now,” you said, and you meant it. “But I know I can’t feel it here.”

You crouched down, unclipped the leash.

“Tofu, stay,” you murmured, your voice trembling.

He whined, tail sweeping the floor once before going still.

You straightened and looked at Alexia. Not angry, not bitter, just… Tired. Worn through at the edges.

“I’m leaving you,” you said, steady now. “But not alone.”

She blinked. Confused.

You gestured toward the dog, your throat thick. “Because I don’t ever want anyone to feel the way you made me feel.”

You walked to the door, opened it, and left.

Not because you stopped caring.

But because for the first time in months, you needed her to feel what it meant to be left standing in the wreckage alone.

Tofu stayed by the door.

Still. Watching.

Like even he understood that this type of forgiveness doesn’t come with words.

It has to be earned. Step by brutal step.

Pt. 6

[arabella-syntax]

In a match where the scoreboard tells only half the story, a fierce on-pitch rivalry between you and football royalty, Alexia Putellas, evolves into something electric — something unspoken, but deeply felt. Between the lines two players lock eyes, trade touches, and blur the line between competition and connection. What begins as a game becomes a gravity neither can resist.

Part 3: 36 hours in Munich

Word Count: 8k

⚽️

You’re in the locker room, post-session. Freshly changed but, pulse still settling, water bottle half-drunk and rolling somewhere near your bench. Everyone’s moving slow — stretches, recovery gear, shower queues. Typical post-training lull.

But you’re pacing already packing away, quicker than normal, you normally linger for longer. You sit finally. Jacket half-zipped. Legs twitchy, breath short, heart doing sprints while your teammates are winding down.

You check your phone for the sixth time in two minutes. Still nothing. Still soon.

“Alright,” a voice cuts through behind you. “Who is it?”

You look toward the voice. Georgia. Leaning against the wall, towel over her shoulder, one brow cocked. You blink. “What?”

“You’re all… shifty.” She waves a vague circle around you. “Nicely-dressed, hair down. You keep checking your phone like it's gonna grow lips.”

You try to brush it off. “It’s nothing.”

Georgia doesn’t even flinch. “Liar. Spill it.”

You stare at her for a second. You weren’t going to tell anyone. But something about her tone — casual but not cruel — makes your chest loosen. And you need to say it out loud. Just once.

You sigh, grab your other boot, and sit. “She’s flying in.”

Georgia pauses. “She?” You assumed Beth would of blabbed by now.

You swallow. “Alexia.”

That name lands like a stone in a calm pool. Georgia blinks once. “Putellas?”

“Yeah.”

She’s staring now. Like full-body-turn, jaw-slightly-dropped, towel-falling-off-the-shoulder staring. “For… ?” she tries.

You sigh a hand going through your freshly washed hair. “For a day.”

Her mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “As in…”

You shrug, but you can’t help the way your face warms. “Yeah. As in that. She followed me after the home game against Barca, after the away game, that's when she first started DM'ing me" You smile at Georgia's mouth hanging open.

"Saying what?"

"Football stuff mainly, about the games, but after the last game at Wembley, she asked if she could come here to see me. I said yes.”

Georgia whistles low. “Bloody hell. You’re actually—” she stops herself. “Wait. Are you nervous?”

You nod, fast and helpless. “I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

She laughs, loud and bright. “You scored a free kick at Wembley in front of ninety thousand, but you’re sweating because the Queen of Barcelona herself is flying in for a sleepover?”

You put your hand out, "You say it like they're not both just as equally massive" You groan, head in hands. “Why did I tell you.”

Georgia grins. “Because you needed to.” She slaps your back once, warm and steady. “She’ll have a nice time I'm sure. And you're interesting when your social battery is full. Just don’t overthink it.” You look up. Georgia’s still smiling — not teasing now. Just sure. “Go get the girl from the airport,” she says. “Don't over think it, just take it for what it is, it's her idea to come here so let her lead what it is"

You roll your eyes. But you’re nodding too. Because yeah — it’s real now. She’s coming. And you have to be ready.

“Meado knows about mine and Alexia’s conversations, she doesn’t know about her coming. If you know, you need to freak out about this when I’m gone”

⚽️

The car is parked just beyond the pickup loop, engine idling low. Your hoodie’s half-zipped, one hand gripping the steering wheel, the other drumming nervously against your thigh. You’ve been here twenty minutes early, but you’d never admit it.

Your phone lights up with a text.

Alexia: Just got my bag. Coming out now.

You swallow hard.

You glance in the rearview mirror, tug at your hair, check your reflection. You don’t even know why — it’s her, you’ve already been through matches and mud and bruises together — but somehow, this is different.

It’s real. And quiet. And outside the lines. The terminal doors slide open again. A few people walk out. Not her. Another group. Still not. Your fingers tap faster.

Then there she is. Alexia. Dressed in all black, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, duffel bag over her shoulder. She walks out calm, casual, that familiar captain’s posture in every step. But her eyes are already searching.

And the second she sees you, they soften. You watch her approach through the windshield, heart thudding so hard you’re sure she’ll hear it before she even opens the door.

She pulls it open and slides into the passenger seat with that impossible grace, dropping her bag between her feet. You look at her.

She looks at you. And for a second, neither of you says a thing.

“Hey,” you breathe, voice barely above the hum of the engine.

“Hey,” she says back, softer.

You both smile. It’s awkward and perfect and so much. “I can’t believe you’re actually here,” you say as you pull out into traffic.

She leans back in the seat, eyes still on you. “I told you,” she murmurs. “I didn’t want to miss you.”

The city rolls past in a blur of grey and gold. Low sunlight spills across the dashboard, and the soft thrum of music — something wordless and warm — fills the quiet between you.

You’re both a little awkward. Not painfully so. Just… cautiously new.

It’s strange, this version of her — in your passenger seat, seatbelt clicking into place, fingers drumming lightly on her thigh. She’s looking out the window, but keeps glancing at you when she thinks you won’t notice.

You notice. “Airport was easy, then?” you ask, just to fill the silence.

She nods. “Very. One person tried to sneak a photo. But I gave them the look.”

You smirk. “The full ‘Putellas Death Glare’?”

“Level three only,” she says, mock serious. “Mild warning.”

You laugh under your breath, relaxing a little. Her accent’s thicker in person, softer in a car. You don’t know why that makes your stomach twist the way it does.

She glances at you again, a little longer this time. “It’s weird,” she murmurs. “Hearing you talk without a crowd around us.”

You smile. “You’ll get used to it.”

You make it through another light, and the silence stretches — still easy, but expectant.

Then suddenly — you freeze. “Oh shit.”

Alexia blinks. “What?”

You wince. “I forgot to tell you something kind of… important.”

She turns in her seat, curious. “What did you forget?”

You drum your fingers on the wheel. “I have a dog.”

Alexia blinks again. Then a slow smile tugs at her lips. “That’s what you forgot?”

“Well, yeah,” you say, already cringing. “I just—I meant to tell you. I’m not one of those people who spring dogs on people. He’s sweet. I swear.”

She’s laughing now — full, rich, effortless. “You make it sound like you’ve got a bear waiting at the door.”

“He’s just… enthusiastic,” you say, biting your lip. “His name’s Teddy.”

Alexia tilts her head, teasing. “Named after?”

“Teddy bear. Don’t judge me.”

She holds up both hands. “No judgment. But I can’t believe you didn’t lead with that.”

You glance at her. “Still time to turn around, you know.”

She smiles wider, looking straight ahead again. “I came here to see you,” she says softly. “Teddy’s just a bonus.”

And just like that, the nerves quiet. Just a little.

⚽️

You pull into the parking spot in the street, heart suddenly faster than it was on the pitch at Wembley.

Alexia’s quiet beside you, seatbelt undone, hands folded in her lap. But you feel her eyes on you as you kill the engine and sit for a second longer than necessary.

“This is it,” you say, finally, looking up at your loft apartment on the third floor

She nods. “Cute street.”

You grin. “Cute flat.”

She smirks. “Cute dog?”

You shoot her a look. “He’s trying his best.”

You both laugh as you get out. The early evening air is cool, the sky dipping into that soft lilac blue. You grab her small bag from the boot, and as you unlock the door, you hesitate.

“He might bark.”

“I can handle it,” she says, smiling.

You push the door open. It takes exactly one second.

Teddy barrels around the corner, all paws and excitement, nails tapping on the floor like a drumroll. His tail is going wild, and he’s already launching toward you when he spots the new presence behind you.

Alexia steps in, closing the door behind her. Teddy freezes. Then bolts straight for her.

You open your mouth to intervene—“Teddy, no!”—but before you can, Alexia’s already crouching down, calm and soft.

“Hola, precioso,” she murmurs, holding out a hand. And Teddy melts.

Tail wagging, head pressing into her palm, tongue ready for her cheek like she’s his long-lost soulmate.

You blink. “Well,” you mutter, “traitor.”

Alexia looks up at you, grinning as she scratches behind his ears. “He has taste,” she says. “Clearly.”

You lean against the doorframe, watching her — hair falling into her face, Teddy now rolling onto his back like he’s never known loyalty — and something in your chest settles. Warms.

Alexia stands, finally, brushing dog fur from her knees.

“Welcome to Germany,” you say, quieter now.

She doesn’t look away when she answers. “Thanks,” she says. “It already feels like a good idea.”

And for the first time all day, you believe you can relax. Because she’s here. This is just the beginning.

You toe off your shoes by the door, glance back to find Alexia standing just inside, Teddy still sniffing reverently at her shoes like he’s found royalty. Her bag’s at her feet, her jacket draped over her arm.

You clear your throat. “Right—um. Tour.”

She smiles like she’s already charmed. “I’m ready.”

You lead her into the main space — open-plan living room and kitchen. The walls are clean, but lived-in. A few photos on a shelf — one of the squad after a cup match, another of you and Beth pulling stupid faces at the camera. A soft throw blanket is half-fallen off the back of the couch. A candle you forgot you lit earlier is still flickering on the coffee table.

“This is the, uh—living-slash-existing space,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “Teddy thinks it belongs to him.”

Teddy immediately hops onto the couch, circles twice, and settles like you’ve just proven his point. Alexia grins.

You lead her into the kitchen, flicking on the under-counter light. “I don’t cook much, but the kettle works. Coffee pods are in here.” You tap a cupboard. “Mugs — there.”

She opens it, scans the shelves. “All mismatched.”

You shrug. “I collect them. Kind of.”

“I like it,” she says, softly. “It feels like someone lives here.”

You duck your head, smiling.

You show her the bathroom next — small, clean, stocked with too many hair ties and one towel you warn her not to use because it’s definitely Teddy’s now.

And then the hallway. Two doors.

“That one’s mine,” you say, thumb over your shoulder. “The other’s yours while you’re here.”

She doesn’t hesitate. Just peeks inside. A double bed, made neatly. Fresh towels folded at the foot.

She steps inside. Smiles softly looking around more.

You clear your throat. “I didn’t want it to feel weird.”

“It doesn’t,” she says. “It feels like you thought about it.”

“I did,” you admit.

It slips out quieter than you mean it to, but you don’t take it back.

Alexia meets your eyes. “Thank you. For having me.”

You nod toward the room. “Make yourself at home, yeah? My place is your place.”

She steps a little closer. Not much. Just enough that you feel her presence like a hum. “I already feel at home,” she says.

And the way she says it. It makes your chest ache. In the best way. You raise your eyes when they moved away from hers, "I'll um, leave you to unpack" you take a step back, "Teddy" you call, he appears around the foot of the bed, "Come" you give Alexia one final look and you walk back down the hallway.

She smiled opening her bag as she heard you chatting away to Teddy about getting him some treats, asking for various tricks from him.

⚽️

You tried to cook. You really did. But somewhere between boiling the pasta and burning the garlic, you gave up and ordered takeaway. Alexia didn’t mind. In fact, she looked almost relieved.

Now you’re both curled up on the couch, watching a show on a streaming app neither of you are paying attention to, warm plates in your laps and the soft, flickering glow of your fairy lights stretching across the ceiling.

She’s in one of your hoodies now. You hadn’t meant to offer it — just handed it over without thinking when she mentioned how cold planes make her feel.

It swallows her in all the right ways.

Teddy’s curled at your feet. Loyal again. For now.

“Okay,” she says mid-bite, glancing at you. “I need to know something.”

You look over, wiping your fingers on a napkin. “What?”

She gestures with her fork. “Do you actually like this pasta place, or is it just close?”

You fake a gasp. “You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that,” she says, trying to hide her smile. “I just—your face when you handed it to me said, ‘This is the best I’ve got, but I know it’s not the best in the world.’”

You laugh. “Alright, yeah. It’s proximity-based love.”

She hums thoughtfully. “Respect.”

The TV plays something forgettable in the background — neither of you are really watching it. The kind of background noise that just fills in the edges of something far more focused. Like the way she’s sitting. One leg folded beneath her, turned just slightly toward you. Or the way you’re watching her mouth more than listening to her words.

She puts her plate down on the coffee table, wipes her hands, then leans back. “You were nervous,” she says suddenly.

You blink. “When?”

“Earlier. At the airport. In the car.”

You roll your eyes. “Was it that obvious?”

She smiles, soft and real. “A little.”

You look down at your plate, then back at her. “I just… didn’t want it to feel weird.”

Alexia tilts her head slightly. “It doesn’t. You make it easy.”

That catches you off guard. You blink once, then set your plate down too. The silence stretches. But it’s not awkward. It’s warm. “I’m glad you came,” you say.

She leans her head back against the couch, eyes on you now in that slow, deliberate way she does everything. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else,” she says.

Alexia is fiddling with the sleeve of your hoodie — pulling at the hem with her thumb like she doesn’t realise she’s doing it. She’s not really looking at you. Not often. Just quick glances. Then back down. Then away.

You’re talking about random things. Easy things. Football. Training. Travel. Things you are confident you have in common.

She tells you about a weird airport coffee she had in Zurich. You tell her about the time Teddy accidentally got locked in your bathroom for 20 minutes and emerged looking personally betrayed.

And every now and then, there’s a pause that lasts a little longer than it should. But neither of you fill it. You just let it be. Eventually, you nudge your leg gently against hers. “You’re quiet.”

Alexia shifts. “Am I?”

You smile. “A little. For someone who just flew here to hang out with me.”

She huffs a quiet laugh. It’s barely there. “I’m just…” She trails off. Shrugs. “I’m not good at this part.”

You tilt your head. “What part?”

She stares at the coffee table like it’s got answers. “The talking part.” You wait. She finally looks at you — really looks. “I know how to show up to a match,” she says, voice low. “How to lead. How to win. That makes sense to me. But this?” She gestures between you. “This is…” She doesn’t finish.

You finish it for her. “New.”

She nods. And for a second, you think maybe she’s going to stand up, shift away, hide behind something safe. But she doesn’t. She just sits there. Awkward. Present. Willing.

You offer a small, understanding smile. “We don’t have to figure it all out tonight.”

She exhales, a little lighter now. “Good. Because I didn’t bring a tactics board.”

You both laugh. Softly. Easily. She doesn’t say anything else for a while — just leans back again, arms crossed over her chest now, head tilted slightly in your direction.

Eventually, she mumbles, almost like it’s for herself, “I’m glad I came too.” You nudge her foot with yours, with a gentle smile.

Alexia’s sitting sideways on the couch, one leg tucked under her, the other stretched out slightly, your hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up her forearms. You’re close, but not quite touching.

The conversation’s slowed to a hum — soft music talk, playlists, half-confessions about guilty pleasure songs. She mentions a Catalan band you’ve never heard of, and while she’s scrolling through her phone to find a song, your eyes drift downward.

And then you see it. A couple of faint lines on her knee. Pale, clean, but unmistakable. The scar. You pause. Not out of shock — you knew. You remember the coverage, the months out, the comeback.

But seeing it? That’s different. It’s not just a story now. It’s her. She notices your eyes drop. And for the first time all night, she goes still.

“Yeah,” she says softly, not quite looking at you. “That’s… that.”

You meet her eyes again. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hide. But there’s something guarded in her voice. Like she’s used to people staring at it, asking about it, expecting something from it. You don’t ask. You just nod once, gentle. “Looks like strength,” you say, matter-of-fact.

Alexia’s brow furrows, unsure if you’re serious. But you are. She shifts slightly — not closer, but more open somehow. Her hand moves instinctively toward her knee, fingers grazing the scar once, like she’s reminding herself it’s still there.

“Sometimes it feels like I left a part of myself in there,” she murmurs. “The version of me from before.”

You let that hang. Then, quietly, “The version of you now scored against me. Twice.”

She huffs a breath. “Only one actually went in.”

“Still counts.”

She glances at you — and her smile is tired, genuine, laced with something like gratitude. Not for the words. For the way you didn’t try to fix it. Just saw it. And stayed.

The playlist she queued has faded into a quiet acoustic hum — soft, wordless, like it knows it shouldn’t interrupt. The light in the room has gone warm and low, one lamp casting golden arcs over her face as she leans back into the couch, knee still bent, hand still ghosting near the scar.

You don’t speak. You wait. And eventually — slowly — she does.

“I didn’t think I’d come back,” she says, voice low, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it’s easier not to look at you. “Not really.”

You blink, still, letting her keep control of it.

“Everyone kept saying I would. That I’d be fine. That I was strong, that I’d be back in a year. But inside…” She swallows. “I didn’t feel strong. I didn’t even feel whole. I felt… like I’d been cut out of myself.”

You shift just slightly. Not closer — not yet. But enough to let her know, I’m here. She breathes, slow.

“I’d watch games and feel like I didn’t belong anymore. Like I’d already been replaced. And I didn’t want anyone to know how scared I was because… I’m not supposed to be scared. I’m her, you know?” She finally looks at you now. “La Reina” You meet her eyes, steady. She adds, barely audible, “But I felt like glass.”

The words hang in the room — fragile, but not broken. You nod once. Then say the only thing you really believe in this moment. “I think you’re better now.”

Her brow pulls, confused. “What?”

You lean back, resting your head on the couch, looking up like she did. “You’re smarter. Sharper. Your passes don’t just thread — they cut. You’ve got control most people don’t even understand. And there’s a weight to the way you move now, like you know exactly what it costs to step back onto the pitch.”

You turn your head to her again.

“I’ve watched you before. Really watched you. You were always brilliant. But now?” You shrug. “You’re something else.”

Alexia stares at you, mouth parted slightly — like no one’s ever said it that way. Not like that. Not to her. She doesn’t say thank you. She just shifts — this time closer. Not dramatic. Just enough. Her shoulder brushes yours. Her knee bumps your thigh. And she lets out a breath that sounds a little like relief. “Thank you,” she murmurs eventually, eyes back on the scar. And then, softer: “I’ve never said that stuff out loud.”

You nod. “I know.” The quiet returns — not heavy this time. Comfortable. Like something sacred just happened, and you both know it.

She’s close now. Arm resting lightly against yours. Your hoodie sleeves bunching at her wrists. The scar still visible — but no longer raw. You glance down at her, the way her gaze has softened since she spoke, how her edges feel less guarded, like your living room gave her permission she didn’t even know she needed.

You swallow once. Think. Then speak. “You know… when I moved to Germany, people said it was career suicide.”

Alexia turns her head slightly, brows faintly drawn. Listening now. Not out of politeness. Intention. You stare ahead.

“Agents stopped calling. Interviews dried up. One coach — someone I used to really trust — told me I’d disappear. That I’d ‘fade out quietly.’” You huff a laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “I hadn’t even unpacked yet.”

Alexia is silent. Not interrupting. Just there.

“I’d scroll through social media and see all the squad updates, the camps, the conversations I wasn’t in anymore. And I thought… maybe they’re right. Maybe I peaked.”

You pause. Swallow.

“I started believing it. Like I was a mistake that was just waiting to happen.”

Alexia shifts slightly, her arm pressing into yours, grounding you.

“But then,” you continue, voice quieter now, “I played. I worked. And I kept showing up. And slowly… something changed. Not in them. In me.”

Alexia tilts her head. You glance at her.

“I stopped playing to prove people wrong,” you say. “And I started playing like they didn’t get a say.”

There’s a pause. And then—so soft you almost miss it—she says, “I noticed.”

You look at her. She’s watching you now — full on. Not blinking. Not shrinking. And when she speaks again, it’s steady.

“You didn’t disappear. You became better.”

You smile, but there’s a knot in your throat. Because you know she means it. And you never expected to hear it from her. Alexia leans her head back against the couch, her body still relaxed but her voice dipped low again.

“I know what that doubt feels like,” she says. “And I know how heavy it is to prove yourself to people who already made up their minds.”

You nod. “It’s exhausting.”

She murmurs, “And lonely.”

The room goes quiet again. But this time? Not lonely. Just two people sitting in a space neither of you were sure existed — honest, open, real. No spotlight. No pressure. Just you and her. And the ache you’ve both come back from.

⚽️

It’s late.

So late the playlist stopped a while ago. So late the city outside your windows feels like it’s on mute. You both stretch at almost the same time — that lazy, reluctant movement that means okay, maybe we should sleep but neither of you want to break the quiet just yet.

You stand first. Alexia follows. She’s still in your hoodie, tugging it down slightly, bare feet padding across the floor as you walk her to the guest room — side by side in a hush that feels warmer than anything words could’ve done.

You pause at the door.

She turns to face you, one hand on the doorframe. Her hair’s a little messy now, eyes slightly glassy with exhaustion. Her voice, when it comes, is soft and almost shy.

“Thanks for tonight.”

You smile, slow. “Thanks for coming.”

She nods, then looks down like she might say something else. But she doesn’t. You step back slightly, hands in your hoodie pockets, eyes flicking to hers.

“Goodnight, Alexia.”

She looks up at that. And for a second — just one second — the look on her face says everything else she didn’t say. Then she nods, once. Barely a smile. But it reaches her eyes. “Goodnight.”

She slips into the room. You don’t linger. Just turn toward your own — quiet footsteps down the short hall. You push the door open and Teddy. Right there, already curled up in the middle of your bed. One eye open, tail thumping lazily against the duvet like, about time.

You smile, rubbing the back of your neck as you sit on the edge of the bed. Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You pick it up.

Alexia: Sleep well. You talk less than I thought you would. I liked it.

You stare at the message for a second, then type back:

You: You talk more than I thought you would. I liked it too.

Teddy sighs dramatically. You laugh under your breath. Then switch off the light. And for the first time in a long time, you fall asleep not needing to prove anything. Because she’s here. And you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

⚽️

You wake to the smell of coffee. And the distinct sound of Teddy betraying you. You roll out of bed, hair a mess, hoodie tugged low over your hands, padding barefoot into the kitchen where—There she is.

Alexia.

Still in your hoodie. One sock on, one foot bare. Mug in hand, eyes still puffy with sleep, standing at your counter while Teddy leans against her legs like he’s never loved anyone else.

She glances up when you walk in, and her smile is soft. Unbrushed. Unfiltered. Real.

“Morning,” she says, voice husky.

You squint. “How’d you find the biscuits?”

She holds up the mug in salute. “I’m elite. And you left a post-it that said ‘left cupboard, top shelf, if teddy won't leave you alone'.”

You grin. “I knew past-me had potential.”

She turns back to the counter, pouring more water into the kettle, while Teddy attempts to wedge himself between her and the cabinets, tail sweeping the floor like a metronome.

“You realise he’s using you,” you say, grabbing a clean mug.

“He can use me all he wants,” she says, reaching down to scratch his ears. “He’s warm.”

You watch her — the way her fingers slide under Teddy’s collar, the way her mouth twitches when he tries to climb into her actual lap. It’s not a moment. Not a capital-letter Event. But something in your chest aches anyway.

Because she looks right here.

You grab the eggs, start cracking them into the pan. She pulls down two plates without being asked. Neither of you talks much. Just a few sleepy comments, heads bumping once as you both reach for the cutlery drawer.

When you sit across from her at the little kitchen table — plates steaming, dog underfoot — she catches your eye as you tuck your leg up under you. She doesn’t look away. Not for a while.

You hold it. You hold her. And the smile she gives you. It says I see this. I feel it. I’m here.

After breakfast, you throw a hoodie over your tee, pull on your trainers, and rattle Teddy’s lead. He loses his mind, of course — spinning, barking, pawing at the door like it personally wronged him.

“You wanna come?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder at Alexia.

She shrugs. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

She throws on a coat of yours on hook, slips into her trainers, and follows you out the door — hair tied up, sleeves rolled down, sunglasses perched on her head like she forgot the sun lives here too despite the cold.

You walk through quiet neighbourhood streets, Teddy darting side to side, nose in every hedge. You and her? Side by side. Not touching. Not saying much. But every now and then, you catch her watching you. And when you glance back— She doesn’t look away.

You loop around the quiet end of the park, the noise of the street fading behind you, and find your bench — tucked under a tree just starting to bloom, a little weathered, sun-warmed. Teddy bounds ahead, lead dropped loose in your hand, tail sweeping in wide arcs like a painter’s brush.

Alexia sits first, arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying not to take up space but still wants to stay close. You drop beside her, leg stretched long, hands resting over your thighs.

For a while, you both just sit. Watching Teddy. Letting the quiet settle.

Then Alexia speaks, voice dry. “You really weren’t kidding about him being enthusiastic.”

You glance at her. She’s staring at Teddy, who’s currently rolling in something deeply questionable on the grass. You sigh.

“Yeah but he’s loyal.. until someone has better snacks anyway.”

She snorts. “I didn’t even have snacks.”

“Exactly,” you say, nudging her foot with yours. “He’s just shallow.”

She smirks, then leans back a little, adjusting the sleeves of your coat again. “He’s got taste, though. He likes me.”

You raise a brow. “Are you calling yourself a snack?”

“I’m not denying it.”

You laugh — sharp, sudden, surprised. And it makes her smile wider “You’ve got this whole mysterious captain thing,” you say, squinting at her. “But secretly, you’re kind of cocky.”

She tilts her head, smug. “Only when I’m right.” You roll your eyes, but your grin’s too soft to mean it. There’s a pause. Then, more gently “I like this,” she says, not looking at you now — just forward, at the dog, at the path.

You shift, the warmth of her words settling low in your ribs. “This?” you echo.

She nods. “The quiet. You. Teddy. This bench.” She pauses, then smirks again. “Even your coat.”

You laugh, quieter this time. “You make it look better than I do.”

“I know.” She meets your eyes then. And the silence that follows doesn't last long until you're leaning into each other laughing about it.

You clear your throat, picking at a thread on your sleeve, when the little old lady that you see everyday was eyeing you with annoyance, "So, um… are you always like this when you’re off the pitch?”

Alexia blinks. “Like what?”

You shrug. “A bit smug. Surprisingly funny. Secretly soft.”

She narrows her eyes, mock offended. “Secretly?”

You smirk. “I mean, the brand is very serious captain with cheekbones that could cut glass.”

Alexia hums. “Cheekbones and a scar. Very dramatic.”

“Oh, absolutely. You’re one trench coat away from being a Bond villain.” That gets a real laugh — full-bodied and sudden. She leans her head back against the bench, still smiling.

Then, “You make this easy,” she says, softer now. “Being here.”

You glance at her. And for a second, it’s all there again — the pitch, the free kick, the weight of it all.

But here, it’s light. You bump your knee gently against hers. “I’m glad you came, Alexia.” She doesn’t look away this time.

“I am too.”

You stretch your legs out in front of you, glancing sideways at her — Alexia, sitting there so casually now, one foot tucked beneath her, face tilted toward the sun like she’s been here a dozen times instead of just once.

You reach down to pat Teddy’s back as he wanders close.

Then glance at her.

“Do you like clichés?”

She lifts a brow. “What kind of question is that?”

You shrug, casual. “Like, romantic comedies. Grand gestures. Saying the same dumb things everyone else does. Standing on famous streets pretending you’re having an authentic experience.”

Alexia leans back, lips twitching. “You’re stalling.”

You grin. “Maybe.”

She squints at you now, playful. “Okay. Ask me properly.”

You turn toward her fully, arms folded over your chest like you’re about to deliver something serious.

“Would you like to do all the ridiculously cliché tourist things in Munich with me today?”

Alexia’s head tips slightly to the side, considering.

You keep going.

“I mean the whole deal — the Marienplatz selfie. Pretending to care about the Glockenspiel. Giant pretzels. A walk through the Englischer Garten where I’ll tell you lies about German history I definitely make up.”

Her smile creeps in slowly — then fully.

“I want lederhosen photos.”

You gasp, dramatically. “That’s advanced cliché.”

“I’m committed.”

You laugh. “God help us.”

She leans in slightly. “Only if you wear them too.”

You groan. “I’ve made a mistake.”

“You offered.”

You hold her gaze for a second, heart kicking a little louder now beneath all the lightness.

And she’s still smiling.

But there’s something genuine behind it.

Like maybe, for the first time in a long time, she’s just saying yes to a day that doesn’t come with pressure, or cameras, or expectations.

Just you.

She nudges your knee with hers. “So? We going or what?”

You whistle for Teddy. “Marienplatz, prepare yourself.”

⚽️

You start with Marienplatz. Because of course you do.

The crowds are already gathering under the watchful clock of the Neues Rathaus, phones out and necks craning toward the tower. You know the Glockenspiel starts at eleven. You’ve seen it a dozen times. It’s slow. It’s slightly underwhelming. But you still pretend like it’s sacred.

“People clap after this?” Alexia murmurs beside you, watching a small bronze knight rotate in a slow, juddering circle.

“Every time,” you whisper back. “It’s powerful.”

She gives you the driest look you’ve ever seen and it almost takes you out.

You snap a selfie right there — her unimpressed expression next to your exaggerated awe. It’s perfect. You don't even check it before saving.

From there it’s Viktualienmarkt — where you insist on finding the most absurdly oversized pretzel possible. Alexia watches you barter with a vendor and somehow ends up paying instead. She splits it with you anyway. You walk through the stalls like locals, even though you're both definitely not.

You buy her a little pin shaped like a beer stein. You stick it to her jacket pocket. “Souvenir,” she says.

You end up in the Englischer Garten by early afternoon, the kind of place where the trees stretch wide and people picnic like they’ve got nowhere else to be. Teddy loses his mind over a pigeon and nearly pulls Alexia into a fountain.

You don’t let that one go quietly. “Two time Ballon D'or, and you still couldn’t hold the line.”

“It was a very fast pigeon.”

You laugh until you’re leaning against her, shoulder to shoulder, catching your breath while Teddy runs victory laps around you both.

At the beer garden, you sit under the shade of chestnut trees, and Alexia orders something she can’t pronounce while you pretend to translate and definitely make it worse.

She tries white sausage and doesn’t hide her reaction.

You raise a brow. “Too real?”

“I can mark out midfielders. I can’t defend this texture.”

You toast anyway.

Later, you wander without purpose — through side streets with painted shutters and ivy-streaked balconies, past musicians playing under archways and little kids holding balloon strings tight to their wrists. Alexia keeps her sunglasses low on her nose, watching it all.

“I get why you like it here,” she says.

You glance over. “Yeah?”

She nods, then adds softly, “You fit here.”

It sticks.

You end up near the river as golden hour starts to take the edge off the buildings. There’s a stone ledge overlooking the water. You sit. She leans back on her hands, face turned to the sky.

“Okay,” she says finally. “This was... fun.”

You grin. “You sound surprised.”

“I am. I didn’t think cliché could feel like this.”

“Like what?”

She glances at you. Her expression doesn’t change much — but her voice does. “Easy.”

You don’t say anything for a second. Just smile. Then bump her knee gently with yours. “Think we earned ice cream?”

She tilts her head. “Is that part of the cliché package?”

“Obviously.”

You walk back into the city with cones in hand, Teddy leading the way again, tail wagging like a metronome keeping time with your steps.

And somewhere along that walk — maybe crossing a street, or brushing hands as you trade bites of each other’s flavours — something soft settles between you.

Not tension. Not expectation. Just understanding.

⚽️

You swing by the flat first — the front door barely closed before Teddy flops dramatically across the hallway floor like he’s survived something immense.

Alexia kneels down beside him, ruffles behind his ears, and says, “You’ll be alright without us.”

He sighs like he won’t.

You both change quickly — nothing fancy, just different hoodies, fresh faces, the kind of casual that looks better on her than it has any right to.

The bar you pick is a local one — tucked into a side street off the main square, part wine bar, part café, part 'we might have regulars but we won’t pretend to know your name unless you want us to.'

You take the corner table. The lights are soft and golden, the walls cluttered with mismatched frames and shelves of wine bottles. You order a bottle of white you’ve had before — one you hope she’ll like — and a snack board that arrives faster than expected: warm bread, cheese, olives, salted almonds.

She looks around, impressed. “You bring all your international friends here?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Only the ones who knock me out the champions league.”

“Fair,” she says, hiding a smile behind her glass.

You’ve barely had a sip before you reach into your bag and pull out a battered Uno deck.

Alexia blinks. “You brought cards?”

“They have them as you walk in. I’m competitive,” you say, shrugging. “And brave.”

She laughs once, short and sharp. “You’re going to regret this.”

“I’ve already accepted that.” You deal. And it begins.

It starts civil. Friendly. Smirks over skips. Light jabs when she stacks draw twos. You both pick at the snack board between plays, hands brushing occasionally as you reach for the same olive.

But by the second game, It’s personal.

She slams down a reverse like it’s a tactical sub in a final. You pull a draw four from your hoodie pocket like a weapon of war. She narrows her eyes. You lift your brows, mock-innocent.

It’s deadly serious. It’s ridiculous. And you’re both grinning like you haven’t stopped since this morning.

The bar starts to fill in slowly, but your little corner stays quiet — like a bubble you haven’t noticed growing around you. Just you, her, your wine glasses catching the light, and a stack of discarded cards that tells a very messy, very entertaining story.

Somewhere between games, you pause — mid-sip, watching her draw her hand.

“Are you always like this?” you ask. “Lowkey evil under all that calm?”

She looks up, unbothered. “Only when provoked.”

You laugh, leaning back. “Remind me not to cross you again.”

She smirks, eyes flicking up at you over her cards. “You already did,” she says, laying down a wild card.

The round ends. She wins.

You groan dramatically and throw your cards onto the table. She raises her hands in mock celebration, then quietly steals another piece of cheese from your side of the board.

“You know,” she says casually, chewing, “This might be the most fun I’ve had in a long time.”

You blink. She doesn’t look up right away — just flips the deck over and starts reshuffling it absentmindedly.

But you’re watching her. And there’s no doubt in your mind. She means it.

⚽️

The walk home from the bar is slow. No rush. No real conversation either. Just a lot of little smiles. Shoulders brushing sometimes. The city quieter now — streetlights pooling in soft circles at your feet.

When you reach your building, you both slip inside quietly, Teddy greeting you at the door with a sleepy grumble and a thump of his tail.

You toe off your shoes, hang your jacket, glance over at her — and then, impulsively:

“Wanna see something stupid?”

Alexia blinks. “Not usually the way someone convinces me to follow them, but… sure.”

You grin.

You lead her through the flat — past the living room, into your bedroom. Teddy hops onto the bed like he’s reclaiming his kingdom. You move to the window — the one you always leave cracked just a little — and unlatch it the rest of the way.

You glance back at her.

She’s standing with her arms folded, watching you like she’s bracing for something truly ridiculous.

You duck out first — onto the sloped bit of roofing just beyond the window, socks scraping softly against the tiles. You crouch low, then stand carefully, balancing with practiced ease.

You turn and beckon. Alexia just stares. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

She steps closer, looks out.

The drop’s not that bad. 22 feet, maybe. But the tiles are slick with dew, and there’s no railing, no barrier, no sensible adult supervision.

“This is wildly unsafe,” she mutters.

You just smile. “Come on. I’m not gonna let you fall.”

She glares at you, muttering something in Catalan that sounds very judgmental. But you can see it — the twitch at the corner of her mouth. She’s not really mad.

She’s just concerned. Which somehow only makes it better.

After a few more seconds of muttering under her breath, she sighs dramatically, steps up onto the ledge, and eases herself through the window with surprising grace — a little unsteady at first, reaching for your hand instinctively.

You catch it. Steady her. “See?” you say, squeezing her fingers lightly. “Easy.”

“Still stupid,” she mutters.

But she doesn’t pull away. You lead her a few steps up — careful, slow — until you both settle onto the slightly flatter part of the roof, side by side, legs pulled up to your chest..

She finally looks up the whole city stretches out in front of her.

The rooftops curve into the skyline, lights twinkling like fallen stars. The dark river cuts a lazy path through the buildings. A few stray sirens whine in the distance, but mostly it’s just quiet. Wide and open and impossibly still.

Alexia exhales — a soft, almost disbelieving sound. The corners of her mouth lift. And whatever worry she had before melts off her shoulders.

“Okay,” she says, voice lighter now. “Maybe it’s worth the risk.”

You bump your knee against hers. “Told you.”

You sit like that for a long time — no rush, no plan. Just the two of you, the city breathing around you, your hands close enough to touch if you dared.

Every now and then, you glance over and catch her watching the lights, the horizon, the night itself like she’s letting herself believe she could belong to something this simple.

The climb back in through the window is quieter than the climb out.

Alexia moves slower now, heavy with the kind of tired that comes after a day full of laughter and nowhere to be but here. She drops softly into your bedroom, feet padding across the floor, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands again.

You follow behind, closing the window gently behind you.

Teddy’s already curled up on the bed, barely lifting his head to acknowledge your return. He gives Alexia one approving thump of the tail. You’re not sure if it’s for coming back safely or for still being here.

You rub at the back of your neck, eyes a little hazy, wine long gone.

Alexia stands in the doorway to the guest room now, hand on the frame. Her expression is soft — not sleepy exactly, just settled.

She looks at you. And it hits again — this moment. How simple it is. How much it means. You lean against the wall across from her, arms crossed loosely, smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

“I’ll make sure you don’t miss your flight in the morning,” you say.

She smirks faintly. “You better.”

“I’ll set three alarms.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Four.”

You laugh, quiet and tired. “Pushy.”

She shrugs. “Punctual.”

The pause that follows isn’t awkward. It’s full. Of all the things neither of you are saying right now. But it’s okay. You already said so much.

She shifts slightly, head tilting. “Today was…”

You nod. “Yeah.”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t have to.

You step forward, and without thinking, you pull her into a light hug — not long, not heavy, but enough. Enough to feel the warmth of her hoodie, the steady beat of her breath, the soft slide of her hand as it rests briefly on the back of your head.

You pull back just a little. She’s still close. “Goodnight, Alexia.”

Her eyes flicker — tired and unreadable, but warmer now “Goodnight.”

She steps into the guest room and closes the door behind her with a gentle click. You exhale.

Teddy stretches across your bed with a groan like he just ran the city.

You flick off the hallway light, pad back into your room, and crawl beneath the covers.

The room is dark now. But your chest is full. And your alarms are definitely set. Tomorrow she leaves.

⚽️

The alarms buzz you awake just after six.

Teddy barely lifts his head as you stumble into the kitchen, yawning, the world outside still caught between night and day.

Alexia’s already up. You find her sitting on the edge of the couch, tying her sneakers — hair messy, hoodie slung loose over her frame, backpack by her feet.

She looks up when you walk in, and there’s a small, tired smile waiting for you. “Morning,” she says, voice thick with sleep.

You hum a reply, rubbing your eyes. Neither of you rush.

You load Teddy into the backseat. He whines a little, sensing something is different. The drive to the airport is quiet — warm coffee cups in the holders, the radio playing something soft neither of you bother to change.

She leans her forehead against the window once, watching the fields blur into concrete. When you pull up to Departures, you leave the car idling, glancing over at her.

She’s already unbuckling her seatbelt, but neither of you move right away.

The city is waking up outside. You’re wide awake here. Alexia shifts in her seat to face you. “This was…” She trails off, the words sticking again.

You smile, small. “Yeah. It was.”

She fiddles with the ring on her finger.

You grip the steering wheel lightly. “You’ll make your flight.”

She nods. “Thanks for not letting me oversleep.”

You bump your shoulder against hers gently. “Thanks for making it hard to say goodbye.”

That gets a real smile — tired, fond, a little crooked. She opens the door, stepping out into the sharp morning air. You get out too.

You meet her around the back of the car — not rushed, not dramatic. Just standing there, with a sea of taxis and early travelers moving around you like another current you’re not ready to step into yet.

She shoulders her bag. You jam your hands into your hoodie pockets.

Then — simply — she steps closer. You think she might hug you. You think you might need her to.

But instead, she reaches up — slow, careful — and hooks one finger lightly around your hoodie drawstring. Tugs it once. Soft. Playful.

“Text me when you get home,” you say, even though you’re already sure she will.

Alexia nods. “You too.”

And then — because she knows when to let things stay perfect — she turns and walks toward the entrance. You watch her weave through the doors. She doesn’t look back. Not until she’s just inside, bag slung over one shoulder, ticket in hand. Then she does. Just once.

She finds you through the glass — through the crowd and the noise and the press of the world. She smiles. Small. Sure. Enough.

You lift a hand. She does too. Then she’s gone, swallowed into the current of the airport.

You stand there a moment longer, breath fogging in the chill, Teddy’s nose nudging your hand.

You pat his head. Then you climb back into the car. And drive home, to grab a few more hours of sleep before training.

[arabella-syntax]

Rewrite the ending

The café is mostly empty, the way you like it.

Rain taps softly against the windows, and the hum of the espresso machine murmurs in the background. You sit by the window, laptop open, fingers idle above the keys. The cursor blinks patiently, like it knows you’re not ready to type.

Your coffee is cooling beside you. You don’t drink it yet. You like to sit in the quiet first—just exist for a few moments before the noise of the world catches up.

Then the door opens behind you.

A small sound—barely a thing. But something shifts.

Not in the café. In you.

You glance up without thinking.

A woman steps inside. Soaked from the rain, dark coat clinging to her arms, shoulders tense like she’s preparing for a fight or fleeing from one. You watch her move toward the counter, pull her hood back, brush wet strands of hair from her face.

She’s… striking. Not in the model-on-a-runway way. In the way old cities are beautiful—weathered, purposeful, like they’ve survived something.

And then she turns slightly.

Her eyes meet yours.

Just for a moment.

A split-second. A heartbeat.

You don’t know her. You’re sure of that. You’ve never seen her before.

And yet—

You can’t breathe.

Your throat tightens unexpectedly, and your stomach flips like you’ve been caught in a lie you didn’t know you told.

She looks away just as quickly. Back to ordering her coffee. Like nothing happened. Like you don’t exist.

But you do.

You do, and now your skin feels wrong. Like something inside you has been stirred.

You drop your gaze. Pretend to work. Your hands feel too warm, your thoughts too loud.

What the hell was that?

Maybe you’re just tired. Maybe your brain’s playing tricks on you.

Still… you feel it. That odd pressure. That invisible thread pulled taut between two people who shouldn’t matter to each other.

You look at her again, discreetly.

She’s sitting now, two tables over. One leg crossed over the other. Coffee untouched. Head slightly bowed like she’s staring at the grain in the wood.

She doesn’t look at you again.

But something about her presence hums against your ribs like the echo of a song you used to know.

You shake it off.

It’s just a stranger. Just a weird moment. Just the rain, and the coffee, and your imagination.

Still, for the rest of the day, her face won’t leave your mind.

And you can’t explain why.

She almost didn’t walk in.

The rain was cold, relentless, slicing sideways through the city like it had a purpose. Her coat was soaked through, her fingers stiff, and her thoughts louder than they had been in weeks. She wasn’t looking for warmth—only stillness. A place to stop remembering.

But fate was cruel like that.

She saw you before the door even closed behind her.

Sitting by the window. Half-lit by gray morning light. One hand curled around a coffee cup, the other resting lazily near her laptop. Hair tucked behind one ear. A soft crease between your brows, like you were thinking too hard about something that didn’t matter.

You looked… peaceful.

Untouched.

Free.

Alexia’s heart slammed into her ribs with violent familiarity.

It was you.

Not a maybe. Not a resemblance. Not wishful thinking playing tricks on her in the haze of memory and grief.

It was you.

And you didn’t remember.

Alexia froze for a second too long. Her hands wouldn’t stop trembling. She blinked hard, once, as if that might change something.

It didn’t.

The first time she saw you , you were bathed in the golden light of a setting sun, your skin smudged with ash and sandalwood, your tunic stained from grinding herbs and crushed pomegranate.

You were a healer in a crumbling empire. Half-legend, half-danger, whispered about like a holy woman and hunted like a witch.

Alexia was a soldier then, barely more than a girl, sent to crush rebellions she didn’t believe in. She’d been bleeding when she stumbled into that ruined temple, half-conscious, and you had taken her in.

There had been no words at first. Only warm hands, soft linen, whispered prayers to gods whose names Alexia never learned.

kissed in silence,slow. Touched like the world would burn around them—and it did.

“This love is forbidden,” you’d whispered, forehead to Alexia’s.

“Then let it be,” Alexia had said, already yours.

You were careful. But never careful enough.

When the guards came, they didn’t ask questions.

You were tied to a post at dawn. Ashes scattered before the sun rose.

Alexia had been forced to watch from behind a line of stone-faced soldiers, screaming your name until her throat gave out.

She still heard it sometimes—in her dreams, in the silence, in smoke.

Now, thousands of years later, she was alive again.

Sitting in a café. Laughing at something on your screen. Your soul still the same. Still radiant. Still pulling Alexia in like gravity.

But your eyes were empty of recognition.

Alexia stepped forward. Ordered something she wouldn’t drink. She kept her voice even, but it cracked in the places no one could hear.

She sat two tables away. Close enough to breathe the same air. Far enough to pretend it meant nothing.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t dare to.

Because if she did—

If she let herself go to you , fall into the familiar rhythm of who they’d always been—

You would remember.

And when you remembered… you would die.

That was the pattern. That was the price. Every time their souls collided in love, fate took you away.

Alexia knew the math of it now. Knew what would happen if she gave in.

So she sat still, silent, trembling.

“Do you think we’ll meet again?” You had asked once, on your deathbed in another life.

Your lungs had been failing, and Alexia’s hands had been covered in ink from poems she tried to write for you too late.

“Every time,” Alexia had whispered.

And she had.

But it was always Alexia who remembered. Always Alexia who mourned. Always Alexia who stayed behind.

This time, she promised herself, it would be different.

Even if it killed her. She would not speak your name. She would not ask for a past that could only end in fire.

She would watch you from across the room.

Let you live.

Let you love someone else.

Let you be free of it.

Even if it meant breaking herself all over again.

She tried to stay away.

Tried to drown herself in routine—training, meetings, noise. She buried her phone in her jacket, left her sketchbook under the bed, told herself this was nothing. Just coincidence. Just longing. Just grief.

But she couldn’t stop thinking about the way the light caught in your hair. The way you tilted your head when you were reading. The way your lips parted ever so slightly when you were focused.

She couldn’t stop remembering.

And so she returned.

Once.

Then again.

Then every day.

She came early. Late. At off hours, on purpose, just to see if you would be there. Just to make sure you were still alive.

Sometimes you were. Sometimes you weren’t.

But Alexia always stayed.

Once, she had been a pianist in Vienna.

The year was 1904. Music was everything then—violins, candlelight, aching beauty in every minor key.

Alexia played in hidden halls for women who could never be seen. She remembered you sitting in the third row, always in blue, always with your hands folded over your heart like you were trying to keep it from falling out.

You kissed in the wings of an opera house.

“Your hands were made to build a world,” you’d said.

“Only if I can live in it with you,” Alexia had whispered.

The fire took the theater before the end of the season.

She never found you in the ashes.

She woke up in the middle of the night sometimes, heart racing, hands reaching for someone who wasn’t there.

She stopped sleeping. Stopped eating. Started drawing again.

Endless hands. Smiles. Eyes. A thousand versions of the same woman across time.

You never noticed her. Not really. A glance here, a shift there, but nothing that said recognition. Nothing that said I feel it too.

It was unbearable.

And still, she kept coming.

Once, you were scholars in Alexandria. Books were sacred. Knowledge was dangerous. you hid scrolls under your robes and kissed behind marble pillars. When the fires came, she had tried to protect you. But the smoke had taken her voice before she could scream.

In the café, present-day, Alexia rubbed at her chest like she could quiet the pain there.

You sat two tables over, tucked into a corner, typing with your usual focus. You didn’t know. You couldn’t possibly.

But sometimes—just sometimes—you would pause. Blink. Look up, as if something had brushed your shoulder or whispered your name.

Then you ’d shake it off, sip your coffee, and go back to your screen.

Alexia lived for those moments. Hated herself for them.

Because if she saw youreyes change—if she saw even one flicker of memory—she didn’t know if she could stay silent.

And if she spoke, if she reached across time and said I found you again, then it would begin all over.

The remembering. The loving. The dying.

She gripped her cup harder. It was cold.

She nearly didn’t see you today.

The café was crowded. Too loud. People jostled past, chairs scraped, music buzzed from the speakers overhead. Alexia almost turned around. Almost convinced herself to leave.

Then she saw you —by the window, struggling with a heavy backpack and a broken laptop charger, your expression pinched in quiet frustration.

Alexia hesitated. Her steps slowed. She didn’t plan to stop. Just observe. Just one more glance.

But then—

“Excuse me?”

The voice hit her like lightning.

You were talking to her.

Alexia blinked. Froze. For a second, she thought she’d imagined it.

“Sorry,” you said quickly, with an awkward little laugh. “You just… you look like someone who probably carries a charger.”

Alexia stared at you .

Words refused to come.

“I mean, you don’t have to—just forget I asked. Totally fine.”

But she was already reaching into her bag. Your fingers brushed. Only for a second. But it was enough to unravel something inside her.

“Thanks,” you said, plugging it in and slumping with relief. “You might’ve just saved my entire week.”

Alexia gave a faint smile. Said nothing. Her throat was burning. Her chest too tight.

“Have we met before?” You asked, almost casually.

Alexia’s heart stopped.

“No,” she lied. “I don’t think so.”

You tilted your head slightly. Studied her. “You seem familiar.”

Don’t say it. Don’t remember.

But your eyes were kind. Open. Still unknowing. Still safe.

“Anyway,” you said, “thanks again. I owe you one.”

Alexia nodded once. Then turned and walked out before you could say anything else.

She stood outside in the rain, hand shaking around her keys, and knew—deep in her bones—she was going to lose her resolve.

Again.

Once, she had been a Roman soldier. You , a merchant’s daughter with ink-stained fingers. They had run away together, stolen horses, kissed under stars.

You had died in a storm, arms around Alexia, whispering, “I’ll find you next time.”

And here she was.

Again.

Alexia pressed her back against the stone wall and shut her eyes.

She had stayed away for so long. But now… she’d spoken to her. Touched her. Heard her laugh like it belonged to her again.

She knew what would happen next.

And she couldn’t stop it.

It was just supposed to be a favor.

One quiet moment. A charger handed over, no questions asked. She told herself it didn’t mean anything. That the tether didn’t tighten when their fingers brushed. That her breath didn’t catch when you smiled at her like she was just a person—not a ghost, not a memory, not someone cursed to remember.

But the next day, you smiled again.

And waved.

And Alexia... waved back.

She hated herself for it.

At first, it was nothing more than casual acknowledgements. A nod across the café. A shared glance when the barista accidentally dropped a tray. A quick laugh when the playlist played the same song three days in a row.

Then the space between you started to shrink.

Literally.

You started sitting closer—first out of necessity, then choice. A chair pulled out two tables over. Then one. Then next to her, just once, on a rainy Thursday when the café was packed.

“Mind if I steal this seat?” Alexia shook her head before she could think.

This is how it starts, she told herself.

This is how it always starts.

That day, you talked more.

Not much—safe topics. Coffee, work, music. You joked that the café should hire her at this point. Alexia smiled and made a comment about loyalty. Your eyes met. Something in Alexia’s chest clenched hard.

There it was again—that light. That warmth. The same thing she’d fallen in love with in every version of you. You didn’t know. But Alexia saw it. Felt it. Lived it.

And then—

“Do you mind if I ask your name?”

She paused. A beat too long.

“Alexia.”

You smiled. “That suits you.”

Alexia wanted to ask your name, too—but she already knew it.

She’d known it in every language she’d ever spoken.

Once, you were stargazers in the desert.

Alexia wandered the dunes, searching for purpose. You taught her constellations with ash on her fingers, eyes lit like galaxies.

You spoke in symbols, in firelight and silence. You danced barefoot in sandstorms.

“You’ll find me again,” you said once, pointing to the stars. “Just follow the pattern.”

You died of a fever that night. Alexia screamed at the sky until her voice was gone.

She couldn’t stay away.

She started showing up earlier. Just in case.

Started reading books she couldn’t focus on. Just to look busy.

You didn’t seem to mind. In fact, you started seeking her out.

One morning, you set your drink down beside Alexia’s without asking.

“I figured I owed you a coffee after that charger rescue,” you said.

Alexia stared at the cup. It had her name written on it.

The sound of it in the you’r voice made something inside her shatter quietly.

“Thank you,” she said, barely above a whisper.

You sat in silence. It was comfortable, but not casual.

Your bodies leaned toward each other in that unconscious way gravity works when something ancient and familiar is near.

You glanced at her and said, “You know… it’s weird. You feel like someone I should know.”

Alexia forced a smile. “Maybe you’re just good at recognizing people.”

But her hands trembled. Because deep down, she was starting to hope again. And hope had killed her before.

But she kept showing up.

You didn’t exchange numbers. You never said “let’s meet tomorrow.” But you always found yourselves at the same table, near the same window, at the same strange hour between morning rush and mid-day peace.

Sometimes she brought a book.

Sometimes you brought two croissants just in case.

Sometimes you both forgot why you came.

But you stayed.

She never flirted. Not really.

And yet…

There was something about the way she listened to you. The way she tilted her head like your words mattered. The way her eyes softened when you talked about things that didn’t matter to anyone else—your playlist for rainy days, your weird superstition about odd numbers, the story of how you once got lost in your own apartment building when you first moved in.

She laughed at your jokes. Not a lot—but when she did, it was soft, surprised. Like she hadn’t done it in a while.

And God, you loved that sound.

You didn’t know much about her. She never said. You never asked.

But something about her felt familiar.

Not her face.

Her presence.

Like déjà vu you couldn’t shake.

Like remembering a dream you hadn’t had yet.

You didn’t say that, of course. It sounded insane. But you felt it, in the strange quiet moments between coffee sips and glances held a second too long.

Sometimes, when she looked at you—really looked at you—you could swear she was mourning something.

And once, after a long silence, she said, “You remind me of someone I used to know.”

Your heart had squeezed unexpectedly.

But when you asked who, she only shook her head.

“No one you’d know.”

You didn’t press. You didn’t need to.

Because the truth was: you felt it too.

A pull.

A thread.

Something tugging from underneath your ribs every time she walked in.

You hadn’t kissed. Hadn’t touched. Hadn’t even called her anything but Alexia.

But somehow, it already felt like something dangerous was beginning.

And you didn’t know why… but sometimes, you felt afraid of what might happen if you let it go too far.

Like a storm was coming.

And part of you had walked through it before.

It started with the rain. Because somehow, it always did.

One moment, the sky had been clear—light spilling through the café window, music playing low behind the whir of the espresso machine. The next, the clouds cracked open and drenched the city like someone had pulled a lever. A storm, sudden and wild.

Your head tilted against the glass—laughed. “Great. I left my umbrella at home.”

Alexia looked up from her cup, heart catching in her throat at the sound of that laugh. The sound that haunted her. The sound she remembered from a thousand years and a thousand lifetimes ago.

“You could wait it out,” she said softly. Then, after a pause—trying to sound casual, failing—“Or… we could go somewhere. There's a gallery not far. It's small. Empty. I go there when I need quiet.”

You turned, amused. “Are you asking me on a date?”

Alexia blinked. She hadn’t meant to. Not really.

But her answer was still: “Yes.”

You smiled, that same warm, open smile that always wrecked her. “Then lead the way.”

You walked under a small black umbrella, close—closer than you had any right to be. The sidewalk was slick beneath your feet, rain pouring off rooftops, the city blurring like a dream.

Your arm brushed against Alexia’s again and again. She didn’t move away. Neither of you did.

And Alexia…

She wasn’t thinking anymore.

She was feeling. Remembering things she shouldn’t. Knowing exactly how this would end and doing it anyway.

The gallery was tucked between old buildings, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it sort of place. Inside, it was silent—white walls and golden lighting, art that didn’t shout, just whispered.

You wandered slowly, drawn toward a piece at the end of the room. A painting of stars and fire, brushstrokes wild and luminous, like a galaxy collapsing into itself.

You stared at it, unmoving. “This feels… weirdly familiar,” you said quietly. “Do you ever get that? Like something’s already lived inside you before you even see it?”

Alexia didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

Because all she could see was the curve of your profile, your hair catching the light, your body turned toward something you didn’t even realize you’d once painted, lifetimes ago.

Alexia took a step closer. Then another. The space between them narrowed, full of everything they weren’t saying.

You turned.

Your eyes met.

And it happened.

Alexia leaned in and kissed you .

It was soft—so soft it almost didn’t feel real.

But you didn’t pull away.

You moved into it like your soul recognized the shape of the moment. Like your mouth had been waiting for Alexia’s. Like this had already happened, and you were just remembering how it went.

One hand, gentle against Alexia’s cheek.

Alexia’s fingers brushing your waist.

Rain tapping against the windows like a heartbeat just outside.

You stayed like that for longer than you should have. Neither of you speaking. Your foreheads resting together, breath warming the space between you .

Then you whispered, “That felt like… more than it should’ve.”

Alexia’s voice was barely audible. “Because it is.”

You didn’t go back to the café. Instead, you found a tiny bistro tucked beneath an awning. The storm had settled into a steady, romantic drizzle, the kind that made the world feel a little quieter.

You sat outside. Ordered pasta and shared a bottle of red wine. The candle between you flickered, and you told stories—of childhood mishaps, weird dreams, songs that got stuck in your head and never left.

Alexia laughed. Genuinely. And more than once.

Each time, you looked almost surprised. Like you didn’t expect to be the one to cause it.

And Alexia just kept falling.

Every word. Every glance. Every time you said her name like it wasn’t heavy with history.

She was falling again, just like always.

And she didn’t know how to stop.

Later, when you reached your door, the moment stretched again. Time slowing between you like it wanted you to stay in it.

You looked up at her, eyes soft. “Come in?”

Alexia’s heart clenched.

She wanted to. God, she wanted to. But if she crossed that line, she wasn’t sure she could ever pull back.

Her fingers grazed the reader’s hand.

“I… I can’t. Not yet.”

A flicker of confusion in the your expression. But you didn’t push.

“Okay,” you said softly. “Tomorrow?”

Alexia hesitated.

And then, because she was already breaking all her rules “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

But when the door closed and she was alone on the other side… she didn’t move.

Because she knew.

The moment she kissed you, the thread knotted again.

And this time, she didn’t think she’d survive cutting it.

It started slow—like a question neither of you dared ask aloud.

You kissed in the quiet of her apartment, mouths brushing with a hesitance that made it feel sacred. Not rushed. Not hungry. Just… intentional. Like every movement asked, Are you sure? Is this okay? Can I stay?

Clothes slipped away one by one, soft laughs in between. Gentle touches replaced words. And when Alexia finally ran her fingers along your side—when you sighed and leaned in without fear—it felt less like discovery and more like remembering.

Your bodies fit like something ancient. Like this was a rhythm you’d danced to before, even if you couldn’t name the music.

Alexia wasn’t thinking about what came next. Not yet.

She was focused only on the way your fingertips traced down her ribs. On the curve of your smile when you looked up. On the way your voice softened to a whisper when you said Alexia’s name like it meant something more than just letters.

The bed creaked beneath you . Sheets tangled around your legs. Time stopped caring about hours. Outside, the city exhaled.

There was no urgency.

Just touch.

And trust.

Alexia moved carefully, tenderly, like she was handling something fragile—something she’d broken once before and never forgiven herself for.

She kissed every place you guided her to. Held you gently when you arched into her touch. Listened to every quiet sound with reverence, with awe.

And you —God, you were so open. So trusting. You didn’t hold back. Didn’t flinch. You looked at Alexia like you already knew her. Like you had in every life before this and somehow still believed you wouldn’t leave.

There was a moment—when you were chest to chest, breath to breath, hearts pressed like matching puzzle pieces—when Alexia wanted to say it.

Not “I love you.”

Something heavier.

Something like We’ve done this before.

You’ve died in my arms before.

And I swore I wouldn’t let myself touch you again, not like this.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she kissed you. Softly. Slowly.

And you whispered, “You feel like home.”

After, you lay there—skin damp, bodies warm, limbs tangled like you ’d always been meant to be this way.

You curled into Alexia’s side without a second thought. One arm draped over her stomach, your head resting beneath her chin. Your breath was steady. Content.

And Alexia…

She held you .

But her chest ached.

Because even in that perfect quiet, surrounded by warmth and heartbeat and trust, a single truth throbbed behind her ribs

I can't watch her die again.

She should’ve left hours ago.

The room was quiet now, soaked in the hush of the early morning. No cars, no voices, just the hum of the city beyond the window—muffled and distant. The kind of silence that made you feel like you were the last person left in the world.

Alexia lay still beside you , not breathing too deep, not moving at all. As if even a shift would shatter this fragile peace. Her arm was curled protectively around your waist, skin warm and sticky with the softness of afterglow. Her body should’ve felt relaxed—sated, even.

But every part of her was tight. Tensed. Like her heart was a fist clenched around a secret too painful to carry any longer.

You were asleep, lips slightly parted, your cheek nestled against Alexia’s shoulder. You looked so content, so trusting—your body wound gently around Alexia’s like this was where you belonged. Like your soul remembered it too, even if your mind didn’t.

Alexia blinked up at the ceiling. Her eyes burned, though she wasn’t sure from what—exhaustion, tears, or the weight of inevitability. Maybe all three.

This night was never supposed to happen.

She’d been careful. She’d stayed away. She’d played the stranger, the cold one, the quiet regular at the café who smiled just enough but never lingered too long. She’d trained herself not to meet those eyes—those same damn eyes that had haunted every version of her life.

But you had laughed. Smiled. Had called her name like it was a song you’d forgotten the lyrics to.

And Alexia had failed. Again.

She’d lived too many lives.

Watched this soul fade in too many forms.

A battlefield, once. Smoke thick in the air, blood soaking the ground. Her love had worn armor and courage, a sword clutched in her trembling hands. Alexia had screamed when you went down, had crossed enemy lines just to hold your body while the light faded from your eyes.

Another time, in a life thick with plague and ash, you’d shared a quiet cottage in the hills. She remembered feeding you broth when the fever took hold, wiping sweat from your brow, whispering lullabies from a time before memory. She remembered holding cold hands when the end came—kissing your forehead and begging whatever god would listen to take her instead.

There had been a war in the 1940s. A red dress in the corner of a smoke-filled club. A stray bullet meant for someone else.

A car crash in 1974. Alexia had arrived seconds too late.

A drowning in 1803.

A fire in 1611.

A duel in the snow in 1436.

Every time, it ended the same.

She chose me. And she died for it.

And yet.

Alexia had found you again.

Different hair. A new voice. A new laugh. But the soul—that soul—was the same. It called to her across time like it had never stopped looking.

And now, here you were . In this lifetime. Radiant. Kind. Entirely alive.

Alexia had sworn she wouldn’t interfere this time. Wouldn’t touch you . Wouldn’t love you.

She’d failed all of it in one night.

One kiss. One breath. One moment of selfishness.

And now she was back here—wrapped around her soulmate, skin against skin, heart against heart, feeling everything she’d sworn to avoid. Knowing it couldn’t last. Knowing that staying meant risking it all over again.

Because the pattern was too cruel, too consistent.

Love her.

Lose her.

Live with it.

You shifted slightly in your sleep, letting out a soft sigh. You nuzzled into Alexia’s chest, one hand tightening where it rested above her heart.

A smile tugged faintly at your lips.

That smile nearly undid her.

It was the same smile she'd seen across centuries. In candlelight, in moonlight, in lamplight. In the middle of a battle. In a farmhouse with snow outside. In an overcrowded hospital bed.

That smile had followed her through time like a promise.

Alexia shut her eyes.

She kissed your forehead—lightly, reverently. Let her lips linger just a moment longer than she should’ve. Then she whispered the same thing she had in 1852, in 1916, in 2002:

“I’m sorry.”

And then she slipped out of the bed.

The air felt colder the second she stood.

She moved carefully—each step a quiet betrayal. She found her shirt and pants where they’d been abandoned in the rush. Pulled them on with shaking fingers, her movements painfully slow, as if her body didn’t want to obey.

Every rustle felt loud.

Every breath, like a confession.

She glanced back once—just once.

You were still asleep, your body curled into the space Alexia had just vacated. One hand stretched out like you were reaching for something.

Your lashes fluttered. A sigh escaped your lips.

And Alexia knew: she wouldn’t remember this. Not fully. Not in a way that mattered. The soul might ache, might feel the echo of her absence—but her mind would search for her without knowing why.

And maybe that was mercy.

Alexia swallowed the lump in her throat and turned away.

She paused at the door, hand resting on the knob like it might anchor her to the moment forever.

Then she whispered, “Live.”

Not goodbye.

Not I love you.

Just live.

Because if walking away meant you might survive—if keeping her distance was the only way to cheat fate—then Alexia would do it.

Even if it destroyed her.

Especially if it meant you would never have to know what it cost.

The door closed with a click.

Soft. Final.

Alexia stepped into the hallway and exhaled like she hadn’t breathed in hours.

Her footsteps echoed down the stairs. Out into the street. Into the early morning air, where the sky was just starting to shift into blue.

The city was waking up. People would begin again. The world would turn.

And somewhere upstairs, in a warm bed tangled with shared memories and stolen peace, the girl Alexia had always loved was still sleeping.

Still safe.

Still alive.

And Alexia…

Alexia walked away.

Alone.

Again.

[arabella-syntax]

Louvre — A. Putellas x Reader

Alexia was already plotting her escape.

She’d barely stepped out of the Olympic village before regretting every decision that led her here. Not to Paris, not to the Olympics, but to this detour. Her teammates, running on impulse and questionable group logic, decided that they just had to visit the Louvre today, specifically the Egyptian wing. Apparently, team bonding now involves learning about mummification techniques. She supposes it might come in handy the next time the refs let a clear penalty slide.

Jenni was practically bouncing like a child that was fed too much sugar. Misa, who´s now fully immersed in her TikTok influencer era, was narrating every step like it was meant to be a viral trend. Irene and Laia had been arguing for ten straight minutes over whether ancient Egyptians worshipped cats or just really liked them. Alexia, meanwhile, was weighing her options: fake an emergency, claim sudden heat exhaustion, or just disappear quietly and hope no one noticed until she was already at the beach volleyball courts. Anything to escape another hour of 'team bonding.'

And that’s how you meet her.

You.

The tour guide. Underpaid, over-caffeinated, and radiating the kind of forced enthusiasm usually reserved for theme park employees in August. You spot them immediately, voice slightly too loud, smile a little too tight and donning Olympic gear acting like it makes them blend in. It doesn’t.

But then there’s her.

Leaning against a wall like it's personally inconveniencing her, arms folded with precision, brow set in a permanent state of "don’t even try me." She's wearing sunglasses indoors, not the oversized fashion kind, but the 'I’ve made a conscious decision to block all of this out' kind. You can’t tell if she's a chaperone, a coach, or just someone who took a wrong turn and is now emotionally trapped in the Egyptian wing. She doesn't speak, doesn't move, and yet somehow broadcasts a full essay titled I Would Rather Be Literally Anywhere Else.

You recognize that look. You’ve seen it on grumpy dads stuck at brunch, teenagers at family reunions, and one duchess at a ribbon-cutting ceremony who clearly wanted to set the building on fire. Whoever she is, she looked like she was more interested in being a mummy than learning about one.

“Welcome to the Louvre!" you announce, voice a little too bright, in that tone that screams, I am seconds away from losing it, but I’m smiling through the existential crisis anyway. You quickly scan their name tags and IDs to familiarize yourself, then your eyes land on the bored-looking blonde in sunglasses like a magnet. You read her nametag, Alexia, and give her another look. This is going to be a fun tour.

You kick off the tour in the section which also happèns to be your comfort zone. Not because you’re obsessed with mummies or anything, but because, let’s face it, the statues can’t talk back. And thank God for that, because if they could, they’d probably ask you the same stupid questions a thousand times a day. You launch into your usual spiel about the Rosetta Stone replica, spewing out facts you’ve memorized so well you’re pretty sure they’ve been burned into your DNA at this point. It's automatic. It's almost robotic. But hey, it’s a job. And you’re doing it.

But then you glance at her again. There she is in the back, looking like she was about to fall asleep on her feet. And then, just to top it off, you swear she yawns, and not just a casual yawn. No, no. It’s an audacious yawn. A yawn so big it could eclipse the entire museum´s collection, making you wonder if maybe she's part of some secret society of people who can’t be impressed by 3,000-year-old artifacts. The audacity of this woman.

You’re speechless for a second, standing there in utter disbelief, but you quickly recover.

Cool. Challenge accepted.

You lower your voice, just enough so only Alexia can hear. "This," you say, pointing to a funerary mask, "is believed to have been worn by ancient Egyptians to help hide their resting bitch face better than sunglasses."

Alexia’s eyebrows twitch slightly, like she's trying to hold back a smile. But as if in a last-ditch attempt to remain emotionally unaffected, she shoots you a look over her shades like you just told her the pyramids were built by camels.

You go on, unphased. "And this one here? The Anubis statue? Guardian of the afterlife. Also the first to popularize the smokey eye."

This time, she snorts.

"What was that?" Irene turns to look at her.

"Nothing," Alexia mutters, smoothing her face, her tone trying to hide the crack in her defenses.

You keep walking, dropping facts with the precision of someone who’s learned to keep this whole ‘tour guide’ thing going while simultaneously amusing themselves. Each one is aimed only at Alexia, like a game where the only rule is you have to try not to laugh.

"This papyrus scroll here? Early tax evasion forms."

"The sarcophagus? Absolutely cursed. By bad interior design."

"This entire wing? Sponsored by ancient trauma."

Each remark is met with an involuntary sound from Alexia. A laugh under her breath, an incredulous look, but she’s fighting it. Or at least, she’s trying to.

When you finally stop in front of the cat goddess Bastet, you can tell her teammates are trying to drag her out. You let them get just far enough away before you drop your next fact.

She’s still hovering, clearly trying to pull her composure together. "She protected households," you say, low again, "and invented knocking things off tables for sport."

Alexia glares at you, still fighting a smile. You can see she’s getting close to breaking so you point to a bunch of hieroglyphs on the wall.

You lean in, voice dropping just enough for her to hear. "And this one right here? Says ‘send nudes.’"

This time, there’s no stopping it. Alexia bursts into laughter, a loud, uncontrollable laugh that echoes through the room. Her teammates freeze, turning around to stare at her like she’s suddenly grown a second head.

"Alexia?" Jenni calls out, blinking in confusion.

Alexia just shakes her head, still laughing. "Nothing," she says, but the smile on her face gives her away.

Her teammates look confused, but you can see Alexia's walls crumbling. Her laughter starts to die down, and as she tries to compose herself, she bites her lip and shoots you a look.

"You’re making that up," she says, still trying to act all tough, but there's no hiding the grin tugging at her lips.

"Absolutely. But you believed me for half a second," you reply, unable to resist the smug satisfaction of getting under her skin.

She gives you a crooked smile, shaking her head in resignation, then turns to follow her teammates as they finally drag her out of the exhibit.

Two days later, your inbox pings.

Private Louvre tour request. Olympic Committee. Egyptian wing. No name.

You frown. Weird. Could be anyone. Could be another team of tourists who will complain about anything under the sun. Could be your worst nightmare. Who knows?

You show up anyway.

And there she is. Leaning against a column like this is now her new second home. The others are behind her, looking like they’ve just come off a 5-day hike through the Louvre's entire collection of obscure art. Clearly, they’re not happy to be here.

"You again?" you say, with a raised eyebrow, pretending you don’t already know exactly what’s going on.

"Missed your historical slander," Alexia says, deadpan, as if this is a normal thing to say to a tour guide.

Jenni groans dramatically from the back. "She literally made us cancel lunch for this."

They look like they’re already regretting their life choices, but you’re already leading them through the Greek wing, statues galore.

You lean closer to Alexia, dropping your voice just enough so only she hears. "This guy? Zeus. Massive ego. Turned into a swan to seduce someone. Because, you know, consent was apparently optional for ancient gods."

She raises an eyebrow, completely unamused. "A swan?"

"Yeah," you say, nodding seriously. "The original bird app."

You swear you hear her snort, and it’s louder than before, like she’s giving up on pretending to be unimpressed.

The others start to notice, slowly turning their heads toward the sound.

"You’re actually enjoying this," Irene says with a gasp, pointing at Alexia in disbelief. "Last week you said museums are just fancy sleeping areas."

"Shut up," Alexia mutters under her breath, trying to hide the smile that’s clearly threatening to crack her icy exterior.

"You made fun of me for liking art," Laia adds, half-shocked, half-amused.

"Still do," Alexia says without missing a beat. "But this guide lies better than you flirt."

You cough, covering up a laugh, but it’s clear you’ve won this round.

A few days later, another anonymous booking. This time, the Renaissance wing.

Olympic Committee. No name. But you’re not even surprised anymore.

You walk in. And there she is. Again. Waiting alone.

"Just you today?" you ask, trying to sound casual, like you’re not secretly a little excited.

"They're recovering," she says, her face completely straight.

"From art?" you ask, eyebrow raised.

"From me dragging them to three tours in a week," she admits, sounding almost proud of herself.

You grin. "Addicted to my lies now?"

"Something like that."

You step into the Renaissance section, ready to drop some fresh facts on the poor souls who just so happen to be standing next to you.

"Here we have the Mona Lisa," you announce dramatically. "Famously small. Famously smug. Fun fact: she’s actually judging you for your fashion choices."

Alexia stands next to you, arms almost brushing. Her lips twitch. "She looks like she’s holding in a fart."

You turn to her, mock-shocked. "How dare you. That’s the mother of all memes right there."

You move on and she follows, clearly enjoying herself.

"This one was painted with real lapis lazuli. Extremely rare. Also the reason blue pens exist today."

"That true?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

You shrug casually. "Fifty-fifty. But it sounds good, right?"

She leans in a little closer. "Tell me more fake facts."

It keeps happening. More anonymous bookings. More sarcastic commentary. More time with her.

You start branching out. The Medieval section. The Islamic Art wing. Even the random furniture gallery.

"This chair once belonged to Napoleon. He sat on it after every failed date."

"These tiles were early prototypes for IKEA."

"This painting? Definitely haunted. But only if you yawn too loud near it."

Alexia eats it all up, each remark leaving you with the satisfaction of knowing you’ve cracked her tough exterior. Every smirk, every eye-roll you earn feels like a win.

By the sixth visit, Jenni finally confronts her.

"You realize you’ve seen more of the Louvre than the football field by now, right?"

Alexia rolls her eyes, unbothered. "It’s educational."

"You're flirting," Jenni presses, smirking.

"Shut up," Alexia says, but there’s a hint of a smile on her lips. She’s not fooling anyone.

After one particularly long tour through the Islamic Art section ("This calligraphy? Probably a 600-year-old text complaining about tourists"), Alexia lingers, pretending like she’s just inspecting the exhibits.

"Do you ever get tired of walking people through here?" she asks, leaning against a display like she’s been doing this her whole life.

"Not when they make weird faces at 12th-century tiles," you respond, smirking.

"I wasn’t making a weird face," she says, defending herself.

"You looked like you were trying to decode IKEA instructions in Arabic."

She laughs, and it's full this time. No hiding it. Her shoulders shake with genuine amusement. She leans in, her voice dropping just enough for you to hear.

"Okay. So what if I said I wanted a private tour... outside the Louvre?"

You blink, half-laughing, half-confused. "Like... a date?"

She pretends to think about it, looking up at the ceiling for dramatic effect. "Let’s call it a cultural exchange."

"That sounds suspiciously like Olympic Committee phrasing," you reply, raising an eyebrow.

She shrugs, completely unphased. "I can pull strings."

You shake your head, smiling. "Fine. But only if you promise to fact-check me."

"Never. That’s half the fun," she grins.

You grin right back. "God, you’re the most stubborn museum convert I’ve ever met."

"And yet..." she steps closer, voice quiet but playful. "Your favorite."

You don’t argue.

Because she is.

[arabella-syntax]

And through the clouds, I see love shine

About when, on a Wednesday in a restaurant at Barcelona, you watch it begin again

》 Alexia Putellas x Reader

》 words count: 12.8k

》 fight a losing battle [idiom]: also known as “losing game”, to try hard to do something when there is no chance that you will succeed, a failing effort or activity 

Your last relationship ends so badly that you consider abstinence from everything – processed sugar, alcohol, and even people. A period of deep cleansing, as if you could purify every cell of your body, like a celebrity spiraling from rehab to full-blown identity crisis.

This emotional state explains why you find yourself on a one-way flight to Barcelona, all your things crumbled in a backpack.  A rash impulse led you to declutter your belongings, a wishful attempt of turning into a completely new person just because your closet is now half what it used to be.

The decision to straight-up flee is rushed and quite terrifying, much like many of your recent choices.

Elena, your best friend since you were barely old enough to share made-up stories and Barbie-like careers, thinks you’re going mental. She nearly cries when you decide to donate your vintage Christian Lacroix jacket, but you’re convinced it’s the only way to get a new lease on life, so she mourns in silence.

The loudest reaction comes from your brother, who, if you could be mature enough to admit it, is the only voice of reason that almost resonates in your head. 

Almost.

Despite your stubbornness, you accept the offer of hospitality from one of his university friends, who gives away a spare room. You don’t plan on staying in a hotel for gods know how long, and you certainly don’t have the patience to search for an apartment. You’re not completely out of mind, if they want to help, so be it. 

Barcelona is brighter and feels as welcoming as you hoped, though that might just be the nicer weather and the fact you’re far from your problems. And your ex. 

The first month flies by in a rush of Catalan cafeterias, art galleries, and little boutiques that refill both your closet and your spirit. 

The people here are kind enough to put up with your attempts to speak the language, humoring you since you’re oh-so-sure that eleven consecutive days on a passive-aggressive app have made you fluent.

The places you visit and the ones strangers recommend are loud enough to ignore the voices of reason in your ear that start to sound a lot like your brother’s.

Still, there’s only so much one can do to avoid responsibilities and self-consciousness.

“You need a job”, Ricardo states one morning, finding you in the kitchen eating cold pizza, still in the clothes you wore two nights ago.

Your closet isn’t as limited anymore.

“I’ve saved enough money to enjoy my vacation, thanks for your concern”

“I thought that was the money saved to buy a house with your ex”

“I do not have an ex nor a house to worry about, do I?”

As soon as the pizza starts to taste like regret, you’re ready to end the conversation to sleep the rest of day away. 

Ricardo means well, you know that. 

He’s a nice guy and a good roommate, but, like your brother, he’s overprotective and likes to gossip a little too much. Sometimes, it’s surprising how much he knows about you. Most of the time, it’s just annoying.

“I’m want to say– maybe a routine could be good for you”

“I have a routine”, you retort, knowing it’s a fat lie.

You’re out of the bed before eleven only if you didn’t sleep through the night before, wandering around the city with no real destination until something, somehow, catches your attention.

It’s not a bad thing per se, but it’s not a sustainable lifestyle.

“You quit a well-paid accounting job, right?”

“Ricardo, I swear, I’m this close to reporting you for stalking”

His laugh is too loud this early in the morning, but the comfort of bantering with someone who knows you is too familiar to ignore. Even if most of his insight comes from your nosy brother.

They both need to find a hobby that doesn’t involve judging your questionable life choices.

He sips his coffee while studying you, assessing how risky it would be to keep pushing the subject.

Apparently, he feels brave enough.

“My friends’ restaurant could use some help”

~

You’re not sure if Ricardo downplayed it or if he’s just blissfully unaware, but his friends don’t need some help – they need a miracle. 

That’s what happens when you get scammed by your bookkeeper. 

Despite not being really familiar with Spanish tax laws and regulation, it’s clear as the day someone exploited every possible loophole in the profitable business run by three way-too-trusting men. The truth becomes evident as you examine their accounting ledger, your frown deepening with each passing moment.

You have been to their restaurant before, and have loved it.

The place is cosy and carefully maintained. The food is prepared by a grumpy man from Puerto Rico named Paco, who, after twenty years in Barcelona, learned just enough cursing in Catalan to run the kitchen. Local bands play live on the weekend and someone’s mom made sure everyone is nice and well mannered. The worn wooden tables are witness of countless shared meals. 

Pedro and Paul, the other two owners, can only be described as a comedy duo with a really questionable sense of style and even worse jokes. But they’re nice enough, definitely good company when you have a bad day. They can turn it upside down so quickly, for the better or the worst.

However, Ricardo tells you how much the restaurant means for his friends and the local community, guilt-tripping you into helping them to fix their finances.

The truth is, you love math and numbers so much that a challenge like this excites you more than it’s appropriate to admit.

Hence, you agree to help them for far less money you could have asked anyone in the same situation.

They take it as a promise to make sure the business keeps running and organise a dinner with way too many people to celebrate your help.

“I’ve barely started looking into it, Pedro”, you complain, not used to such enthusiasm.

“¡Cállate y bebe tu sangría!”

You meet Alba that same night.

She’s nice and quick-witted, no one is safe from her clever remarks. It feels nice, the way she makes sure you’re included when everyone seems to forget you’re still learning Spanish from a green bird on your phone, and that, in most conversations, you relate more to vibes than actual words.

Flirting is a universal language, though.

If her hand brushes on your arm a couple of times you make sure to smile and get closer, and if you lean into her with the excuse of needing a translation she makes sure to whisper right into your ear. There’s a note in her voice that makes you feel at ease.

Of course, Ricardo ruins everything.

“I’m starting to think you’re running from tax collectors, not your ex”

It’s a good joke, you know it is nothing more than that. But it suddenly reminds you how messy your life is and how out of place you feel sometimes.

Not just far away from home, but also far away from everything familiar.

A job for a company you hated but paid good money; friends you didn’t see as you’d liked, but who knew damn well when to drag you out of your apartment – and out of your own head. A boyfriend who barely tolerated your love, but somehow always managed to say and do the right things at the right time.

Every morning, you wake up knowing what to wear for work, what numbers to punch into the computer to get the needed results, and how to act to be sure you’re not too much.

You’re not running away from just your ex, you’re running away from your life as known until finding out about the cheating. 

“¿Todo bien?”, Alba asks, noticing how you miss the opportunity to jab Ricardo. 

It takes you a moment to register her reassuring hand on your arm and the talks moving to a completely different topic.

“Yeah, sorry, just tired”

“You better get used to the Spanish nightlife”

“It’s pretty much all I’m doing so far”, you admit, slowly sipping a beer and making sure your annoying roommate doesn’t hear a word about this.

The rest of the dinner passes without too much trouble, despite not remembering most of the names and following even less of the conversations. 

Alba stays close and you blame the spicy food for the way your face reddens when she bids her goodbye with three kisses and a promise to meet up with less people.

“It’s a surprise”, Ricardo comments, his grin spreading across his face as soon as you settle onto the couch to debrief the day’s events.

It’s starting to look a lot like a new routine, a tradition in the making.

“What? Something my brother didn’t mention?”

“¡Ay, claro!”

“I hate you”

“I had no idea Alba is your type”

You have to give credit where due, he displays incredible reflexes. He dodges the pillow you throw at him, your punch barely grazes his arm, and your kick misses his shin by a mile.

To be honest with yourself, you’re not really sure who is your type. 

Not even getting in the mind-space to think about your ex, the past relationships you care about to recall all look pretty different. There’s no consistent pattern, not a clear preference in haircuts or any kind of colours, not a style that catches your attention more than another. 

The only thing most of your exes have in common is tiring you to the bones and leaving your life making you trust less and less in others. 

Maybe you do have a type.

~

It’s not a date, you both agree on that.

She doesn’t ask about the infamous ex, she’s good company and even a nicer distraction.

But your mind drifts and, as you recount the highlights of how that relationship crumpled in slow motion, it becomes clear as the day you shouldn’t be with someone until you’ve committed to a good therapist.

It’s not fair to anyone, but it’s definitely not fair to Alba.

You kiss her anyway, and she makes you promise to let her be your first date as soon as you’re ready to get back into the game again.

~

“Ricardo told me your ex is un cabrón”

If not for the possibility of blemishing your otherwise spotless record, you could have shoved Pedro down the hill you’re currently struggling to climb, losing too much dignity. 

The guy looks like he had one beer too many, but he’s surprisingly in shape and apparently unaffected by the whole hike so far. 

“Am I the only topic of conversation he has?”, you ask, mostly to buy a few more seconds to catch your breath.

“Creo que sí”

You raise the finger as you outpace him to keep going.

The sun has set, casting a warm, golden hue across the clear Barcelona sky. Despite Pedro knocking on your door when it was barely socially accessible to be at someone’s place, it takes the two of you more time than necessary to reach this point of the trail.

Not close enough to the top yet, but definitely too late to turn back without regrets. 

It’s mostly his fault.

The view is impressive, and the Catalan knows too many fascinating details to not be amazed by the nature around.

“¿Estás bien?

“Cabrón is a nice word”

“It’s not”

“No, it’s– I mean it’s not a bad enough word to describe him”, you clarify with a faint smile as Pedro slows his pace.

Your final destination is just a few steps away.

It may be the pleasant company, a good friend you’ve discovered in an unexpected place at the most unexpected time of your life. It may be the warm rays of sunshine that tickle your skin or the ache making your legs feel alive. It may be the weight on your chest, the one that crushed good intentions and caused too many sleepless nights, now becoming smaller under a new sense of resolve.

It may be for many different reasons, but for the first time in more than you’re comfortable looking back, it feels better.

“It was a good relationship”

He gives you a moment, sitting on the slightly damp grass next to your sprawled figure.

“It was good, until it was really bad. But it’s hard to do anything about it when you’re doing such an impressive job at hiding all the signs”

“A bad relationship can’t be blamed on just one person”, he tries to reason.

“It can”

“Guapa, mira–”

“No, it can. He was controlling, aggressive, and incredibly talented at making me take all the blame and the shame”, you admit, for the first time out loud, “My only fault was pretending to ignore when I finally saw it all for what it really was”

As you gather the strength to rise to a more dignified position, you almost expect Pedro to hug you or be the over affectionate Spanish stereotype he usually is.

Instead, he’s looking somewhere away in the sky, pensive.

You feel the need to reassure him, “I’m fine now, I–”

“No, lo siento, lo siento”, he turns with a small, yet genuine smile, “We don’t know each other that well”

“You’re hurting me now, I thought we were friends”

“We are, tonta!”

Pedro raises and his large hands, marked with tiny cuts, extend to pick you up. He paves the way down the hill with no words, and for the first time since you meet the man, the silence it’s a surprise. 

It’s not uncomfortable, maybe just a little unsettling.

And short-lived.

“We don’t know each well”

“You already said that”

He shoves you playfully, not impressed by your attitude, but used to it.

“Lo que quiero decir es que– you’re a good person, I can tell, even if we don’t know each other for long”

“Don’t get soft on my right now”

“You’re a good person and you love good, you have to keep loving”, he states, so casually, “Once you know love, you should never try to forget”

~

“At this point, I’m pretty sure you hit your head hard enough to go mental and somehow no one noticed”

“I miss you so much, Elena”

Your phone is precariously balanced on a glass of wine as you cook a recipe Paco scribbled on a piece of paper. In Catalan. 

It makes less sense than his finance decisions, but you’ll take it.

Your best friend’s face is half out of frame but you can clearly point out every step of her beauty routine. It’s a grueling and painfully long process, her boyfriend is way more patient than you about it.

But tonight Ricardo is out for his bi-weekly pottery class, and you’re happy to indulge her just for the sake of spending some time together, even if it’s through a screen.

Not like there’s a slight chance you’d say it out loud.

“What are you trying to cook?”, the eyebrow in frame raises skeptically.

“No idea”, you admit, coming to the conclusion the number you’re looking at is five and there’s no way this dish needs so many onions.

“Good, now, let’s track back to your mental instability”

“And you ask why I am in different country?”

The wasp she lets out is so loud, and the silence that follows is so deafening you look at the screen to make sure the call is still on. She can be so dramatic.

“Don’t joke about it, I’m still grieving”

“I’m still alive”

“Barely”, she mutters.

Elena is a good friend, despite the theatrics. 

When the world seems a little too much to handle, she turns into a safe space for you to be at peace. When you’re overthinking the stupidest choices, she always has a comforting, new point of view. 

To people who don’t have the privilege to know her well enough, she may look shallow and too noisy. The truth is, you’ve never met someone so aware of herself and her life that she perfectly understands how to give due weight to even the smallest things. 

And she doesn’t keep quiet, she loves loud and proud. 

You learned to hold yourself back. You were forced to.

That’s the biggest lesson she’s still teaching you.

“Just saying, you’re surrounded by hot, Spanish people–”

“Happens when in Spain”

“You’re allowed to have fun!”

“I have plenty, thank you very much”

A strange smell comes out of the pan as the lid is lifted, prompting you to close it and pretend it’s not even there for the rest of the night. Not planning to call a poison center, ordering takeout is how you opt to end this cooking attempt.

If Elena thinks you paused the video to piss her off, it is on her.

When your best friend’s face pops up on the screen again it’s so serious you’re tempted to hang up for real.

“I mean it in a good way, don’t get me wrong, but taking a leave of absence and flying to Barcelona is the most selfish thing I witnessed you do in forever”

“I’m actually thinking of quitting for good and going freelance”

“See?”, she gushes, although she can’t be taken seriously with a panda-shaped face mask on, “You like to do your nerd-numbers-shit again, you’re trying new things, even if you clearly can’t be trusted in the kitchen–”

“Fuck you, that man can cook, but for sure can’t write”

“You’re making friends, not as amazing as me, but we’ll take it!”

Trying to argue could be useless and, honestly, you have no arguments.

“You’re fine, you’re doing good”, she smiles, and you miss her a little bit more.

This time you say it out loud, and she cries.

~

The guys are planning something.

By now, you know them well enough to sense trouble the moment you step into the restaurant.

Paco wears a grin that’s almost creepy, a beam blasted across his face, while Pedro is cleaning the tables with unnecessary vigour and his usual commitment is taken to an unusual level.

They’re clearly waiting for something to happen, lingering around as you try to explain to Paul, the musketeer you pointed as the most reliable when money is on the line, how to delay a payment reminder.

“Okay, what is wrong with them?”, you ask, trying to recall a single reason why you put up with these people’s ethics.

You only need one.

“No te entiendo”

“Tú me entiendes perfectamente”

“Your español is getting so good, ¿lo sabes?”, Pedro chimes in, and you’re sure whatever they want, you’re not going to like it. 

Paul is usually the voice of reason, the emotionally adult one. Why is he looking at you like he’s about to commit the worst betrayal?

“We were thinking–”

“I’m scared when you guys think”

“We are allies, feminists, and strong supporters of women in male dominated fields, equality–”

“Please, shut up”, you interrupt as if the conversation is physically hurting you.

“Barça is playing the Copa on Saturday. We organise una fiesta every year when they come back, es una tradición”, Pedro cuts in, feeling like the best way to get to the point is to dive straight into it.

“What if they lose?”

“Ellas no pierden”, Paul’s voice is so final you don’t dare to object.

“Cool, fine, why are you acting like this party is something I’ll not like?”

“We pay for it all”

It’s nice.

It is a really nice gesture, knowing how much they care about their community and their friends and apparently the women’s side of their favourite club. 

Then you remember they have a huge debt to pay up because an asshole took advantage of their kind hearts and the accounts are just starting to make sense again.

“It’s a good thing”, you admit out loud, “But–”

When Paul starts a passionate rant about the team’s season so far and how sure he is they are gonna win those trophies all over again, apparently setting a new record for the sport itself, it’s not strange to feel thrilled too.

Even Paco joins the excitement at the prospect of adding another title to the collection.

You have been in Barcelona long enough to understand football is a big deal here, and you can’t deny it’s really wonderful to see three big guys hyping up their club – women’s and men’s side alike. 

Pedro looks at you like he knows you’re about to crumble.

“They better win then”, you agree, pretending it takes a lot of thinking.

They wrap you in a group hug so welcoming you don’t have the heart to tell them the restaurant can’t really afford to pay out an entire party right now, on a weekend, literally planned for a football team and their mothers. 

You’ll make sure the numbers check out later.

You meet Alexia that same night.

Alba makes the introductions, and you shake her hand a moment too late and too long than socially acceptable.

You’re busy shifting your gaze back and forth. 

They look alike. A lot. But somehow, they’re also so different.

You make a mental note to dig up some old pictures of a younger version of yourself and your brother.

“She’s the reason this party won’t bankrupt the guys”

“I’ve heard only good things about you”, Alexia admits.

If a slight redness tints your face it’s due to the compliments, not the feeling of her eyes on you, or the way your body seems to jolt awake.

“All lies, probably”, you try to compose yourself – get a fucking grip, “They’re just impressed ‘cus they can’t count to save their lives”

The laugh that leaves the older woman’s lips is the most melodic sound you’ve ever heard. Something in the way her face lights up and her features relax makes your chest ache with a surprisingly comfortable feeling.

A desire to make her laugh again.

And that is what you do all night.

The girls are way too excited – deservedly so, after another title added to their already impressive collection. The live music is loud, the food and the drinks come in flows. You’re too busy to mentally estimate the costs.

When one of Alexia’s teammates decides you’re her new favorite person in the whole restaurant, you’re perfectly fine with it. Just because she’s funny, not because she seems to have an impressive amount of stories to tease her captain with.

When Paul hands you another beer, you sip it without a care of keeping count. Just because you’re allowed to get loose, not because you noticed Alexia is making sure everyone will not regret a drink too much tomorrow. 

When Alba drags you to the makeshift dance floor, you let yourself feel the music and the bodies around. Just because the party is definitely worth it, vibrant, not because her sister joins the group at the same time.

You go home, much later than intended, with an unfamiliar feeling prickling beneath your skin and a somehow familiar pair of eyes stuck in your head.

~

The first time you end up in the stands for a football game is purely by accident.

An unmistakable electric buzz fills the air, lingering all the way from the parking lot to the seats that seem to keep filling. Everyone is smiling and chanting, sporting just two different colours but expressing their support in an unique way. 

The games you endured watching on TV to spend a few hours with your brother as a kid can’t compare to the real thing.

You never imagined finding yourself in such a place, but when in Rome. Or, well, when in Barcelona.

It’s all on the Putella sisters, to be honest.

You meet Alba in the most unusual place you could think of, or being yourself in the first place. A sports shop.

Planning to go on the hike a stranger at the restaurant pointed out, you need appropriate trekking shoes. Since the decluttering phase is officially over, you looked up one of those obnoxious places that sell overpriced sports-related shit.

Not the kind of shop you’d picture Alba willingly entering.

“Mind you, I actually like sports”, she objects.

“Do you?”

She giggles as your head tilts in a mocking way, “Vale, I like watching more than doing the sports”

“No way!”

The bags she’s dragging out of the shop are the only thing stopping her from not-so-playfully smacking you. It’s surprisingly easy to tease each other.

She reminds you of Elena, who called this morning to discuss how to act now she discovered where her boyfriend hides the ring. As if she hasn’t been snooping around for months.

Not entirely her fault, the poor guy left the jewelry’s receipt with the car keys at the entrance.

“Are you?”, the younger woman asks.

“What?”

“A sports person”

“My brother used to kick footballs at me when we were kids, the only sport I ever pretended to be remotely interest in”

Her smile dims slightly.

For some reason, that seems to have been the wrong thing to say.

“Have you been to a Barça game yet?”

“What if I’m a Madridista?”

That’s even worse, apparently, since Alba dramatically drops the bags to gasp in shock. Her acting of a heartbreak is surprisingly convincing.

A second voice chimes in out of nowhere, “Don’t even joke about it”

Alexia’s comment is dead serious, you can tell, with just the hint of a grin on her lips as a clear giveaway that she’s more than comfortable teasing a person she barely knows.

You’re definitely not going to complain.

The hat she’s wearing hides half her face, but you can see her lighting up behind it.

“What if I’m not joking?”

“Alba, you said she is a nice person”, the midfielder complains, a huff escaping her lips as she adjusts the weight of the bags she’s carrying. 

Did they just raid the whole shop?

“Bold to you to assume I can’t be a nice person and a Madridista”

“Please, don’t fight her on this, she’s gonna be insufferable”, Alba complains, playfully rolling her eyes at her sister’s antics and your teasing.

“No, she needs to be educated. She’s coming to El Clásico with us”

As simple as that.

You find yourself in the home section of the stadium for one of the most anticipated games of the season.

Or that’s what Alexia is ranting about all the way to your seats, going off about the rivalry and basic football knowledge you have to thank your borther for drilling into your brain against your will.

It’s all worth it when her blush spreads across her face as she realises, in the middle of her fourth attempt to explain with yet another example, that you actually do know what offside is.

Alba watches the interaction closely, amused by how easy it is for you to tease Barcelana’s captain and how comfortable she seems to be around you, despite not having known each other for long.

A couple of minutes before kick-off, Alexia returns from wherever she went – one mission in mind. She takes her place on your side, handing you a Blaugrana jersey, “You can’t sit here without wearing the right colours”

Maybe wearing a white t-shirt was a bit too much.

You burst out laughing, opting to put in the item immediately to avoid upsetting the filled seats around you, “How’d you find your own at a men’s game?”

“I happen to be pretty beloved around here”

“Did you hear that, Alba? La Reina is bragging!”

The only reason she doesn’t retort is due to the referee’s whistle announcing the start of the game, followed by a surprisingly enjoyable night with the two sisters.

~

Summer in Barcelona is nothing like you pictured it.

The streets are filled with tourists, too many people crammed in too little spaces. Complaints about the crowds and the chaos drown out any excitement. You have to remind Pedro that it’s awful, but it’s good for business.

Sometimes, it’s too hot to even think of leaving the comfort of your place. Fans blow in every room because, of course, the air conditioner broke the day it was turned on. 

Sometimes, it’s so loud you don’t need to ignore the voices of doubt in your head, subdued by everything that’s happening around you.

Sometimes, it’s exactly the kind of life you can see yourself living.

Your brother came to visit for a week, spending more time teasing you with Ricardo than doing anything else. You hate it, but you missed him too much to complain.

Maybe you pulled some strings to make his dream of visiting Camp Nou come true, just so you could look cool, but then what?

He’s as happy as a kid in a candy store, and all you have to do is endure an overexcited guided tour and bribe Alexia with overpriced drinks the night after. Totally manageable.

Your therapist announces her vacation like it’s not the worst news she’ll be sharing, leaving you with tasks to occupy the time. You dutifully completed them all, never quite managing to shake the nerd label off, and, quite frankly, you pay her too much to not do her homework.

Some tasks seem a little over the top, though – signing up for a dating app is definitely not how you’ll get over your ex.

You started hanging out with a group of passionate excursionists. Perhaps a bit too excited about life in general, but nice enough to follow during their hikes.

Pedro joins when he can, most of the time, someone from the Barcelona team manages to invite themselves. 

Since you and María aren’t allowed to be on your own, Ingrid or Esme supervise. It may be an overreaction, but the last time you two were alone, you sprained your ankle and the defender got nasty cuts on her legs before the trip even started, so you can’t really judge them. 

If you say Alexia is a better hike partner than most is just to piss María.

That summer in Barcelona makes you miss your family and friends back home a little more than usual, but it’s also the first time in months that you feel like you’re actually living your life – not just letting it flow right through you. 

~

When the new school year starts, Irene and her wife come to the restaurant a couple of times before Paul suggests that you could be the perfect person to help their son with his math homework.

Your attempt to explain that you really are not qualified to teach in a different language goes completely ignored.

They’ve already tried different tutors, and Mateo seems to hate them all. You accept, mostly because of the kid’s puppy-dog eyes.

The two of you fell into an easy routine. Once a week, he would lend you basic grammar school manuals and children’s books to help with your Spanish, and you would explain math to him in the simplest way possible.

It goes well.

Mateo decides pretty soon you’re his new favourite person, and you basically become one of Irene’s as well.

That’s how you find yourself on the sideline during a Barça training session, reading a book about a dog that doesn’t know how to bark while Mateo is too pleased with himself, checking all the math exercises he nailed. 

“Good one?”

You raise your gaze, shielding your eyes from the sun enough to point out Alexia’s silhouette.

The weather is still too warm for your comfort, making you question the girls’ mental stability for running lap after lap under such conditions with a smile on their faces. 

Sports people are scary.

“You look too good to be someone who just finished training”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Derogatory”, you clarify, pushing your stuff aside so that Alexia can sit beside you on the sideline. 

She’s drinking some sort of sport drink like she’s just eaten sand, and this close, she looks human. She’s grinning, enjoying the sun picking at her skin and Mateo’s passionate explanation of the math exercises he’s done all by himself.

The training session is wrapped up, she stays until Irene comes back from the changing room, washed and dressed, ready to take the little boy home.

The blonde lingers a bit longer, talking about books she loved growing up and how she takes management courses when she can. You find out Penélope Cruz is both your favourite actress, but the midfielder acts shocked when you tell her you haven’t watched her favourite film. 

That night, you put it on and change the language setting, live-texting Alexia all your reactions.

Halfway through, you’re pretty sure she’s watching it too.

~

Almost nine months after booking that life-changing one-way ticket to Barcelona, you buy another one to go back home.

With a return ticket in hand.

It’s your mother’s birthday, so you kind of have to.

Recently, she’s been repeating a new favorite line, rambling about the uncertainty of life and the precariousness of old age. She’s barely in her 60s and has less back pain than most people of your generation, but she’s not willing to listen to reason. 

You come to the conclusion you can’t lose any more points against your brother in the unspoken sibling race for your parent’s love. So you book the flight, pack a suitcase big enough, because you literally have nothing to wear left behind, and mentally prepare for the investigation your family will conduct. 

The tension in your shoulder melts away the moment your brother wraps his arms around you in the airport terminal. 

“You grow up so much”

And, just like that, he’s your annoying, stupid older brother again.

“I didn’t miss you at all”

“I can see you holding back tears”

“You’re literally crying!”, you accuse with a grin on your lips, lightly punching him.

“Just wait until mum sees that new tattoo”

The truth is, your mother is too busy peering deep into your soul to care about the tattoo. 

It takes two days of constant reassurance that you’re working, eating, and sleeping properly; a ceramic salamander figurine – maybe overpriced, but a gift meant to make an impression; and Elena backing up your story to calm her worries.

Barely enough to get you through the rest of the week unstretched.

“She’s just worried”, your best friend tries to reason, sipping a flashy pink drink that you’re not even sure is made from real fruit.

“I moved to Barcelona, not a war zone”

“Oh, so now it’s permanent?”

The shit-eating grin spreading across her face should annoy you, but you have to admit she has a point.

At first it was just an impulsive decision, an urge to run away from everything and everyone. Then, without really realising it, the Catalan city started to feel a lot like a place to settle in, to let your wings spread wide open.

Now you almost call it home.

The waitress interrupts your flow of thoughts, saving you from Elena’s pointed gaze long enough to be properly distracted by the huge amount of food presented. He leaves with a charming smile, but you’re genuinely too focused on the salty chips to notice.

“Are you pregnant?”, you ask, looking as she almost chokes to avoid comically spilling her drink on you.

“The Spanish heat fried your brain?”

“What? You didn’t even have soft drink when we were underage”

Elena pauses for a moment, weighting if knocking over you the rest of the pink beverage could be worth it. It takes genuine pondering.

She decides to take the highest road.

“Are you dying?”

“Are you taking comedy classes in Barcelona?”

The last time your best friend was this over the edge it was because of a pregnancy scare. First year of university, and her boyfriend at time wasn’t really the guy you’d take home for Christmas. A memory that doesn’t help her case right now.

You slip under the dim lights of the bar, a classy spot where she hangs out with the women from her pilates class. A shiver runs down your back, a bad feeling overcoming deep inside you. 

Then, she speaks up.

“I’ve already bought a wedding dress”, she admits, as if she’s confessing a crime, “It’s a size smaller and I have to–”

“Elena, for fuck’s sake, I thought you were actually dying!”

“It is, indeed, a tragedy”

“He hasn’t even proposed yet”

“Details”, she chugs the rest of the drink, smirking and grabbing the last chips you’re too shocked to care about.

The same waitress hovers around your table, drawn in by the loud exchange and your clear distress, “Excuse me, is everything okay?”

He’s young, charming enough for this to be just a gig while he waits and hopes for his acting career to take off. However, he looks genuinely concerned, his gaze shifting between the deep frown and your friend amused grin.

“All good, she’s just dramatic”, Elena points at you with the straw, before delivering the final blow, “And she is single”

The poor boy’s face lights up, naively thinking the commotion was a creative way to play matchmaker.

What a mistake.

You don’t even dignify her with a glance, rolling your eyes before addressing him directly, “Excuse her, she’s panicking because her long-time, overly in-love boyfriend still hasn’t popped the question”

“That’s not–”

“And I’m not interested”, you finish, kind but firm.

He leaves with a nod, cheeks slightly red.

Elena watches him disappear as you sip your own drink, studying you the way she used to when you were confused teenagers who didn’t know how to deal properly with all those feelings and real-life emotions.

“Oh”

The reason you still encourage her goes beyond your understanding.

You’re not starting to question it now, “What?”

“You like someone”

“Elena, I swear–”

“No, no, it’s just–”, her gaze softens as she looks at you, teasing and playful attitude making space for her most supportive side, “It’s good to see you, you know, welcoming back some happiness”

It doesn’t matter how she’s always capable of reading you like a book, like you’re a poem she knows by heart but she’s never tired of.

After all the years and the lessons you’ve learned together, it feels so comforting to know there’s someone out there who deeply understands you. Who truly sees you.

You don’t deny it, you don’t retort to her observation. 

That's not the point right now.

~

You break the promise made to Alba.

Kind of.

It’s early in the morning, the sun has barely risen in the sky, but it’s the perfect time to arrive at the little market. It arrives every two weeks, with vibrant stalls full of everything – though you understand half the things the vendors say. The freshness of the fruit and the unique clothing finds you always manage to come home with are totally worth it.

Alexia is buying vegetables and, judging by the passion she shares with the old lady in front of her, discussing important geopolitical questions.

You enjoy the exchange, taking a moment before approaching.

She jokes about the fact you’re up before the clock even hits double digits, laughing at your retort about fighting with the elderly over groceries. 

The footballer suggests breakfast in a cosy place not far from the market, the promise of fresh bakeries enough to convince you.

It’s not a date.

But you walk side by side, bags lightly colliding sometimes, and before you know it, you’ve arrived at the café. Alexia holds the door open, pointing out her favorite pastries. She scoffs, unamused, when she realizes your questions distracted her long enough for you to pay for both your orders.

It’s not a date, obviously.

But you sit at a table in the far corner of the café for almost three hours, talking about everything and nothing. The bubble you find yourself in bursts when Ricardo calls, complaining that you’re late for lunch, despite insisting on making a reservation.

“We should do this again”, she says as she hugs you goodbye, a smile lighting her entire face.

It’s not a date, but it definitely feels like it.

You remembered the promise you made to Alba, to save your first date for her once you feel ready, just a second after realising how badly you wish to go on a real one with her sister.

~

You refuse categorically to celebrate your birthday at the boys’ restaurant.

They could make a big deal out of it, insist on paying for everything, and you couldn’t let that happen. After months of knowing them and the “Barcelona way” of celebrating loved ones, you can’t let them be in charge of this. 

Also, the bills are finally adding up. They can afford it, you can’t let them do it – at least, not emotionally speaking.

So you host a little party at your place – your place, because Ricardo says you basically own it as much as he does after the bathroom’s makeover. 

The small kitchen quickly turns into chaos the moment Paco takes charge and ropes Ricardo into helping. Pedro shows up with decorations and a banner that was most likely used for his little sister’s. Paul, however, closes the restaurant that same afternoon, brushing off your protests and reassuring you that your birthday is more important than the evening’s earnings.

You can’t find it in yourself to fight them.

The apartment fills with laughter and a vibrant energy that eases the weight pressing on your chest when overthinking takes hold. Balloons cover nearly the entire floor, raised voices and the scent of spices travel from the kitchen. 

Your friends from the hiking group arrive in waves, immediately hitting it off with some of Barcelona’s team. You’ve grown close to a few of them through your relationship with Irene’s family and the one Ingrid and Frido practically forced on you.

Some regular customers from the restaurant also show up, people you’ve grown pretty comfortable with after spending so much time there during the first weeks of taking over the accounting job.

There’s also a nice girl you met at a concert, who Elena stalks on social media to make sure she’s not a serial killer.

Alba and Alexia are the last ones to arrive.

Your life in Barcelona is full of new people, new experiences and adventures.

At your lowest point, you’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be loved out loud.

And those people are the loudest you ever met.

The noise around the apartment subsides just as most of the guests leave. The music is turned down to a minimum, because of the late hour and Pedro’s questionable taste, as he hasn’t let go of the speaker once all night.

The small group gathers around the couch, drinks in hand, still willing to celebrate with you. 

“I’m just saying, I think they taste the same”

The entire room erupts in protests at Ricardo’s comment.

“Absolutely no”, Pedro chimes in, seated on the edge of the armchair with a half-drunk beer in hand, “Black olives are made to be a pizza topping, green ones are perfect for everything else”

“What do you even know about pizza topping?”, you interrupt with a grin, “You put pineapple on yours”

Somehow, the complaints grew louder, the room buzzing with indignation.

“What’s wrong with that? Pineapple is a great pizza topic, you’re just too pretentious to admit it!”

“Can we move on from the pizza argument?”

“Oh, no, let’s get into it!”, you wave your hand dismissively, “Pedro, please, tell everyone what you put on first, cheese or sauce?”

“Fuck you”

“You work in a restaurant”, Alba says, her voice laced with disbelief. 

“I’m not the one cooking, am I?”

“Thank God!”

The conversation quickly turns on poor Pedro, who now finds himself defending his questionable taste and own belief.

Alexia, who’s been quietly sipping from her glass, looks at the scene with a raised eyebrow before turning to you, relaxed on the couch beside her, “Honestly, I never imagined pizza to be the thing that ends a friendship”

“I’m just happy we’re not talking about pineapple anymore, that’s a sin”

“You started this”, she points out, giggling. 

Ricardo shrugs from his spot on the floor, amused but staying out of it for now. 

“It’s my birthday, I can do whatever I want”

“Oh, por favor”, Alexia says with a playful roll of her eyes, nudging the paper crown still perched on your head, “This must have cut off circulation to your brain”

You gasp, your dramatic antics in full display, fueled by the time, the alcohol, and, likely, the footballer’s shoulder still brushing against yours.

“You’re just jealous you’re not the only reina in the room”

“Keep dreaming”, Alexia responds with a grin.

The proximity lingers in a way that’s not just playful. It’s comfortable, like an inside joke no one else is allowed in on.

Ricardo watches the interaction from the corner of his eye, his gaze lingering on you and the blonde for a moment longer than necessary. He notices how her cheeks redden slightly, the way you look a little different – softer, at ease.

Alba catches the moment too, still pretending to be involved in the pizza argument. She notices the quiet exchanges and private moments that have unfolded all evening. The way you and her sister have fallen into a different rhythm, a different world.

She’s seen it before.

There’s something between you two, something unspoken, but not quite hidden. She wonders how long it’s been there, how long it’s been that way.

But, like Ricardo, she keeps her thoughts to herself.

The rest of the group laughs, the debate seems to fade into a more relaxed conversation that doesn’t involve food or questionable life choices.

As the night goes on, the teasing continues, but, underneath the surface, there’s something deeper.

There’s the way you lean in a little closer to Alexia when someone says something ridiculous, how your eyes linger on her when Pedro makes a joke and you think no one is watching.

There’s the way Alexia’s knee brushes yours when you laugh, how her fingers dance on your arm simply because you’re close enough to.

There’s the exchange of gazes and smiles, quiet signs of complicity in the loud room.

~

Ricardo waits to the tune of three days before cornering you.

You mention being a bit homesick after your birthday and the Putellas sisters literally drag you to have dinner with them at their mom’s. Eli is the sweetest woman ever, going above and beyond to the point of making that one pie you mentioned once being your favourite. 

The house is filled with memories and tender gestures, a haven of support and a desire of caring for your own that squeezes your heart with a bittersweet beauty. Spending the night there makes it clear how Alexia and Alba were raised, revealing the roots of their kindness.

“You had fun?”

It’s a miracle you don’t drop dead on the floor right there, Ricardo’s voice echoing from the middle of the couch in the dark room.

“Why are you lurking like a fucking killer?”, you shout at him when your heartbeat slows down enough to let you come up with proper words.

“I was waiting for you”

You don’t even dignify him with a response, watching how he’s sipping from a mug like a scene from the shittiest b-movie you can think of.

Crossing the room to sleep the unease away, the guy’s next words make you stop right where you are, “You need to come clean with her”

“What are you talking about–”

“You like Alexia”

It’s not a question, there’s no doubt in his voice.

There’s not a single reason to even try to fight his assumption or your own overthinking.

You reach for the seat next to him on the couch, noticing the second mug just when he offers it to you. It’s a fruity tea you enjoy hot, with way too much honey and not a drop of milk – exactly like the one in your hands. 

The silence wrapping around is comforting in a way that makes sense just because it’s the two of you, sipping tea in the quiet darkness of the room.

“I do”, you admit after a while, even if you don’t need to. 

“I know”

“That obvious?”

“Yeah”, your roommate confirms with a soft smile.

He doesn’t tease, he doesn’t accuse you of anything.

It’s so typically Ricardo that you feel a surge of affection, a need to embrace him and accepting the support of someone who, in a twisted and brotherly way, looks out for you – and your heart. So you do just that, jumping into his arms without a care of your reputation or of the almost-empty mugs.

The man, despite the surprise of your reaction, is ready to hold you for how long you need.

Turns out, you need it a lot.

“Sorry, sorry”, you say after a couple of minute, trying to pull yourself together, “I didn’t see it coming”

“Me being so observant and clever or you falling in love with Alexia?”

“I’m not in love with Alexia”

“Yet”

He’s lucky the tea is not hot anymore.

“I’m not in love with Alexia”, you repeat. 

Not yet, resonates in your head – your own mind betraying you. 

Yes, Alexia is beautiful. Yes, you two apparently clicked perfectly right the moment you met. Yes, recently the time together doubled the time spent with anyone else. You can admit you like Alexia, the therapy is worth the commitment and the money put into it. 

But being in love?

It’s a good feeling, the one that makes her cheeks flush crimson when your smile catches her gazing. Even better, the one that fills you with pride when Alexia’s laugh resonates in the room because of something you say or do. 

It’s an exciting force, the one that unsettles your stomach when she reaches for you just for the sake of touching – of feeling you close. Even better, the one that makes you two sure of finding the other in a room full of people just when needed. 

It’s so terrifying close to love, what it’s blossoming.

You want to fall in love with Alexia.

Ricardo raises from the couch, taking the mugs and putting them on the sink to be dealt with tomorrow. An annoying habit you’re sure he keeps up with just to annoy you.

He returns a minute later, “Are you going to do something about it?”

You don’t miss a bit, “Yes”

“Let Alba know first”, he says with a serious note in his voice, “She liked you”

~

The stadium buzzes with the loud roaring of fans and the sharp, clean scent of freshly cut grass under the rain. Barcelona dominates the pitch, their control of the midfield a suffocating grip as the opponents scramble, desperate for a counterattack. 

Between miscalculated slides and short passes, Alexia weaves through defenders in a blur of motion and focused energy. She’s calm when the ball is glued on her feet, sparkling to light, her presence igniting the pitch, as soon as her teammates take over. 

Patri finds her captain just outside the box and you lean forward, smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

You may be new to the whole thing, new in the Blaugrana’s home stands, but you learn quickly and you know exactly what Alexia’s movement means. 

The shot curves perfectly, the stadium exhales a collective gasp as the goalkeeper’s fingertips fail to reach it. The ball hits the bar loudly, the sound echoing before it flies out of the pitch.

Beside you, Alba lets out a whoop, clapping her hands with a grin stretching across her face, “She’s out for blood”

You laugh, not like anyone could disagree.

Barça is winning by three goals, outrunning the defence and shooting as if they need to score at least three more to sleep peacefully tonight. 

The poor goalkeeper will have nightmares for sure.

“She really want to take home that ball”

“She’s playing to impress”, Alba points out, not so subtly.

You chuckle, her remark flying over your head, “She’s just– good, I guess”

“Good? ¡Por favor!”, the younger Putellas scoffs, rolling her eyes, “She’s acting like a ballet dancer out there, doing pirouettes and running around like she has two sets of lungs”

As to prove her sister’s point, Alexia nutmegs another midfielder and executes another perfect movement, clearing the field for Aitana to set up Vicky for a chip goal.

The crowd erupts, but Alba’s attention remains fixed on you.

“¡Mirala!”, she says, pointing at the pitch where the team is hugging and celebrating, “That was another ‘look at me, soy la Reina’ moment!” 

“Your sister is the most competitive person I’ve ever met”

“Competitive? Chica, she’s showing off! And don’t even get me started on the way she keeps looking up here, fixing her hair between plays– It’s ridiculous”

You watch as Barcelona’s bubble dissipates and they get back at their positions, Alexia waves towards your seats, her face illuminated by a radiant grin.

Your cheeks flush slightly, a mixture of amusement and something else.

The game keeps on with the same level of excitement, and even more shots on target. They win narrowly, unconcerned by their soaked clothes, lingering happily in the rain to sign autographs and chat with supporters.

Alexia immediately seeks out you and Alba, trying to embrace you both despite your not-so-playful protests. The damp material of her kit clings, accentuating her defined muscles, and your thoughts stray to less innocent territories.

Alba sends her sister to the changing room, accepting the kiss landed on her forehead and watching as you nod like an idiot when she leaves with the promise to be back in no time, her hand lingering on your arm.

“¡Ay, esto es increíble!”, she interrupts your thought flow, tilting her umbrella just enough for a stream of rain to drop on your face. 

“Alba!”

“You’re not exactly subtle either, ¿sabes?”

The stadium noises fade into a distant hum. The air between you thickens, the playful banter morphing into something more charged and intentional. Your fingers fidget with the edge of your jacket, avoiding the younger woman’s gaze.

“How long have you known?”, you ask.

“The moment I introduced the two of you, idiota!”, she says, her voice teasing, “But I knew for sure at your birthday’s party”

“Nothing happened between us”

Alba’s smile softens, a gentle understanding dawning in her eyes, “I’m not blind and I know my sister pretty well. And honestly? I think it’s cute, you two glow when you’re together. She likes you. A lot. And you like her too"

Your shoulders relax, “I do. I really like her, Alba”

The wave of relief that washes over you is comforting.

You don’t owe her anything, and Alba definitely doesn’t owe you anything. But it’s good to know this love growing between you and Alexia is real, people around you see it too. People you care about support it.

Your smile spreads naturally on your face when you spot Barcelona’s captain approaching, hair still wet but changed in warm clothes.

Alba doesn’t miss it, nudging you with her elbow just before her sister’s close enough to hear, “It’s good you feel ready to date again, and I’m happy it’s her”

~

“I’m going to say it just once, so listen carefully”, you stop in the middle of the road with a stoic face, “Please, don’t make me regret our entire friendship”

The grin on Elena’s lips tells you everything you need to know, but you give her the benefit of the doubt. Because she’s your best friend, because she knows how to behave.

But she’s your best friend, and she’s not going to behave.

Her visit is not unpleasant, just unexpected.

It’s barely six in the morning when loud bangs on the front door wake you up and almost scare Ricardo to death. He takes it well enough, greeting Elena and going back to sleep the shock away. You, on the other hand, think of leaving her waiting outside until it’s socially acceptable to show up. Her immediate embrace is a clever attempt to smooth your annoyance.

She booked a red-eye flight for a hit and run, so you take her around Barcelona all day and agree to a late night out in a club Alba suggested you join with some of her friends.

“Relax”, she says, skipping steps like a kid as you approach the place.

“Elena, I’m serious”

“Why are you so stressed? Oh– oh, I know!”

She turns around in her heels, too graciously for someone with shoes so high and such low alcohol tolerance – you two may not be in your early 20s anymore, but you figured pregame was necessary this time around.

Her good resolution of not drinking alcohol crumbled as soundly as it started.

“Is she here too?”

“I don’t know what–”

“This mysterious woman you can’t shut up about, who is so great you have heart-shaped eyes but I can’t know her name”, she interrupts, grabbing you by the shoulder as you approach the club’s entrance. 

It’s not like you’re hiding Alexia, or your feelings for her.

She’s a frequent topic of conversation with your best friend, you’re comfortable sharing the moments between the two of you and the way your heart beats at a completely different rhythm around the Barcelona’s captain.

But Elena can be protective, and curious.

All she needs is a name, and she’s going to find out if Alexia has ever got a bad grade in primary school. The teasing for liking a football player? You aren’t ready for that either.

“Yes, she’s here and I need you to–”

“This is the best day of my life!”, she doesn’t even let you finish, leaves you right there, flashing the bodyguard at the entrance a huge smile and sweet talking her way in – even though they have your names as vip guests.

“This is going to be the worst day of mine”, you mutter to yourself, following after her.

The energy in the club is charged with a dangerous combination of freewill and alcohol. The place is packed and colored lights go on and off with the music, bright enough to see who’s in front of you, but not enough to make your decision clear. Not tonight.

Alba sees you first, waving her hand to catch your attention so you join them in a secluded table in a corner of the place.

You don’t even ask how Elena is already seated in the cool leather booth, talking animatedly.

“She’s funny”, Alba comments after greeting you with a hug.

“Don’t believe a word she says”

The younger girl’s laugh mixes with your best friend’s, and you know your fate is sealed when a guy hands her a drink. 

You look around the table, noticing some people from Alba’s close circle and some you met in passing at the restaurant or at a Barcelona’s game.

“She’s in the bathroom”

Your body betrays you before a coherent thought can leave your brain, your cheeks redding to the tips of your ears. 

“Told you, you’re not subtle”, Alba comments, too amused at your reaction.

As if she knows you’re talking about her, as if a magnetic energy forces your body to get closer and closer, Alexia’s gaze locks with yours as she approaches the table, followed by a vaguely familiar face.

She greets you with a dimpled smile and a welcoming hug, it may look like months passed but it’s been a matter of days. The black top she’s wearing emphasizes her toned stomach, and your fingers itch to trace the subtle sheen of sweat crossing her back – a sign she’s been dancing for a while now. 

You’re fashionably late, regardless of the time Alba suggested you to be here. Spanish people are stragglers, you have learned it at your own expense.

“Are you ready?”, the footballer asks.

“For what?”

“You owe me a dance”

“Absolutely not!”, you protest, trying to escape her hug.

“Oh, yes”, she smile, her arm around your waist dragging you even closer, “You made fun of my dancing moves, now you have to prove yours”

Next time, you will think twice before sending the blonde every single comment you found online about a TikTok video one of her teammates posted after a huge win. In your defence, you find it very cute.

The dance floor is filled with people, dancing in fluid movements like you learned Spaniard are comfortable with. A sea of arms fling around, bodies smoothly moving to feel each other. The music vibrates with a bass so deep that your ribs pulses at the same rhythm.

Alexia guides you in a less crowded section, far enough from the table so Alba and Elena can study every single movement, but out of earshot. 

You try to ignore the thought of your best friend gossiping with Alba.

Thinking, however, is the last thing you do when Alexia’s hand finds the small of your back, skin waking up by the slight hint of touch.

It doesn’t really matter how you managed to get this close, how the music runs through your bodies with an unmistakable energy and desire to get even closer. Your arms rise to frame the blonde’s face, her grin growing as soon as she notices your reaction.

It’s not like either of you is hiding the attraction, the pulsing needs to be together. To talk, to touch, to be around one another. It’s always been there, you just never acted on it.

“Are they like that all the time?”, Elena asks, still studying the way you seem to speak a different language with Alexia.

“I’m thinking about locking them somewhere until they kiss or whatever”

The disbelief is clear in Elena’s voice, “Are you sure they haven’t kissed yet?”

“If I know my sister, she must be really fucking scared”

“If I know my best friend, she must be really fucking stupid”

The two nod before bursting in a loud laugh, clicking their glasses. 

Almost an half an hour later, you find them like that, giggling and talking as if they have known each other for years and not just met. Alexia raises an eyebrow, silently questioning if she needs to hold back Alba’s enthusiasm – Elena is matching it without a problem, and that’s what really worries you. 

“And that’s how she ended up with the sister of her blind date”

“That’s not how it happened, at all”, you complain, hitting your best friend’s arm as she decide telling the worst stories possible is the best way to spend the night.

“Must have been a great date”, someone jokes.

“I’m a fantastic date, thank you so much”

“I can confirm”, Alba says with a teasing grin, raising her empty glass as you flip her off with an equally open smile on your lips.

Alexia, on the other hand, straightens up a bit at the exchange, switches her gaze between the two of you, almost taken aback, “You two dated?”

“I told you”, the younger girl retorts.

“I thought you were messing with me”

The change in her posture is subtle, but you’re close enough to feel it. Close enough to notice the way she moves her knee, breaking contact with yours, her fingers toying with the ring on her pinky.

Alba is a bit too drunk to pay attention to the footballer’s dampened mood, not affected anymore by that one date with you so long ago.

She told her sister about it when she first clocked in her interest for you, hoping to clear the way for her to do something about it – a sort of blessing.

Turns out, Alexia’s so sure she was teasing her, lying about it just to annoy her.

Thankfully, your best friend reads in your face the panic and drifts the conversation on a completely different topic. 

The rest of the night passes in a blur of laughs, questionable drinking choices, and more dancing. 

Every single attempt of catching Alexia’s eyes fails miserably. She’s not ignoring you, she doesn’t leave her seat next to you, and her touch is light but grounding. Your mind, however, spirals in a way it hasn’t in months.

It’s late when the group decides to call it a day, stumbling out into the cool, damp air of Barcelona. No one is sober enough to even think of driving, the decision to summon taxis rather than risk the roads is unanimous. 

A strange intimacy settled inside the car. You and Alexia sit in the back, while Alba, in the middle, sleeps on the older woman’s shoulder with soft snores. Elena is deep in conversation with the Catalan driver, despite not speaking a word of the language. The city lights flash outside, blurred by a light drizzle that you trace with a finger against the window.

Upon reaching Alexia’s apartment, you insist on helping her carry her sister inside, ignoring her half-hearted protests. Your best friend, armed with a winning smile and a ‘thank me later’ attitude, somehow manages to convince the driver to wait for you outside.

The place is quiet when you enter, amplifying the tension that crackled between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s never uncomfortable.

You and Alexia carefully settle Alba onto the bed, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting long shadows across the guest room. Each gentle adjustment of her sister’s blanket, each soft whisper to ensure her comfort, stretched out the delicate balance. 

It’s minutes later, right by the front door, that something snaps.

Before you can reach the handle on the way out, the footballer’s fingers wrap around your wrist.

There’s urgency in the way her body feels stirred by an electric discharge all of a sudden, her voice low, “You dated?”

“What?”, your confusion is mostly prompted by Alexia’s distressed tone.

“You dated my sister?”

“No, we– I mean, we went out like one time and I was, clearly, still fucked up by my ex– It’s not like we actually dated or something”

“She said–”

“She was joking”, your hands cupping the blonde’s face seems to do wonder at calming her, but you still feel the need to clarify the situation, “I kissed her, once, then found a good therapist and said to her I wasn’t interested like that”

“Are you interested like that?”

“Alexia, I just said–”

“No, no”, she interrupts shyly, never dropping her gaze, “Are you interested in me like that?”

Despite the voices still filling doubts in your head, kissing her is the easiest, most natural thing to do at that moment. 

Her lips are soft, warm, and taste faintly of sweet drinks. Her breath mingled with yours, a shared rhythm in the quiet intimacy of the kiss.

A current of interest, desire, and care pulls you closer. There’s complicity and belonging, mingling with curiosity, and the thrill of uncharted territory.

And there’s Alexia, right in front of you, vulnerable and exposed and trusting enough to lay her emotions in your hands. Making you feel so safe that you don’t even have to think about doing the same.

So you kiss again, trying to convey how sure you are about your feelings. Because the insecurities and the questioning silence when Alexia’s heartbeat syncs with yours and her hand caresses your face.

The sharp honk coming from the taxi outside is the only reason why you separate.

~

The late afternoon sun drapes over the Barcelona streets as you and Alexia stroll, fingers laced together. 

It’s a familiar feeling now, holding hands after a date.

You have explored hidden hikes, shared tapas after her games, and even attended a couple of flamenco lessons. Nothing too different from what you’ve already experienced. 

Except, of course, for the kissing.

And there’s been a lot of that.

Your phone buzzes, interrupting Alexia’s recall of Vicky’s last attempt of convincing her to do another stupid trend. You drop her hand, your fingers flying across the screen, muttering in concentration.

The footballer raises an eyebrow, complaining playfully, “Am I annoying you?”

“It’s this stupid bird!”

“Still fighting with ser y estar?”

“I’m sorry, my Spanish teacher is a tease and gets distracted five minutes after promising to help me study”

“She sounds like an incredible teacher”, she counters, too pleased with herself as she hints at your last private tutoring.

Despite your best effort, the other woman had other plans. The sentences she whispered right at your ear, with a raspy voice and a note of teasing in every single movement of her lips, made your resolution crumble in a matter of minutes. The books, not even opened, fell off the bed with a kick of her foot.

You do, however, learn some new words.

Your cheeks flush at the memory, “Shut up!”

“I said nothing”

You ignore her grin, still welcoming her embrace as she pulls you closer to help with the lesson.

“This app is useless! Why do those Spanish animals always do weird things? It’s making me questioning my entire existence”

“Tan dramática”, Alexia snorts, nudging you with her hip, “Why are you even using that thing? You can learn everything you need from me”

“I’m trying to actually learn something here”, you retort, faking annoyance, “Besides, you’re not always available for Spanish lessons. I want to get better, impress the locals”

“After more than a year?”

“Never too late”, you grin, “Just wait, I’ll be ordering in flawless Catalan in less time than it took you to ask me out”

Alexia stops in her tracks at your teasing, taken aback by your admission and by way of calling her out for the stalling after the first kiss you shared. She may have needed a little push then, trying to find the best moment to ask you for a real date to just blur it out in the rush of a late game night you attended.

You continue walking, too focused on the lesson to acknowledge the blonde’s momentary pause.

“Wait, I thought you were taking Spanish lessons”

“Yes, from you and the stupid bird, but I have an actually tutor for Catalan”

“You’re learning Catalan?”

“I live in Barcelona”, you say, matter of factly, but the flush creeping up on your cheeks betrays you.

The truth hangs in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken. It isn’t about fitting in, not anymore. It’s about her.

To understand her better, wrapping deeply into the fabric of her world. It’s commitment, to the city and to a future that you can’t picture without her in. It’s a promise, somehow, to bridge any gap and to learn her culture, her soul. 

Alexia’s gaze lingers, the weight of your growing feelings both exhilarating and inevitable.

She told herself she set a pace comfortable for you, respecting your need to get better with loving yourself and trusting others.

But you’ve been ready for this love for quite some time now.

The way you open up with her, hold her after a long day, and gently kiss the creases around her lips when she smiles. The way you not just proudly wear your heart on your sleeve, but you hand out your emotions to be seen. The way you make her feel safe enough to be vulnerable, to be taken care of. 

The way you’re learning to love her by learning to love everything that makes her who she is.

A nervous flutter, like trapped butterflies, stirred in your stomach as Alexia catches up to you. You could feel the energy radiating from her, the subtle scent of her perfume, a mix of wood and something undeniably her.

“Estic enamorada de tu”, she confesses, cheeks slightly tinted but her voice so firm, so sure. 

“I know what that means”

A smile, genuine and carefree, grows on both your lips. You study her face for a moment, finding nothing but pure care and a force that feels like arms keeping you safe and warm.

Nothing but love. 

The way you kiss her is almost too intense for a late afternoon in the streets of Barcelona, but barely enough to convey all the emotions that you discovered and learned to welcome in your life again. 

You may not be ready to say out loud you’re falling in love with her too, not yet. But the firmness of your hands on her face, the happiness lightning in your eyes, the resolution conveyed by your kiss.

She knows.

~

On the day you declare the restaurant officially debt free, Paco lifts you up off the ground, spins you around with ease and plants a loud kiss on your forehead.

Paul’s reaction is a bit tamed, even if he declares he’s going to name his firstborn after you. Still single and hopeless romantic, you’re not sure how much to read into his words.

Pedro cries, of course he does, but he also hugs you in a way that conveys almost too much not to shed a few tears yourself.

It’s not difficult for you to admit you own them more than they own you. 

Taking care of the restaurant’s ledger and the guys’ enthusiastic opinion about your accounting job opened a lot of small businesses’ doors. The idea of opening your own office never even crosses your mind, not planning on entangling yourself in a structured system anytime soon. The new apartment you rent has a small room that works just fine as a study.

You will still keep an eye on them, though, not sure enough your finance lessons really drilled in their heads. 

“So, you’re finally letting us treat you with dinner?”, Paul asks, serving you up with way too many pleasantries. 

“I already have someone who pays for me”, you retort, playful smirk on your lips.

“¡Ay, I thought you were taking me out tonight!”, Alexia complains next to you, keeping up with the joke as she pretends to not be interested in the food anymore. She can be such a dork.

“Wait, am I crushing a date?”, Alba intercepts from the other side of the table.

“You’ve been crushing our dates since the day we met!”

The laughs that erupt are loud enough to catch the attention of the other patrons, thankfully not really annoyed by the chaos. The truth is that, despite being a menace of a group, it is not like you can drag your friends in any other place without the risk of getting banned forever. 

It’s a familiar scene. The restaurant feels like a second home now, one that you built on your own around people that truly see you, support you and never miss a chance to tease you.

So you shake your head at Ricardo’s antics and glare at Alexia when she keeps teasing her sister, effortlessly distracting her with light movements of your fingers on her knee. 

The conversation flows between shared memories and inside jokes, carrying the night away until your table is the only one left. Not planning on leaving the place anytime soon. And as you sit there, surrounded by your friends, questionable recalling of stories, and the magnetic pull of Alexia’s presence, you just know that this is it. 

This is your life, your love, your chosen family.

Then Pedro has to ruin the moment, persuading everyone you have to make a toast for whatever reason. You try to fight it, embarrassed and quite frankly taken aback by the respect and genuine admiration this people seems to feel for you. 

A subtle nod of your girlfriend’s head, her hand finding yours beneath the table, is all you need to indulge with their antics.

“To us”, you say, raising a glass, “To finally getting our shit together!”

Laughter and cheers fill the restaurant, everyone congratulating each other for the most random things and joking around as if life could always be this simple.

Alexia’s hold tightens, her eyes meeting yours. Her face lights up in a way that never fails to make your own heart grow. 

“T’estimo”, you whisper, just for her to hear. 

Your love is usually so loud. A love that grows unexpectedly, but burns with a fierce and tender flame. But your promises are quiet. A silent acknowledgment of commitment that goes beyond, that stretches confidently into the future. 

Together.

[arabella-syntax]

chasing a ghost

exactly what you run from, you end up chasing. (angst -> happy ending)

tw- mentions internalised homophobia. it's not intense, but the story is based around it. it has a happy ending though, of course!

Everyone always says your first love sticks with you throughout your whole life. And for you, those words were a haunting truth you could never shake.

No matter how far you went, no matter how many years passed. It still rung true. Your worst fear was that it always would.

The last ten years of your life had been all over the place– literally. After the breakup, you took a gap year, because the pain after it was that intense you felt you had no other option. So, you decided to travel the world with nothing but the bag on your back, looking for an answer to your life that made such a pain worth it– not knowing the thing you were chasing was the exact thing you were running from.

You started in Spain, in Barce- in the city where you fell in love. Though, you haven't returned since you left. 

University was fun, you enjoyed it more than you thought you would. Even more so when you met the love of y- your first love. She was shy, at first. But you caught glimpses of her when she was with her friends in the study hall, when she’d come out of her shell and say something that would have them all laughing until they were shushed. When she would smile so brightly you swore the lights dimmed and a spotlight shone on her, or when she’d always wait behind for the last person in the group to tidy their stuff as the others raced off to wherever they were going next. 

You studied her from afar for weeks, spending more time doing that than studying your actual course, but it paid off when you accidentally, not-so-accidentally, bumped into her one time as she rushed from one lecture hall to the other, and the… football under her arm went tumbling down the hallway. 

A football? You remembered thinking then. Why would someone bring a football to their lecture?

“A football?” You scrunched your nose as you turned to watch the neon orange thing roll out of sight.

“Oh, s-sí. I know it is weird.” She chuckled nervously, her hand rubbing the back of her neck as her eyes darted all over your face, the football the last thing on her mind. “I have training after my next lecture. For football.”

“Well, I think you’re going to be late to your next lecture if you want to get your ball back.” You told her in amusement, hearing the commotion of a group of boys jeering over the sight of such a miraculous object appearing in front of them. 

Alexia’s eyes went wide, jumping off her train of thought and back down onto solid ground, where the aforementioned group of people, that resembled entertained cavemen watching a fire or gorillas cheering at their next meal, still had her beloved ball.

“No! I need that back!” She ran ahead, before halting a moment later when she heard your laugh behind her. So she turned back around, jogged over to you, stumbling over the cartoon love hearts swirling around her mind as she tried to find the words to say, then giggled sheepishly at herself. “Sorry for running into you. I will hopefully see you around.”

“See you around.” You replied, though she was already chasing after her prized possession before you got a chance to say it. The feeling you got after hearing her say ‘hopefully’ was a little embarrassing, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t love it.

And fortunately for you, you did see her around, quite often actually to the point where you weren’t sure if it was actually a coincidence or not. At one point, it was like the two of you unknowingly formed a routine; you would finish your first lecture at 11:30am, walk as fast as you could over to the other building where your 12pm lecture was and wait for her to arrive for her 11:45 lecture. She would arrive five minutes before she had to go in, and you’d spend that time talking together, laughing, teasing, checking in with each other, until she had to leave. Even still, she would wait until the last second before she’d be classed as late to go in, just so she could talk to you. 

Then, it progressed to meeting her for study sessions together in the library. One day, your friends on your course were somehow all off sick, and her friends were apparently not important to her when she knew you would be alone. So, without too much of a fuss, she quietly and nervously invited you to study with her, where you both spent the whole time trying to study but were actually just too excited about being together one-on-one with nobody else around to get anything done. No chaos of the corridor, no boys trying to take her football, no friends to tease you. The whole time, however, that damn football was there with you, positioned at her feet under the table as she messed with it throughout the duration of the session. 

It was there that you realised studying and education wasn’t her best skill; she was smart, very smart, her mind just seemed a million miles away everytime. All too often you’d have to tell her to concentrate when she had spent too long looking out the window at the football pitch, or you’d quietly scold her for trying to do kick-ups in the library or whenever she tried to nutmeg you when you just wanted to get through the week’s reading assignment. She never cared for grades or essays or quizzes, all she wanted was to play football.

That meant it wasn’t such a surprise to you when, on a random day after the Christmas break, she rushed in to meet you at your infamous spot outside what should have been her 11:45 lecture and, when you told her off for how she was about to be late, she smiled a smug grin and shrugged you off. Then she told you she had dropped out of University like it was nothing, before spinning you around and demanding she walked you to your lecture. She didn’t give you time to scold her like you often did, because she tugged you out of the way of people in the corridor outside the door to your lecture and kissed you, for the first time, out of nowhere, only for her to pull away and kiss your cheek in goodbye as she gently ushered you towards the door. 

You had to thank whatever god was up there that that particular lecture wasn’t too important because you don’t remember a thing about it. All you could think about throughout was the way she had pulled you in, wrapped her arms around your waist, and leaned down to kiss you with such tenderness yet such confidence that you weren’t sure you could ever be the same person again afterwards. For something so small, you felt it changed you, and though it might have been just a kiss, it opened a door for you to a version of yourself you didn’t know existed. 

After that day, you walked around with your head held high, sometimes uncertain if you were walking or skipping since you felt that much joy. You couldn’t view the world around you as ordinary anymore, everything around you seemed more vivid, the smaller things felt more significant and the bigger things less important. That kiss was a spark that ignited something… profound; changing not just your relationship with her, but who you were as a person.

You were on cloud nine with her, the kind of happiness that felt never-ending and all-consuming. That reassured you, especially in moments where you two bickered or felt a little distant as she travelled for football. You were almost certain it’d go on forever.

Every glance, every touch, every word between you, they were all things you cherished. The relationship was something sacred, just for the two of you, and you could have sworn it made your heart soar far from your chest. More often than not, you felt invincible in her company. For the first time in your life, love wasn’t a distant daydream or a wish for the future, it was something real, something that was undeniably yours that no one could take from you. No one but yourself.

Your relationship with her grew and grew, until a year of stolen kisses in the private of your rooms, a year of pinkies linked under dinner tables whilst out with your friends, a year of being just friends to everyone else but the loves of your lives to each other, a year of complete and unconditional love passed without you realising. 

“Ale, where the hell are you taking me?” You giggled, two cold hands covering your eyes as you were led somewhere by your silent girlfriend. Not that you could see, there was a huge grin on her face as she guided you to a place she had been desperate to take you ever since she met you.

“You will find out. Two more seconds, then you see.” It was all going smoothly until she led you a bit too far and you walked head first into… a gate? “Oops, lo siento, mi amor. I did not mean to, I couldn’t see how close we were, your head was in my way.”

“My head was in your way? You i- you’re the one covering my eyes! Pendeja.” You muttered, but then she lifted her hands off your face and you were met with… a football pitch. “Are you kidding me?”

“Happy one year anniversary.” Alexia smiled brightly, not at all phased by the unimpressed look on your face. “You are going to play football with me.”

“Am I really.” You scoffed, taking in the sight of the miserably grey sky and the aftermath of the morning’s rain in the form of a repulsively muddy field.

“You will. What’s that saying? Something… something about, ah, el sentido del humor?” She mumbled, waving one of her hands in the air like the wind would blow the words to her mind as she opened the gate with the other.

“You want me to humour you?” You turned back to her, desperately suppressing a smile at the way her eyes widened and she clapped her hands when you gave her the right turn of phrase.

“Eso mismo! It will be fun, come on.” 

“It’s not even our one year yet, you’re early.” You crossed your arms over your chest in one last show of defiance, when as a matter of fact, you were convinced the minute you saw the excitement on her face.

“I know but it is a year since I kissed you and that’s what started everything.” The brunette girl shrugged, tucking her hands in the pockets of her joggers.

“I think what started everything was me bumping into you when you were running.” Her jaw dropped in a very comedic way then.

“So you did do it on purpose! I knew it!” She exclaimed, walking closer and jabbing an accusing finger into your chest. You stepped backwards and laughed as she shuffled yet closer, moving into your space and pulling you into her for a hug. It was only brief and when she leaned back, her arms still around you, she shook her head in disbelief at your past antics, before softening. “Well, I did think about that date too, but I had a game that day and you had an important presentation so… I decided to do it today.”

You smiled in spite of yourself and left a kiss on her chin.

“And you thought bringing me to play football on a muddy field in the middle of winter was a good idea?” She smirked and nodded, clearly confident in her abilities to convince you.

“I have always wanted you to play it with me but you always say no. But I think, since I was the one that kissed you in the beginning, you should do this for me.” You rolled your eyes and she grinned at you as you did so, her thumbs drawing circles where they’d slipped under your jumper on your hips. “I bought you boots and everything! Also a shirt with your name on it but my number, but it is too cold for that so I left it at home. And, if you do this with me, we can have a shower together after and I wash your hair and give you a massage.”

“I was going to agree anyway but sure, I’ll take that deal.” You told her a moment later after some faux consideration, to which she clicked her tongue in response and lifted you up over her shoulder. “Oh, well, what a lovely view I have here of your- ow!”

But the magic wore off, and the whispers started.

Not from anyone else, from yourself. At first, you ignored them, turning your nose up at them and shrugging them off, thinking they were stupid because of how right it felt to be in her arms. But they were insistent, determined to make an imprint on you and the love you wanted to give. Eventually they did. And the secrecy of your relationship began to feel like a double-edged sword that cut deeper with every passing day. You needed help, needed someone to stop the barrage of insecurities that you never wanted to face, never imagined you’d have to. But it felt like a life and death matter, keeping it a secret. You believed you had no other choice. And voicing these anxieties to her, the very subject of the situation, wasn’t even an option in your mind.

You told yourself it was safer to keep it a secret, to make sure your love was safe from the cruelty of the world and its society, yet with each lie you told and each delusion you convinced yourself of, a piece of your identity was chipped away. She had a front-row seat to every part of you that slipped out of her grasp.

At some point, you even stopped recognising the person you saw in the mirror. What was once a reflection of somebody in love, brimming with hope and excitement for not only the future but for every moment you spent in the present with your girlfriend, soon turned into someone cautious, afraid, who constantly looked over their shoulder. The fear consumed you until it was hard to breathe. And in turn, you found yourself pulling away from others because you couldn’t bear lying to them any longer, whilst also not possessing the strength to tell them the truth. 

If anyone asked that past version of you why you did it, you’d tell them it was to protect both her and yourself. In reality, you knew that was such a pathetic lie. It couldn't even be called an excuse. 

Something that once brought you more fulfillment and happiness than anything else in your life soon felt like a cinder brick chained to your leg, like stones and gravel in your pockets, dragging you down until you were drowning from the expectations you thought were put on you by the world, when they really just your own.

Alexi- she grew antsy and uneasy. You begged to keep it under wraps for just a few more weeks. 

She wanted to tell people; she might have been shy at first glance, but she was the kind of person whose love demanded to be seen, she didn’t survive by keeping it contained to the shadows. Every time she looked at you, her feelings for you were written all over her face – the joy, the pride, the desperation to share her love for you with everyone that mattered. To her, you were something worth sharing with the world. She dreamed of the day she could introduce who you really were to her with her family, her friends, with anyone that would listen.

Initially, she understood why you were hesitant. Like you’d always told her, she was smart. She knew why you were reluctant to tell people, she just had no idea how deep that ‘reluctance’ ran. One of your favourite traits of hers ended up being the beginning of the end; she was exceptionally good at reading people and figuring out what was happening before it had even happened. She saw the way you shrank into yourself when people looked your way, how you would purposely lower your voice when talking about the pair of you. She tried to be patient, but it wasn’t easy. 

Each time she caught herself smiling at you in public, the same smile that made you blush because you could see and feel her love for you, she knew she had to suppress it for your sake. That caused an ache to grow in her chest, the fact she had to dim her own light to quell your worries. Because it wasn’t just the secrecy that hurt, it was the feeling that she wasn’t allowed to love you as wholeheartedly as she wanted to.

Weeks turned into months and she tried to give you your space to work it through, but soon enough she felt like she was in a relationship with a ghost. A shell of a person. And in all honesty, to her, it felt like rejection, even though she knew that wasn’t your intention. However, her assurance in that began to falter. She began to wonder if her love wasn’t enough, if she wasn’t enough. She prided herself on being someone that was confident and sure, but the longer she spent feeling like a bird in a cage, she found herself questioning everything.

Why couldn’t you see what she saw? That your love was worth the risk?

There were more nights than she could count where she spent hours laying awake, the darkness doing little to calm her racing mind. Most of the time, you were sleeping beside her, either cuddled to her side or facing away from her. The times you chose to snuggle up to her were the worst nights, where she didn’t get an ounce of sleep as it was like she could almost feel the fear radiating off of you. It reached a point where she felt trapped between wanting to honour your insecurities and needing to honour her own heart. The longer you rejected the idea of telling people, the more she felt like a secret, something to be hidden rather than openly cherished. 

Though she never wanted to make you feel guilty, there was a loneliness that settled inside of her, and there was a growing distance she felt from you that she had no idea how to bridge without it inevitably ending in one thing.

She never stopped loving you for a second, how could she? But the weight of carrying that love alone eventually became unbearable. As much as she tried to resist that, it was there anyway. It soon led to her feeling like she was losing the person she wanted to be, someone that wanted their love to be visible, that wanted to celebrate it with the people she valued most in her life. So she made a choice.

After that, you couldn’t stay in Barcelona. You couldn't stomach the place any longer when every street corner and every park and every restaurant solely served as a reminder of the good memories that were a thing of the past. Even saying the name of the city sent your head and your heart to a dark place. So did saying her name. 

Back then, you couldn’t figure out who you were; torn between the person you wanted to be and the person you thought you had to be. So you went travelling, to immerse yourself in any and all cultures, to meet new people, to try new things, in the hopes of finding yourself again.

Except, every single word that was exchanged in that final conversation still echoed in your mind no matter where you went.

You sat in cafes halfway across the world and saw her in the steam from your coffee that just so happened to be the same one she used to have every morning. You flew over countless countries and saw her in every stadium you passed by. You saw her in every blade of grass, in every speck of sand, in every sunrise and sunset, before you had to remind yourself that she wasn’t yours to think about anymore.

It had been years, almost a decade, since your first kiss with her, and you could still vividly remember how it played out, how the warmth and the softness of her lips caught you off guard, how she smirked at you after kissing your cheek in goodbye before sending you into your lecture. That spontaneous moment – well, spontaneous for you, for her it had been precariously planned – was some kind of cruel foreshadow that haunted you; it had happened in public, the pair of you could have been open from the very start, the irony of it had never been lost on you. Perhaps the warning signs might have been there from the start. 

“Our first kiss was in public, it was in front of so many people, but now I can’t even smile at you too much when we’re out together.”

“Don’t say that. You’re the one that initiated our first kiss in public, I didn’t.”

“So, what, you would change how it happened?”

“M… maybe, yeah.”

You knew, as soon as you said that last thing, the relationship was over. To this day you still don’t know why you said it, you wouldn’t change a thing about the relationship or her as a person. It was just another example of you being too terrified to be honest with who you were. 

By the time you accepted that it was okay to be who you were, there was only one person you wanted. But by then, that ship had long sailed. You didn’t want anyone, you wanted her. Forcing yourself to believe otherwise felt like carving out a part of your heart. It was almost as hard as having to hear her break up with you over a fear you didn’t even know you had until she ran into your life. As a result, she was long gone, and you didn’t even blame her.

Eventually, you managed to persuade yourself you didn’t want her. It was better that way. And though you weren’t quite whole, you did find yourself through travelling. It just… you still felt like something was missing.

—

Dropping out of University wasn’t ideal, but like most other people that did the same thing, you saw too much beauty in the world on your gap year to be restrained to a 9-5 for the rest of your life. You were fortunate enough to find a company that allowed you to pick up odd jobs here and there of your choosing, in any country of your choosing. It was a dream, you felt free when you weren't ruminating on the events that led you to this point.

Each city you visited became a second home for however long you spent there, though every fleeting connection you made with their locals was a futile attempt to paint over the memories from your past. Nothing could fill the void left behind, but still, you jumped from country to country, telling yourself that planes and hotels and hole-in-the-wall bars were the places you were supposed to be. 

Finding yourself walking home from the closest corner shop to your hotel at the dead of night past one of Sydney’s most well-known clubs, only to stumble across her standing outside its entrance, was the most suffocated and trapped you had felt since the days after you saw her last– nine years ago.

You stopped in your tracks some distance away from her, your eyes locking with hers as she froze, body going rigid at the sight of you. Nothing could have prepared you to see her that night, you really weren’t ready to see her again at all especially with zero warning. Sure, you dreamt of seeing her again, of being back in each other’s lives like no time had passed at all, but actually seeing her was a whole different story. 

You didn’t know what to do.

“I never thought I would see you again.” Alexia, with pink hair and an unnecessarily large gold medal around her neck, stated first. “Qué coño haces aquí?”

The viciousness of her voice caught you off-guard, because throughout your whole relationship including the ending argument, she had never once sounded like that. Though, nine years had passed, maybe she had changed. For the worst.

So, you walked right past her, not in the mood to entertain a fight with an ex. 

“I was talking to you.” She called after you, sounding somewhat shocked you had the audacity to walk past her like she was nothing more than a stranger. But, in this state, she was. It seemed the years had hardened her into someone that was just a stranger. 

“Maybe I don’t want to talk to you.” You fired back as you continued to walk, and you thought that was that. But then you heard the breaking of glass as Alexia dropped her bottle of beer into the nearest bin and followed you.

“You know, it is the least I deserve after how you treated me back then.” She knew exactly the right thing to say to get you to react.

“If you had half a brain and any sense of sympathy, you would know I didn’t do any of it to hurt you.” You fought back, turning to face her and wanting nothing more than to slap the triumphant smirk off of her face. 

“Now that is a lie. How would that make it okay? That the person I love didn’t love me enough to let me tell my family at least?” 

Almost a decade’s worth of anger was being unleashed on you and there was nothing you could do to stop it. You knew you deserved it, but were too riled up in the moment to sit there and take it. So you retaliated, because the woman in front of you was being selfish and too big-headed to see why you did it, and if she still didn’t understand after nine years, it was her own fault.

“Of course I loved you enough, I loved you more than I could ever say. Have you, on the off chance, ever heard of something called anxiety? Ever heard of a thing called fear, and depression, or even just mental health overall?”

When Alexia won her first Champion’s League, you purposely went out of your way to ignore the news, because it seemed after that title her name was never out of it. So, even though her face was all over the newspapers during the summer you spent in London, detailing the severity of her injury and what that meant for Spain’s chances, you didn’t know a thing about it. 

You matched her immaturity, completely unaware of the fact she had just spent the best part of a year out of playing action, during which she had so desperately wished she had you by her side to help her through one of the worst moments of her life. In the first couple months, she had been forced to see a therapist, she had been diagnosed with depression, and what she learnt in those sessions was that all the mental pain she felt then came circling right back to you.

Alexia had thrown herself into football after breaking up with you, seeking refuge in the one thing that had never let her down all her life. But then she tore her ACL, and it had let her down, and suddenly the emptiness of her bed and her chest was the only thing on her mind. There were days where she never left the house, where she didn’t do her stretches, didn’t get up from the sofa to keep her leg moving. There were days where all she thought about was you, and how different things might have been if the two of you weren’t so young back then.

Maybe if she was more patient, you two would have made it, and her gruelling rehab wouldn’t have been so challenging. But she was on her own, she had no one to wake up for in the morning, no shoulder to cry on, no one to reassure her in the middle of the night when she couldn’t sleep that she’d get through this. She just had to get on with it. 

So to see you stood in front of her only mere months after she'd made her return, despite winning the biggest title of her career, it was like she’d finally woken up from the numb headspace she’d been in since the pop in her knee the summer before. Only, the words that came out of her mouth weren’t her true feelings. She had no idea where they were coming from, but they were out before she could stop them. And then it was too late to go back on her words, because by the time she regretted them, you hit back with accusations that stoked the fire that had been extinguished by her progress in therapy. She reverted back to how she felt before her injury, when she still loathed you with every fibre of being, and let out every ounce of pain and fury she had carried with her for years.

However, after you said that, the Barcelona captain came up empty for a reply.

“Times have changed. Things were different then.” You continued on, and it was obvious that too long had passed in the way you couldn't read her face anymore. You completely missed the sorrow and regret on her face, and instead took it for disdain.

“I kno-”

“You don't know a thing.” You laughed maliciously. “You have no idea how I felt or what was going on in my mind. All you did was blame me and run away.”

Just as Alexia had gone to apologise and go back on everything she said, you took things a step further. You were disappointed in yourself for it, but you felt there was no other option but to meet her anger and one-up her, to fight for the last laugh. It was so wrong to address each other in such ways, you both recognised that. Not that it stopped either of you.

“I did not run away, you did. You haven't come home since we broke up and I think that says it all, no?”

“There is no home for me in Barcelona anymore.” Alexia physically recoiled at your statement, and you saw it. You saw the guilt slip away from her eyes and the anger return to them. But it was too late to do anything.

“Well, it looks like it was worth it for the both of us, the breakup. You got to travel and I have the best medal I could get around my neck.” 

Your eyes flicked down to the medal and you read the words on it – Women’s World Cup. It was her biggest dream, you remembered countless times she’d be with you, her eyes with that far away look she often got and a dreamy smile on her face as she thought of her future and all she knew she could achieve, as long as the world and the sport allowed her.

“What are you thinking about?” You asked her one night as you wandered into your bedroom to see her lay in  bed, hands rested under her head as she stared at the ceiling. 

“Football.” She murmured, eyes unmoving, like her entire future was projected on the ceiling in some kind of montage, flickers of trophies and awards passing on by.

“How romantic.” You scoffed, getting into bed beside her and immediately moving to rest your head on her chest with one leg swung across her thighs. “What about football?”

“I am just… excited. There is so much to look forward to.” She whispered in awe, a smile on her face so intense it creased into the corners of her eyes. The sight of it had you smiling too.

“There is.” You sighed contently, before lifting your head up to look at her, and she looked down. “You’ll do such amazing things, Ale. I know you will.”

Somehow, her face softened, and she let out a disbelieving breath as she turned her gaze back to the damn ceiling.

“I hope so.” The midfielder said quietly, as if it was a jinx to speak any louder.

“You will. But you can’t forget me along the way. I want all your medals hung up in our house when we’re older.” Alexia chuckled gently at that, and she leaned down to kiss the top of your head.

“You can have all my medals, you will be right there with me. Me, you, our families. Maybe a family of our own.”

The memory seemed to jump to your minds at the same time, judging by how you met each other’s eyes a moment after you initially looked at the now taunting object that glimmered under the street lamps and city lights around. Her past promise, which had seemed so… eternal and meaningful in that moment, was hardly recognisable. The eyes you stared at weren’t the same either. They were cold and antagonistic, far from the warmth that was once there, the warmth that drew you in in the first place.

It was that revelation that allowed you to continue this animosity.

“Oh yeah? Good for you. I’m sure you and your gold medal will make great kids together.”

“Fuck you. I don’t even know who you are anymore.” 

Alexia knew she’d won with that one; she turned around with a shake of her head and headed back to the club whilst you were rooted to the spot, wondering how everything could go so wrong in a matter of minutes. 

You don’t know who you are either. 

—

That day, in Australia, it wrecked you. Wholly and completely.

It was the nail in the coffin that was your sense of self, because if the one person that never left your thoughts for even a day thought of you like that, then you were lost. Truly lost. 

For nine years, whether you knew it or not, you’d been waiting every day to turn a corner and see her standing there. You imagined walking up to her, tears in your eyes and a smile on your face, an expression she reflected when she opened her arms for you to step into. You’d had her hugs for a year, you’d memorised them well, nine years couldn’t erase that and neither could a lifetime. You would always remember the strength she hugged you with and how secure they made you feel in everything. In yourself, in your life, in your love. But to have that same person tell you they don’t recognise you was an unfathomable heartbreak.

No matter where you went in the time after that, the pain never went away. Ever since you realised you’d never be who you was when you were with Alexia, no matter how many places you travelled or how many people you met, how many jobs you did or how many degrees you could get, you wouldn’t feel as settled and happy without her. And, in fact, with time, the ache in your heart only grew. It ached and groaned in your hollow chest as you dragged it around the world when it called for one place and one place only. Or rather, one person.

But said person had made their dislike clear to you. So that option was more unlikely than it’d ever been before. 

Not impossible, however. 

Because Alexia couldn’t hate herself more for saying so many lies. For being so disgraceful in how she presented herself to someone she still thought so highly of. Most importantly, for making that person think otherwise about her opinion of them.

In the years after she saw you last, when she walked out of your apartment to the sound of your cries behind her, she’d subconsciously searched for you in every person she met. Any habit they had, any slight familiarity in appearance even if it was one freckle in the same place, any similar interests. It was wrong and she knew it was, when she looked back. All the people she hurt, the people who thought they had a chance with her against the idolised version of her first love in her mind, they didn’t deserve her. And after Sydney, she didn’t deserve you either.

When she said those vile things to you, she hoped she would feel some kind of… closure from it. Some kind of catharsis in the fact she could finally close the chapter of her life that had you on her mind all the time. Instead there was just a deep and gnawing disappointment that followed her everywhere she went. From her bed, to training, to her mother’s house – especially her mother’s house, for the wise woman always loved to remind her of what she’d lost – and even to her games as she lined up in the tunnel beforehand.

Her disappointment towards you had dissolved years ago, this disappointment was entirely aimed at herself. She hated how she had let her anger, that she didn’t even feel anymore, overshadow the love that had once defined the both of you. It still did, just in a different and entirely soul-crushing way. The love clung to her heart like a wound that refused to heal, even after all these years.

Ever since she made the hardest decision she had ever had to make, cutting you out of her life, she had spent so much time moving forwards, pushing herself to be stronger, to achieve more, hoping it would erase the memory of you and numb the pain she felt. That failed, however. The only thing she failed at. Seeing you again had broken the dam that stored all her feelings for you and let them flood her mind again. She felt more broken after that confrontation than she had in a long time.

Alexia hadn’t blamed you for some time, and she wasn’t sure why, the second you were in front of her, that she acted like she did. Nobody compared to you and nobody ever would. The fact she made such a horrible comment, one her aggravated self knew would hurt you, did irrevocable things to her view of herself. She never thought she could stoop so low, but she did. She didn’t know how to come back from it.

The version of you she saw that day, the version of you she knew didn’t exist and was only a retaliation to her own hostility, was not the version that stuck in her head the months after that. It was the person she fell in love with when she was only twenty. And it was that version she got when she was getting led out of a bar in Paris, a year after the World Cup, this time with no medal to her name, just a missed penalty.

It was the exact same setup a year onwards, but things were so much different. For starters, you weren’t in Paris for work, you were on a break, and of course the one city in the world you ran to for respite was the same one she was in. However, the sight of two members of security walking out of a bar behind the star you knew Alexia as now was enough concern in itself for you to abandon your friends, who had no idea who the blonde was both as a celebrity and a person of the past to you. Your nerves were fried and you were reluctant to speak to her again, but as soon as you got within two feet of her, you grimaced at how the smell of alcohol radiated off her and knew instantly it was the right thing to do.

“I’ll take her, sorry for… whatever she’s done.” You said to the workers, who rolled their eyes and left you with the drunken mess she was.

“No, you don’t have to take me. You d-don’t deserve to. N-not me.” 

Her words were slurred and there was an overwhelming amount of emotion in her voice. The state of her combined with those two things was enough to convince you this time around with her would be different. Different in what way, you weren’t sure. But she could hardly walk on her own, you couldn’t leave anyone in this way, nevermind someone like her who… still meant so much to you.

“Come on, I’ll take you back to where you’re staying, make sure you get there safe.” You had to be sensible then, and focusing on the softness of her skin when you lifted her arm up around your shoulders and held onto her hand was not sensible. “Do you know your hotel?”

She rattled off some more drunk nonsense until you managed to pick out the name of a hotel in her words as you wrapped your arm around her waist to steady her. Fortunately, it wasn’t too far from where you were. And despite her current state, she was unnervingly silent on the walk there. It wasn’t until you made it to the hotel lobby you chanced a look at her and saw a steady stream of tears down her face. 

When you saw her like that then, it didn’t matter how many years had passed. It upset you to see her cry then as much as it did when you used to be the one she went to in these cases. Yet, in this scenario, you weren’t that person and you didn’t know how to deal with that.

“Hey, do you have your card on you, Ale?” The nickname slipped out of you, and it was a bad move, judging by the cries that came out of her afterwards. “Okay, alright.”

Since you couldn’t get much out of her, you dragged her over to the reception desk, and it took little convincing for them to hand over a spare keycard considering the sobbing mess that Alexia was.

The whole walk to the elevator, you felt helpless as her shoulders shook, torn between wanting to say something and thinking it was best to stay quiet for the time being since you knew you were probably part of the reason she was like she was. The ride up to her floor was even worse; all you could do was stand there, arm around her and hand in hand, listening to the pain pouring out of her. It sent you spiralling, almost, thinking of the years apart where she’d been like this with no one to help her like you were now.

All you wanted to do was wipe away her tears, to embrace her, to tell her everything was okay. But that was entirely unrealistic, because you had no idea where you stood with her and telling someone in her state that everything was okay was entirely meaningless. Seeing her so vulnerable and so wrecked was a reminder of exactly how much she meant to you. 

So, it was in that elevator, you made a split-second decision; from that moment on, you were going to do anything to fix this ridge between you. You had her a year ago but royally screwed up your chance. You had her ten years ago and screwed up that chance too. You weren’t about to let history repeat itself for the third time.

“Here we go, you sit down here, okay? I’ll be back in a minute.” You carefully urged her to sit on the armchair in her room, and she did, but only for about a second. When she saw you walk away from her, she shot up out of her chair, mumbling some rushed Spanish you couldn’t quite make out as she tried to follow wherever you were going. “I’m just getting you some water from the fridge.”

“Don’t go.” She sighed heavily, her eyelids drooping slightly from the alcohol in her system mixed with the overload of emotions from the day she’d had. She sounded wrecked when she spoke, and she looked at you with a desperation that made your heart stop. “Please don’t go. Not… not again.”

You nodded reassuringly, heading back over to her and tentatively taking hold of one of her hands. She immediately brought it up to her lips and kissed your knuckles, some more tears making their way out.

“I’m not going anywhere. Not right now.” You told her quietly, watching as she closed her eyes, maybe in relief, before she slumped back down into the chair. Her head fell back and you heard some more cries from her, but she seemed to be making as much an effort as she could to stifle them. That was perhaps more heartbreaking than the sound of her sobs. “Here you go. Drink some water.”

With shaking hands, she managed to get the bottle open after a few tries, and you sat on the edge of the bed across from her. Some minutes passed by as you gazed at her and she calmed down, and weirdly, it didn’t feel uncomfortable or charged with vitriol like it did last time. Things seemed to be… in the past. Of course, all the emotions and feelings were still there, both of you could sense the elephant in the room and you didn’t dance around it for too long before one of you spoke.

“How… how did we end up like this.” Alexia mumbled. You didn’t have an answer for her. There was too much to say but it didn’t feel like anything could cover it.

“I don’t know.” You whispered back. The blonde tore her eyes away from the label of the water bottle that she messed with and met your gaze. The concerned look on your face made her smile, just for a second. “I really don’t know.”

“I want you to know that I am sorry. For my part in everything.” She rushed out like she was afraid of your reaction, her attention back on the water bottle she’d gotten through half of already.

The apology caught you by surprise. You weren’t sure what you were expecting but it wasn’t that.

“I’m sorry too.” You replied some time after. 

It also caught Alexia by surprise as well, if the way her head snapped up at you and her eyebrows raised and her eyes widened was anything to go by. You smiled shyly at her, only for the hopeful glint in her eyes to cause your breath to hitch in your throat. It was the first time in… well, the first time ever, that you felt this rift could be fixed. She seemed to want the same thing, and you hoped to god that the alcohol in her system wasn’t affecting her clarity.

“Why did you come here? At the bar, why did you help me?” She wondered, her eyebrows pinched together then, seemingly confused.

“Because no matter what’s happened between us, I couldn’t leave you like that. You seemed like you needed help.” You answered initially, before pausing for a second. Alexia nodded for you to continue. “What happened today, Ale? For you to get like this?”

The midfielder huffed, fidgeting in her seat and blinking away yet more tears that tried to fight their way out.

“I… there is a lot on my mind. Has been for a while. And my team, Spain, we were playing an important game today. For an Olympic medal. I…” She frowned, turning her head so that you couldn’t see her face. She seemed ashamed of herself when she spoke again. “I missed a penalty that would have made us level, it would have given us a chance and I… I missed it.”

The bottle dropped to the floor as she covered her face with her hands, her chest heaving as she leaned forwards to rest her elbows on her knees, shoulders shaking again like they did earlier. The sobs leaving her, much like before, were difficult to hear because they sounded like they’d been repressed for far longer than a few hours. Before you could react, though, she was talking again.

“I have missed so many big chances. I missed today. I missed last year with you. I messed up my knee twice. I messed up with you when I broke up with you. I can’t… do anything right.”

As soon as she finished, you were up from your seat and heading over to kneel in front of her. You gently pulled her hands from her face and wrapped your arms around her, encouraging her to do the same as she leaned her forehead against your shoulder. And for a while, the two of you stayed like that. Alexia cried and cried until she exhausted herself, you weren’t sure how long she went on, but you weren’t going to stop her at any point. She needed that more than anything else.

Until she pulled back suddenly and put her hands on your cheeks, cradling them tenderly and stroking her thumbs across your cheekbones. You weren’t expecting it, but… you didn’t stop it either. Even when she leaned down and pressed her forehead against yours.

“So much time has gone by. I haven’t forgotten you, cariño, I told you I never would.” She said, her voice hoarse and hardly there. “I never forgot you, never will.”

You wanted to tell her how you felt, wanted to tell her that hearing her say that was the best thing you’d heard in ten years, wanted to tell her you still loved her. But the time wasn’t right.

“Thank you.” You decided to say, and you saw how her face fell, before she quickly disguised her disappointment and gave a tight-lipped smile instead. “You’re exhausted, Ale. You should go to bed, get some rest. Sleep this off.”

“What will you do?” The fear and the anxiety in her tone then, you knew all too well. It was exactly what you felt back then and the resemblance gave you goosebumps. How things had changed.

“I’ll stay for a little while. As long as you get in bed and try to rest.” 

Thankfully, she did as you said, and no more than ten minutes later, the blonde was under the covers with only the small bedside lamp on so that you could see. She lay on her stomach facing away from where you sat against the headboard beside her, finally having a second to think for yourself and process all that had happened. The thing you landed on first, the main feeling you could identify, was how overwhelmed you felt. You couldn’t think clearly when she was in bed next to you. 

When you thought she was asleep, her breathing even and quiet compared to how she was before when she was worked up, you took a chance and leaned down to leave a kiss on her shoulder. It seemingly went off without a hitch, so with tears of your own forming, you quietly got off the bed and headed towards the door.

“You leaving?” Alexia asked in a half-asleep mumble. When you paused with your hand on the handle, she waited a minute before carrying on. “It’s okay. See you around. Hopefully.” 

—

It was inevitable that you’d end up back here. Back in the city you met her.

After she’d said that phrase to you, the same phrase that really started it all, you knew it was only a matter of time before you saw her again. Because that time in Paris, it had been different. 

If someone asked you why, you would say you weren’t sure. It was a gut feeling, not a certainty. The same gut feeling that took you around the world even though it seemed nothing ever truly surmounted from it. However, in the end, something had. It led you back to Alexia.

After you closed the door to her hotel room behind her once you left, you leaned back against it and put a hand over your mouth to cover your own cries that forced their way out. She was right behind you in the room, she could probably hear you, but you didn’t care. She had apologised and told you she hadn’t forgotten about you. Those two things meant so much more than they seemed to on the surface. 

As you walked down the familiar streets of Barcelona, the past ten years flashed by in a similar way to how people thought your life flashed by before the end. All the anguish, the resentment, the guilt and regret, they strolled right on by. You ignored them and focused on the good. Albeit, there wasn’t much of that, but enough that you felt sure in what you were about to do. This wasn’t the end, this was the beginning again. This was one door closing and another one opening as you entered a cafe you knew like the back of your hand, even a decade on.

She was sat at the same table you always used to sit at. A booth by the window in the back corner. Closed off enough from the other customers with a view of the streets you both walked together in the past. Her hand in yours, hidden in the pocket of her coat. 

Her back was to you as went over, so by the time you got there and went to sit down, she was flustered, standing up out of nerves yet unsure of how to greet you. To put her at ease, you giggled softly, then sat down across from her. She let out a relieved sigh before crossing her arms on the table and taking in the sight of you in front of her. It was the first time she properly had the chance. 

You looked older, ten years had passed so of course you did, but nothing about you had changed that much. You were still the same person she fell in love with and that’s all that mattered to her.

“Hi.” You finally said. 

“Hi.” She replied.

The pair of you shared tearful smiles and one of Alexia’s hands drifted across the table to take one of yours. With her in front of you, the same girl you bumped into at University, and her hand, that was slightly weathered by the years of sports, holding yours, it felt like no time had passed at all.

—

shamelessly inspired by tyler the creator! i had the majority of this done until that anon decided to drop by last night and then that kinda put me off this one but it's whatever! i know this was a bit of a heavy read so i thank you for sticking with it and i hope it was enjoyable nevertheless <3