chai-berries

[chai-berries]

𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑 || 𝚔𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which you and kate didn't mean to soft launch

The morning before game day feels exactly like every other morning in the second year of your WNBA career — slow, sleepy, quiet. Kate’s already up before you, slipping on her hoodie and pulling her hair into a lazy bun as she pads around the kitchen, humming some vaguely familiar country song. You watch her from your spot on the couch, half-asleep under a blanket you never remember unfolding, cradling a mug of coffee she definitely brought you without asking. That’s just how it is. That’s how it’s always been.

Since Iowa. Since sneaking hand-holding on buses and late-night FaceTimes during long road stretches. Since the tears when her name was called on draft night and the breathless laughter when yours followed a few picks later. Since the Valkyries took you both — different teams at first, then finally, together again. Five years now. Two as pros. One married. But no one knows that part. Not really.

The league knows you're close. Your teammates definitely know. Close can be everything and nothing all at once. Best friends. Roommates. Ride-or-dies. Married? That one’s been just yours.

Until today, maybe.

You’re walking into Chase Center like you always do. Grey sweats, Jordans, one AirPod in, badge swinging from the lanyard they gave you your rookie season. Kate’s already gone in ahead — she always stops for every staffer she knows, and she knows all of them. You hung back, scrolling on your phone, texting your brother something dumb about his fantasy football team. Normal. Easy.

You don’t even realize someone’s filming her until you round the corner and hear her voice first — bright, full of that familiar midwestern cheer, just a little too excited for a morning shoot.

“Man…,” she’s saying, face animated. “A little dramatic right now, you know.” Her eyes are wide, her dimples deep.

“Do you have a favorite?”

“Chelley’s my favorite,” she says, head tilting, right hand clotting the strap of her backpack.

“Who do you want next off the island?”

She laughs, not wanting to name any names, left hand sliding out of her pocket to cover her face. 

“I think there’s a specific person who has caused a little bit of drama  in the villa and she might need to go. No names.” And when she laughs, there it is — silver. Not flashy, not big, not center-staged, but unmistakable. Her wedding band.

“Understood.”

“See you guys!” She walks away, jogging up the steps, waving goodbye to the woman like they’re old friends.

You take a breath. Step forward. The same girl turns toward you, phone already lifted. “Hey! You mind if I ask you something quick?”

You shrug. Smile, keep it casual. “Shoot.”

“Do you watch Love Island?”

You laughed, short and dry. “Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately?”

“I get pulled in every time. It’s, like, a toxic little ritual now.”

You moved your hand to mimic a spinning wheel—an endless cycle—and for just a second, your left hand slipped out of your pocket. The camera caught it. The light it. The dainty silver band, delicate against your skin, practically glowed under the overhead light near the door.

It was barely a second. But it didn’t need to be more than that.

Your team wins the game, able to lock the other team on defense, making their lives harder. 

That night, you drove home in silence together. Her hand on your thigh. Your fingers loosely wrapped around hers. The night sky bled over the Bay Bridge as the stars glistening the skyline, and you rolled the windows down just enough to smell the salt in the air. It felt like the calm before the storm.

You lived in a quiet apartment near the marina. Two bedrooms, open kitchen, soft white walls lined with framed jerseys and photo booth strips from a million years ago. Home.

You were in the kitchen reheating pasta when Kate wandered into the living room, phone in hand. “Babe?”

“Mhm?”

She sat on the couch, brows furrowed. “Did you check TikTok yet?”

You frowned, spooning pesto around the bowl. “No, why?”

“Uh…” She turned the phone toward you. “We’re kind of blowing up.”

You set the spoon down and walked over, wiping your hands on a dish towel. The WNBA’s official TikTok account had posted a video captioned,

“Two bombshells have entered the Arena. Kate Martin & Y/N Y/LN give us all the Love Island USA tea!”

The clip was barely a minute long, clips switching between you and Kate. Her laughing. You denying it. But what the fans noticed wasn’t your answers.

It was the rings.

The comments were already in chaos.

Kate blinked at you, mouth half-open like she was trying to laugh but hadn’t quite committed. “So…”

You leaned over the couch arm and kissed her temple. “So.”

“You think they’ll let us stay mysterious after this?”

You reached for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “They’ll try. But I think the ring did the talking.”

She looked at you. Really looked. The way she did when you said I do in front of three people on a foggy hike during a vacation, both of you crying like idiots. The way she did after the draft, waiting for your name to be called, heart thundering.

“I don’t mind,” she said finally. “I kind of… like that they know.”

You smiled. “Me too.”

Your phones buzzed again and again that night. Mentions. Edits. Old clips from college resurfacing. Conspiracy-theory TikToks unearthing that one photo of you holding hands in the background of a locker room celebration your senior year.

You let it all happen.

For the first time in five years, you didn’t rush to shut the door behind you.

You sat on the couch together, legs tangled, bowls of pasta growing cold. Kate pulled you close, tucked her face against your shoulder, and sighed softly into your hoodie.

“Wife,” she murmured. “Guess the secret’s out.”

You kissed her hair. “About time.”

[chai-berries]

#Repost @ajplus

From Gaza to Iran, Israel has killed over 1,000 people in 7 days.

This is Mohammad al-Zaanin, a 20-year-old Palestinian killed while waiting for a bag of flour in Gaza.

...

Producer: Kareem Yasin

#Gaza #Palestine #Palestinian #Israel #BeitHanoun #Iran #Aid #AidMassacre #FlourMartyr #FlourMassacre

[chai-berries]

[chai-berries]

͏✶ FIRE AND DESIRE. | PAIGE BUECKERS.

synopsis… you’re nervous after getting talked into a date with someone else. paige, who’s been in love with you for years, offers to show you how kissing should really feel.

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader content warnings. # 6k words. slight angst. slightly suggestive. uconn!paige. best friend!paige. student!reader. college au. friends to lovers. mutual pining. jealousy. first kiss/makeout sesh. tw: a man makes an appearance for the plot. a/n: i love bun paige. anyways… first paige fanfic! i hope you all enjoy it :)

͏✶ i figure out you, you figure out me, we both a different breed, i’m followin' your lead, i ask you what you need …

finals were over. finally.

you walked out of that lecture hall feeling every heavy textbook, every sleepless night, every highlighter-stained page you’d read and reread since january falling off your shoulders all at once. the last exam was pretty fucking brutal, a three-hour stretch of silence and anxiety that clung to your skin like sweat, and when you scribbled the final answer in the last minute and handed that packet over, it felt like exhaling after months underwater.

it’s been a while since you’ve gotten relax fully, usually spending the night staring at the soft glow of your laptop at 2 a.m. when your eyes were too tired to focus but your brain refused to quit. you hadn’t gone out, hadn’t let yourself relax, hadn’t even realized how tightly wound you’d become until now as you stepping out into the afternoon sun.

the breeze hit your face, warm and a little humid, and you blinked against the light like you were seeing campus for the first time. everything around you buzzed as you glance over to a group of students laughing way too loud, to someone blasting music from a speaker, to a couple kissing under a tree like they hadn’t just suffered through biochem together, probably.

and then you saw her.

paige was leaning against the railing just outside the building, decked out in her uconn basketball gear like she always was—navy blue nike tech fleece, matching sweats, and her blonde hair pulled back into a loose bun.

she held up a coffee and a small paper bag (probably a sweet little pastry) with both hands, lifting them up as soon as she spotted you.

“yo, there she is,” she grinned, a silver chain glinting under her hoodie as she tilted her head.

you couldn’t help the smile that made its way onto your face, breath caught in your throat for a second, then laughed as you shook your head.

“how long have you been waiting?” you asked, walking towards her.

paige pushed off the railing, walking over like she had all the time in the world, one brow raised and mouth tugged into that goofy little smile she always seems to wear.

“just got here,” she teased, handing you the coffee. “how was it? you good?”

you took the cup from her, fingers brushing against hers for just a second too long you—warm skin, calloused in places from years of basketball.

“thanks… it was fine,” you muttered, already feeling the heat seep through your palms. “i’m just glad it’s over. finally.”

paige looked at you for a moment, then licked her bottom lip, eyes scanning your face the way she always did when she thought you weren’t paying attention.

you shook your head again, smiling into the cup as you took a sip, and tried not to notice how good she smelled—like cologne and clean laundry and something that always made your stomach twist just a little.

it was just paige. your best friend.

paige watched you while you weren’t looking.

you didn’t catch it—not fully—but if you had, you would’ve seen the way her smile slipped just a little as her eyes trailed over your face, lingering on the curve of your mouth, the way your lashes fluttered when you blinked down into your coffee, the soft breath of relief you let out like you were finally alive again.

and then, too fast for you to notice, she cleared her throat and looked away, pressing her lips together like they hadn’t just parted like she wanted to say something real.

“aight, come on,” she said, nudging your shoulder lightly with hers before stepping off the curb.

you walked in beside her automatically, like you always did.

“what’s in the bag?” you asked, glancing at it with a curious smile.

paige looked over at you, then back at the bag like she’d forgotten she was even holding it.

“mm,” she hummed, eyes squinting from the sun. “just a lil’ somethin’ sweet.”

you raised a brow, surprised. “is it for me?”

“obviously,” she said simply, flashing a grin. “’cause you don’t ever treat yourself. figured i’d help.”

you laughed under your breath, looking away before she could see the flush rising in your cheeks.

you assumed it was nothing. paige always did little things like this.

the two of you walked like that for a while, side by side, and all the while, the blonde was trying not to look at you the way she actually wanted to.

she’d been in love with you since the first time you met, and it was stupid, really—how fast it hit her. you were pretty. that was the first thing she noticed when she saw you in the gen ed class a couple years ago. gorgeous. soft-spoken. kind. and smart as hell. and you didn’t exactly know her yet. you didn’t really care for sports that much then until you became friends with her. you’d almost never missed a home game when she was playing.

and for paige, since then, she’d been completely, helplessly stuck on you.

but you were focused. you always had your head buried in a book or a study guide, always chasing the next goal. relationships and dates weren’t exactly a priority for you. and paige respected the hell out of that.

maybe that’s why she never said anything. never let it slip how much she thought about you, how your laugh always had the power to make her laugh, how your lip curled when you were deep in your thoughts, how you’d always manage fall asleep on her dorm bed when you guys were supposed to be studying and she’d sit there quietly to watch you with a smile before pulling her blanket over you. she’d make sure to set her alarm clock early enough so you don’t miss your classes.

she’d convinced herself being near you was enough.

and maybe it was.

until it started to feel like it wasn’t.

she was about to say something when you reached the steps outside the student center—nothing big, just ask what you were doing tonight, maybe see if you wanted to chill at her place, lowkey so she could selfishly keep you to herself a little longer—and she’d just opened her mouth when—

“oh my god, there you are!”

you barely had time to turn before riley, a friend of yours, appeared out of nowhere, practically bouncing with energy. her braid whipped behind her as she rushed up and wrapped an arm around your shoulder like she hadn’t just taken her last final an hour ago.

“finals are done!” she shouted like she was announcing it to the whole quad. “you’re coming to the party tonight, right? you’ve got to.”

you blinked, caught off guard.

your eyes flicked to paige instinctively, checking to see if she was gonna say something first. but she froze—her lips pressed tight into thin smile as she looked at riley.

riley grinned between the two of you and bumped your hip.

“c’mon, paige, tell her! she never even goes out. i swear this girl hasn’t left her room to go anywhere else except the library or a basketball game since freshman year.”

paige laughed a little—tight, forced.

“uh… yeah. nah, you guys should celebrate. y’all deserve it.”

she regretted it the second it left her mouth.

her stomach turned because you looked—just for a second—disappointed. like you’d been hoping she’d say something different. something just for you.

you nodded slowly, lips twitching as you were trying to figure out how to react.

“yeah, i’ll… i’ll think about it,” you said.

“yes! i’m texting you later, you better not bail!” riley clapped her hands, oblivious. then she turned to paige with a playful squint, “shouldn’t you be at practice, bueckers?”

“oh shit,” paige muttered, snapping her head down as she fumbled for her phone with one hand, nearly dropping the paper bag in the process. she thumbed the screen awake and squinted at the time. “damn… i was supposed to be there ten minutes ago.”

you looked at her, half-smiling. “go. geno won’t be happy.”

but paige didn’t move.

not right away.

she stayed turned toward you, jaw tight, her hand coming up to scratch the side of her head softly like she was trying to work something out in her head. her eyes found yours again.

she nods her head, finally deciding to follow your orders with a smile.

“yeah,” she said, her voice low—just for you. “okay.”

something in her tone made your breath hitch—not quite flirty, not quite serious, but something in between.

then her phone buzzed in her hand—twice.

probably a teammate. maybe geno.

she cleared her throat, finally stepping back with a quiet groan, dragging her hand down her face.

“aight. i gotta dip,” she said, backing up toward the sidewalk. “but make sure to eat that thing i got you, okay? i’m not tryna hear you skipped lunch again.”

you lifted the paper bag slightly and gave her a soft nod.

“thanks, paige.”

her lips curved into a grin. “anytime, ma.”

then she turned and jogged off, hood slipping back over her curls, her long strides already pulling her into the distance.

͏✶

you ended up going to the party.

you hadn’t planned to.

the party wasn’t really your scene. it never was.

you’d shown up mostly because riley wouldn’t let up, blowing up your phone all evening. so you threw on a simple dress, a little bit of your usual makeup, and told yourself it was just for an hour. two tops.

the party was already packed by the time you showed up. the living room of whoever’s off-campus house this was had been turned into a humid jungle of music and bodies, red solo cups stacked like pyramids on every surface, and someone yelling every ten minutes for no reason.

you stuck close to riley at first, sipping something fruity drink she handed you without asking, trying to find your footing in the crowd.

you weren’t really built for this scene, not in the way riley was.

you ended up near the kitchen, tucked into a quieter corner where the music didn’t shake the floor. that’s when he found you.

matt.

you remembered him from your sociology class last semester—he sat two rows behind you, always had clean notes. nice guy. maybe a little shy, always had a pen tucked behind his ear, and he asked solid questions during lectures.

but riley, standing a couple feet away with her drink in hand, kept giving you that look saying… go on. flirt. say yes.

you roll your eyes playfully.

“hey,” he said, a little surprised but genuinely happy to see you. “i didn’t think you came to stuff like this.”

you shrugged, smiling politely. “i usually don’t.”

“well… glad you did,” he said, leaning his shoulder against the wall beside you. “finals were hell, huh?”

you nodded, both of you laughing a little at the shared trauma. it was nice, the way he talked—easy, casual, nothing pushy.

but of course, riley popped up next to you halfway through the conversation.

“nice to see you finally hitting it off with someone,” she said with this knowing smile, eyes bouncing between the two of you.

you shake your head, cheeks warming. “we’re just talking.”

“mmhm,” riley said, bumping her hip into yours. “no, this is good. don’t mind me—just pretend i’m not even here.”

matt chuckled awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “uh, yeah. i was just asking her about post finals plans…”

“great question,” riley cut in like she was your hype man. “she has no plans. she’s free. totally available.”

“riley…” you shot her a look, somewhere between please stop and i’m going to kill you, but she just grinned. she meant well—she always did. she just thought you needed a little push.

you turned back to matt, trying to steer the conversation somewhere safer. “uh, anyway… how’d you think you did on that sociology final?”

he answered, and you listened, but the whole time you felt like your thoughts were somewhere else.

somewhere… or with someone.

but when matt, looking a little nervous, said, “so hey, uh… i was thinking—if you’re not too busy now that exams are over… maybe we could go see a movie this friday?”

you froze. not out of fear. just confusion.

your eyes darted to riley. she gave you a thumbs-up like you were about to step onto a stage.

your heart beat once. then twice.

“uh… yeah,” you heard yourself say. “sure. that sounds nice.”

fuck.

his eyebrows raised and he smiled. riley grinned wider than you’d ever seen her grin. and you should’ve felt proud. excited, even.

so why did your chest feel tight?

why did it feel like you’d done something wrong?

͏✶

you didn’t text paige right away when got back to your dorm.

you laid in bed for a while, makeup barely rubbed off, the party still ringing in your ears. your dorm was quiet now—your roommate gone for the weekend, the halls dead silent except for the occasional door shutting or someone’s music humming through the walls.

after a minute, you grabbed your phone, thumb hovering for a second before you gave in and opened the chat.

you: what are you up to?

you stared at the screen, heart already fluttering like you were fourteen again, like you hadn’t just said yes to some guy two hours ago.

the three dots appeared almost instantly.

paige: just got back from getting crumbl with the team. coach ran us hard today not even gonna lie

you smiled to yourself.

you: you tired? i can let you sleep lol

paige: nah i’m good. i’m tired but i like talkin to you. what’s up

you: riley dragged me to the party

paige: wow that’s impressive tbh soooooo how was it??

you paused, biting your bottom lip.

should you say it? it wasn’t a big deal. right? best friends tell each other these things.

your fingers hovered. then you typed.

you: so matt from my sociology class asked me to go to the movies with him sometime i said yes idk i think i just panicked

you waited.

and waited.

you saw the three dots pop up. your heart skipped. then the dots vanished.

you frowned, shifting in your bed, phone warm in your hand. a few seconds passed. they popped up again.

then, gone.

your stomach twisted.

then finally, they came back again.

paige: oh that’s cool

you stared at the screen.

three little words. dry as hell. no playful joke. no “u better tell him i’ll beat his ass if he messes it up”—none of the usual teasing, none of the softness she always texted you with, even when she was dead tired.

that’s cool.

you blinked, rereading it like maybe it’d change if you looked hard enough. your chest felt weird. not heavy exactly—just… unsettled.

you typed something. deleted it. typed again. deleted again.

you: yeah he seems pretty nice i guess

no reply.

you watched the screen like it owed you something.

and then, after a long pause—

paige: that’s good

nothing else.

why wasn’t she saying anything else? you could tell she was holding back. you could practically feel it through the screen.

and for some reason, that made your throat tighten. because you didn’t want her to be distant. you didn’t want her to just be cool with it.

on the other side of the campus, she wasn’t cool with it at all. not even a little bit.

she was laid out in her bed, one arm slung over her eyes like it could block out the heat crawling down her neck. her phone rested on her chest, screen still lit up with your message.

matt from my sociology class asked me out… i said yes.

“man, what?” she muttered to no one, heart pounding.

she was jealous. of course, she was.

but she should’ve seen it coming. should’ve known somebody else would shoot their shot eventually. you were smart, funny, gorgeous. hell, paige could barely go five minutes around you without wanting to touch your hand or kiss the corner of your mouth just to see how you’d taste when you smiled. honestly, she’s pretty proud of her strength.

so yeah. of course some dude was gonna ask you out.

but fuck, it hurts more than she’d like to admit.

she couldn’t even be mad at the guy. not really. but the thought of him sitting next to you in a dark movie theater, brushing fingers over the popcorn bag, leaning over to whisper something… kissing you—fuck, that made her want to throw her phone across the damn room.

she didn’t know how to say it, though. didn’t know how to tell you it bothered her without sounding upset.

she sat up, rubbed her hand down her face, then grabbed her phone again and stared at the chat.

yeah, he seems nice i guess

her jaw clenched.

she typed a bunch of things before sending a message.

you really like him?

deleted it.

typed again.

he’s not even your type tho.

deleted that too.

she tossed her phone to the side the second she finally sent a message and laid back down, arms crossed over her chest. she’d wanted to ask you to hang out tonight. just the two of you.

jealous was an understatement.

she felt miserable. she wasn’t even mad at you. not even close.

she was mad at herself.

for waiting too long. for playing it cool too well. for pretending she was fine just being your friend when every second spent next to you made her want more.

the idea of anyone else getting to have the version of you paige had been in love with since the moment you said hi to her felt wrong.

you didn’t even know what you were doing to her.

and the worst part?

she couldn’t even say it.

because you were just friends. best friends.

͏✶

it’d been three days.

at first, you didn’t think much of it.

you figured maybe she was just tired. practice, finals, team meetings, whatever. she’d said she was swamped. you told yourself she’d come back.

but then she didn’t.

you didn’t see her the next morning, or the one after that. no lazy walk across campus together like usual before classes, before practice.

just a couple dry texts saying “slept thru my alarm lol” or “coach called an early practice. my bad.”

you wanted to believe it. but it didn’t feel right.

paige wasn’t the type to flake. she’d shown up for you more times than you could count—when you were sick, when you were stressed, even that one time you almost cried in the middle of midterms week and she literally skipped film review to sit with you in the library and make you laugh.

so this felt weird. is it because of matt?

you stared at her last message.

your thumb hovered over the keyboard, debating whether to say what you really wanted to say or just brush it off like she clearly wanted you to.

but the truth was, it was starting to piss you off a little.

because you didn’t do anything wrong.

because it felt like she didn’t care.

or like she did, but chose to hide it from you.

you wanted her to just say whatever was on her mind.

something you thought a best friend would want to know.

you had wanted her to care a little more.

but you weren’t gonna chase someone who didn’t want to talk to you.

you tossed your phone onto your bed and let out a frustrated breath, arms crossed tight over your chest as you sat back in your desk chair, the silence in your dorm suddenly louder than ever.

if she was mad, she should’ve just said it. if she didn’t want to hang out, she should’ve just said that.

because paige always seemed to speak her mind.

now, she wasn’t.

so you decided to go see her.

you didn’t really think it through.

you just stood up, grabbed your hoodie, slipped on your shoes, and walked out. you honestly had no idea what you were even gonna say when you got there.

the walk to the girls’ basketball dorms wasn’t long. you knew the route like the back of your hand by now. you’d been there more times than you could count—movie nights, study sessions, lazy nights where paige would half-doze off on your shoulder while some random netflix show played in the background.

but tonight was different. honestly, you just… missed her. you missed her more than you were upset. and you didn’t know how to say that.

you made it to her floor, knocked softly.

you heard movement inside. muffled voices. the creak of the door.

it opened slowly, and there she was—paige, standing barefoot in sweats and a loose uconn tee, her blonde hair pulled into a messy bun on her head like she’d been napping.

she blinked at you, caught completely off guard.

“oh, hey…” she breathed, voice a little scratchy. “what are you doin’ here?”

her eyes scanned your face like she was trying to figure out if something was wrong, if you were upset, hurt, mad—anything.

but you didn’t say anything yet. you just looked at her. and she looked at you.

“oh, shit—” jana piped up from behind her, lounging on the bed with her phone still lit in her hand. she looked between the two of you with a raised brow, then smirked like she knew exactly what was going on. “i’ll head out.”

paige turned, “uh—”

“it’s okay, i’ll go annoy kk and aubrey,” jana said quickly, already grabbing her charger. “y’all… have fun. i will be bak to sleep, though.”

she squeezed past you with a grin and a knowing glance before disappearing down the hall.

paige rubbed the back of her neck, stepping aside so you could walk in. you did, slow and quiet.

the room was a little messy—hoodies tossed on her desk chair, a gatorade bottle half-drank on the nightstand, her slides kicked off at the foot of the bed. the tv was playing something muted, but paige picked up the remote and shut it off without a word.

she turned to you, hands on her hips now. her eyes were tired, but they softened the second she really looked at you. and that look alone made your chest pull.

“you okay?” she asked, quieter now.

you nodded slowly

“i just… haven’t seen you.”

paige pressed her lips together, jaw flexing for half a second. she looked down at the floor, then back up at you.

“yeah,” she said. “i know. my bad.”

she meant it. you could see it all over her face.

paige sat down slowly on the edge of her bed. she leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, hands clasped together, eyes fixed on the floor, trying to avoid your eyes.

you stood there for a second, unsure if you should sit too.

but you did—right beside her, the mattress dipping as you sat.

you spoke first.

“you said you’ve been busy?”

paige didn’t answer right away. her eyes stayed on the floor. her foot tapped once. twice.

then, finally—

“uh, yeah,” she said. “i’m sorry.”

you glanced at her, taking in the slope of her shoulders, the small furrow between her brows.

“are you mad at me?”

paige let out a dry little laugh, not unkind, just tired.

“no. never that.”

you waited. gave her space to say more.

and after a moment, she did.

“i just been… trying to stay in my lane, i guess?” she said, afraid of saying too much. “you’ve got shit going on. i don’t wanna mess that up.”

you tilted your head. “mess what up?”

she shrugged. “i mean—someone asked you out. that’s… that’s good, right? you deserve that. somebody to treat you nice. do all that movie and dinner shit.”

your heart twinged a little.

“we’re not even—” you started, then sighed. “it’s just one movie, paige. it’s not serious. really.”

she nodded slowly, still not looking at you. but her jaw clenched again.

“yeah… still. i don’t wanna be all up in your space if you wanna, you know… see where that goes.”

you stared at her then, finally realizing—she wasn’t just being distant. she was pulling away to protect something. maybe you. maybe herself. maybe both.

you reached over, nudging your shoulder lightly against hers, “you’re never all up in my space. i… i actually didn’t like not seeing you.”

paige’s lips pressed together to form the tiniest smile. her voice was almost too soft to hear.

“yeah?”

you nodded.

“yeah.”

she swallowed hard, fingers playing with the drawstring of her sweats.

she was scared.

maybe that’s why she hadn’t said anything.

why she bit her tongue that night you texted her about it. why she ghosted you a little.

because the truth was—paige was scared as hell.

not scared of you. not even scared of rejection.

she was scared of losing you. she’d rather stay quiet than lose you completely.

this friendship meant too much. you meant too much.

and yeah, she’d wanted more for a long time. she’d dreamt about it almost everyday. stubborn little dreams she kept buried deep, like kissing you goodnight on the nights you stayed over, or holding your hand without needing a reason. she’d replayed the sound of your laughter, the way your smile looked, the way you looked at her and imagined what it would feel like to press her lips against yours. to feel you beneath her fingers, her palms, hands that were calloused and bigger than yours.

but she really didn’t wanna fuck it up.

because if you didn’t feel the same way… if you looked at her and only saw your best friend…

that would be it. no do-over.

so paige sat next to you, heart pounding in her chest, blue eyes locked on the floor, still pretending like everything was normal.

you sat quietly there for a moment, fiddling with the hem of your skirt, your knee brushing lightly against paige’s.

so you glanced at her, your voice barely above a whisper, “i’m nervous about it, actually.”

paige looked up, finally meeting your eyes.

the tension in her shoulders didn’t ease, but her eyebrows raised slightly like she wasn’t expecting you to say that. like she thought you’d be excited, glowing, already picking outfits and… all that.

“the movie?” she asked, trying to be casual.

you nodded slowly. “the whole thing. just… going out. with a guy. like that.”

she didn’t say anything right away. and if she was trying to keep her face neutral, she was failing just a little.

you kept going, letting the words fall out before you could overthink them.

“i’ve never really done any of it. dating. being out with someone. i think the last date i went to was in high school… and i can barely even remember any of it. i’ve had crushes, sure, but nothing ever really… happened.” you breathed in through your nose. “and now i said yes and i don’t even know what i’m doing.”

paige’s licked her lips, but she didn’t speak. her eyes scanned your face like she was memorizing it.

“i mean, what if it gets awkward?” you mumbled. “what if he tries to kiss me and i… i don’t even know how to—”

you stopped yourself, cheeks burning all of a sudden.

paige blinked. sat up straighter, her brows raised even higher now.

“you never kissed nobody before?”

“i have, stupid.” you blurted out fast, but glanced away soon after, embarrassed. “just… not like… that.”

she leaned back a little, nodding slowly. she didn’t tease you. didn’t laugh. but something in her chest cracked open, just a little.

now, all she could think about and look at were… your lips. how soft they looked. like they were calling her in.

all she wanted to do was be the person you felt safe with.

you were still staring down at your hands, thumbs twisting the fabric of your sleeve, when paige said it.

she didn’t know what made her say it.

“i… i could show you?”

and then it was like all the oxygen got sucked out the room.

you looked up, eyes wide, lips parting just slightly.

and paige—

fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck.

she blinked, sat upright like she could somehow backpedal physically—

“i didn’t—i-i mean—” she let out a breath, raking a hand over her face. she laughed, but it was awkward and nervous and too high in her throat.

you didn’t say anything. you were just looking at her.

and that was somehow worse.

she sat forward, elbows back on her knees, face in her hands for a second like she could disappear there.

“yo, ignore me. it’s late… i-i just—i don’t know what i’m saying—“

she was talking fast now, trying to fill the space, trying to pretend like her heart wasn’t racing and her palms weren’t clammy and her lips didn’t suddenly ache.

god, she wanted to throw herself out the window.

i could show you. what the fuck was that?

she rubbed the back of her neck, still not looking at you, her voice dropping to a grumble.

“sorry… forget i said anything.”

and then—so quietly she almost missed it—paige heard you whisper:

“…okay.”

her head shot up like she wasn’t sure she actually heard you right. eyes wide, lips parted, breath caught somewhere between her chest and her throat.

“what?”

you were already rambling, the same as she was, like the words were tumbling out before you could stop them.

“i mean—not like for real for real, just—just to, like, try. not a whole thing, i just—I don’t know—i mean, only if you want to. obviously. if that was a joke, then—then forget it—”

“no,” paige cut in quickly, almost too quickly. “no, i wasn’t playing.”

her voice cracked just slightly at the end, and she cleared her throat, sitting up straighter. her heart was pounding so hard she thought you might hear it.

“you sure?” she asked softly.

you nodded, just once. small. shy.

and her stomach flipped.

paige let out the tiniest breath as if she’d been holding it since you walked through the door. her shoulders dropped just a little, and the corner of her lips tugged up, that slow, crooked little smirk curling on paige’s lips as if she’d just remembered exactly who she was.

your face flushed instantly the moment you saw her smile, and paige bit back a grin, watching the way your lips parted.

the nerves from a moment ago vanished, replaced that same confidence she carried everywhere with her.

you squinted at her, giving her a look, “you’re being cocky.”

paige’s eyes flicked to yours, her grin widening before she shook her head quickly—lying straight through her teeth.

“i’m not,” she said.

she absolutely was. and she knew it.

you raised a brow, and she chuckled—deep and a little smug now, clearly loving the way you were already squirming.

then she scooted closer on the bed, so close now her thigh pressed against yours. her arm slid behind you slowly, palm resting flat against the mattress just barely behind your back. her fingers curled like they were thinking about reaching for your waist, but she didn’t rush it.

she was warm beside you—close enough for you to smell her perfume, feel her breath, see the way her lashes lowered when she looked at your lips again. her fingers tapped lightly against the bed behind you, brushing your lower back. her touch was barely there, but it was all you could think about.

paige leaned in just a little more, her breath brushing warm against your cheek, before murmuring softly.

“close your eyes,” she whispered.

you did. slowly.

and the second your eyes fluttered shut, paige froze. just for a moment.

her breath caught in her throat. her heart kicked hard against her ribs.

holy fuck.

her eyes roamed your face—so close, so trusting, your lips parted just slightly, your chest rising and falling like you were bracing for something you didn’t even understand yet. and somehow, somehow, you wanted her to be the one to teach you.

her fingers flexed against the mattress, resisting the urge to wrap around your waist like they wanted to. her throat was dry, her head spinning. she couldn’t believe this was happening.

she exhaled slowly, trying to calm her racing thoughts, but it was no use.

is this really happening?

she tilted her head, just a little, lips hovering.

paige was already going through it before you even closed your eyes. you, sitting on her bed, in that big oversized hoodie swallowing your frame but not enough to hide the fact that you were wearing a skirt underneath, knees brushing hers when you sat down next to her.

you looked so good it made her chest ache. but it wasn’t just how you looked—it was you.

and now, you were sitting in front of her, eyes closed, waiting.

you looked so pretty like this.

god.

it took everything in her to keep it together.

paige reached up with one hand and brushed a strand of hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear.

she smiled.

then, finally, you felt her lips brush yours.

paige kissed you slow. and sweet. her lips felt like the softest thing you’d ever touched. you could feel the warmth radiating from her mouth, and the slight tremble beneath her lips that told you this made her nervous just as it made you.

her other hand drifted down without her realizing it, settling gently on your thigh.

you responded without thinking, your hand creeping up to rest over the fabric of her shirt at her chest. your fingers hesitated for a second, then your fingers slid up, tracing the curve of her shoulder before reaching around her neck.

paige’s breath hitched slightly against your lips, and you felt the tiniest tremor in her body, surprised by how close you’d gotten.

she was nervous—damn near shaking—but also so fucking sure of every little thing happening.

you taste so good.

all those nights she’d imagined this moment played over and over in her head, every detail perfect, every touch just how she dreamed it would be. she’d wondered what it would feel like to kiss you—really kiss you—not just in her daydreams but for real.

and fuck, it’s even better than she imagined.

paige pressed her lips a little deeper, letting the kiss deepen slowly, humming against your lips. and, just as her mouth moved softly against yours, she felt it.

a tiny, breathy gasp escaping you, so soft it was almost swallowed by the silence. the faintest, tiniest moan, barely there, against her mouth.

it was so small, so delicate, paige almost thought she’d imagined it.

her breath hitched. her heart slammed against her ribs.

paige’s fingers dug just a little into your thigh, desperate for something to hold onto, inching slightly underneath the fabric of your skirt.

and paige knew, right then, she was completely, utterly, deliciously addicted to every part of you.

she wanted more. needed more.

fuck—

she pulled back just slightly, her breathing shallow and ragged.

she knew she was getting carried away. losing control faster than she wanted to admit.

so she paused, her forehead resting softly against yours, eyes searching yours for any sign of doubt.

“can i keep going?” she whispered against your lips.

you blinked slowly, your breath still fluttering from the kiss, heart pounding in your chest like a drum. the warmth of paige’s hand, rough and calloused from years of basketball, on your thigh sent a shiver up your spine.

you met her eyes and nodded almost softly.

“yeah,” you whispered back, barely more than a breath. “please.”

your fingers twitched, fingertips scratching the back of her neck.

paige’s smile deepened, her eyes sparkling with something fierce and tender all at once, and without another word, she leaned in again and—

“yo, can i come in now or what?”

jana’s voice called from the other side.

you and paige pulled away from each other instantly, breath catching in your throat, your hand falling from her neck as her palm slid quickly off your thigh.

paige blinked, dazed, like her mind hadn’t even caught up to her body yet. her lips were still parted, her eyes still locked on yours like she couldn’t quite believe what just happened.

then she turned toward the desk, slowly, glancing at the clock glowing on her nightstand.

1:27 a.m.

she shut her eyes tight and dropped her head forward, letting it hang for a second as she exhaled hard. not at jana. just at the timing. at the fact that her favorite kiss in the world had just been cut short.

damn it.

“i-i should…” you started, voice shaky, still catching your breath, “i should probably go.”

paige looked up at you, her heart twisting. she didn’t want you to. not yet. but she nodded anyway.

“yeah… yeah, okay,” she murmured, rubbing the back of her neck.

you stood up slowly, brushing your hands against your skirt, then looked back at her, lips parting, unsure of what to even say after all that. your cheeks were still warm and your heart was beating a mile a minute.

“t-thanks for um…” you paused, swallowing. “for showing me.”

paige looked at you then. she nodded once, lips tugging into a lopsided smile.

“anytime,” she said, a little hoarse.

she pushed herself up on her feet, her hand brushing against her sweats like she wasn’t sure what to do with it now—whether to reach for you again, or just let you go.

she shifted her weight awkwardly, glancing at the door, then back at you, a little hesitant to speak.

��do you want me to walk you back—”

but you were already shaking your head, offering her a small, flustered smile as you stepped toward the door.

“n-no, it’s okay,” you said quickly, eyes darting anywhere but her. “i… i can walk on my own.”

paige’s mouth opened slightly like she wanted to say something else, but she didn’t push. she just nodded, once.

“aight.”

and she watched you reach for the door, her chest still rising and falling. her fingers twitched at her side, wanting to hold you there.

but she stayed still.

and when you glanced back at her one last time, paige just looked at you—eyes soft, jaw tense, heart full of a million things she still couldn’t say.

“get home safe,” she said gently. “text me when you’re in.”

you nodded again, your hand tightening around the doorknob.

“i will.”

you opened the door just as paige stepped up behind you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of her all over again.

and there stood jana, arms crossed, one brow lifted, clearly waiting.

“well damn,” jana said, smirking as her eyes darted between you and paige. “finally.”

you gave her a soft smile, feeling the heat spread across your cheeks, “hey, jana. sorry, i didn’t mean to take up your room this long.”

jana just waved a hand, stepping aside so you could pass, “don’t worry about it. i was just getting a little sleepy. i think p. boogers over here forgot we have practice early tomorrow morning.”

you gave a quiet laugh and tucked your hands into the sleeves of your hoodie, glancing back one last time. “goodnight, guys.”

paige held the door open, silent, her eyes glued to your back as you walked down the hall. she didn’t say anything. she just stared. and watched as you disappeared around the corner. only when she couldn’t see you anymore did she finally close the door.

then she dropped her forehead against the wood with a groan. long. loud. half frustration, half complete emotional combustion.

jana raised an eyebrow from across the room, already toeing off her shoes, “so y’all kissed or what?”

paige reached blindly for the nearest pillow and launched it at her.

“shut up.”

jana caught it, laughing as she plopped onto her bed.

“ooh, y’all kissed.”

“yo. shut. up.”

masterlist | © bueckii.

[chai-berries]

Cleat Me Baby One More Time - the short story - Alexia Putellas x Pregnant!Reader - that time you morning sicked all over Alexia's cleats

Writer's note: will be on a week break. Though, when I get back, would you like to see more of Pregnant!Reader?

It started as such a good idea.

You. Sweet. Slightly delirious. Newly-pregnant you. Had decided to surprise Alexia at training. Nothing dramatic. Just a little midday drop-in with her favorite smoothie (because she’d left the last one in the fridge, and you (the heroic partner you are) refused to let it go to waste.

You were eight weeks along. Glowing... if “glowing” meant greasy from nausea and crying randomly during car commercials.

Still, your heart was full. You were carrying her baby, after all. Hormonal. Emotional. Kind of clammy? Yes. But full of love.

You stepped into the training complex like a romantic spy. You’d texted Ingrid earlier to make sure the coast was clear. She’d responded with: “yes, locker room’s empty, but bring snacks next time.” Fair.

You tiptoed inside like a cartoon burglar in leggings and flip-flops. The moment you opened the door to the locker room, though, the second the smell of turf sweat and fabric softener mixed with death hit your nostrils... It happened.

Your stomach flipped.

And then… betrayed you.

No warning. No chance for a heroic pivot to the bin. Just a horrible noise and a splatter.

Right onto a pair of freshly cleaned, pink-accented, absolutely-very-expensive Nike cleats.

Alexia’s cleats.

You stared at them. Then at your hands. Then at the vomit. Then at the smoothie. Still in your hand. Then back at the cleats. “Okay,” you whispered to yourself. “This is fine. This is fine. I can clean this. I’ll burn them. We’ll buy her new ones. I’ll fake a robbery.”

Then you burst into tears. Of course. Hormones. Pregnancy. Cleat-based trauma. The trifecta.

You were still crying when Alexia walked in.

“Mi amor?” she said from the doorway. “They said you... wait. Are you crying?”

You didn’t even try to be smooth. You just pointed at the cleats. “I THREW UP ON YOUR SHOES.”

Alexia blinked. Took in the crime scene. The smoothie in your hand. The puddle of regret. The puddle of you.

She moved toward you calmly, slowly. Like someone approaching a wounded animal. “Okay, okay. It’s okay.”

“No it’s not! They were your favorite pair! The gold-tipped ones! I was going to bring you a snack and be sexy and supportive and instead I’m a barf goblin who desecrated your equipment!”

Alexia burst out laughing.

You stared at her like she’d gone mad. “You’re laughing?!”

She carefully stepped over the carnage, wrapped her arms around you (YES, VOMIT AND ALL), and pulled you into her chest.

“Mi vida… do you think I care about some shoes?”

“They were limited edition!” you wailed into her collarbone.

She kissed the top of your head. “You are carrying our baby. You could throw up on all of my shoes. You could throw up on my jersey. On me. I don’t care.”

You sniffled. “You’d care if I threw up on your Ballon d’Or.”

She paused. “Okay. Maybe I’d flinch.”

You laughed, finally. A gross, congested, teary laugh... but a laugh all the same.

“Why are you like this?” you mumbled.

“Because I love you,” she said, wiping your cheeks with her sleeve, “and because shoes can be washed. And because the idea of you trying to be sexy while eight weeks pregnant and pale green is both adorable and completely unhinged.”

“Bold of you to mock me when I literally have a weaponized uterus,” you muttered, curling into her.

“I’m just saying,” she whispered, “if you’re going to throw up on my stuff, at least do it on Patri’s next time.”

You both giggled, still wrapped in each other like nothing else mattered. Because, honestly, nothing else did.

Except maybe buying a new pair of cleats.

Later that night, you tried to surprise her again. This time with new shoes. You wrapped them in tissue paper and wrote a card that said:

“Sorry for puking on your sole-mates. Love, your walking science experiment.”

She framed the card. And kept the old cleats, puke stains and all, tucked away in a box labeled:

“First gift from the baby.”

[chai-berries]

hereditary

alexia putellas x reader

stuck with my horror story title because cbs with finding a new title. unpacked a lot in this but was a therapeutic experience. am in a weird phase where i feel like my writing styles changing and lowkey think it’s getting worse? idk cant be bothered psychoanalysing myself so i guess we’re all just along for the ride together lol.

warnings: childhood trauma, mentions of addiction, just a lot of trauma

Alexia’s always had a big family. A close family. Especially after her father died, for whatever reason death always seems to be the thing that brings people closest together.

She loves her family, loves the way that her soul immediately feels full in the presence of them.

On an extended scale though, she loves how much you fit in with her family.

Loves how from the first meeting with her mother and sister how you’ve slotted in perfectly, like you’ve been around for Alexia’s whole life.

She’d never really thought about your family, as bad as it sounds. Alexia’s family is everything, it’s one of the biggest parts of her identity and you’ve never been that way. Alexia’s never really thought about it. You just don’t talk about family, you don’t go home unless it’s for national team camp. Since you moved to Barcelona you’ve been so happy to make friends with anyone and everyone you can, you’ve made your own family.

It was what had attracted Alexia towards you the most, the way that even in a completely new city and country you still managed to make a place for yourself. Before your first month at Barca was up you’d already become a part of every inside joke, small group and activity. You had that kind of infectious personality that every person in a room would gravitate towards.

Alexia knew that her case with her family unfortunately wasn’t common for most people, so she’d sort of fallen into the mindset that family for you was just not as big of a priority.

Alexia’s never truly thought much about it, until she’s face to face with it.

You’re out for physio work, even though it’s supposed to be an off day. You’d been having a weird calf niggle and have been undergoing extra treatment to prevent it getting worse.

Alexia’s not in the best mood from having her normal lay-in with you taken from her, Monday mornings (middays) are the one time of the week that she allows herself to enjoy the simplicity of a normal morning undeterred by training or anything else.

She’s hunched over your kitchen counter when a knock sounds against the front door. She immediately assumes that it’s a delivery driver dropping off one of the many packages that arrive weekly due to your online shopping addiction. Alexia doesn’t really think about her outfit consisting of the ratty 8 season old Barca shorts she’s wearing or one of your oversized t-shirts she’s stolen or the way her hair is sticking up in every angle. She walks towards the door in the same sort of haze she’s been in since she was woken up by your alarm at an ungodly hour this morning.

She’s rudely woken from that haze when she opens the door and the person standing in front of her is not holding out a tablet to sign or a package to hand over.

It’s only as she comes up to the door that she realises she’s probably not appropriately addressed for 2pm in the evening.

“Who are you?”

It’s the identical accent that should probably reveal a lot to Alexia but she’s too focused on taking in the person in front of her.

“Lo siento, who are you?”

The person in front of her, the girl standing in front of her is definitely not a person Alexia has met in her lifetime.

“This is my sister's house, so the real question is who are you?”

Sister. Interesting. Alexia supposes that the girl standing in front of her, even with violently box dyed black hair and eyeliner smeared eyelids does in some way resemble you, if she squints really hard.

“Sister?”

Alexia still hasn’t had her coffee, she’s truly struggling to comprehend the new information being fed to her.

“Of course I get given the wrong fucking address. Sorry for disturbing you, have a nice day.”

The woman or girl, Alexia isn’t quite sure, is so frantic, her hands shaking and her jaw clicking as she breathes.

“You’re y/n’s sister?”

The person had just turned around to start walking away but pivots as soon as the words leave her mouth.

“In the flesh.”

Alexia wasn’t even aware you had a sister, and the girl standing in front of her looks and acts so completely different to you that she finds it hard to believe that you are somehow related to this woman.

“Do you… do you want to come inside? She’s at training right now but she should be home in the next hour.”

The girl hesitates for a second, like she’s considering her options and then realises she has no other option.

“Can you-Can you help me with my bags?”

It’s the first time Alexia’s acknowledging the suitcase, backpack and duffle bag that the girl has, like she’s packed for a six week trip.

“Yeah, I’ll take the duffle and suitcase.”

The awkward silence that has overtaken your house for the last hour or so has been hard to navigate. Alexia doesn’t know what to ask a person she knows nothing about, and every time you touch anything you recoil back as if you’ve been burnt. It took twenty minutes for Alexia to guide you and get you to sit down on the couch. You’re like a spooked dog.

She’s had her coffee now and has spent the last little while observing you.

“So you’re the fling?”

Alexia and you have been public for at least a year now, there is more than enough evidence of it on social media. So either your sister has absolutely zero concern for you or she’s living under a rock.

“No, the girlfriend.”

The girl doesn’t say anything but her face shrivels up for a second and it’s enough for Alexia to get an understanding.

“Well my sister is a very important football player so I don’t understand how you fit into the picture.”

Alexia’s English isn’t great but she can detect emotion and the emotion bleeding from this girl is insecurity in its finest form.

“I play football with your sister.”

That silences the girl.

She’s silent until the sound of the front door unlocking echoes throughout the house.

“Ale, you left your shoes in the entryway again, are you trying to make me break my ankles.”

It’s the same sunny sarcasm that you exert everywhere, the same sunniness that makes Alexia feel warm.

“No bebe, sorry.”

She can’t help but think as she listens to your footsteps walk down the entryway that the serenity is about to be snapped in half.

You walk into the kitchen and look fairly relaxed until your eyes catch the suitcase. Then in a very quick succession they spot the duffle bag and then the back pack and finally your sister. Alexia doesn’t know what she expects but your reaction is definitely not anything remotely near what she thought.

“Get out. I’m serious get the fuck out. I’m done with your shit Billie.”

The girl, Billie? Stands up and for the first time since Alexia’s met her, she looks sure of herself.

“Wow, real nice way to greet your own sister after not seeing her for three years.”

Alexia feels like she’s watching a movie as it all unfolds in front of her.

“Half-sister, and you don’t get to show up here. I don’t want to know why you’re here because there will be a motive that I want nothing to do with.”

Alexia’s never seen you angry, beyond white line fever on the pitch you’re such a mellow person, always smiling and laughing. This is so far from that.

“Really? Hit me with the half-sister like we didn’t grow up together. Why do you always have to assume that I want something from you? You’re just so much better because you’re great at soccer, and have so much money that all I could possibly want is something from you, is that what you think?”

It’s so vicious, Alexia would almost prefer for the two of you to be throwing punches then this.

“Well it’s all I’m used to isn’t it, considering my first paycheck was used to pay off drug debt, my first brand deal was used to pay for your bail and my euro winners bonus was used to pay for a lawyer for mom.”

That leaves your sister, Billie? Silent for a while, long enough to think of a comeback.

Alexia feels like she’s intruding, like this moment is not for her in any way.

“Oh you were the one used, of course, because everything bad has happened to you. Doesn't it matter that you left mom and I with nothing when you left to play soccer, that I had to deal with all of mom’s problems on my own at 12, that I had to find a way to provide? No, you were the one who had it though because you lost a few pennies paying for what you left behind.”

Alexia knows nothing, absolutely nothing about your family history. But in this very short span of time she’s learnt a lot.

“Hola, I’m sure you had a rough flight, how about I show you to the spare room and you can shower and have a rest. I’m sure we can figure this all out over some lunch, later?”

You look like you might shoot Alexia.

“No, she’s leaving, there is no way you are staying.”

Alexia is impartial, truly, but the way that this girl, who she hardly knows face falls, she wants to help. She feels like she has to help.

“Bebe, let's just let her settle in a bit, she’s clearly travelled to get here. I’m happy to show you to our spare room, there’s an ensuite and the sheets are fresh.”

You nod your head, albeit hesitantly.

By the time Alexia has shown your sister around the spare room and bathroom you’re no longer in the kitchen. She doesn’t have to go far to find you though.

She doesn’t know what it is about your wardrobe that you find comforting, but whenever you’re stressed or sick or frustrated she never fails to find you lying on the floor.

“Bebe, what was that all about, hmm?’

You’re not crying, in Alexia’s time of knowing you she’s seen you cry twice. The first time was when you broke your arm in training, the second time was when Alexia had first floated the idea of marriage. Right now though you look as close to tears as Alexia thinks a person can get.

“She has to leave. I can’t have her here, she cannot be here right now. I want her out of my house.”

Alexia’s not quite sure what to say.

“She’s your sister, no? Surely you can give her a little bit of your time?”

You look at Alexia like she’s just shot you.

“No, she’s not my sister. As far as I’m concerned she’s nothing. She can fuck right back to whatever hole she’s crawled out of.”

This is a side to you Alexia’s never seen, she’s never seen you break or blunder.

“Bebe, she came all this way, surely she has to be here for a reason.”

You sit up from your position lying down, crossing your legs like a child.

“The only reason she is here is to ask for money. Like always, it happens every few years where she comes asking for money because my mom’s gotten in some kind of trouble or Billie has a debt she has to pay or some other serious matter that the two of them aren’t responsible enough to deal with on their own. She only ever wants one thing. I left England because I was done with it all, I’m done with their shit.”

Alexia’s never hated a family member, she doesn’t understand what it means to feel disconnected from the people that share the same blood as you.

“So you plan to spend the rest of your life separated from your only family? She’s here bebe, she’s here for you, shouldn’t you at least listen to what she has to say?”

The teariness clears from your eyes and is replaced with something that Alexia can only describe as rage.

“I plan to spend the rest of my life away from my addict sister and mother who do nothing but wreak havoc on everything they touch. You don’t understand because I haven’t told you about them, for good reason. I was put into foster care four times before the time I was twelve because my mother chose to buy drugs instead of food for her kids. I moved out of my house at thirteen to live with Keira because my mum forgot to pay academy registration and wouldn’t buy me boots or uniforms and the club was going to kick me out. As soon as I got my first professional contract they were magically back in my life. I have spent the last ten years realising that they want nothing to do with me besides money and this time is no different.”

You’re right, Alexia knows nothing, even the description you’ve just given her is brief. But as the outsider in this whole situation she wants to believe or at least advocate for your sister.

“Bebe, you can’t really blame her if your mother was as bad as you said she was, can you? She’s clearly had a hard life, don’t you think she deserves to at least be heard out?”

The way you shake your head so vehemently makes Alexia feel like there is some kind of history that you’re leaving out. You aren’t an irrational person, not at least in the ways that Alexia has seen you.

“You really don’t understand, you don’t understand what it’s like to have your family use you for everything you have and throw you out like you mean absolutely nothing. I tried to give her an opportunity, paid for her schooling, paid for everything she could have wanted all for her to throw it back in my face and use all of the money for drugs. She’s reckless and a user and I want nothing to do with her.”

Alexia sits down on the floor next to you because the level difference is making her feel uncomfortable. You look so much more vulnerable than she’s ever seen you and she doesn’t know what to do. You've always been so strong and impenetrable and now here you are completely broken in front of her.

“Baby, she’s so young. She can’t be over 20, she’s still a child. You got away because of football, but she’s been stuck her whole life. I know very little about your mother, and I’d love to hear more but a child can’t be put to blame for the environment they were brought up in. You had football, but from what you’ve told me she had nothing, and maybe this is the same as always and maybe you’re right but shouldn’t you give her a chance to be herself?”

The silence makes Alexia feel a bit better, like she might have said something that’s resonating with you slightly.

“I left her when she was 5 with my addict mother. I knew what I was doing, I knew that my mom was an addict and the risk of me leaving my sister with her was but I was so focused on myself. I didn’t go back until she was 10. God knows how many boyfriends and dealers my mom had coming in and out but I was so focused on football that none of it mattered to me. I left her and I hate her but I hate myself for doing that to her and I hate that she’s turned into my mom because I left her.”

It’s then that Alexia witnesses you sob for the first time. She can’t do anything but bring you straight into her arms. You jump into her lap like you’re trying to jump into Alexia’s bones and bury your head directly into her neck. It’s not a normal circumstance but it feels so right.

“Bebe, it’s not your fault. You left because you could and there is nothing wrong with that. None of it is your fault, none of it at all.”

You continue to sob, in a way that makes Alexia’s heart shatter. She can’t truly empathise with this, and she doesn’t know how to give you advice at this moment so she lays into physical contact. She figures out quite quickly that you like your back rubbed so she focuses on drawing different patterns and lines across your back as you continue to cry.

Alexia feels like she’s stuck in the moment, in a time warp of some kind. At least until there’s a knock at the bedroom door.

The door isn’t fully closed, Alexia can see your sister's body stuck in the doorway. She’s completely frozen like she’s witnessing a crime or something else horrific.

“I’m going to leave. I know when I’m not wanted and I think it would be best for everybody here if I’m gone.”

Alexia doesn’t want to speak for you, not in any way. All she sees though as she looks at the girl in front of her is complete fear, and it makes her sad. If any girl on the team who was so young looked the same way Alexia wouldn’t hesitate to bring her in for a hug and do whatever she could to make it better. She can’t overstep here though, even though it’s hurting her from the inside to out by not.

Just as she begins to retreat, you perk up in Alexia’s lap.

“We should talk, you came here for something, yeah?”

You wipe at your eyes like displaying vulnerability at this moment is illegal.

“We don’t have to, I can leave.”

You clear your throat and shake your head, untangling yourself from Alexia.

“Let’s talk, we need to talk.”

You pat down on the carpet next to you and Alexia takes it as her queue to leave.

“I’m going to go and make some food, I think it’s needed.”

Seeing your sister for the first time in years makes you feel icky on the inside. It’s a weird dichotomy of looking at the person that you could have been versus who you are.

“Sit down, this isn’t a standing conversation.”

You’ve slowly become free in the last few years, you’ve felt the pressure and demons from your past slowly exit your body and leave you. But now as you look at your sister it feels like you’re facing them all front on.

“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend, and I didn’t know you would be training. I didn’t want to disrupt you or anything, it was just-it was an emergency and I had nowhere else to go.”

It feels like you’re sitting in front of a mirror, you don’t know whether to reach out or what to do.

“It’s okay. You’re fine. I’m sorry for reacting the way I did, the last thing I expected was for you to be here and I’m still shocked. You had an emergency? Are you okay, first and foremost.”

It’s weird trying to connect with a person that you’ve never connected with before but probably should have.

“It’s mom, she’s in a lot of trouble. She owes a lot of people money and she’s getting sick and there are people breaking in and trying to hurt us constantly. She needs help.”

Your stomach drops and you try to hide it.

“You’re here for money.”

It hurts a lot. You want to feel good about being right but in the end it actually is just painful more than anything.

“Look, mom’s really struggling. I think she’s developing dementia, she’s always forgetting things and she doesn’t know what she’s doing anymore. We just need some help.”

It’s a hard pill to swallow.

“Wow, you’re actually here for money. You are unbelievable. Here I was hoping that maybe you were here to connect or something else, but I guess if it barks like a dog it really is a dog.”

Your sister recoils like she’s offended.

“Look, you don’t understand. You left, you left mom and I. You don’t get to judge us, you fucking left us.”

You feel stronger from Alexia’s conversation, more sure of yourself.

“Yeah I did what most kids did, I recognised when I was in a terrible situation and I found a way out. I’m sorry you couldn’t and you didn’t and I’m sorry that I couldn’t do better for you but I can’t put myself in that situation anymore. I’ve spent the last few years doing everything in my power to make myself whole again. You are not responsible for mom, I could tell you a million different reasons why if you were open to hearing. You might not be ready for that conversation at this moment but when you are I will be here to have it with you. Our mother is not normal, she has problems and it’s not necessarily her fault but it’s also not your responsibility to manage that and I don’t know if it’ll take her dying for you to realise that or if you’ll die believing she’s your responsibility. Either way I’m done, I’m not going to give mom money that I know is going to go towards her destroying her life even more. That’s the little power I have now. Distance was the best thing I ever did and when you feel the same way there is a spare room here for you.”

You know when your sister’s eyebrows crease in the same way that yours do when you’re angry that this conversation is about to get so much harder.

“God that’s all so rich coming from you, miss princess of english football. I have nothing but mom, mom is everything to me and there is no world where I can just leave her, do you even have a conscience?”

You want Alexia back now.

“This has nothing to do with me. It is not your responsibility as a child to care for your parents. Look, stay the night, think about what I’ve said and if you disagree I’ll pay for your flight out in the morning, I’ll drive you straight to the airport.”

Your sister doesn’t seem happy with that response but you think that if you talk about it all for a minute longer than the sickness in your stomach is going to turn into vomit.

“Let’s go eat, you must be hungry after the travel.”

You sit through what might possibly be the most awkward meal of your life. Then you make an effort of collecting all the spare linen and supplies for your sister and making sure she’s settled in before returning to your own room.

It’s a lot earlier than usual for you to be going through your bedtime routine but you don’t feel like you have anything to stay up for.

Alexia and you work in silence as you go through your nighttime routine.

It’s not until the two of you are lying in bed next to each other that she says anything.

“Your talk didn’t go well?”

Her arms are wrapped around your waist the same way she sleeps every night.

“Am I a bad person for leaving them?”

Alexia’s arms tighten.

“No, bebe, not at all.”

Your head is sore from thinking about it.

“Everytime I look at her all I can see is myself and it scares me, that could have been me and it makes me feel bad. Like I should be giving them stuff because I could easily be in the same situation. But also they’re not my responsibility and I don’t want them to be.”

Alexia’s head moves into the crook of your neck and places a soft kiss on your shoulder.

“Bebe at the end of the day it is your life and whatever is going to make you happiest is what is most important. They are not your responsibility.”

You want to agree with her, you’ve worked the last years to convince yourself but now it feels like it’s all crashing down.

You aren’t at all surprised when your sister is nowhere to be seen in the morning. You also aren’t surprised to find every drawer, bag and cabinet ransacked. It sort of comforts you in a weird way of knowing that nothing has really changed. Alexia however is affected.

“Bebe, we need to call the police. What’s stopping her from coming back and robbing us?”

You’re used to the retaliation after you not meeting the expectations that have been set.

“She took your purse, all of your cards and money.”

Alexia’s slightly uncomfortable with how chillingly unbothered you are by the events that occurred whilst you were sleeping.

“I froze all of them before I went to sleep last night. This happens every time after I don’t give them what they want. It’s fine, we’re moving soon anyways. This time I won’t disclose my address. They won’t come back asking for anything else for a while, there was a chance they didn’t even need anything to begin with they just wanted to see how much they could milk from me. This is just what they’re like. No point in being bothered by it.”

Alexia suddenly becomes really grateful that her family has embraced you so much, and she feels the energy that her own mami had told her she felt around you. Like you needed it a lot more than anyone else did. Eli always had a weird way of knowing things that nobody else did.

“I think we should take today off. You should go and see your therapist, or just have a break. Yesterday was a lot.”

Alexia pushes down the feeling in her stomach of discomfort about the whole situation, if you say this is normal then she’s going to treat it like that even if it feels so wrong.

“I’m good Ale, this is just how it is. I’m sorry about it but this is just how it goes for me.”

Alexia suddenly feels a wave of gratitude wash over her that she’s never had before as she looks at your stone set face and the dullness in the back of your eyes. She’s never had to base her family’s love or gratitude off of how she’s contributing to them, she’s never had to provide. She’s never been expected to give everything and receive nothing back.

“Okay bebe, I’m here for you.”

[chai-berries]

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.

[chai-berries]

STRUCK - PAIGE BUECKERS X READER!

| synopsis: you’ve been a uconn fan for as long as you can remember. a fan bowling event? cool. being in the same lane as paige bueckers? wild. her noticing you? absolutely insane.

| warnings: flirty tension, butterflies, confident!paige, mutual attraction, soft moments

| word count: 3.5K

| author’s note: this has been in my drafts so hi

you’re nervous.

you try to play it cool—white paige jersey, black cargos, your best pair of jordans like it’s just another night out, but the minute your friend parks the car outside the packed bowling alley, it hits you.

this isn’t just a cute little fan event. it’s the uconn women’s basketball fan event. and your forever celebrity crush just happens to be the face of the program.

“you good?” your friend asks as they kill the engine, glancing over at you with a raised brow.

“yeah,” you lie, tugging at the hem of your jersey. “i just didn’t think it was gonna be this many people.”

“girl… it’s uconn and paige bueckers. what did you expect?”

fair point.

you step inside, and the energy is wild. the place is packed with fans—some in custom shirts, others carrying handmade signs, a few even dragging wagons full of gifts for the players. each lane has a player assigned to it, but people are free to move around, say hi, take pics. the energy is loud, chaotic, a little overwhelming, but then your eyes land on her.

lane five.

her blonde hair put up in a bun. oversized madison reed tee with a hoodie, white sneakers, and the easiest smile you’ve ever seen.

paige bueckers.

your breath catches a little. you try not to stare too long.

“yo,” your friend nudges you hard enough to snap you out of it. “she looked at you.”

“no she didn’t,” you say too fast.

“yes the hell she did,” she whispers. “she keeps glancing over here. i swear.”

you glance up. she’s mid-laugh with a group of younger fans, holding a sharpie in one hand and someone’s custom-painted basketball in the other, but then her eyes flick your way. and linger.

your throat goes dry.

you look down at your gift—the carefully wrapped vintage timberwolves jersey you scored from a late-night ebay hunt three weeks ago. mint condition, her size. you knew you were gonna give it to her tonight but now? now you’re not sure you even remember how to speak.

minutes pass. the lane starts to clear out a bit. paige takes a sip of her soda, glancing around casually. and then somehow, she’s walking toward you.

like, actually walking. toward you.

“hi,” she says when she reaches your side, eyes on you like you’re the only person in the room.

“hey,” you manage, trying to sound normal and not like your heart is trying to punch its way out of your chest.

she nods at your friend. “i’m paige.”

“she knows,” your friend grins, nudging you again. “been her favorite player since forever.”

“really?” she looks at you again, eyebrows raised. “that true?”

you laugh, a little embarrassed. “yeah. since, you played back in hopkins.”

“a real one,” she smiles. “i like that. what’s your name?”

you tell her, and she repeats it, saying it soft and slow before her smile deepens.

"cute," she says, eyes flicking over your face. "i like that."

you smile back, a little shy but holding her gaze.

then she nods toward the bag in your hand.

"so... what’s in there?"

you blink. oh right. the gift.

"uh—it's for you," you say, holding it out. "just... thought you might like it."

her brows lift, surprised. "seriously? can i open it?"

"yeah," you nod quickly. "please."

she carefully rips into the wrapping paper, eyes widening immediately.

“no way,” she breathes, holding up the jersey. “this is vintage. where’d you even find this?”

“i’m an elite thrifter,” you say with a half-smile. “it’s kind of my thing.”

she laughs again. low, but genuine.

“this is insane. thank you. seriously. can i—?”

before you can react, her arms are around you. soft, warm. she smells like clean laundry and whatever body spray she wears that’s gonna haunt your dreams now.

she pulls back with a smile and gets pulled into another group photo, but not before glancing back at you, like she doesn’t want to be pulled away.

your friend is losing their mind quietly beside you.

“sooooo,” she says. “what was that?”

you shake your head, still in a daze. “i don’t even know.”

—

you’re mid-bite of a soft pretzel when you feel someone beside you again.

“you again,” she says softly.

“me again,” you grin.

this time it’s quieter—less people crowding around, the night winding down. it’s just the two of you by the snack bar, a gentle bubble of space around you.

“thank you again for the jersey,” she says. “you really didn’t have to do that. it’s seriously so cool.”

“you’re welcome. i figured you’d appreciate it.”

“i do,” she says, leaning casually against the counter. “you always this thoughtful or is this just for me?”

your cheeks heat. “depends who’s asking.”

she laughs, a low, flirty sound.

“i’m asking. obviously.”

you glance up at her, meet her gaze.

“then yeah. just for you.”

her smile grows. “you’re cute.”

you nearly choke on your pretzel.

“uhh…thanks.”

“no, really,” she says, tilting her head. “you’re pretty. and cool. and clearly got taste. i’m impressed.”

you smile shyly. “you’re not too bad yourself.”

“not too bad, huh?”

“maybe a little pretty.”

“a little?” she teases. “damn. now i’m offended.”

“fine,” you laugh. “you’re really pretty.”

“thank you,” she grins, satisfied. “so are you.”

the air shifts. warm and soft and a little electric.

“you in college?” she asks.

“yeah,” you nod. “play at a small d1 for basketball. not uconn-level, but it’s home.”

“you hoop too?” she blinks. “okay. i really like you now.”

you laugh, ducking your head.

“you any good?” she teases.

“you trying to find out?”

“maybe i am.”

your heart is doing somersaults now. you barely notice the music turning down or the event staff telling everyone things are wrapping up.

“hey,” she says, suddenly a little more serious. “before this ends, can i get your number?”

you blink. “really?”

“yeah. unless you don’t want me to have it.”

“no i do. i do.”

you pull out your phone and hand it to her, trying not to freak out as she types in her number and sends herself a text.

“cool,” she says, handing it back. “now i can text you when i wear that jersey. or when i want someone to talk basketball with. or, y’know… just because.”

you smile. “yeah. i’d like that.”

she gives you one last grin—bright, a little smug, totally charming.

“see you soon, mystery girl.”

[chai-berries]

Can i request the hidden baby/ wife trope for paige? Like ppl only find out bc they catch page somewhere in Dallas with her family

𖥻 ALL SHE COULD, ALL SHE CAN. paige bueckers x wife!reader

synopsis: paige does all she can so god can do all she can’t.

notes: REBLOGS APPRECIATED MORE THAN LIKES. comments appreciated more than LIKES. hey… hey y’all… i’m back… hi nonnie, i hope you don’t mind i turned your request into a 2.4k word fic! this details how you got engaged to paige -> how the marriage was -> how she got you pregnant in the first place and the overall privacy around those events -> how that privacy was broken! guys ima be rwal i complerely projected. like i read this fic and i see my future slightly

cw: commitment for my queens with the commitment issues, pregnancy, nothing else i suppose— i was lowkey just projecting my indescribable urge to have a baby and be a wife to my future woman, i heard paige say that she did all she could so god could do all she couldn’t and i just ran w it, wife!reader, WIFE!READER IS DEVOTED TO PAIGE, uconn AND dallas wings paige. these bitches inLOVE

Paige did all she could, so God could do all she couldn’t.

Paige, having been dating you long enough to the point she knew you were here to stay, did not want you to lose what she already did: the luxury of privacy. So, when she came to you with a ring (because she would not have you be ‘just a girlfriend’ when she wanted you pregnant with her baby), she did it quiet.

It wasn’t even outside. It was inside, with your leg draped over hers, and your forearm over your eyes as you tried to take an impromptu screen break because paige decided to scare you saying that your orbital would fracture from too much staring at your screen. she couldn’t believe you actually got scared, but she remembers being thankful for how gullible you were. it gave her the perfect opportunity.

She pulled the velvet box out of her sweatpants, called your name once, then twice, then three times—“come onnn,” she drawled, “i was literally joking.”

“I’m still horrified.” you murmured, before slowly removing your arm, blinking a few times to readjust to the bright light. then, you sat up.

And Paige was there, with that velvet box wide open, and a ring with a rock so big you thought you saw god. most importantly, was that there was a huge smile on her face—pearly whites all on display, as if you didn’t jump out the couch you were both on, gasping so audibly your voice cracked.

Paige proposed to you in the middle of her apartment back at uconn, in the middle of a random tuesday that somehow became your favorite date—in sweatpants and a uconn sweater. you were both barefaced, there was no photographer, there was no other witness, there was no other person— there was only you two.

That was the most intimate thing about it.

The privacy of the engagement wasn’t planned in the way that Paige wanted this one moment to be private— no, she wanted everything under wraps. for all the right reasons, too.

To the world, she was Paige Bueckers— all rounder, all rounded, all around beloved superstar athlete—and to you, she was paige. Paigey, sometimes. Madison when she was being a little bitch, because you knew she always got a bit icked out due to how little that name was used. She was just P, and she was just yours.

She wanted to keep the her that you had away from the hands that already took every other piece she had of herself.

The last piece was her heart, bruised and beaten yet still beating, and still warm—because for aslong as you held it, as long as you kept it, it was safe.

The wedding was a private affair. Young as you two were, she couldn’t have anyone speaking out and questioning her decision to marry you, when your presence in her life was not something she, herself, questioned at all. she remembers it like it was yesterday—it was before the sun set; not too long before it to miss the opportunity for a great shot, but also not too soon — also for the sake of not missing a great shot. Paige remembers; it was one of the days in her life that went according to plan—and even better—went perfectly. you two kissed, and the sun set, and the sky was a mix of oranges, slight yellows and pinks and azzi pulled the officiant by her wrist to make sure she didn’t photobomb the moment the photographer snapped that perfect shot. it was perfect.

that day was perfect.

You were perfect. You are perfect, still, to paige. You will be perfect forever.

Paige did all she could, so God could do all she couldn’t.

She said that to herself when she paid for you to undergo IVF treatment. She said that to herself when she started taking hormone injections, commiting to the ovarian stimulation for fourteen days so that she’d be able to have them transferred and combined with a sperm donor’s— so that once all that lab work was done, the embryo would be transferred into your uterus. Paige did all she could so God could do all she couldn’t.

She did all she could during the nine months of your pregnancy; she didn’t ‘deal’ with you, she cherished you. She cherished every little act of servitude she could bring you so as to ease the struggles of your pregnancy, even by a little bit, and when you cried—she soothed. She did all she could so God could do all she couldn’t.

She did all she could to make sure no one was sure of you. Your existence, technically. She hid you as best as she could because if the media found out she was engaged, in the process of getting her girl PREGNANT, and wanted to stay quiet about it? Fuck no, hello? She’d be finished—news outlets wouldn’t leave her alone at all; people would bash her for hiding so much from them (as if they had any right to know), and the most teeth-gritting truth? They’d ask about you. You and your—her— child. They wouldn’t even ask, they’d take.

Whenever Paige thinks of such dire consequences, she thinks of one tiktok sound—‘I would rather shit in my hands. and clap.’

Paige did all she could, so God could do all she couldn’t.

The days you were in labor scared her shitless, and with away games on her schedule at the same time you were set to be due, and an endorsement she had yet to film— she had to, regretfully, put you on a balance scale.

Or, she thought she had to.

Then you delivered the baby early. Paige was scared shitless, eyes wide and bulging out everytime you squeezed her hand—everytime you screamed, her ears rung, and despite how overwhelming it was she knew whatever she felt didn’t amount to the way you felt that entire pregnancy. so, inbetween your cries of pain and the bone-breaking squeezes of your hand, she thought to herself: My wife is giving me new life. My wife is giving me new life. My wife is giving me new life. My wife is giving me new life.

Paige had received many honors and accolades through her years, and yet the greatest achievement she’s ever had was to be worthy enough to keep you—

And when she held your child in her hands, and the child had her eyes and what she believed to be your smile—she thought, reverently,

‘My wife gave me new life’.

New life.

A child.

You have children now.

Children should be cherished. Loved. Protected.

Children should be protected, even if it takes hiding them from the world, loving them so quietly only they can hear it, because they are all that matter.

You knew who you married.

Before anything else, you knew paige would prioritize your privacy. you trusted her with this type of thing— coming from where you came from, doing what you did, the sense of normalcy that you still held—you understood how despite how mundane it was to you, to Paige it was something you couldn’t lose.

So, you dealt with all her security measures. the separate cars, exiting and entering the same place at different times, picking things up separately, doing things separate in general—you dealt with it all, because you knew you would never truly be separated. Not while you had such a hold on her heart, and not while you held her baby.

Moving to dallas was a tough decision as is, with the risk of fans seeing you together and the thought that they’d see you as an obstacle— because you knew. You knew how many women would lay their life down for a chance to date your wife—and if they were willing to lay down their own lives? Lord knows what they’d do with yours.

It happened in a Target parking lot. Paige was loading your groceries into the trunk, and you were doing your damndest to be as fast as possible trying to get your squirmy child into their carseat. This wasn’t a common thing— usually you’d be in the far corner of the parking lot, away from prying eyes because no one wanted to park that far—but today wasn’t your day. Too many people had decided that on this particular day they would go grocery shopping, and the moment you and paige saw an open parking spot you immediately went for it. The problem was that you had to get in and out as fast as possible.

Your baby’s seatbelt buckled the same time Paige closed the trunk…

And the same time Paige closed the trunk was the same time someone snapped a photo with a flash on.

“…What the fuck?” Paige cursed, as you froze dead in your tracks. It was so quick. Too quick. The person turned before you saw them despite your efforts to whip your head every possibly direction— all you saw was a whole lot of nothing, and also the end of your private life. Paige, on the other hand? Saw failure.

She was about to walk away from the car, about to hunt down whoever did it, but it was you who stopped her. You, and the extra pressure from your ring finger. You, her wife. “Paige,” you whispered, quietly, voice shaken but strong: “Paige, just get in the car.”

Paige did all she could, so God could do all she couldn’t.

They took a photo of you and the baby. Of her loading the groceries into the trunk with the ring gleaming proudly on her ring finger.

And God, it seems, did not interfere.

You raced home with the baby masked up and your face covered by a sun visor. Paige gripped the steering wheel so tight her knuckles were about to split open had you not placed your palm ontop of them. “This is bad.” Paige whispered, breaking the uncomfortable silence between the two of you. It was a red light, but she almost ran it— thats usually what can happen when your entire life is at risk. “My God, this is so, so bad—“ she continued, choking on her own spit.

“What do you suppose we do about it? It’s already been done. We don’t know if it’ll get leaked, honey. Some people have morals.” You tried to reason knowing it was to no avail, because all you aimed for was to lighten the load Paige had (which was already so heavy. too heavy, even). “They might’ve taken the picture to—“

“To what?” Paige interrupted through grit teeth, her tone still gentle in contrast to the rage you could tell was simmering off of her. Before anything else, you were her wife. She would not be caught dead raising her voice at you unless it was to call you over, because you were too far away. “To what?” She repeated, “There’s no other reason why. They’re going to — they’re going to leak it. Our baby, and you, and I— they’re going to leak us—you wouldn’t go a day without someone trying to ambush you, baby,” her tone was heated, her eyes wild, so wide they shook and for a moment you saw them flicker with what you mistook for a last shred of hope.

You tried to speak. You couldn’t.

“You and the baby need to move back to Connecticut.”

Your ears began ringing. Your heart’s sinking to your stomach, beating so fast you were sure you’d explode if you didn’t—

“…What?” You muttered, frozen.

… If you didn’t speak. Alas, that one word was all you could muster.

“You and the baby need to move back to Connecticut. I can’t risk anything, baby. i’m not risking you. I’ll visit every weekend, I’ll send you money, I’ll facetime—“

No.

No, no, no, that’s not how it goes, that’s not what you want.

It doesn’t matter what you might ‘need’, it doesn’t matter—

“Absolutely fucking not.”

You speak before you think. Your voice is so firm, so resolute, that Paige pauses.

Green light. The cars start moving, and you start speaking. Paige’s eyes are on the road now. Her mind is still on you.

“Paige.” you begin, “Paige, you gave me your last name. You gave me a ring. You gave me a house, a home, you give me extra space in the bed, you give me two extra house keys just incase I lose my main one— Paige, you gave me a baby.” You snap, but there is no yelling. There’s only you choking on your tears and the last shred of peace that is your baby sleeping behind the two of you in the backseat.

Car drives always were peaceful to your little miracle.

It’s a redlight, now. Paige doesn’t look at you. She looks straight ahead. Her forearms are resting on top of the wheel and she is staring straight ahead, and you both know shes not watching the road.

“Goddamn it, Paige,” You mutter. “You gave me your heart. I’m not letting go of something so precious.”

Your hand is on top of hers. Your rings press against eachother and you swear you see her shiver. You continue.

“I am your wife, Paige. I am not— I am never, going to leave you.”

Paige finally looks at you, and there are tears running down her face.

“Are you sure?” She asks, voice cracking.

“Yes.” You answer, and there is no hesitation.

Her hands are on your cheeks, her lips are on yours, and your foreheads press together— and the traffic light is green.

and honks be damned, Paige doesn’t go immediately.

A week later, the photo is leaked. Fortunately, you don’t get the outcome you expected.

The poster is bashed for their audacity to interfere with a celebrity’s private life, and you both watch in a sort of cruel delight as they get what they are due: a dent in their digital footprint, and a frighteningly concerning amount of cyberbullies.

Nothing of your identity is leaked. Paige is able to resume her rookie year smoothly, with the same incompetent coach unfortunately. You continue your duties as per usual, and the baby— still so little—sleeps to both of your voices—Paige’s, sometimes through a phone call, but she’s always there.

People speak, but never ask.

Paige is content with this. She thanks her fans for their respect, although it’s meant to be expected, and she promises—as she always does— to do all she can, so that God can do what she can’t.

@likelysobbing.

[chai-berries]

please a fic of reader thirsting over paige’s arms and trying to hide it but paige notices anyway and teases her about it also maybe leading to some smut where reader leaves a hickey because she’s seen way too many stans thirsting over paige and she gotta stake her claim 🙂‍↕️

flex for me

paige bueckers x fem!reader 

summary: paige had invited you to come with her to a late-night solo practice session and you agreed, expecting to finally be able to finish the book you were reading. however, you quickly find yourself unable to tear your eyes away from her biceps and neglecting the book altogether. you just hoped she didn't notice.

warnings: sub!paige but vers!paige fits too!, some plot, semi-public and a mirror, fingering, dirty talk, you're a lil bossy and possesive (but she likes it), hickeys, biting, praiseee, a little choking

word count: 4.3k

notes: i was gonna work on other requests first bc this was only sent like 2 days ago but omfg i couldn't resist teehee

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you tried to play it cool as you sat on the floor of the gym, your back against the wall to support you behind the basket.

it was late, but paige wanted to get some extra shots in after a particularly poor shooting percentage in her last game. when she extended you the invitation to come with her, you accepted without hesitation. not that you ever denied it unless you had a good reason though. you usually spent the time reading a book, scrolling through your phone, or if neither of those sounded appealing, grabbing rebounds for her. 

today was a reading day–or at least, was supposed to be. you had ditched your book a long time ago, setting it down in your lap like you were just taking a break. but you just couldn’t tear your eyes away from paige. she was wearing an old uconn shirt that she had cut the sleeves off of, giving you a perfect view of her arms. 

and damn, was the view great.

it was blatantly obvious how much time she had been putting into the weight room just by looking at her arms. the way her biceps flexed when her arm was bent, the way her triceps flexed when she followed through on her shot, how defined her shoulders were when her arms were just at her side, and the way muscles in her forearms flexed when she crossed her arms. obviously, you weren’t the only one noticing either, you had seen so many videos on tiktok about them too. 

you weren’t ashamed to say that you had a favorites folder dedicated to those videos, and you often got called out for saving them on her fan pages. you were just glad she barely used tiktok anymore so she couldn’t see that. even though it was never in a bad way, the pictures of your account in their notifications were usually attached with a caption saying something like same, y/n, same. 

you couldn’t help it, though, watching her muscles work while she put shots up was actually mesmerizing. like, you could probably hypnotize yourself this way.

“you’re distracting me,” she said loudly from the elbow. she was dribbling the ball in front of her absentmindedly with a goofy smile on her face out of amusement. 

you put your hands up in confusion, furrowing your brows. “literally how?”

she shook her head as she picked up the ball, resting it on her hip while she walked over to you. you tried to make eye contact, you really did, but her arms were genuinely so distracting. and the way her veins were popping in her hands? 

“i can feel you objectifying me from all the way over there,” she laughed, towering over you because she didn’t sit down. you froze, your cheeks heating with embarrassment–you didn’t know why though, you’re allowed to stare at your girlfriend like you wanted to rip her clothes off right there.

“i was not,” you weakly attempted to defend yourself. you tried not to be obvious, but you definitely were not looking at her face. it felt like you physically could not pull your eyes away from her arms, no matter how hard you tried, now that they were close to you.

“no?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow with a smirk. 

she noticed the way your eyes didn’t meet hers, of course she did. she always noticed everything–it was kind of annoying, you never had any peace. not that this was hard to notice, anyway.

“am i not allowed to appreciate the hard work and dedication you’ve been putting in lately?” you asked sassily, finally making eye contact with her. her foot nudged yours softly.

“don’t play w’me,” she replied. “i saw the folder.” 

before you could ask her to specify what folder, she held her arm that wasn’t holding the basketball up to flex. she nodded with a cocky facial expression, but put her arm back down for a few seconds. you felt your face heat up, embarrassed to be caught even though you shouldn’t have been.

at least you had a good method of deflection. well, it was good in theory.

“why were you going through my phone?” you asked, trying to sound offended and mad but failing miserably. you really didn’t care if she did or not, so it was a weak way to change the subject. though, she did usually mention she was going to use it beforehand, and you don’t remember her telling you she was going to go on tiktok lately.

she shrugged, holding out her hand as an offer to help you up. “wanted to watch your tiktok drafts while you were in the shower.”

you took her hand with one hand and grabbed your book with the other, letting her do most of the work to pull you up so you could watch the way her muscles moved under her skin. you were probably already soaked through your underwear just from this. yeah, you were definitely going to have sex with her when you got home (not that you wouldn’t no matter what).

“my drafts? what’s so interesting in there?” you asked, absentmindedly smoothing your hands over your backside to swipe away any dirt from sitting on the floor.

“you got all those thirst traps that you’ll never post,” she smiled, leaning forward to press a soft kiss against your forehead fondly, slinging her arm around your shoulders. it wasn’t embarrassing; you did have lip-synching videos from moments you thought looked good that would probably never see the light of day. “i think you got a little drool on your face.”

your mouth dropped open like you were offended as you jabbed your elbow into her side, making her flinch away from you without moving her arm. “you’re annoying,” you mumbled as you turned away from her a little bit. paige took the opportunity to slide her arm from your shoulders to wrap around your neck lightly, putting you in a loose headlock. “hey!”

“what?” she asked innocently, flexing against your jaw. you tried to stifle the irritation because she knew exactly what she was doing–and it was working.

without even thinking, you turned your head slightly and sunk your teeth into her bicep, not too hard but not softly either. it was meant to be playful; you expected her body to jolt and for her to yank her arm away, but instead, she let out a shaky breath. in retaliation for her lack of reaction, you bit down harder for a second to test it, but she still didn’t move. you released your bite and pulled back slightly, just enough for your lips to brush against her skin.

“you like that?” you asked in shock, not really meaning for it to sound as sexual as it did coming out of your mouth. there were probably a lot of other phrases you could’ve chosen instead of that one, but your mouth moved too fast for your brain to compute.

“relax,” she said quickly, almost too quickly to be considered nonchalant.

there was a beat of silence as you weighed your options for where to go from here. on one hand, you’re quite literally in a public gym where there are definitely cameras, but on the other, you were both so clearly worked up. 

“i’m trying,” you mumbled, shifting your weight from one leg to the other awkwardly. then, you blew out a breath, feeling suddenly bold. “i just–” you hesitated, wondering if you should really say what you wanted to say right now. if you should tell her what she was doing to you just by existing. “i really want to fuck you right now,” you finished with a low voice.

you heard the basketball hit the wood floor, followed by the feeling of her hand fisting your t-shirt at your waist to pull you against her.

“fuck, babe,” she muttered into your ear. 

“careful,” you said quietly. the intention behind your words was that she needed to keep herself together because you were in public, and anyone could walk in at any moment. of course, it was a little unlikely at this point in the night, but anything is possible. 

paige scoffed a little, like what you said was ridiculous. “you’re not exactly making it easy right now,” her voice was low. there was no amusement but no irritation, just a tone telling you that she was ready to take your clothes off.

“i haven’t even really done anything,” you said innocently, a smile rising to your face because of how easy it was to get her worked up. 

she didn’t say anything at first, at least not right away–just let out a slow breath, pressed her forehead against the back of your head, and groaned quietly in frustration. the sound was so whiny, you almost expected her to stomp her feet like a toddler who wasn’t getting her way. she lifted her head and dropped her arm to turn you around lightly to face her. her lips were pulled into a tight-lipped smile, cheeks flushed, and pupils already starting to widen from lust. 

“this isn’t fair,” she whined, setting her hands on your waist.

instead of wrapping yours around her neck like you usually would, you settled for placing one on her upper arm instead, the other being occupied by holding your book. she raised her eyebrows when you did that, either out of shock or a challenge, or maybe both.

“how?” you questioned, squeezing her arms a little bit. it wasn’t necessarily to add anything to the moment, though, you just wanted to.

“you know what you’re doing,” she said with an exasperated tone, throwing her head back for a second. you giggled at her, tilting your head fondly. “see? you want to see me suffer.”

you gasped dramatically. “me? what about you? you wore this,” you said, pinching the shoulder of her shirt and then settling your hand on her arm again.

she shrugged, glancing to the side for a second like she didn’t know what you were talking about, but she obviously did it on purpose. you didn’t know why else she’d be wearing her uconn shirts when she had collected a plethora of brand new wings gear–especially while in the practice facility.

“i dunno what you mean,” she replied. 

“liar,” you rolled your eyes. “you were hoping to get fucked tonight.” 

“god forbid a girl wants to see her sexy girlfriend naked,” she shrugged again with a goofy smile on her face. 

you laughed at her, shaking your head in disbelief at her silliness. you couldn’t believe how lucky you were to have bagged a girl like her. like really, with the amount of people who thirsted over her every day and were in her dms, you were so lucky that she picked you out of all of that. 

“shut up,” you said, your cheeks heating from the compliment. you probably should’ve been able to receive a compliment from her without getting flustered by now, after all this time, but it still felt like you were finally talking to your crush every time. 

she leaned forward and pressed your lips together in a peck, pulling away with a mischievous smile and glint in her eyes. “make me.”

“don’t tempt me,” you narrowed your eyes at her, smirking a little. 

she paused to consider her options, what she wanted to say. but then she smiled smugly. “and what are you gonna do about it?”

you stared at her for a moment, trying to find any sign of backing down, but you were met with nothing but a mix of lust, mischief, and playfulness. there were a lot of places you could go from here–so many replies you could give her. some that were playful and some that would get her even more worked up. 

“what do you want me to do about it?” you asked, your voice almost a whisper as you stared into her eyes.

her confidence seemed to falter a little bit, her mouth parting and a whimper so quiet you almost didn’t hear it falling from her lips. she tried to hide it, licking her lips and swallowing nervously to act like nothing happened. you waited for her to reply, but she didn’t, seemingly too stunned to do so.

you took a step back, dropping your free hand to grab one of hers and dragged her toward the locker room. well, dragged was a strong word–she definitely was not going to fight you and would follow you like a lost puppy. her fingers gripped yours like she was struggling to keep up with you, even though she was so hot on your heels, you thought that she might accidentally stop on them and take your shoe off.

when you finally burst through the doors of the locker room, she practically ripped the book from your hands and tossed it onto one of the benches carelessly. after, she pushed you up against the closest sink, pressing your back flush against her front again. your hands gripped the edge of the sink, staring at her intensely through the mirror, while she dug her fingernails into your clothed hips.

then, without breaking eye contact, you grabbed one of her hands–which made her immediately release her grip–and set it on your opposite shoulder, signaling that you wanted her to wrap her arm around you like she did earlier. so she did, of course. she was always pretty obedient for you. 

“you’re crazy,” she breathed.

“for you, maybe,” you just smiled in return. 

her arm tightened unintentionally, making her bicep flex against your jaw again. you took the opportunity to lean forward and press a kiss against the skin, keeping your eyes trained on hers. her jaw clenched slightly, her eyes refusing to look away. almost like the eye contact was a challenge, you turned your peck into an open-mouthed kiss, then sunk your teeth into the muscle and sucking to leave a hickey.

her breath caught in her throat at the sight, mind wandering to all kinds of filthy places that would definitely land her a fiery place in hell. she didn’t even know how to react at that point. all she knew was that she was wet as hell and throbbing already, and so were you.

you pulled back after a while, looking at the dark hickey and smiling in satisfaction. “mine,” you said softly. 

“yours,” she nodded in agreement, looking a little dazed. normally, she probably would’ve whined about it, especially because it was visible and she needed to stay professional, but she just couldn’t bring herself to care at the moment.

“paige,” you said, your voice commanding but still fond. you didn’t have to say anything else, she knew what you were asking for–knew what you wanted. she gently pulled you away from the sink slightly.

you expected her to tease you, to act like clueless and make you tell her what to do, because she loved when you did that. her entire life revolved around being a leader and commanding a room, so giving up the control to you felt like she could finally let her stress melt away and take a breath. she would take far too long getting to where you wanted her just to hear you boss her around, you expected her to trace her fingers over your stomach and the waistband of your pants, allowing you to get restless under her touch.

instead, though, she wasted no time dipping her hand into your sweatpants. her fingers ghosted over your clit almost immediately like she was expecting to feel underwear, but she should know by now that if you’re wearing sweatpants, there’s probably nothing under them. it resulted in a whimper slipping out, her lips parting in both surprise and desire.

“no panties?” she asked quietly, mostly to herself. her eyes were no longer on yours through the mirror, favoring watching her hand instead. she traced lower toward your entrance, feeling the wet slick, and swirling one finger in it teasingly. when she spoke again, her tone wasn’t playful or teasing, it was laced in pure amazement, like she couldn’t believe that your body actually reacted to her like that. “this wet already?”

“you know what you do to me,” you said flatly, shifting your weight from one foot to the other impatiently.

she kept swirling her finger slowly, her arm tightening around your neck for a moment before loosening again. her eyes moved back up to meet yours, shooting you a small smile. you took your bottom lip in-between your teeth to try to bite back any words of impatience you wanted to throw at her, because it was only fair if you let her tease you. after all, you did it to her all the time just to see her squirm.

“i do?” she asked, playfully. her fingers trailed through your folds back to your clit, using two fingers to gently rub slow circles into the throbbing bud.

“paige,” you tried to say as a warning for her behavior, but it came out as more of a breathy gasp from her touch.

she placed a firm kiss to the side of your neck, and then another behind your ear, then opened her mouth to speak. “i want you to tell me what i do to you,” she murmured, lips brushing against the outer shell of your ear, not even breaking eye contact.

her gaze held a glint of mischief because she knew what she was doing–she was taking a page from your playbook, stealing your moves. making her use her words was something you did pretty much every single time, because you wanted to hear the desperate praise coming from her mouth as she babbled whatever came to her mind without thinking about it first.

“you want me to tell you how watching your muscles flex as you shot the ball turned me on?” you started, attempting to shift the lead back to you. 

though, you didn’t mind letting paige take control every now and then, watching as she attempted to be dominant. in fact, it was kind of nice to sometimes just sit back and let her do whatever she wanted, let her do the work and the talking, do whatever she says, but it usually never lasted long–it was just her way of being bratty, so you’ve learned.

she swallowed nervously, her dominating demeanor already cracking before she could even really begin to use it. you tried to resist the smirk threatening to rise, but the attempt failed miserably.

“you want me to tell you how–” you paused to push a slow breath out once you felt her fingers speeding up slightly, “–how wet i was thinking about just fucking you right there in middle of the gym where everyone could see?”

her hips subconsciously pressed forward slightly, straight into your backside like she was trying to dry hump you, and her arm tightened again, but not enough to press against your throat. not that you would mind if it did, though. you were usually the one grabbing her throat, but you loved it when she did it back.

“or how when you were at practice this morning, i scrolled through those edits your fans make of you. thinking about how they can thirst over my girl all they want because at the end of the day, i’m the only one who gets to see you like this–have you like this, feel you touch me like this,” you added for good measure. 

she always loved it when you got possessive, especially when it resulted in you telling her things like this. knowing that even though you didn’t mind that being with her meant that she had people shooting their shot with her or talking about how hot she is all the time, you still wanted them all to know that she was yours. and you really didn’t mind at all, you were always liking, reposting, and commenting on edits of her, fangirling alongside the fan accounts like she wasn’t lying next to you while you did it.

“fuck,” she managed to choke out, her voice strangled. her eyes fell shut, too, like looking at you was sending her into a frenzy, and she was trying to keep her composure. 

you smiled in satisfaction at not only that, but the feeling of her fingers dipping lower again, teasingly pressing against your entrance. when she finally pushed her fingers deep inside of you, her head dropped down to press her forehead against your shoulder, like she was the one getting fingered right now. you gasped at the intrusion, bucking your hips forward slightly. you couldn’t help but moan at the feeling of your clit brushing against her palm from the position of her hand. almost as soon as she felt it, she adjusted her wrist so you could efficiently grind against it when your hips moved.

she curled her fingers just the way she knew you liked, immediately hitting that spongy spot with minimal searching. it caused a strangled moan to rip from your throat–trying to stay quiet just in case–and your eyes closed; she continued to thrust her fingers at a steady pace, curling her fingers every time. her thighs were clenching tightly against her will, trying to find even an ounce of friction, but she ignored it–putting her full attention into pleasing you.

“look at me, baby,” you choked out in between moans, your eyes half-lidded. “i want you to see how good you make me feel.”

with just a small amount of reluctance, she picked her head back up. her pupils were fully blown, eyes glazed with lust now, cheeks flushed, lips parted like she was struggling to breathe just through her nose–she looked wrecked, and you hadn’t even touched her yet. 

“good girl,” you muttered.

you lifted your hands to wrap around her arm, one around her forearm and the other around her bicep, and to try to stay upright in her grip. and she adjusted her hand again so she could use her thumb to rub circles into your clit while her fingers moved at a slightly quicker pace, causing you to buck your hips forward violently.

her eyes stayed glued to your face–taking in the sight of how gone from pleasure you were. she almost felt amazed by how you were responding to her touch, even though this definitely wasn’t the first time she had fingered you like this (it probably wasn’t even the hundredth time either, given how long you had been together). she always paid close attention to every twitch of your lips, every scrunch of your face, what made you moan the loudest every time, so she could perfect her craft, making sure that she was pleasing you as best as she possibly could, and that each time was better than the last.

and you loved that about her. that she was as much of a pleaser as you were.

“shit,” you moaned quietly. “fuck, it feels so good, paige.”

she buried her fingers deep, curling and flicking instead of thrusting, circling her thumb faster. your mouth dropped open in pure pleasure for a few moments before you snapped it shut, biting your bottom lip to keep it from happening again in case you accidentally got a little too loud.

“i want to make you come,” she said, her voice almost a whisper, like she didn’t trust that she could speak. “can i?”

you nodded, a whimper sounding from your throat without your permission. you barely even registered that you had started speaking. “yes. yes, please. keep doing that. show me how good you are for me. make me come on your fingers.”

she does what she’s told–doesn’t change anything about her rhythm. your hips ground against her while you subconsciously chased your high, hitting her thumb just right when you pressed forward and her fingers when you pressed back. she flexed her bicep again, tightening her arm around your throat to choke you lightly.

and that was enough to send you tumbling over the edge almost immediately, your body jerking roughly when it hit. you didn’t even moan, couldn’t speak, too focused on the way her arm was pressing on your throat and how tightly your stomach was clenching from the hard orgasm. she kept the pace of her fingers to draw out your orgasm as long as she could, but then gradually slowed them down and loosened the arm around your throat to let you come down.

when tension in your stomach finally released, you relaxed your entire body, sucking in a deep breath. she stilled her fingers completely, but didn’t pull out to allow for a moment to recover. her eyes broke away from your face in the mirror as she turned her head to pepper light kisses over your cheeks, jaw, and temple.

“damn, i gotta say,” she started quietly, pausing to laugh and place another kiss on your cheek, “watching you come like that,” she paused again for dramatic effect to shake her head and huff out a breath, “it’s gotta be, like, the 8th wonder of the world. feel bad for the people who don’t get to witness it.”

you rolled your eyes fondly at her, still trying to catch your breath. “guess you’re pretty lucky, huh?”

“you have no idea.”

[chai-berries]

3:37 AM (And None of My Organs Are Where They Should Be) - the short story - Alexia Putellas x Pregnant!Reader - because you all loved the other one so much, I couldn't help to write one more...

It’s 3:37 AM.

You know this because you've been staring at the glowing red numbers on the bedside clock like it personally wronged you.

You shift to your left.

Nope. Immediate regret. Baby-on-bladder combo says: "Nice try, fool."

You turn to your right.

Okay. Slightly better. Except now there's a stabbing pain in your back that feels like a 900-year-old goblin is poking you with a stick and whispering "you’re ancient now."

You flip onto your back.

Ha. HAHAHA. Who are you kidding? That was banned three months ago by your OB, Alexia, and your own lungs.

You groan. Loudly.

There’s a shuffle beside you. The rustle of sheets. A sleepy, concerned voice:

“Amor?”

Alexia. Half-asleep. Full-worried. Sounding like someone just told her you went into labor in the middle of a Champions League final.

“I can’t get comfortable,” you whine. Not just whine. Whaaaaiiine. Like a distressed dolphin.

Alexia props herself up on one elbow. “Didn’t we build you a pillow fortress before bed?”

You look down.

Yes. Yes, you did. There are five pillows under various parts of your body: one between your knees, one under the belly, one behind your back, one hugging your chest, and one... who knows. Possibly sentient and planning a coup.

“Your fortress is failing,” you grumble. “I think I’ve merged with it. I’m either a person or a beanbag now. Unclear.”

Alexia blinks blearily at you, then sits up, gently rubbing your shoulder. “Want me to get you more pillows?”

“I don’t need more pillows, I need a new spine. Or a better gravity. Just turn gravity off. You’re Alexia Putellas, can’t you do that now?”

She laughs, soft and scratchy with sleep. “If I could turn off gravity, I’d float us to a spa in the Maldives.”

“God. Yes. Let’s go. Right now. I’m not even joking. I’d pay one million fake euros.”

“You don’t have one million fake euros.”

“I don’t even have clean socks, Alexia. Don’t make this about economics.”

She’s smiling now. Fully awake. Reaching behind her to grab the lavender pillow spray that neither of you believe in but always use anyway because it smells like you’re about to be hypnotized into sleep. She gives your pillow a few spritzes.

You lie back down. She gently helps rearrange the pillow-under-belly with a kind of practiced choreography. You’d both gotten absurdly good at the pregnant pillow shuffle. Which honestly deserves an Olympic event.

Then Alexia does the one thing that still makes your entire soul melt. she starts tracing little shapes on your arm with her fingers.

“You know,” she says quietly, “you’ve handled this pregnancy like a champion.”

You grunt. “I’ve cried over a dropped sandwich, yelled at a pigeo and almost fought a toddler for the last mango popsicle at Mercadona.”

“That toddler shoved you,” she replies, very seriously. “I saw it.”

You turn to her, eyes wide. “Thank you. I knew I wasn’t imagining it.”

Silence settles for a second. Then you add:

“Also, I think my rib is broken from the baby doing ninja flips.”

Alexia leans down and kisses your forehead. “Maybe they’ll be a gymnast. Or a defender with sharp elbows.”

“I want them to be a librarian who sits down a lot.”

She laughs again. Wrapping her arm around you gently. Careful not to disturb your elaborate pillow nest. “We’ll tell them they were born under a full moon and several orthopedic nightmares.”

“And that their mom scored a header the day after I threw up on her cleats.”

“You always bring that up.”

“I threw up on your cleats, babe. That’s love.”

She kisses your temple. “You’re the love of my life.”

You close your eyes, finally. Finally. Finding a position that isn’t 100% suffering.

And as you drift toward sleep... still a little uncomfortable. Still very pregnant. Still wondering if your ankles will ever reappear. You feel Alexia’s fingers gently moving across your arm. Tracing out letters.

You smile.

Because you know she’s writing "T-E-Q-U-I-E-R-O", over and over again. Just like she did back when you first started dating. Long before babies and pillow forts and 3:37 AM existential crises.

Love. In the quietest, weirdest, realest way.

[chai-berries]

get yourself a girl who can do both: patri guijarro (wedding edition)

[chai-berries]

𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 — 𝐋𝐖

## the bubble universe - leah x reader !!

guyyyys! i am feeeeding you all of the fluffy goodness of the bubble universe!! and i am absolutely loving writing this so bloody much! how have you all been!? lmk how you’re all feeling about my new stuff and the BU! i hope you all love this one as much as i do! love always - RGx

find THE BUBBLE UNIVERSE — here

early pregnancy - the first trimester, hints about fears of miscarriage, anxiety language, fluffy loved up ness, leah being the best partner ever, morning sickness and ultrasounds, angst if you squint haaard, some technical language about scans and pregnancy tracking. not proof read because again, fuck that.

6k words.

“we’re fully booked this week,” the receptionist on the other end of the line says gently. “but we can fit you in next tuesday. we’ll want to run a few blood tests first before we look at scans.”

a week. 

you hang up with shaking hands and a strange tightness in your chest. it’s not panic exactly, just that familiar, coiled kind of hope. the kind that still knows how to brace. leah’s still brushing her teeth when you  find her, sleep-creased and messy-haired. you lean against the bathroom doorway and wait until she sees your face in the mirror.

“they can’t see us for a week,” you say softly.

she spits toothpaste into the sink, rinses, turns. “okay,” she says, and wraps her arms around your waist like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “so we wait.”

the days between the ‘official’ positive and the clinic appointment are tender in ways you didn’t expect. leah treats your body like it’s made of glass now. a good kind; expensive, delicate, museum-worthy. she reads every label on every food item in the fridge. she stops drinking caffeinated coffee, even though you tell her she doesn’t need to. every morning, she pours you both tea and says “cheers” like it’s still fun.

you try not to overthink. try not to look at the toilet paper every time you pee. try not to google every ache or twinge. but sometimes you cry for no reason, and sometimes for good reason, like the night you dropped a full tub of blueberries on the floor and just sat there in the middle of the kitchen, hands in your lap, trying not to fall apart.

when leah found you there she didn’t laugh, didn’t fuss. just crouched beside you and helped pick up every single one. “that’s our baby’s vitamin C gone,” she whispered, joking, and kissed the tip of your nose. you laughed together, a little broken, and then cried again.

when the appointment finally arrives, it feels too big. like a checkpoint in a video game. like a door you have to knock on with both hands.

it’s raining. leah insists on driving even though you could’ve taken a cab. she says it’s about control. you don’t ask questions.

the clinic feels smaller than you remember. less sterile. more.. waiting. there are other couples in the chairs. quiet conversations. someone holding a tiny pair of socks in her lap. when they call your name, leah squeezes your hand and stands first.

they take your blood. they ask about symptoms- nausea? fatigue? any spotting?  and leah answers half of them for you, like she already knows everything. the nurse smiles. she tells you the hcg levels look “very encouraging.” 

then she says it:

“you’re probably around three, maybe three and a half weeks. it’s very early. too early to scan, we won’t see much yet, and we don’t want to cause unnecessary stress.”

you nod. you feel small.

“we’ll bring you back in at six weeks for a scan, we’ll maybe even be able to see baby’s heartbeat.” she says with a smile, it reads genuine, but you can’t help the nerves that stir in your ribs. “it’s important that you rest between now and then. no heavy lifting, no high-impact exercise. stay hydrated, take your prenatal vitamins daily, and try to limit stress where you can.”

then the part you were expecting, but still hate hearing:

“we recommend waiting until the twelve-week mark before telling anyone outside your very inner circle. early pregnancy is… fragile. we just want to give this the best possible chance.”

you nod again. you feel leah’s hand press against the small of your back, grounding you.

in the car afterwards, it takes you a while to speak. the rain dots the windows gently, a rhythm like static. leah rests her forehead on the steering wheel and exhales.

“three weeks,” she says finally. “jesus. that’s.. so tiny.”

you let out a breath. “i know.” she turns to you. eyes soft.

“but it’s there.”

you nod. “yeah. it’s there.”

she cups your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye. “we’ve got to protect it now.”

and you know she means all of it — your body, your heart, the tiny new life waiting somewhere inside you to be believed in.

for weeks, nearing months, you don’t tell anyone. just like the doctor suggested. 

not yet, at least. 

not because you’re hiding it, but because it feels like a secret the universe whispered just to you. something still forming, still blooming in the dark. 

it belongs to the two of you. 

leah keeps a list of names in her notes app. you’re not allowed to see it. you write little letters to no one in your journal. sometimes you fall asleep with your hand on your belly, even though there’s nothing to feel yet.

you’re not showing. not at all. but leah still tugs your shirt down gently when it rides up, like she’s shielding something.

she takes a picture of your stomach in week four. kisses it after.

“in case we forget how small you started,” she whispers, not to you, to your stomach.

you know you won’t forget. you don’t think you ever could.

you start noticing the shift around the end of week four, not that you’re counting (you definitely are.). it’s nothing major, not like the movies where someone throws up into a bin dramatically and knows instantly, it’s more like your body is turning the volume up on itself, bit by bit. 

food starts to smell different. leah’s aftershave, the one you usually love, makes your stomach twist if she sprays too much. you’re exhausted in a way that feels bone-deep.

“you’re growing a whole organ,” leah says one night when you apologise for dozing off halfway through a film. she doesn’t look annoyed, just kind of awed by it. “like… your body’s making a new body part. the placenta. that’s mental.”

you blink at her. “did you google that?”

she shrugs, but her ears go a little pink. 

“maybe.” and she does more than google. she orders two books and downloads an app that tells her how big the baby is each week along with  little facts about the growth, she reads them out loud when you’re half-asleep and screenshots bits she wants to talk about later. 

she’s taking it seriously. more seriously than you expected, if you’re honest. not in a rigid or panicky way, just like she’s trying to learn the shape of this with you.

she still kisses your belly every night before bed, despite the lack of bump, lack of evidence there is even a human growing inside you. sometimes you laugh and tell her she’s being ridiculous, but you don’t mean it. not even a little. it’s becoming your favourite part of the day.

as the fifth week draws to an end, the nausea starts properly.

you don’t throw up exactly, not every day, anyway. but it’s there, constantly, like a low hum in the back of your throat. toast helps. sometimes ice water with lemon. sometimes laying down in a dark room while leah rubs your back in slow circles until your breathing evens out.

“i feel useless,” she says one night, crouched on the bathroom floor beside you. your forehead’s pressed against the cold porcelain of the bathtub, your eyes watery.

“you’re not,” you mumble. “you’re- you’re here.”

she brushes hair from your face, careful and soft. “i just hate seeing you like this.”

you reach for her hand and squeeze.“you’re doing everything right.”

she makes you soup. it’s too salty but you eat it anyway.

she buys ginger chews. you spit one out immediately.

she gets sea sickness bands, the elastic kind with the little pressure bead. they actually help. she doesn’t say i told you so.

you fall asleep in the middle of a conversation and she just pulls the blanket up over you and finishes your sentence to the empty room.

you cry at a dog food commercial and she doesn’t even blink. just grabs the tissues and climbs into bed beside you like it’s all normal now.

you haven’t told anyone yet, just as discussed. 

but there’s a shift in how you exist in the world, its small, but it’s there. like you’re holding a glowing ember behind your ribs and everything feels a little warmer for it. you catch yourself with your hand on your stomach in the middle of the grocery store. leah orders decaf at brunch without even looking at the menu. 

when her mum calls, leah presses her phone tight to her ear like she’s afraid something might spill out of her mouth if she relaxes too much.

“do you think they’ll be excited?” you ask one night, curled into her on the sofa.

“my mum?” leah pauses. “yeah. i think she might cry. dad definitely will,” 

“what about your brother?”

she laughs softly. “he’ll probably make some rude joke and then go out and buy a full arsenal baby kit the same day.”

“that’s kind of sweet.”

“it is,” she agrees, and then, after a pause: “you don’t have to tell anyone until you’re ready. not even our families. not even mine.”

“it’s not just about me, le, this is our news.” you say, looking at here through your tired yes. she doesn’t reply, but you know what she’s thinking. you both want to. soon. scared it will eat you up if you don’t. 

but still you don’t, not even your parents. not until that six-week scan, not until someone confirms that this flicker inside you is really doing what it’s meant to do. but the want is there. it bubbles up in you sometimes, surprising and bright. 

you want to see her mum’s face. you want to hear her brother’s jokes. you want this tiny, invisible thing to be something other people believe in, too.

you fall asleep with your head on leah’s chest and her fingers drawing slow circles against your shoulder blade. she’s humming, something low and wordless, and it makes your chest ache a little.

six weeks arrives quiet and early, folded into a tuesday morning like it’s nothing special. but it is. 

you wake up before the alarm, stomach already fluttering with nerves and nausea that you try to keep at bay with deep breaths and sips of water.

leah moves around the house quietly, content, soft-footed and serious. her voice is low, even when she’s just asking if you want toast. you nod and manage a bite before giving up, the nausea still curled somewhere behind your ribs.

“you don’t have to be nervous,” she says, slipping into the space beside you on the bed, balancing the plate on her knee.

you give her a look. “yes i do.”

she pauses, takes a deep breath. “yeah. okay. me too.”

the car ride is quiet. your fingers twitch against your thighs until she reaches over and laces them with hers, like she doesn’t even have to look. the city rolls past in grey and green, the roads slick from an early rain. everything feels sharper. heavier. like the world knows what you’re carrying.

you check in, fill out a few forms with hands that shake just enough to smudge your signature. and then they call your name again, his time for the scan.

the room is dim. clinical, but not cold. leah stands beside the bed, eyes trained on the monitor before anything even begins. the nurse is kind. her name is carla. she explains every step, even the ones you already know.

before the scan starts, leah gently clears her throat and asks, “would it be okay if i film for a minute? just to get our reaction? just on my phone? so we have it. to watch later.”

carla smiles warmly. “of course. just keep it respectful, and try not to interfere with the equipment.”

you squeeze leah’s hand, grateful. your heart is pounding, nerves twisting in your stomach.

“we’re going to do a transvaginal scan today — it’s clearer this early on. nothing to worry about. you might feel a bit of pressure,” carla continues.

you nod, biting your lip.

the cold wand presses gently, and the screen flickers to life in grayscale and static and then, 

“okay,” carla says softly. “let’s see what we’ve got.”

leah lifts her phone carefully and starts recording, her lens catching the flicker of light on the screen despite the dim room, but mostly it focuses on you: one hand tucked behind your head and the other holding leah’s just in the frame, the wide eyes, the breath caught in your throat, the tears that come unbidden.

it takes a second. one heartbeat. two.

and then: a tiny, flickering light in the middle of a grainy blob.

“is that?” leah whispers.

carla smiles. “that’s the heartbeat.”

you let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding. it stutters a little, catches halfway in your throat, and then comes out wet. tears spill down your cheeks before you can stop them. you blink hard.

leah keeps filming, voice soft, “it’s real. we’re really doing this.”

carla taps a few buttons. “baby’s measuring right on track. six weeks, one day. strong little heartbeat. 118 bpm. everything looks perfect.”

you keep watching the screen, the flicker, the pulse — the little life inside you.

leah lowers her phone and wipes a tear from your cheek, her own eyes shining.

“you okay?” she asks.

you nod, overwhelmed. “are you okay?”

“no,” she says, laughing through a sob. “but in a good way.”

as the scan continues, carla poking and prodding around to do her checks, you find yourself asking questions quietly, “so, i know it’s early but is it possible to know the due date, roughly? and will we need more appointments soon?”

carla glances at the measurements on the screen and smiles gently. “based on today, you’re about six weeks along, so your due date would be around late november, but we always take that as an estimate at this stage.”

you nod along to her words as she taps the keyboard and pulls up some notes. “you’ll definitely need another scan around 10 to 12 weeks, that’s when we get a clearer picture and check on development. in the meantime, you’ll have regular blood tests and check-ins to monitor everything.”

she leans in, voice soft but serious. “early pregnancies from IVF can sometimes need extra monitoring, so it’s important to take care of yourself and come to all your appointments. but for now, everything looks very good.”

you nod, heart racing but comforted by her calm. leah squeezes your hand, her eyes on you.

at the end of the scan, she prints out a strip of little photos for you. a blurry, smudged, grey-and-white miracle that doesn’t look like anything but means everything. 

leah carries it out of the clinic like it’s worth a million pounds. back at the car, you’re both a mess of giddy-nerves. chatting absentmindedly with eyes glued to your new prized-possession. the pair of you stare at the pictures for a while, before you prop up your phone and snap a series of pictures. you and leah on either side of the middle console, the strip of pictures held between you - smiles beaming. 

“it’s real,” she says once, so quiet you almost miss it. you turn your head to look at her. she’s staring at the print like it’s magic.

“we saw it,” you whisper. she leans in and kisses you, slow and certain, which ends in a fit of giggles and tears. 

then, you hit seven weeks.

it passes without much fanfare, no new appointments, no major changes, just steady and private unfolding. 

you wake up to leah curled around you, her hand resting soft and flat over your stomach. it’s barely grown, actually not at all, but she touches it like she’s memorising it already. like she’s grounding herself to the fact that something’s there.

you’re still keeping everything quiet. it’s become a kind of game between you, pretending nothing’s changed when people check in, dodging questions about nights out and dinner plans and why you haven’t been seen at the pub lately. but inside your little home, it’s all you talk about.

you find yourself looking at the fridge more often now. the scan pictures are still up, soft and fuzzy, like little grayscale ghosts. but they’re already worn at the corners from how often you handle them. 

sometimes you catch leah just standing there, arms crossed, staring at them like they might shift or change if she watches closely enough.

you start writing things down. small notes in your phone about how you feel each day. about the wave of nausea that hit in the middle of brushing your teeth, the dream you had where the baby had leah’s exact smile, the smell of toast suddenly making you gag. it helps. to make it real on paper.

leah’s been reading. not obsessively, she knows how overwhelming it can get, but every now and then, you catch her scrolling quietly through articles on her phone and when you ask her what she’s found, she tells you softly, “you’re doing everything right.”

at eight weeks, the nausea peaks. 

your body feels like it’s in revolt some days. food aversions come out of nowhere, one morning you cry because your favourite cereal suddenly tastes like metal. leah doesn’t flinch. she kisses your forehead and brings you toast and a banana instead.

“you okay?” she asks, brushing your hair out of your face as you sit slumped on the bathroom floor once more. 

“not even a little,” you whisper, and she smiles, pulling you gently into her arms. “but we’re doing it.”

the fatigue is worse now too. afternoons blur into evenings without you realising, and sometimes you nap so deeply it’s like falling through water. but leah never makes you feel guilty. she just tucks a blanket over you and lies beside you, turning up the tv or reading aloud from whatever book she’s into, her voice steady and soft like waves against sand.

some nights, when you’re both still awake and the house is quiet, she talks to your stomach. not in a big way. not like a movie. just these soft, half-silly, half-sincere whispers; telling stories, sharing thoughts, asking questions like the baby could already hear her.

and it’s in those little moments, the in-between ones, that you realise: this is what growing looks like. slow. sacred. and full of love.

nine weeks arrives like breath on glass; close enough to see, not quite close enough to touch.

the days feel quieter now, though your body is louder than ever. nausea still clings to your mornings, sometimes your nights too. 

your emotions ride in strange, wild arcs. you cry at the sound of a baby laughing on the telly, then again when the post doesn’t come on time. you feel both ridiculous and entirely valid all at once.

leah doesn’t flinch. not once. she’s gentle with you, patient in ways that make your throat ache. she’s learned the exact right way to tie your hair back when you’re slumped over the sink. how to hold your hand when you’re just done for the day. how to make you laugh when you can’t see anything but grey.

she starts calling you “mama” sometimes, under her breath, like she’s talking to the baby but too sacred to say out loud just yet.

one night, at the end of week nine, you’re lying tangled together on the sofa, the telly flickering forgotten in the background, your head on her shoulder. she’s got one hand curled over your belly and the other resting on your thigh, and you can feel the rhythm of her breathing, steady and soft beneath your cheek.

“i keep thinking about what they’ll be,” she says. “like, what if they’re wild like you, or quiet like me? what if they’re both? what if they hate football?”

you laugh, exhausted but warm. “we’ll love them anyway. probably still make them wear a little arsenal kit though.”

she kisses your forehead and murmurs, “obviously.”

by ten weeks, there’s a quiet shift.

the nausea begins to fade, just enough to function. you’re still tired all the time, but some mornings are brighter now, you wake up without that heavy weight in your chest, without the dizzy ache behind your eyes.

you both know the next appointment is getting close. the 12-week mark hovers just ahead, a checkpoint you’ve been inching toward with cautious hope. it’s all still private, still tucked into the corners of your flat, the notes app on your phone, the soft drawer beside your bed where you’ve started to collect small, hopeful things. a book about names, a pair of tiny socks leah found and couldn’t leave behind.

your body feels different now, too. not obviously, not to anyone else but you know. you feel bloated constantly, so your jeans don’t quite button right anymore. your chest is sore in a way that makes even brushing your arm against it feel like punishment. and your stomach.. it’s still mostly soft, the same shape it always was, but there’s a new kind of weight to it. like your body’s holding a secret.

leah notices, of course. she always does.

“stand still,” she says one night, pulling you gently into the light of the bedroom lamp.

you’re wearing one of her t-shirts, oversized and stretched slightly at the middle now. she runs her palms over your stomach carefully, reverently, like she’s reading braille on your skin.

“turn to the side.”

you roll your eyes, but you do it. she crouches a little, squinting, then grins.

“there’s something there. tiny, but definitely something.”

“it’s probably just bloating,” you mumble, embarrassed.

she shakes her head, standing again. “nah. that’s our baby. starting to show off.”

you let her hold you like that for a while, her hands soft over your hips, your back tucked against her chest. you feel silly for how emotional it makes you — but she doesn’t tease. she never teases.

instead, she murmurs into your hair, “you’re doing such a good job.”

you spend more time in your little nest of a flat now. part of it is the exhaustion, ten weeks of growing a human has you completely undone by 3pm most days. but part of it is choice. safety. you’re still not ready to be in the outside yet,  the  world feels too big, too full of questions you’re not prepared to answer.

so you stay in. wrapped in soft blankets, living in oversized jumpers, binge-watching crime documentaries you’ve both seen before. leah makes a new habit of placing her hand over your stomach while you sit curled into her, like she’s trying to catch the baby doing something early.

“you think they can hear us yet?” she asks one morning, voice low and quiet.

you shake your head. “not for a few more weeks.”

“shame. i’d want them to know my voice.”

“they will,” you say, resting your hand over hers. “they’ll know it inside and out.”

you’re lying on the sofa, half-asleep on leah’s chest, the telly playing some old rerun neither of you are watching. her fingers are tracing lazy shapes over the curve of your stomach through your jumper.

"they're about the size of a strawberry now," you murmur, eyes still closed.

“all snug and round in there, floating about like a little bubble.”

you smile before you can stop yourself, the word ‘bubble’ fizzing quietly in your chest. it’s silly, but it fits. it fits the way your world’s shifted around this new centre. it fits the way you’ve started speaking in we instead of i. bubble feels like a word that holds wonder without pressure. soft edges. a bit of magic.

"bubble," you repeat, letting it settle on your tongue absentmindedly. 

leah leans down and presses a kiss to your temple. “little bubble,” 

after that, it sticks. bubble becomes the quiet name passed between you in sleepy morning whispers and warm belly rubs, in phone notes and food cravings. you start talking about “bubble’s room,” “bubble’s heartbeat,” “what bubble might be dreaming about.”

and somehow, bubble makes you feel less afraid. less like it’s unknown, more like excitement. 

week eleven is a blur, less of a milestone.

like the baby, like bubble, is curled up somewhere deeper than before, almost unreachable.

your symptoms haven’t disappeared, but they’ve shifted. morphed into something gentler. you’re still tired all the time, still weepy over weird things;  a charity advert, a kid’s drawing in the post office window, the sound of leah humming in the shower, but it feels more like… endurance now. like you’re running a long, steady race with your body instead of trying to survive it.

but it’s still hard to believe there’s a tiny person growing inside you.

“a person with a spine,” you whisper once, reading from the pregnancy app, your thumb grazing the little cartoon fruit illustration. “and fingers.”

leah’s lying beside you, arm tossed across your middle. “bubble’s got fingers?”

you nod, handing her your phone. “and toes.”

she holds it like it’s a sacred text, then presses her cheek against your bump. “well done, bubble. keep going.”

the lead-up to the 12-week scan has a strange weight to it. like you’ve been holding your breath since day fourteen, and now someone’s telling you: soon, you can exhale.

you get a call from the clinic on wednesday morning, polite, clipped tones, confirming your scan for the following week, walking you through what to expect.

“bring water,” the doctor says over the phone. “a full bladder helps us get a clearer picture.”

you hang up and relay the instructions to leah while she butters toast, explaining the details you had retained about meeting your midwife and things. she doesn’t respond right away, just quietly flips the kettle on.

“you okay?” you ask, watching her.

she nods too quickly. then pauses. then shrugs. “yeah. just, it’s a big one, isn’t it? twelve weeks.”

you move to her side, press your hand to her back. “yeah.”

“i keep thinking about what they’ll see,” she says, quieter now. “like, if bubble’s okay. if their heart’s still beating.”

you nod, stomach turning in that too-familiar way. “me too.”

she leans her forehead against yours, eyes shut. “i didn’t think i could be this scared and this happy at the same time.”

you let out a breath against her cheek. “same.”

you spend the rest of the week preparing in little ways, folding laundry, printing off your appointment letter, standing at the fridge and staring at the scan photo like it might offer you clues.

leah puts together a list in her notes app titled questions for the Scan (aka don’t forget to ask these). you peek over her shoulder and read things like:

still measuring okay?

any signs we should watch for??

can we hear the heartbeat again??

is bubble okay in there????

will they let us keep another print?

you don’t say anything. you just kiss her shoulder and whisper, “we’re gonna be okay.”

the night before the appointment, you both lie in bed and watch old football highlights on her laptop, the volume low. her hand rests over your bump. it’s almost second nature now.

"i want bubble to love football," she says dreamily. "but not like… feel pressured to."

you smile, eyes already heavy. “they can love it. or dance. or, like, insects.”

“bubble the entomologist,” she says, half-laughing. “we’ll support it.”

“big word for you,” you laugh, no matter what the scan shows, no matter how big the world starts to feel again tomorrow. right now, in this room, bubble is safe. and so are you.

the morning of the 12-week scan begins with soft light filtering in through the bedroom window. 

your alarm goes off just after half six, but you’re already awake, lying still in bed with one hand on your stomach. the duvet is warm, leah pressed up behind you, arm slung across your waist, breath slow against the back of your neck.

you stare at the ceiling for a while, trying to name the feeling swelling in your chest. it’s not quite fear, not quite excitement, just a kind of knowing. you’re about to see them again. bubble.

leah shifts as the alarm buzzes again, groaning softly before leaning up on one elbow. “today,” she murmurs, voice thick with sleep.

you nod, turning to face her. her eyes are puffy, hair a bit wild, but she’s grinning.

“you okay?” she asks, brushing her fingers over your cheek.

you nod again, but the breath you let out is shaky. she kisses your forehead and climbs out of bed, already mumbling something about toast and tea.

an hour later, you’re in the car, appointment letter folded neatly in your lap, leah’s hand resting on your thigh as she drives. the roads are quiet, mid-morning haze making everything feel softer. 

the nerves don’t really hit until you pull into the clinic parking lot and see the familiar sign. you sit in the car for a second, staring at the entrance.

“it’s gonna be okay,” leah says gently. 

“we’ve made it this far.”

you nod, but you still reach for her hand when you step out of the car.

you’ve been in this room before, weeks ago, when everything still felt delicate, when the screen showed more potential than shape. but now, it’s different. the lights are dim again, the air quiet, soft beeping from machines blending with the low hum of anticipation thrumming beneath your skin.

leah’s next to you, perched on the small chair by your side, thumb tracing slow circles over the back of your hand. she hasn’t let go of you since you walked in.

emily, today’s ultrasound tech, is all calm confidence and easy smiles. 

“you ready?” she asks, gel already in hand.

you nod, your shirt already tucked up beneath your chest, jeans slightly unbuttoned. 

the gel is cold. you flinch and laugh at the same time. leah squeezes your hand.

emily glances at the two of you. “if all goes well today, you’ll be able to see so much more than before. baby’s usually moving around quite a bit at this stage.”

“moving?” you ask, already breathless.

“yep. they’ve got limbs now,” she grins. “might even wave if we’re lucky.”

the machine whirs. the screen flickers.

and then,  there.

you can’t speak for a second. it’s too much. a real little person. head, arms, legs curled in just slightly, spine arched like a comma. nothing like the blur from before. they’re bigger now, somehow both tiny and huge.

you gasp softly, covering your mouth. leah shifts in her seat, leaning forward, eyes wide. “oh, wow…”

your own eyes are already wet. emily makes a few gentle adjustments, tapping keys, taking measurements. “heartbeat’s strong. looks beautiful.”

you glance at leah, and she’s staring not at the screen, but at you. watching the way you’ve gone completely still. the way your jaw trembles.

“do you want to know your estimated due date?” emily asks gently.

you nod.

“going off baby’s measurements today, i’d place you right around november 25th.”

leah breathes a quiet, amazed little laugh. “a scorpio baby.”

“or sagittarius,” you murmur back, still dazed.

emily turns the screen slightly and clicks a few more buttons. “we’ll print some pictures for you, of course. and based on how everything looks, you’ll be booked in for the next big scan around 20 weeks.”

you swallow thickly. “and everything looks okay?”

“it looks really good,” emily says without hesitation. “healthy. active. right where they should be.”

you nod, lips pressed together hard, trying not to cry too much. it’s all bubbling up. relief, joy, disbelief. you don’t think you’ve ever loved something you couldn’t touch quite this much before.

leah runs her fingers along your wrist, her voice low. “sorry, can i ask you something?”

emily pauses, waiting.

“we haven’t told anyone yet,” leah says softly. “we’ve been waiting. we just didn’t want to.. rush it. but now..” she trails off, looking at you. “do you think it’s okay to start telling people?”

emily’s expression softens. “a lot of people choose this milestone, 12 weeks, as the safe point. risks drop, baby’s developing well. of course there are no absolutes, but from what we’re seeing today? it’s looking really promising. if it feels right to you, then yes. now’s a good time.”

you feel something in your chest unclench. a long-held breath, finally exhaled. leah leans down, presses her lips to your temple.

“you hear that?” she whispers.

you nod, unable to speak.

after, you’re introduced to claire, your midwife going forward,and she feels like the kind of person you could talk to about anything. 

she’s older, warm-eyed, a cardigan over her scrubs. she pulls her chair close to the desk and opens a folder with your name on the front, already scribbled with dates and initials.

“you’re both doing so well,” she says after flipping through the paperwork. “and baby looks healthy. we’ll go over diet, appointments, what to expect next. but honestly, the most important thing you can do right now is keep looking after yourself. one day at a time.”

you and leah exchange a quiet smile.

after a friendly discussion, claire jots down your next appointment, circles the 20-week mark in pen. “we’ll see you again for the anatomy scan around this time, usually between 18 and 21. maybe before that for a few check-ins.”

she hands you a packet, more leaflets than you can count, and a little slip with her personal work number. “you’ve got me now,” she says. “any time you need something. seriously.” 

you tuck it all into your bag like it’s treasure.

the car feels warm from the little bit of sun, the windows slightly cracked, scan pictures clutched in leah’s hand like they’re sacred. neither of you are in a rush to drive yet, just sitting in that stillness. hearts full, the engine off, world outside blurred and quiet.

leah taps the corner of the photo strip against her thigh. “they look like a little gummy bear,” she says, grinning.

“a really cute gummy bear,” you reply, still dazed, leaning your head back against the seat. “with stumpy legs and a big head.”

“bubble the gummy bear,” she muses. “trademark pending.”

you laugh, then wipe at your eyes again, even though the tears aren’t really sad ones. just full ones. bright and aching and everything all at once.

there’s a pause. the kind that feels like breathing space. then leah says, softly, “we’re in the second trimester now, aren’t we?”

you blink at her. “are we?”

“almost,” she nods, lifting her phone and pulling up a pregnancy tracker app she’s secretly had downloaded for weeks. she tilts the screen toward you. “says here week 13 marks the start. and we’re basically there.”

“oh my god,” you breathe.

“i know.”

there’s a silence then, big and gentle, before leah speaks again.

“i think.. i want to tell people.”

you turn to look at her. she’s already watching you.

“you think?” you whisper.

“i do,” she says, voice catching slightly. “i know we’ve been so careful. so scared to jinx it. but bubble’s measuring perfectly, your body’s doing exactly what it needs to, and..  god, i just want everyone to know how proud i am of you. of this. of bubble.”

your eyes sting all over again. you blink fast. “you’re gonna make me cry again.”

“you’ve been crying all day.”

“you’ve been crying all day.”

“okay,” she laughs, breathless and warm. “we’ve both been crying all day.”

you both sit there for another minute, just letting it wash over you. the day, the words, the tiny gummy bear bubble inside you that has suddenly made the world feel huge and sharp and entirely new.

leah turns in her seat to face you properly, hand curling over yours on the middle console. her voice is quieter this time. steadier.

“now,” she says, smiling through it, “we have some news to tell some very important people.”

and your heart stutters in the best way possible. because you do, and you’re ready. 

[chai-berries]

an inch away (from more than just friends)

Alexia Putellas x Fem!Reader

Summary: 4 times you and Alexia almost kissed and the one time you did

Warnings: literally nothing, this is just fluff

Word Count: 3.1k

A/N: This took me forever, but I'm actually really proud of it! I kind of hate the ending, but its whatever. I hope you guys like it! This is set during the 2023-2024 season.

navigation  woso masterlist

---

When you first moved to Barcelona to play for their home team, you didn’t know a lick of Spanish outside of the basics. The beautiful yet overwhelming city that you called your new home paired with the obvious language barrier caused you to feel a bit unmoored and alienated, as if you had entered a whole new world.

The team had been nothing but welcoming, each player making a clear effort to befriend and get to know you. Their warmth and easy affection left you reeling a bit, not used to that type of environment, as your old team had been the complete opposite. The person that shocked you the most with her open friendliness was la Reina herself, Alexia Putellas.  

At your first few training sessions, she went out of her way to pair up with you so that she could help with translating the coaches as they yell out instructions in rapid-fire Spanish. The two of you would talk tactics, spot each other in the gym, even assist each other with taping ankles and knees. 

Alexia quickly became your closest friend in Spain, even in your short time with the superteam. 

---

1.

You couldn’t help but smile at the endearingly awkward Barcelona captain in front of you as she enthusiastically describes a new café that she had gone to, stumbling over some of her words as she talks faster than she can mentally translate at times. 

“That sounds really good, Ale,” you smile at her, earning a grin in return. You can see her thinking something over for a minute, and you patiently wait for her to speak as you pack up your bag, ready to go home after training.

Finally she asks, “Would you like to…ah…acompáñame?” 

You take a second to translate, before clarifying, “Go with you?” She nods. “Yeah, for sure! Just text me when you’re free.” You watch as she hesitates again, fidgeting with her bag handle nervously.

“I was thinking… ¿nos vamos ahora?” Your eyes widen, clearly showing your surprise. Alexia refuses to make eye contact with you, but you duck your head down until your eyes finally meet.

“I would love to.” Now it’s Alexia’s turn to show her surprise, but her shock quickly morphs into adorable excitement. Adorable? Where did that come from? You shake the thought away before easily matching Alexia’s wide grin. 

---

The two of you agreed to drive separately and meet at the café. You spent the quick car ride there trying to no avail to tamp down your giddiness. While the two of you had become good friends, not much time had been spent together outside of team events. In fact, you don’t think that you had ever hung out with Alexia one-on-one. That thought brings the joyous smile back to your face.

Once you had parked and walked to the address Alexia had sent you, it wasn’t hard to spot the Barça captain, staring ahead with an intense look on her face. As soon as she spots you, her features instantly relax and light up. 

She stands up and meets you at the front of the café, pulling you into a hug even though she had seen you just minutes earlier. When she pulls back she doesn’t fully let you go, using her arm still around you to guide the two of you into the line to order.

You decide what to order, then you turn to Alexia. “What are you going to get?” 

She points it out on the menu for you just as you get to the front of the line. Alexia gestures for you to go, prompting you to recite your orders to the barista in broken Spanish. “Yo tendré la… Choco-Bombón y un croissant, y ella… tendrá la… Capuchino Especial.” You finish with a pleased smile on your lips.

The barista nods, tapping at the screen in front of her. “Su total es de 7.87 euros.” You nod, fishing out your wallet. Confused, Alexia stops you before you can pay for her drink as well. 

“What are you doing? I pay for mine,” she inquires. You easily wave off her protests, passing the correct amount of money over the counter and accepting the change. She gives you a grateful smile, and the two of you walk towards a table, taking a seat until your order is ready.

---

You talk for hours, enjoying each other’s company and the good food and drink. Finally, you realize just how late it’s gotten. You and Alexia pack up your things and you walk her to her car. Before she gets in, she begins to lean towards you. You turn your head slightly in confusion, causing her lips that were aiming for your cheek to fall dangerously close to the corner of your mouth.

A furious blush appears on your face, and you think you see a matching one on Alexia as she just smiles at you before climbing into her car. 

As you watch her drive away, you can’t help but touch your face in the spot where her soft lips had met your skin. Holy shit.

---

2.

After your coffee date, you and Alexia started to hang out together all the time. That experience kicked your friendship into another gear, and it quickly became extremely common for your teammates to find one of you at the others’ house, and both of you had a key to the other’s home. 

Many times after practice the two of you would go back to your place, order in some food, and watch a movie or play some video games. Well, more like you absolutely demolishing Alexia at FIFA and trying to ignore how fluttery your chest gets when she pouts after losing. 

It was incredibly easy to fall into a pattern with Alexia, the Barcelona captain filling your days with warmth and laughter. You recognized the joy your friendship brought you and tried to show your appreciation for Alexia whenever you can, and clearly the brunette feels the same way. 

Which is why you are so confused when you are met with the sight of Alexia desperately trying to air out your kitchen which has filled with smoke as you enter your house, having left earlier for a meeting. The woman clearly hasn’t noticed that you have arrived home yet, and you can hear her cursing up a storm in Spanish as she desperately waves her arms, trying to somehow push all of the smoke out of your now-open window.

“Are you trying to burn my house down?” You ask, mild amusement mixing with the concern you are feeling. Alexia startles, and you can’t help but laugh out loud as she whips around, eyes as wide as saucers.

“Cariño! When did you… for how long…” Alexia stumbles over her words, but you don’t notice as you try to ignore how her pet name made you feel. You snap out of your daze as she comes towards you, now with a clearly guilty look on her face. “I am sorry. I just wanted to… cook para ti. To thank you for when you cook for me.”

You giggle at the scolded-toddler look that the woman has on her face, but stop quickly as she pouts even harder. You pull her towards you, wrapping your arms around her in a hug that she easily sinks into. “It’s alright, Ale. You don’t have to make it up to me, I love to do things for you.” A sly grin develops on your face. “Plus, not all of us can be master chefs.” The Spanish woman grumbles against your chest, but you can feel a slight smile pressed into your chest.

After a minute, Alexia pulls back and tilts her head up slightly so that she can look you in the eyes, still having a slight frown on her face. As you look down at her, you are suddenly filled with the overwhelming urge to kiss the pout right off of her lips. 

You almost give into the urge right then and there, and you think that with the way Alexia is looking at you she would maybe not be opposed to it, but then you smell yet another burning smell. The moment is broken, and as you scramble into your kitchen, you miss the flash of disappointment in Alexia’s eyes.

“Alexia Putellas! You left the fucking oven on!” 

---

3.

You hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Alexia since the two of you had shared that moment filled with definitely-not-friendly tension. Well, at least you thought so on your side. You weren’t sure if Alexia was reciprocating your vibes, so you had not made a move out of fear of it ruining your practically perfect friendship with the Spaniard.

The two of you continued to hang out constantly, and as your teammates continued to watch you interact with each other, they clearly began to pick up on your crush on your best friend. 

One day at practice, you and Patri (who you had grown close to as well over your time in Barcelona) were walking out to the pitch together when she stopped suddenly and grabbed your arm. You shot her a confused look, making a move to continue walking. She yanked you back before gesturing for you to bend down slightly so she could speak lower.

“When are you going to make a move on her, chica?”

You gave the shorter woman a bewildered look. “Make a move on who?”

Patri smacks you on the back of the head, causing you to wince and glare at your friend. “Alexia, idiota!”

The midfielder watches as a thousand emotions flash across your face before you finally settle on an expression of forced denial. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Where would you even get that idea?” You scoff unconvincingly. “She doesn’t even feel that way for me,” you mutter under your breath, tone switching from dismissive to almost longing. 

“¡Ustedes dos son tan estúpidas! ¿De verdad no has visto cómo te mira?” Patri watches as you translate in your head before fixing her with a confused stare.

“What do you mean?”

The shorter woman grabs your face in her hands. “She looks at you like you are el sol y las estrellas.” She pats your cheek gently before walking away, leaving you to process everything she had just told you.

--- Later that night, you find yourself thinking about Patri’s words as you clean up from dinner. Her words ring in your ears even louder as you walk into your living room and see the Barcelona captain on your couch, searching for a movie for the two of you to watch.

You can’t help but watch her, your eyes filled with admiration. She seemingly feels your gaze, glancing up and smiling softly at you before refocusing on finding a film. 

As you finally settle in and Alexia turns the movie on, you smile to yourself at the warm weight by your side. Suddenly, your arm is lifted up and Alexia quickly cuddles into your body. You drop your arm around her with a laugh, able to see the smug expression on her face. “Are you comfortable?”

The brunette hums cheekily, before leaning up and pressing a kiss to your cheek. Your face heats up, and suddenly Patri’s words are roaring in your head again. A part of you desperately wants to turn Alexia’s head back towards you and kiss her like you have been wanting to for weeks, maybe even months now. 

But a bigger part of you is too scared to do anything, especially if it means ruining your friendship. So you swallow down your feelings and press a loving kiss to the top of Alexia’s head, beating yourself up inside for being such a coward with your feelings. 

---

4.

You feel nerves taking over your body as you sit in the locker room as you get ready to play in the Champions League final. Alexia makes her way over to you, sitting next to you and easily taking your hand.

She doesn’t even need to speak, her presence so easily bringing you a sense of calmness. She smiles at you, and you suddenly recognize that subtle pain in her eyes, the yearning to be in the starting lineup, to be on the field for the full ninety. You lean against her and squeeze her hand.

“You will play. I know it. And when you go in, you will do what you do best and you will win,” You smile at her, conveying as much of your faith in her as you can in the simple expression. She looks at you, seemingly searching your face for something, and the expression on her face makes your stomach flutter with a fully different kind of nerves. 

You aren’t able to ask her what though, as the team is collected to line up in the entrance tunnel. The two of you share one last look before you separate, and you join your teammates as you get ready to walk out and into the biggest game of your career. 

---

As soon as the whistle blows, you collapse onto the pitch in pure happiness. You did it. Your team won the Champions League, beating Lyon for the first time ever. Around you you can hear your teammates celebrating this massive victory.

Suddenly, you feel someone throw themselves against you. You feel the breath get knocked out of you, but you don’t even care as you embrace Alexia in a tight hug. You can feel her quick breath on your neck, and as you feel your shirt get wet you realize that she is crying. 

You move your mouth right next to her ear, holding her even tighter than before. “Estoy muy orgullosa de ti. Has ido más allá de lo que te dije y no podría estar más orgullosa.” 

You hear her huff out a soft giggle. “Tu español ha mejorado mucho.”

You can’t help but laugh as well, but you stop as she pulls back to look you in the eyes with an intense expression. “I scored… for you.” You don’t know how to respond, and you feel happy tears begin to prick at your eyes. Instead of saying anything, you just pull her back into a hug before you are hoisted up by your teammates and led to the line to receive your medals.

---

You catch Alexia before the team fully enters the locker room, pulling her into your arms. The two of you stand in each other's embrace for a while, allowing yourself to feel all of the emotions coursing through your brains. 

After a bit, you pull back slightly. You look down at the Barcelona captain, suddenly realizing just how close your faces are. As your eyes flit across her face, a rush of affection floods your body. As you watch her, you can see how her eyes settle on your lips and yours finally do the same.

You begin to lean in, and just as your lips almost meet, the locker room door slams open and an already drunk Claudia Pina bursts out in search of Alexia. The two of you jump apart, faces almost as red as the color on your jerseys. 

Patri quickly follows her girlfriend, slightly less intoxicated as she assesses the scene in front of her before apologetically pulling the shorter striker back into the locker room. The two of you quickly follow, still blushing hard and both thinking about what almost just happened.

---

+1.

That night as you celebrate, your almost-kiss with Alexia constantly plays in your head. As the celebrations go on, you seem to be filled with a deep sense of clarity and purpose.

Periodically, you and Alexia would meet eyes across the crowded room, and each time you could feel your urge to get her alone grow stronger. After a while, the normally stiff-in-public captain pulled you onto the dance floor with her. 

Your hands find her hips as hers wrap around your neck, and you dance closer to her than you ever have before. At a certain point, you begin to just sway, not even dancing to the music playing, instead moving to the beat of a song that is only playing for the two of you.

As the celebrations finally begin to wind down, Alexia takes your hand and leads you towards the elevator so that you can make your way up to your shared hotel room. You walk down the hall and open the door, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to you once you see your bed.

You quickly get ready for bed, and as you settle into your bed, you watch Alexia decompress. That same rush of affection that you got earlier courses through you again, and this time you finally think you are ready to do something about it.

“Ale,” you softly call to get the brunette’s attention. You take a deep breath before saying, “I love you.”

Alexia smiles at you, not fully understanding. “Yo también te quiero.”

You push through your nerves, letting all the confidence from today fill your body. “No, Ale, I… Estoy enamorada de ti.” 

You watch the slightly shorter woman’s face carefully as she walks towards you, unable to read her expression. She sits down next to you on the bed, and you push yourself up on the headboard, fidgeting with your hands anxiously. 

You glance down at your lap before well-manicured fingers gently grab your face. You are forced to look Alexia in the eyes, and she softly smiles at you before finally replying, “Yo también.” You don’t even have time to fully process her response before you are pulled into a kiss.

As soon as your lips meet, it is like everything is set right in the world. All thoughts and feelings except for Alexia and your love for her escape you as you wrap your arms around the other woman and pull her even further into you. 

Quickly you discover that Alexia kisses with the same passion that she displays on the football pitch. You match her energy, and the two of you kiss until you have to pull back for a breath. Your forehead rests on hers, and the rise and fall of your breath are in sync. 

“Te he amado en silencio durante mucho tiempo,” Alexia breathes out.

“Me too. But it doesn’t have to be in silence anymore,” You reply, voice dripping with all of your feelings for her. 

In that moment, you realize that you have never loved someone the way that you love Alexia, and you don’t ever want to love anyone else in the same way. You wanted to be with Alexia every day, and hopefully for the rest of your life. 

---

@awfcloml

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[chai-berries]

No Credentials — A. Putellas x Reader

"Everyone Wants a Piece"

WC: 1.7k

Summary: You´re the one the team turns to when the cracks start showing, Alexia´s not quite sure how she feels about that.

It starts small, barely anything. A loose touch. A pass that’s just off. A look she gives herself, like she’s already grading every move.

You see it like always.

Patri’s moving like someone who doesn’t trust her own body yet. Coming back from injury will do that to a person. Every sprint and every turn feels like she’s bracing for something to go wrong. And it’s not that anyone’s said anything. Nobody’s riding her. But that’s the problem, she’s filling in the silence with her own panic.

Another mistake. She curses under her breath, but it’s the sharp kind. Like she’s angry at herself for not being perfect yet. Then someone shouts too loudly. Maybe Pere, maybe another coach. It wasn't even meant for her, but that’s all it takes.

She rips off her bib, mutters “I’m fine,” and walks off the pitch, fast.

You don’t even think at this point, you just move.

Matcha: sacrificed to the grass. Hoodie: pulled over your shoulder. Steps: automatic.

You catch the stare on your back before you reach the tunnel. Alexia with her arms folded, watching you go. You don’t turn around.

You find her exactly where you knew she’d be, on the far end of the bench, hunched over, elbows on knees, head down.

She doesn’t flinch when you sit next to her, but she doesn’t look up either.

“I’m such a joke,” she mutters after a beat.

You keep your voice low. Calm. “You’re not.”

“I can’t even string together two passes. I’m a fucking liability out there.”

You glance at her. “You’re recovering.”

She lets out a humorless laugh. “Everyone keeps saying that like it makes it okay.”

“It is okay.”

Patri shakes her head. “Not here it’s not. Not at this club. You know how it is. You fall behind, and there’s already someone faster, sharper, ready to take your spot. They don’t mean to, but they do.”

You let the words settle. Let her say it, even if none of it’s true.

“Nobody’s replacing you,” you say softly. “You’re still part of this team.”

“Yeah, until I’m not.”

You nudge your hoodie sleeve into her hand. She doesn’t take it, but she holds onto the edge. 

“You’re putting pressure on yourself no one else is asking for.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one trying to prove you’re still worth it.”

You don’t argue. Instead: “I’ve seen what you look like when you’re confident. You’ll get back there. But rushing isn't strength, it’s just well disguised panic.”

She exhales, shaky. “I just want to feel like myself again.”

“You will.”

“I don’t know how to believe that.”

You bump your shoulder gently into hers. “Then believe me until you can.”

Finally, she leans her head against your arm. Quiet. Not okay, but not spiraling either.

You stay there with her. No rush. No big speech. Just a quiet presence.

You return alone. Hoodie on. Empty hands.

No one says anything. Patri’s still inside. You told her to take her time.

As you sit back down, you feel it again, Alexia’s eyes tracking you from across the pitch. She doesn’t say anything either.

But her jaw’s clenched and her stare’s sharp.

You meet her eyes, just for a second.

She doesn’t look away.

You don’t either.

It starts with a joke.

Mapi says something sharp, a little too loud, a little too Mapi. Maybe on a different day, Ingrid would’ve laughed it off. But today isn’t that day.

You’re standing by the espresso machine when you hear it. Something about tactics, or being too passive, or not pulling weight in the last match. You turn your head just in time to catch Ingrid’s face go still. Like she’s been slapped in the chest but doesn’t want to give anyone the satisfaction of reacting.

A few beats of silence follow. Then Ingrid snaps back.

It’s not even yelling. It’s that tight, cutting tone people save for when they’re really hurt. “If you’re going to throw teammates under the bus, at least do it to their face next time.”

Everyone freezes. Mapi opens her mouth, ready to throw more gasoline on the fire, but you move first.

“Ingrid,” you say gently, already stepping between them.

“Come on.”

She doesn’t look at you right away. Her eyes are locked on Mapi’s, jaw tight. But when you say her name again, quieter this time, she shifts. Walks out of the room fast, hands shaking.

You don’t hesitate. You follow her.

Alexia watches. Fork in hand, food untouched. Her eyes narrow as she tracks your exit, and her knee starts bouncing under the table.

You find Ingrid slumped on the bottom step, elbows on her knees, face in her hands. She doesn’t look up as you sit beside her.

“I hate when she does that,” she says, voice muffled.

“Always making a joke out of it when it’s not funny. Like my minutes don’t mean anything.”

“She shouldn’t have said that. You’re allowed to be upset.”

She lets out a short, bitter laugh. “She thinks I’m weak.”

“She’s loud. That doesn’t make her right.”

Ingrid lifts her head, and her eyes are glassy. “It’s not just about today. It’s everything. I work my ass off, but I always feel like I have to prove I belong here.”

You nod slowly. You get it.

“It’s exhausting,” she adds.

“Pretending I’m fine just so I don’t get called too sensitive.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me.”

She swallows hard, presses the back of her hand against her eyes.

“Why are you always the one who notices?”

“Because I’ve been the one hiding before.”

She doesn’t speak, but her breathing evens out.

After a while, you say, “You’re not weak, Ingrid. You’re human. That’s allowed, even here.”

She lets out a slow breath. “Thanks.”

You smile softly. “Always.

You return to your seat, now with a second coffee in hand. One for you, one you dropped off with Ingrid before she went to cool down.

The table’s still buzzing with leftover tension and awkward silence.

No one knows what to say.

Except Alexia, who doesn’t say a word, but gives you a look.

You catch it. It’s not subtle. It says something like:

Oh. So you’re everyone’s emotional support now?

You raise a brow like, What?

She looks away.

But her jaw’s tight. Again. And her grip on her fork looks like she’s trying not to stab something with it.

You sip your coffee and don’t say a word.

But you feel the shift.

You’re sitting cross-legged in the grass, a resistance band looped loosely around your wrist, surrounded by the usual suspects. Cooldown was supposed to be five minutes. It’s been twenty.

Ona’s lying on her back, arm flung over her eyes.

“I just… I don’t know,” she says softly. “I miss her.”

You nod. No surprise there, Lucy’s still in London. Long-distance is a bitch when your life revolves around overlapping game schedules and flights that never line up.

“She sent me a selfie yesterday. I almost cried.”

You offer her a water bottle and a squeeze of her shoulder.

“Almost?”

She groans. “Okay. I cried. Shut up.”

Aitana chuckles from beside her. “She cried in the locker room. I found her sniffing and cuddling Lucy´s England jersey.”

Ona flings a foot at her. “Traitor.”

“I’m just giving context!”

You grin, adjusting the angle of the massage ball under Aitana’s calf as she winces and tries not to kick you in the face.

“This knot is a mess, by the way. How long’s it been hurting?”

“Two weeks,” Aitana mutters. “But I didn’t want to say anything.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Of course you didn’t.”

Patri snorts from behind you.

This is comfortable. They’re flopped in a half-circle around you like cats in a sunbeam, trading stories about their partners, weird dreams and that one terrifying drill with balls from this morning. Aitana shifts closer and drapes her arm across your knee like it’s second nature.

You start gently pressing into the knot in her calf, and she winces again, but lets you.

“Breathe through it,” you murmur.

“I’ll ease up in a second.”

It’s routine. Thoughtful. The kind of touch that’s all professional but feels personal when it’s you.

And someone notices.

Across the grass, Alexia is sitting on a bench, sipping protein water like it’s poison. Mapi’s beside her, scrolling through something on her phone.

“Why is she touching her like that?!” Alexia growls.

“She’s literally just helping with cooldown,” Mapi says, not even looking up.

“It’s her job.”

“She’s caressing her.”

“She’s massaging a muscle knot.” Mapi sighs.

“She’s smiling at her.”

“Do you hear yourself?” Mapi finally looks up.

Alexia doesn’t answer. Just keeps watching.

You lean in closer, saying something that makes Aitana snort, then ease her head back with a groan. Ona curls up closer to the group, resting her head on Patri’s thigh. 

Alexia frowns into her water bottle like it said something rude.

“She used to only laugh with me like that.”

Mapi snorts. “Maybe because you’re not talking to her.”

“I am talking to her.”

“You told her ‘good session’ and walked away.”

“That’s talking!”

Mapi gives her a look. “Wow. No wonder she’s hanging out with literally everyone else.”

Alexia mutters something in Catalan under her breath and looks away.

“Okay,” you say eventually. “Cooldown’s over. Go hydrate or I’m telling Pere you’ve been lounging.”

No one moves.

You sigh. “Shoo.”

More blinking. Zero movement.

Ona sits up instead. “Coffee?”

“Yes,” Aitana says immediately. “That new place by the plaza?”

You hesitate. “I have stuff to-”

“You have us,” Patri interrupts. “Venga. One hour.”

They’re already getting up like you’ve agreed.

You don’t fight it.

You grab your hoodie, sling your bag over one shoulder, and follow your little trail of ducklings across the grass. As you round the corner by the exit gate, you spot Alexia and Mapi, sitting on a bench. Alexia’s leaning forward, elbows on her knees. She straightens when she sees you.

You hesitate for half a second, then smile.

“Coffee?” you ask, a hopeful tilt to your voice.

“We’re heading out now.”

Mapi glances at Alexia.

Alexia stands too fast. “No, sorry. I have plans.”

Your smile falters. Just slightly. You nod.

“Alright. Another time.”

She says nothing.

You keep walking.

The girls are chatting ahead of you already, making plans about pastries and whose turn it is to pay. You tuck your hands into your hoodie and catch Mapi glancing back.

Once Alexia sits again, Mapi smacks her lightly on the arm.

“You’re fucking stupid.”

Alexia doesn’t argue with that.

[chai-berries]

dreams do come true / patri guijarro

a dream is a wish your heart makes. or a wish you make for your humble and talented girlfriend / wc: 1492

She can hear you before she sees you, down the hallway and into the living room, your voice traveling through the apartment, getting louder as you walk to find her.

“Patriii, como se dice “psychic” or whatever Raven Baxter was in “That’s So Raven” in Español, because I need to tell you about the dream I just had! Where are you?”

“In the kitchen!”

Patri’s at the blender, putting together a protein shake to end all protein shakes when you come into the room. You’re still in your sleep clothes while Patri is already in her training joggers, but she thinks you look so sweet, rumpled and warm from sleeping in her bed. However this morning, instead of sleep, you have excitement in your eyes. You head right over to her and wrap your arms around her waist, making Patri laugh.

“Hola, amor. Did you sleep well?”

“Yes,” you say into her shoulders. You stay attached to your girlfriend as she pours the shake into her travel cup and even when she shifts to rinse the blender in the sink. When you still don’t let go of her, she twists her body in your arms. You hum subconsciously when she wraps her arms around you, pressing a kiss onto your temple.

“Sí? And what was your dream you were screaming about?” she asks. You finally let her go when her question is processed in your brain. Your eyes light up again.

“Oh yeah. I had a dream you won the Ballon D’or!”

Patri scoffs.

“Hey! Don’t scoff! Everyone is talking about it. Even at my job, I overhear your name. This could be your year!”

“To win the Ballon D’or?”

“No, to fly to the moon.” You deadpan.

“Sooo funny.”

“You were nominated last year. And you’re gonna win this year. What - Don’t - You - Get?” you simultaneously tap the side of her head to get the point really across.

Patri shrugs. “I’m just being realistic. There’s a lot great players this year —“

“Including you.”

“Including me, sí, but I don’t want to get ahead of myself.”

You roll your eyes at her humble argument.

“Whatever, I’ll tell Alexia and Aitana about how you are talking and they will straighten you out.”

The two older girls do in fact scold Patri for being negative on herself during training later in the day, you having followed through with your threat.

Months later, you go to the awards as Patri’s plus one. Wearing an extremely silky suit that Patri adored on you, only three buttons and a low cut in the front. Patri’s tailored suit fit her so well you actually bit your fist when she showed off her look to you at your apartment. Patri made sure to wear your favorite perfume of hers and you made sure to thank her immensely in the car ride to the venue.

You follow after Patri as she goes through all the steps as one of the nominees. Carpet pictures with the other girls, the show runners, then she takes a few with the other Barcelona players, followed by the Spanish ones. You shadow her with Olga and the other partners, just off to the side of the cameras but in sight of each other.

After all the formal pictures were taken, Patri gestures towards you, wanting to take a picture with just both of you. You try not to show your nerves in front of the cameras as you walk over to her. You couldn’t see any of the people behind them, the lights creating a blinding barrier.

Patri feels your body tense up when she wraps her arm around you.

“Mi Vida,” she whispers. “It’s okay. breathe for me, please.” You follow her instructions and relax enough to look normal for the cameras and crowd. Olga and alexia are getting photographed together next to you and Olga reaches out to briefly squeeze your hand in comfort once you're done. Patri takes a hold of your other, using it to guide you into the auditorium. You find safety in the other Spanish and Barcelona girls again. As everyone settles into seats, you squeeze Patri’s hand in thanks when she lets you go into the aisle first.

The ceremony flows through all the scripts that award ceremonies always do and soon people in clean black attire comes up and asks all the nominees to sit near the front of the stage.

You press a quick good luck kiss to Patri’s lips and sit back down next to the other nominees’ plus ones. Olga grabs your hand and squeezes it. You don’t even realize that you’re following Patri down to the front of the stage with your eyes until Olga squeezes your hand again.

“Vida, you are more nervous about this than Patri is!” she whispers loudly. You and those nearby laugh because it’s true. Ever since the nominations were announced, you had been so sure that she would win because you had a dream about it. It may seem ridiculously to an outsider but to you, it was like a manifestation. You were so proud of Patri and you wanted everyone to know it. You even posted an Instagram pic of you wearing your Patri shirt, with a link to the official Ballon D’or website treated like a cited source.

You don’t have to grip onto Olga’s hand in anticipation for very long. The Ballon D’or montage is playing on the big screen. You see so many familiar faces flashing by. But you had a physical reaction when Patri’s highlights came on.

The presenters, with bright smiles on their faces, went through the list of nominees. You waited impatiently for the end.

“And the winner of the Ballon D’or is…… Patricia Guijarro Gutierrez.”

You’re up clapping before they finish speaking, everyone around you are also up, giving Patri a standing ovation as she climbs the steps and accepts the Ballon trophy. The presenters lead her to the microphone so she can be heard.

“Uh, hello, everyone… I’m going to be honest, I did not believe that I would win this tonight. All my fellow nominees are some of the greatest football players in the world and to even be considered alongside them is an honor. I don’t want to bore you with a big speech, so I’ll go to my Thanks. Thank you to my teams. Being able to play alongside you as a career is more than a dream. You all teach me in so many different ways. Thank you to my friends and family. For putting up with my football obsession all these years. Sorry, not sorry. A special thanks to my partner, because I wouldn’t be here without your support. And I mean that both in general and on this stage. Dreams do come true… Finally, thank you to the fans, to the supporters. To the people who come to the games, watch them at home, and everyone inbetween. We play for ourselves and for you.” Patri finishes. She picks up the trophy and holds it up higher, then speaks again into the microphone. “Thank you. Thank you from my heart, immensely.” She steps back and the presenters help her leave the stage while the crowd is clapping for her again.

You’re not crying but you are supporting goosebumps on your arms from Patri’s speech. It was perfect and so her. Her line about your dream made you giddy. What a subtle line that only a few would understand.

Patri and the other nominees eventually make it back to your original seats. Everyone congratulates Patri on the way back. When Patri stays standing while the others sit, you raise an eye brow in question.

She gestures you to come to her. “Vida, come with me. I still have a few things to do. But I want you there with me.” You hurry to make sure you didn’t drop anything while sitting, side stepping until you’re out of the row. Patri takes your hand. You use your other to squeeze her bicep.

“I am so proud of you! I cannot explain it in any language, so you’re going to have to trust me,” you tell her.

She smiles so sweetly at you. “Thank you, mi Vida.”

She leads you out of the auditorium into the foyer. Right outside are all the media outlets and photographers waiting for Patri to show her Ballon D’or to them.

You kiss the side of her mouth, now very aware of the cameras around you. She pulls you closer to her body and grins at you. You smile back.

Suddenly your remember the line in her speech. “Dreams do come true, eh? Finally believe that I’m a psychic?” You ask.

Patri hums, contemplating. “You might need more proof for the psychic powers but you were definitely right about it.” She wraps her arm over your shoulder.

“You know what? I’ll take it.”

a/n: MY 5TH PATRI FIC!!!! HIIIII GUYS!!!! i love these two so much!!! if anyone wants to hear more about patri and vida lemme know! i have headcanons 👉👈

shoutout to the anon who requested this <3 i love you! thanks for the idea 💗 💗 💗

the rest of my patri x vida fics are here

[chai-berries]

hii! i was the anon that requested the fic, and i absolutely adore it! you did such a great job with it. applause for you 👏

YAY! i’m so happy you liked it, mi amor <3333 & again, thank you for the idea!!! 🙏 🙏 🙏 it was so much fun to play with

if anyone is interested, i wrote a ballon d’or patri fic and the requester 👆adored it so i think you will too