onsomenewsht

[onsomenewsht]

For fuck’s sake, I'm in deep

no escape from reality

alexia putellas x reader

part one

summary: you hide in Barcelona to delay the inevitable and, well, the footballer is just too enticing

words: 10090

content warnings: smut, mentions of drugs (very lightly) and some morally-grey behaviour

notes: the plot thickens ig

I almost missed my flight for this because I finished it off in the airport lol

Also am I going crazy or do the italics look weird

Darkness. A part of the city that you don’t know – have never wanted to know. Alexia’s mouth on yours, tongue on yours, body on yours. 

Alexia is good at this and so scarily, confusingly attractive. And tipsy, you hope. You are at least. Perhaps that’s a futile justification. 

It’s not like you haven’t kissed girls before. Saskia, when you were younger, was full of exploration and too excitable to refuse. It had been gentle then, something tinged of trepidation and the niggle of fear that the housemaster would knock on the door. 

You’ve made out with them too. Once. When a boyfriend had requested it; begged for it with a nasty smirk and the suggestion that you do a line if you were really going to be that much of a pussy about it. She was high, too. Vomited when sucking off your boyfriend like she’d done it before. Too gone to face the consequences after you realised that it was a disgusting fantasy and that he’d been seeing her during term time, claiming a boarder would never understand the temptation. 

You quite like kissing girls, actually. Softer lips and unspoken understandings. You’re not surprised some women abstain from the cretins with whom they share the earth. You don’t blame Carlota for preferring Hannah to the boyfriend she had when you were fifteen and they were in fashion. 

“Ven aquí,” Alexia murmurs as she breaks from you, a strong hand wrapping around your wrist to tug you further into the flat. It’s modern. New. Every surface is immaculate, gleaming even with a lack of light. 

The buckle of your heels rips in your haste to take them off, but you don’t care. 

If you don’t go along with this, you’ll back out. And, really, you don’t want to. 

She leads you down a hallway that smells faintly of something superfluously expensive. Her grip on your wrist is tight, unrelenting. Her pace is confident. You’re barely keeping up, one shoe still on after an insistent repetition of her command. The strap slaps against your ankle with every hurried step. You could stop, fix it, assert some dominance. But you won’t. If you pause, you’ll think. And if you think, you’ll leave. 

You pass through a doorway and into a bedroom bathed in shadow. Large, cool-toned, the bed the only thing that looks lived in: sheets slightly crumpled, pillows dented like Alexia had been lying there earlier, bored or waiting.

She spins you before you have time to look at anything else, and your back hits the edge of the bed. Her hands are on you immediately – at your hips, your waist, sliding up your sides with deliberate possession, making you feel the curve of her fingers even through the silk of your dress.

You inhale sharply and she’s kissing you again. 

Harder. Hungrier. 

Her tongue slides into your mouth. Filthy and warm and wet, missed during its absence. 

You moan before you mean to, knees weak, dress bunching as she pushes forwards, pressing you down until the backs of your thighs meet the mattress and you sink. 

Then she follows you, straddling your lap with hard legs, dress hiking high above rippling muscle as she settles, not quite putting all of her weight on you. You want to rip the dress off her. You want to stare at her like an exhibit and touch her, feel her, like someone who really shouldn’t. You could replace it, if she wanted you to. 

Your face must make it clear. Hers replicates the sentiment, though she’d be better equipped to shred the silk that dresses you. 

Her thigh wedges between yours and her lips don’t leave and you’re gasping, keening up into her. It’s all teeth and tongue and the deep, wet sounds of wanting. Needing. You groan as her hands cup your jaw and then your throat, collarbone, until they reach the swell of your breasts. You can feel your nipples hard against silk. You know that she can feel it too. 

You arch under her, breath shallow, hands clutching at hips and then at cords of muscle wrapping around a v-line. She rolls her hips once – slow, precise – and you let out a ragged gasp into her mouth. She smiles, barely, lips still pressed to yours. She expected that. She knows what she’s doing. 

She pulls back just enough to look at you. Pupils blown wide, lips slick, hair falling in strands across her cheek. She presses her thumb to your mouth, pulling your lower lip down, then sliding her finger in. Alexia scrutinises your reaction. Tries not to moan as you instinctively suck – here’s a bit you’re familiar with, at least. Fails when you encourage her to add another. 

But it doesn’t embarrass her. This lust, this desire, is only motivation. She gets what she wants, always. She’ll get this. She wants you like this. 

You reach for her but she’s moving, dress coming off and revealing ridges and divots that tonight you want to map. To explore. To touch. 

She isn’t wearing a bra. You’re not either. 

“Expensive?” she asks, cocking her head towards your dress. 

Yes. 

Silk sent from India. Thread woven with gold. Lucrative, superfluous, but a gift for your grandmother from your grandfather. Old now. In need of excitement. 

“Rip it.” You know that it's a sliding scale of easiness. You want to see her try, selfishly. You don’t need to be more turned on, but you’re ravenous after being tempted with such strength and muscle and tattoos that you’d otherwise hate. 

Alexia’s mouth twitches at your words. Not quite a smile; too smug for that. But she’s definitely pleased.

Her fingers brush your shoulders lightly, deceptively gentle, before they hook under the fragile straps on your dress. The straps slide an inch down your arms. She leans in close, her lips brushing your ear, and you hear her accent curl around her words deliciously. 

“You’ll regret saying that.” 

You won’t.

Her hands move quickly, no virtue in it. The sound of tearing is obscene in the tense silence – delicate fabric giving way as it is reduced to scraps. The neckline splits under her grip, cool air now hitting your blazing skin, and you whimper. You don’t mourn the craftsmanship or the history behind the dress. Alexia makes you not want to think about anything ever again. 

And when you’re half-naked beneath her, dress ruined and removed, it seems entirely possible. 

Her mouth returns to yours. She tastes like a conqueror; you give in like a conquest. Her fingers are already sliding down your stomach, knuckles skimming your navel. She greedily swallows your moan.

The kiss is broken out of pride. Alexia pulls back and looks at you. She catalogues your face, the sheen of sweat and smudged makeup, like you will be added to a trophy cabinet. You probably will be, metaphorically speaking. 

But fuck metaphors when she could have her fingers inside you. 

“Alexia.” 

It’s a warning. 

She flashes you a grin before obliging. 

You reach up as she moves, desperate to touch – to dig fingers into shoulders or hips or anywhere – but she grabs your wrists and traps them against the bed. Hard. With staggering strength. And she leans in again, one thigh pressing firmly between yours, no match for the soaked thong that comprises your final defences. She grinds up and your back arches almost involuntarily. 

“No me toques,” she murmurs against your mouth. “Not yet.” 

You don’t intend to make a noise but it comes out anyway. 

Her free hand slides down your torso once more, slowly, teasingly. And her fingers dance over lace before your hips keen upwards and she relents. 

You watch as she feels what she finds. Takes it in. 

You’re panting now. Desperate. 

“Please,” you hear yourself say. You don’t remember deciding to speak. 

She groans softly at that. You feel it against your skin as she kisses your neck, your collarbone. Bites. Licks. Soothes. 

Her fingers move slightly. 

You won’t make it out of this alive, you’re sure. 

Then her tongue drags along your sternum and her fingers thrust inside. 

Your vision sparks. 

You’re gone. 

There’s only Alexia’s mouth, Alexia’s hands. The weight of her thighs pinning yours apart. Your wrists still above your head. And her voice, low and smug, barely audible between wet kisses and the relentless rhythm of her fingers. 

“You’re already so good for me.”

…

Alexia arrives at training with a satisfying ache in her bones. It’s early in the morning — a mere four hours after she went to sleep — but she is buzzing with energy. She’s ready for the day. 

It’s only a gym session, with pitch time in the afternoon that follows a sizable gap in which most of her teammates will be slinking off to a restaurant for a long lunch. It’ll be over before you’ve even woken up. She can’t help but smirk at the thought: unless you’ve run away, you'll still be in her bed. 

You were a good fuck. Unusually, she notes that she could do it twice. And then again. 

And again. 

You see her a total of three times before the week closes. 

She fucks you when she gets back from training, sweaty and slow, waking you up before you realise your crimes of the night. It’s too addictive after that, and she gives you her number. For convenience. For ease. 

She texts you late at night, when she needs to let off steam after matches, always cracking open a bottle of wine, as if that is the ticket to morality. She never really says anything to you, nor you to her. 

By the end of November, you’ve had sex with a woman – the same woman – many times. Your engagement ring tightens and burns with each orgasm, each tryst in the dark in Alexia’s flat, each frequent text. 

It’s built on I can’t sleep and Come over? but you can’t stop. You can’t stop doing it. You’ve pulled a trigger on a gun you should have never picked up, and now there are bodies that you can’t bury; blood you can’t wash off your hands. 

And slowly, as you pull into the festive season, Carlota starts to catch on. 

You’re out in an expensive club with expensive drinks and Hannah paying. You know half the people here, because they’re all the same anyway, and Carlota won’t explicitly encourage it but you can tell she sees no harm in you dancing with someone else. Richard’s not here. Fidelity is not befitting of situations like yours. 

She’s pointing at men in the crowd, growing increasingly exasperated as you refuse every suggestion. Each one is more glamorous than the last; singers, athletes, old school friends. Yet none of them are comparable to what you’ve got going for you. 

Your phone buzzes and you look at it instantly. 

Alexia is back from international camp tonight. And she has a better plan for the evening than your friend. 

You’ve already sent her the club’s address. 

“What are you looking at?” 

Carlota snatches your phone from your hand. You grasp at the air in a poor recovery attempt, but she’s already staring in confusion and you know that the damage has been done. 

“Who is Alexia?” Hannah asks over her girlfriend’s shoulder, sipping on a radioactive-looking cocktail and grinning dumbly as Carlota scrolls up. “You’re hooking up with someone.” It’s an accusation that you don’t deny. “I just thought you were really quiet at night.” 

But Carlota is still stuck on the contact. “Who is Alexia? That’s a woman’s name.” Her brow furrows as she continues to scroll, perhaps to disprove what’s right in front of her. “You’re fucking a woman?”

Hannah lets out a delighted gasp. She doesn’t know you like her girlfriend does. She doesn’t understand. 

You reach for your phone again, but Carlota doesn’t give it back. She’s not angry – not righteously, anyway – but her lips pinch into tight confusion and you can tell that she’s not impressed.

“Since when?” 

You shrug. “October.” 

Carlota blinks, processing that. “October.” 

“October,” Hannah affirms, probably feeling left out. She pats her girlfriend on the shoulder, stepping back as if sensing the impending explosion. “I guess you can’t know everything, baby.” 

It’s a flame to a barrel of oil. 

“You’ve been fucking a woman for a month and you haven’t said anything.” There’s no questioning lilt to her voice now. Carlota’s eyes hold your own in challenge, hard and angry. “You’re engaged.” 

That warrants an indignant snort. “You were literally throwing men at me seconds ago.” 

“Yeah, men.” And oh, Carlota is a hypocrite for this one. “For a quickie in the club toilet. Not some poor woman that you’re stringing along.” 

“Oh, I don’t think that’s a poor woman,” Hannah interjects. Beautifully American. Carlota must like them hot and dumb. She turns to her girlfriend as if to tell her to shut up, anger overflowing and consuming everyone who dares to interact, but Hannah stands firm and earnest. A nosy, pertruding index points in your direction, and it looks like Hannah may have grey cells after all. “There’s only one Alexia that you could know, right? Only one Alexia you could know who is back from camp and needs you after games.”

You blush. They have seen far too much. 

“Like,” Hannah continues as the fire rages in her girlfriend's eyes, taking a sip of her cocktail as though this a casual discussion about the weather. “That’s Alexia Putellas.” She looks at you. “Yeah?” 

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. 

Carlota’s face twists, uglier than disbelief. She’s insulted. Like this is about her somehow. Like your silence is a personal affront. 

“Oh, fuck off,” you snap, voice low and cutting. Defending a nerve that has most definitely been nicked. “I haven’t committed a crime.” 

“You lied to me,” Carlota shoots back instantly, voice rising just enough to earn a glance from a group of women nearby. “You’ve been disappearing at night, and I… I chalked it up to needing time to yourself. Needing to work through the shitstorm. But it turns out it’s because you’re off having sex with – with gay Messi!” 

It could be argued that those aren't mutually exclusive, but intelligence and diplomacy evaporated the moment she decided to react like this. You roll your eyes instead. “I never lied. I just didn’t announce it.” 

“You hid it.” 

“It’s casual,” you hiss. “It doesn’t mean anything.” 

You barely talk to Alexia. You don’t ask her how her day was or if she’s feeling happy — not since the gallery opening, when there had been a flicker of intrigue beyond attraction. The capacity in which you get her is manageable and… perfect. It’s perfect. And like most perfect things, it needs to stay that way. 

“Casual sex with Alexia Putellas months before the wedding of the year is a recipe for disaster.” Hannah drawls her words, taking this far less seriously than her girlfriend but still allowing her concern to waft through the stagnant air of the club. 

“Alexia only cares about football.” You’ve deduced this because she seems awfully alone without it. Her decoration comes in the form of medals and team photos, immortalised glory and eternity of victories. She fucked you underneath her medal display once; drunk and too impatient to stumble to the bedroom. “And don’t call it that.” 

“What?” Carlota says, voice venomous and vengeful. “You don’t want us to remind you of what’s happening in March? Because you can’t delegate walking down the fucking aisle. A wedding planner won’t actually go the getting married part for you.” 

“You wanted me to let off steam!” you burst out, because this is becoming unfair. Carlota has always been enigmatic, but you’d expected surprise and eventual acceptance. This scandalisation is a far cry from characteristic. 

Your phone buzzes again, and you snatch it back. 

Estoy aquí. 

Carlota scoffs at the message, incredulous. You flash her a smile as you leave. 

Alexia drives a Cupra. Most of the time. 

But for her illicit activities, for those that she’d rather not monumentalise with an obvious car, she uses something else. It’s sleek and black and with only two seats. Expensive. Impressive. 

You bundle into the car with no fuss and Alexia can tell you’re annoyed. From the crinkle in your forehead. From the tightness of your lips. 

“I didn’t know you had this,” you comment once she sets off, revving the engine just for the thrill of it. 

“Mm. Good car, no?” 

She keeps her eyes on the road but you can feel her searching for something. 

Your fingers run along the familiar stitching of the seat. You’d chosen this stitching when the original designs had come out — the models have long since moved on but this is now a trademark. The options had been on your father’s desk and it was one of the few inputs he’d had with this side of the company. 

Crosses. Alexia has elected red thread and combines them with blue LEDs. Alexia truly only gives a shit about football. 

“Not the best,” you tell her. 

You half-expect her to pull over with the look she shoots you. Irritated. Invalidated. Challenged. 

“You like cars?” 

You shrug and tell her that you’re apathetic. She frowns at the word but perhaps it is your tone that salvages the answer from being lost in translation. 

“Do you like art?” 

“No.” 

“Why did you curate Cuerpa?” 

“Are you playing twenty questions?” You raise your eyebrows at her. 

She holds up three fingers. “It’s my turn.” 

“I never got to twenty,” you protest. It’s futile. No one can beat Alexia. 

“Cuatro.” She grins and the car is at a red light so she’s looking at you. She’s looking at you, really looking. And her gaze is one that exists in a paradoxical purgatory with no clear meaning and blinding significance all at once. “How do you know Carlota de Montcada?” 

“How do you—”

“You are so much more obedient in bed,” she comments, clicking her teeth. Alexia doesn’t seem tired or worked up or moody after camp. From the way Hannah had explained the whole Spanish football thing at that match that one time, it sounded pretty fucking complicated. But Alexia isn’t swamped in misery tonight, in the face of adversity apparently. 

She’s almost playful.

So you sigh, giving in. You had wanted to dissect her originally, therefore it’s perhaps only fair she gets to do the same. Even if it’s none of her business. 

In another universe, comes a fleeting thought, you and Alexia could be best friends. 

“We went to school together. And we move about in the same circles.” 

“You dislike art.” 

You laugh. “Oh, Carlota wishes that were her circle.” 

“Do you know her novia played against me once? Good player.” 

“Do you only ever think about football?” 

She tuts. The car purrs as she drives down a clear road, her complex only moments away. Hopefully the interrogation will be put on hold the minute you’re in proximity of a bed. “Me toca a mí.” 

“I hate football.” 

“No.” 

“I do.” 

“No. No se puede.” 

She parks next to the boring Cupra that Captain Alexia Putellas drives. She’s still shaking her head when she opens your door for you. 

“You don’t hate football — you don’t understand it.” She takes your hand, a sort of custom now. You notice she’s in team-issued clothing: a tracksuit (slightly off-putting if not for the way it wraps her up like an exciting present); trainers; small number 11s dotted around like logos in their own right. “But you will.” 

“I actually come here to have sex,” you reply as she leads you into the lift. Her hands brush your hips and, like a boa constrictor, the kill is slow but inevitable. 

She’s leaning in. 

“Only sex,” you murmur. 

She’s about to kiss you but she stops short. 

“One match won’t hurt.” Alexia loves football more than anything. She’s obsessed with it, clearly, because she knows you could press a button and leave. She knows you could tell her that you don’t want to, that if she insists then you will walk out and leave her high and dry. But you look so good tonight in a tight black dress and she is so ready for you after a week of pent-up energy. 

And she has a feeling you won’t say no to her after what she is going to do to you. 

…

December crawls forth and Barcelona begins to chill. It doesn’t freeze over, but the surfers come for chippy seas and everyone seems both grumpier and merrier all at once. 

Alexia and you are eating takeaway, settled on her sofa with football begrudgingly on the TV. Sushi because it’s justifiable; “it’s healthier than pizza” is what Alexia claims, only slightly jabbing at your initial suggestion. 

You’re puzzled and trying not to look at the screen, dreading the long explanations that she has prepared in her mind for situations like these. Even if it’s a Sisyphean task. 

It’s not a date. 

Originally, it was supposed to be a lesson. Carlota and Hannah were being insufferable and shoving it in your face, and you needed an escape. Alexia had been a willing haven. Her only complaint was the men’s match she’d be missing. 

When Alexia had found out you were on your period, her plans changed slightly. 

“Volume off,” you remind her sternly. 

She’s grinning anyway, mouth stuffed with two salmon rolls that render her the antithesis of the disciplined athlete she claims to be. 

“Stop enjoying this,” is your next instruction, all referencing your terms for not just putting a towel down on the bed.

A loud gulping sound turns your attention from the stick-figures aimlessly running around to the woman beside you. Alexia can be a slob when she feels like it — and you’re the one on your period. 

She slathers the back of her hand across her face as she wipes a grain of rice from the side of her mouth. 

“What football team do you support?” 

“That’s six,” you deflect. “I have no vested interest in the sport.” 

“Pues, lo que quieres decir es que eres del Barça…” she deduces. “You’re fucking the captain.” 

You bat your eyelashes at her, taking the piss after she had revealed a well-known fact with such pride. “You’re the captain?” 

Alexia groans in frustration, sushi abandoned as she stalks over your body, pressing you into the sofa. 

“You didn’t know?” 

“That’s seven,” you murmur as her face comes very close to yours. Your breath hitches at the smell of her hair — coconut. Like summer and freedom and freshness. Like smashing them on the east terrace with your au pair; Marta, she was called. She was from Colombia. She would let you watch telenovelas with her, hiding from the boys because they were rowdy and too old and not quite yours to play with.  

Alexia rolls her eyes. “I hate this game.” 

“We don’t have to play it.” 

The innuendo is hardly subtle and you are not shy in pressing a hand to her chest to feel her beating heart. It’s going quite quickly. 

But Alexia shakes her head and is suddenly sitting back. You mourn the loss just as quickly as you’d welcomed her closeness. 

Her back touches the sofa and she almost jumps. You get her jittery. She’s on a journey of acceptance about that, about how she may not be as in control as she’d like to think. 

“Brothers,” she says softly. “Brothers? Sisters?” 

“Is that two questions?” 

“No. Plurals can be male in Spanish. Mistranslation.”  

You laugh. “I know.” 

She doesn’t ask how. Perhaps she is saving up her precious questions — poison darts that loosen lips and break the rule of not talking. “You haven’t answered,” is what she says instead, feigning impatience. 

“Three brothers.” She lets out a lengthy breath and your giggle is that of agreement. “I’m the youngest. They have… they have a different mother.” 

She died. Your father was heartbroken. Your mother was sent in as a remedy by worried board members and a family in need of the bolstered reputation. 

A loveless marriage, really. Haunted by the ghost of a woman you’ll never know, who walks the halls of your family home with a blade of tension. 

“Blood isn’t everything.” 

“No, it’s not.” You love your brothers. How can one not? “But they struggled and I never quite understood why.” 

Alexia nods slowly, eyes lingering on your face, searching for whatever truth you’re ready to share. The TV flickers in the background — a glorified painting now. She’s no longer watching it. 

You hesitate, then draw your knees up onto the sofa, wrapping your arms around them. “My youngest brother—” You pause, rephrasing. “The third. He’s only eight years older than me, but it still felt like decades growing up. All I wanted to do was impress him. He had a drug problem because of… Still does, even. It got bad when he turned nineteen.” 

Alexia is silent. She doesn’t ask questions anymore. The game has evolved. 

You look at the rug instead of at her. You can’t look at her. 

“Daddy paid for rehab the first time,” you continue, “and the second. And the third. But it was always very quiet. No press. No real help, if you were to look at it and recognise the pattern. It was more about containment. Image.” 

The sofa creaks as Alexia shifts slightly, impossibly loud between your words. She isn’t close enough to touch anymore, but you can feel her attention like a burning poker. 

“I looked up to him so much. And he disappeared once,” you add, voice quieter. “A whole week. No one knew where he was. I think… I think he wanted to die. But didn’t. Or maybe he just changed his mind.”

You don’t cry. You've done that before, long ago, when the betrayal was fresh and searing and roaring in your ears that no one will ever care enough to stay. Not even him. 

Alexia leans back into the cushions beside you. For a long time, she doesn’t say anything. 

Then: “My sister, Alba, is one of the most important people in my life.” Her hand has splayed out and you could touch it — you want to touch it — but you don’t. “After my father died, I felt like I had to care for her and my mum. It’s… my responsibility.” 

She doesn't know why she is telling you this. 

This won’t help you give her an orgasm or scratch down her back just the way she needs it when she fucks you with the strap. 

This doesn’t improve her game or relieve her of stress or send her to sleep. 

And this won’t stop her from wanting more from you. 

Alexia prickles. 

“Sorry,” she mutters. You watch her eyes glaze over to something more familiar — that arrogant façade. Hazel fixates first on you and then painfully quickly onto the TV. 

The sushi has been eaten and the match clock has ticked past ninety minutes. 

She retracts her hand. Your face goes cold and she hates the stoicism but tries to convince herself that this is what she prefers. 

“I think you should go.” 

It stings. You hate that it stings. 

“Don’t worry,” you find yourself saying, feelings hurt and now ready to retaliate. “I’m going to England for the rest of the month.”

“To be with him?” she asks, the name too real vocalise. You ignore the crack in her voice. She deserves it. 

You nod. You leave with little fanfare. You wonder if she’ll want you to come back. 

…

Loss is a funny thing. Alexia hates losing, but she feels loss all the same. The aching absence of her father, the guidance of Jenni, the comfort of her dog. It’s inescapable, the psychologist at Barça had once told her – even the victorious never have it all. 

Loss is something she has had to learn to live with, like a parasite that can only be contained and never gotten rid of. 

But she feels awful when you leave. 

Guilt eats away at her for acting the way she did, and each time she tries to justify it, it worsens. You’re not anyone important – that seems wrong to say. She doesn’t care – she does. 

Alexia doesn’t message you, figures you don’t want her to. 

She thinks about it a hundred times anyway, but still, she doesn’t. It’s her pride, really. She tells herself it’s better this way – that strength comes from independence and being alone. She says it over and over until the words start to lose their shape. 

So she trains. Harder than ever. 

The season barrels forwards, relentless. It’s the business end before the break and the pressure climbs to its peak as teams fight it out before the transfer window. The group stage of the Champions League ends with a 3-0 win against Man City. Alexia doesn’t bother to celebrate it. 

Her body aches but that’s preferable to stillness. Ice baths, supplements, twice-a-day gym sessions. She’s on autopilot and she has no time for distractions. No time for softness. 

Even her teammates keep their distance now. She’s clipped in conversations, but brutally efficient on the pitch. They should be grateful. She can’t bear the concern in their eyes. 

One slip from Ingrid in training earns a glare sharp enough to dismember her. Patri mutters under her breath when she thinks she can’t be heard. 

Alexia does hear her. And says nothing. 

She plays 90 minutes with a bruised rib and tells no one. Afterwards, in the shower, she leans her forehead against the tile, eyes closed, letting the water scald her skin. She wonders if you’d have noticed the tightness in her movements. If you’d press your hand to her side and tell her to relax. 

She wonders what you’re doing. Are you having fun? Is this fun? 

But she can’t allow herself to miss you. (She just… does anyway.)

It’s Kika who breaks her out of her cycle of misery, requesting help the minute Alexia steps out of the shower. Alexia winces – her ribs pound with aching – but Kika seems too wrapped up in her preliminary explanation to see it. 

“I don’t… I don’t understand,” Alexia mutters weakly as she forces her tired legs to bend and sit in the cubby beside Kika.

Kika lets out a whiny sigh. 

“I just don’t know what to do!” she exclaims. “I’m so confused.” 

Me too, Alexia thinks. 

“Is this about football?” Alexia asks, flinching as the footballer huffs dramatically.

“Did you listen to a word I said?” Hopelessly, Alexia shakes her head. A phone is shoved into her face then, and Kika groans. “I’ve been hooking up with a girl. And it was casual, but then it started to mean something.” Alexia waits patiently, not seeing an issue with anything so far. “Ale, I like her!” 

Her voice is squeaking with frustration and heads would be turning in interest by now if the others hadn’t already gone home. 

“And she’s seeing someone else. I mean, not seriously – so she claims. She told me as she left and now she’s gone away for Christmas and I haven’t heard from her in a week. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do.” 

Alexia stares at the phone (screen now dim) then at Kika. It’s as if she’s waiting for her to pull out a secret manual from her locker and hand it over, titled: A Complete Guide to Getting Rid of Unwanted Feelings for your Casual Relationship. If only. 

She runs a hand through damp hair, trying to take in shallower breaths to not aggravate the pain in her ribs. “Don’t talk to her.” 

Kika frowns. “Seriously?” 

“Sí. You just said she’s seeing someone else.” 

“We weren’t officially exclusive. But like…” Kika switches her phone off and all but throws it down. “I didn’t expect it to be anything. Now it is. I miss her. I think about her all the time. I don’t even like thinking about people this much.”

Alexia clenches her jaw, a sour taste in her mouth. It’s like hearing an echo. Not that she’d ever say this out loud. Or think the same thing.

Kika squints at her. “You’re being weird. What’s going on?” 

“Nothing.” 

A beat. A sigh. 

“I just don’t like people I care about getting their hearts broken,” she says eventually, hoping to come off confident and captainly and responsible. She is all of those things – she doesn't have to pretend. “It changes you. You think you’re in control of something and then suddenly–” She lifts a hand, waving vaguely in the air to pluck out the right metaphor. “Suddenly, you’re not.”

“You’ve had your heart broken?” 

It almost makes her laugh. Clearly the younger girls no longer see naive, excitable Alexia, ready for the real world and so out of her depth in it. Her eyes are unreadable, though, because she doesn’t want to laugh right now. “Not for a long time.” 

But she remembers you. Giggling at her expense, legs curled on her sofa, fingers brushing the skin above her waistband, featherlight and innocent in a way that was so much worse than the dirty passion of sex. She remembers how quickly you left. How easy it seemed to be for you.

It’s not the same. That's not possible. 

Kika’s eyes are scathing; she’s watching her too closely. She's the wrong person for this: young and impulsive and too open-hearted. Too prepared for the fairytale of love. Too excited to care so much that it makes your body reject the thought of living without them. Yet Alexia sees the mirror anyway. Clear as day. 

“You need to tell her how you feel,” she hears herself say. 

Kika perks up. Her captain will never fail her — her captain is always there for her. “Even if it ruins it?”

Alexia doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even force herself to. 

“It’s already ruined.” 

Kika scuttles away after that, grateful and satisfied and ready to embrace love once more. 

Alexia can’t stop thinking about that word.

Ruined. 

It gnaws at her flesh, at her bones, at the very biology of her existence. 

Ruined. 

Sharron takes her out to dinner. A nice place. Fancy. Fitting for an agent rewarding their successful client. 

It’s too cold and too late and Alexia should be at home drinking protein shakes and pretending to sleep. 

Sharron won’t let her decline. “Don’t ruin your success,” she teases as Alexia protests to the very threshold of the restaurant. 

There’s that word again, Alexia thinks. Distracted, she is pushed inside. 

They sit at a nice table but not the nicest. Alexia Putellas is a famous name but it takes more than fame for them to care here, and so she submits to being secondary. It’s an odd feeling, but a feeling that reminds her of you. 

You were never fazed. It made her wonder. 

But she ruined that. 

Anyway… she orders a lobster salad. Sharron laughs and calls her expensively healthy. Alexia can only return a tight-lipped smile and mutter about a big lunch she’d had earlier. 

Sharron talks. Deals, contracts, photoshoots. “Did you know that they want you to be sponsored by mayonnaise?” She sounds far too excited about it.

Alexia nods — what more can she do? 

And when the time is right and the wine is half-drained, she excuses herself to the bathroom. “I must have overhydrated,” she says as she bows out. 

The bathrooms here are ridiculous. Gold trims, hand-placed mosaic. It’s a far cry from where she wants to be (in bed, in sweats, planning her next day of training before the world feels like it’s caving in). 

She wants to drown herself under the gilded tap. She wants to stop breathing so that maybe her rib doesn’t throb and her heart slows and calms and leaves her alone. She wants to leave and run far away — away from the expectations and the pressure and the idea that she has gone and ruined everything. 

Feelings were never meant to be involved. That's how being casual works. Not the food after sex and the conversations extending past friendly with both heads on pillows and a soft sheen to your skin. Not what she’s gotten herself into. 

But she doesn’t want to get out. 

She’s punishing herself for that. She doesn’t deserve to keep having you but she doesn’t even have long to do it. And it’s already ruined. And it’s on a timer. 

Alexia looks at herself in the mirror. Really looks, even if it’s unbearable. And she decides — there and then — that she is not going to tell you anything. 

…

There’s no snow in Buckinghamshire just yet. 

The house succumbs to the chills all old homes fail to keep out, with fires roaring in all the main rooms, but, still, no snow. 

“Staring out the window won’t make it happen.” The blanket you’d been hiding under bunches at your waist as you sit up, pressing your face to the cold glass of the window before you swing your legs off the window seat and attempt a smile. 

“Minnie,” you breathe. The housekeeper nods, comically, as if she needs to affirm her identity. “You made me jump.” 

“Did I catch you in a deepest, darkest brood?” she teases, eyes creasing with age and laughter and a life full of happiness. 

You shake your head. “No, no. Just wishing it would be colder. I miss it sometimes, when I’m in Barcelona.” That word is almost taboo; your mother thinks Carlota is running a six-month hen party where she indoctrinates you with her liberalism. Even though Richard dined here last night (he had to go back into the city this morning and it is there he shall stay), your lack of enthusiasm leaves a gaping cavity in her wedding fantasies. 

“There are enough corners in this house to hide in, dearie.” Of course Minnie knows exactly what you are doing abroad, unable to be tricked. She has always seen right through you. 

“More in a different city,” you point out. 

She sighs and comes to sit beside you, arm wrapping around your shoulder. She smells of cloves and oranges. She must have come up here to ask if you wanted to help decorate. You enjoyed that when you were younger; when everyone was home and festive and things weren’t so regimented. 

Minnie doesn’t need words when it’s like this: warmth, comfort. You lean into her, breathing in and wishing you had never come home in the first place. The candles on the mantle flicker as they burn the scent of cinnamon into the air, red wax dribbling down each small tower  as the minutes pass. 

Then, when your mother calls from outside your room, asking Minnie to help her with dinner, the embrace is broken and a kiss is pressed to your forehead. “Go and enjoy love before Christmas,” whispers Minnie, the words brushed into your ear like a secret. 

If you want snow, Barcelona is the wrong place. The neighbouring mountains, certainly. But the city? No, the city is for unnecessary coats and quiet celebrations about the drain of summer’s tourists. Stupid traditions that Carlota overexplains. A lack of German markets, which you overexplain in return. 

You’re not too sure of Alexia’s schedule, never quite concerned enough about her whereabouts to ask. 

She probably trains and then comes home. You know that she’s there in the evenings; dusk at the earliest is when you have ever dared to appear.

You wonder if she goes away at Christmas. Would you be disappointed to find the door you have knocked on unanswered? Would you mind? 

You think it awfully presumptuous of Minnie to instruct you to fuck off for love. Love! Like that’s likely in your shackles. 

Lust. Boredom. Curiosity. Tradition. 

A simple outline. Even if Carlota insists it’s not just a phase – “you’re ever so accepting of me, so why is it a different story with yourself?” 

It’s rebellion, at best. 

You think about it. Flights can be booked at any time. You don’t need a place to stay. You don’t need to pack. 

But you can’t. 

You leave your phone in your room when you go down to dinner, finding it a lead weight in your hand that causes more harm than good. 

The table is set for three. 

You frown, your hand resting on the doorframe to the dining hall. Oak. Touched by many a dead relative. 

“Where’s Daddy?” 

“He had to get to the airport,” your mother says crisply, never looking up from where she’s adjusting the centrepiece. It makes it feel like you have company. “He’s going to Shanghai for an investors dinner. Terribly important.” 

Before you can concoct a response to that information which avoids the sound of well-known disappointment, there’s the sound of polished shoes against polished floors. A man wearing a suit, definitely.

You turn, expecting a brother or an uncle or even an inconveniently timed booty-call for your mother. 

Instead, you see Richard. Utterly unwanted and completely necessary. 

“Darling,” he says with a happy smile. An ignorant smile. “Surprised?” 

You nod. 

He kisses your cheek in further greeting — nothing more than brisk and controlled. Plainly appropriate: just the thing that’s needed to maintain the façade of ravenously missing each other and having to see him (as he explains, following an apology for coming straight from the London office). 

You take your usual seat in compliance. He’s already at the head of the table, phone slipping into his pocket as though he can detach himself from his job. Your mother lets out a fluttery laugh as if to break the tension, and dinner commences. 

“I’m so glad you're here, Richard.” She’s pandering to him as if it’s not a grace to be allowed to marry you. “I know how my daughter gets — so busy with her comings and goings. I knew you needed to spend some proper time together. It is nearly Christmas.” 

The emphasis is deliberate, and so is her glance at your wine glass. Minnie has opened a bottle you like. You look at the room through a yellow lens. 

Isn’t Richard supposed to be in Switzerland?

”Thank you for your generosity. The boys were sad to hear I wouldn’t make it to Valbella but they came around. Married life takes commitment.” 

“We’re not married,” you find yourself pointing out. 

“Yet,” your mother brushes off. 

He looks at you then. You try to enjoy his handsome jawline and pleasant bone structure. You hate failing. 

“You look exhausted,” he says conversationally. “Carlota must run you ragged. Absolute nutter.” 

“She’s good entertainment. God knows this life is boring.” 

“She took you to a football match, didn’t she? Fucking obsessed when we were younger. Her girlfriend—”

“That American,” your mother chimes in with disdain. 

“She used to play. Typical lesbians for you.” 

A the sound of a detonating bomb would have pleased your mother more.

“Oh, it’s a weird phase, isn’t it?” chips in your mother, expecting bated breath as she shares a rare but casual anecdote. “I was a lesbian once, but women are so complicated and men are just the balance we need. Carlota’s mother is more patient than I am.” 

“Certainly,” you mutter, your fork dragging lazily through a lake of chicken and leeks oozing from golden pastry. It’s a good pie, but you have suddenly lost your appetite. 

Your mother picks up her wine glass, refilled by Minnie after she had drained the first, and takes a triumphant sip. Her insights into human sexuality are apparently intelligent and gripping. Even Richard risks an eye roll in your direction. 

“She’s always been difficult,” Mother goes on, turning to Richard like he’d understand. He knows Carlota well. “Catalan wildness. It’s in the blood. Her mother was in Paris during the riots, you know. Had an affair with a French artist. No one knows for how long — just that one daughter looks very similar…” 

It’s nothing but gossip. Despite her adamant belief that she does not partake in such lowly activities. 

“Everyone looks the other way, of course. That family always lands on its feet.” 

Richard chuckles politely. “I suppose things don’t count when you have that kind of money.” 

Your mother looks at him. 

You know what it means. 

We have that kind of money, Richard, but you will never see us stoop to that level. 

And so he attempts to reconcile with a: “well, everyone agrees that your family is a privilege to be welcomed into. Nothing but integrity and elegance.” 

“Exactly,” your mother beams, delighted. You feel nauseous at the notion of this conversation — the implication of silent competition and selfishness and absolute fucking irony. Integrity was last seen at your grandfather’s death bed, when he had asked your father to promise not to sell off heirlooms for the sake of money lost to years of estate maintenance and gambling. 

The rest of dinner is chewed with bitterness in neat bites. Your mother is pleased with herself and her illusion of family unity — purring at Richard’s suggestion for shooting tomorrow with your brothers or his friends. ‘A welcome back for my lovely fiancée’ is what he calls it. You’d call it transforming into a show pony. 

She retires to her bedroom under the sound of an old Aretha record playing from the sitting room, plucked from your father’s collection with an ever-quelling passion for the musical instruments that gather dust a few rooms away. 

Richard remembers that you play the piano. You tell him you don’t play for other people anymore. 

You’re brushing your teeth when he comes in, his tie hanging around his neck, collar undone. The pinnacle of intimacy, so he thinks, catching your eye in the mirror and grinning. 

“I always forget how bloody big this place is.” 

You spit, rinse. “And yet it feels so small.” 

He laughs, too loudly. Other women must find him charming. You don’t join in. 

The bed creaks under his weight as he sinks onto your side. He wears an uncomfortable pride on his face, as though occupying this space is proof you are his conquest. His fucking Helen of Troy. His to marry. 

“Hope you don’t mind me staying in here,” he says after you peer at him with horror in your eyes. “Just figured we should get used to it. Try it on for size.” 

You say nothing, slipping out of your dressing gown and welcoming the chill of the air that follows. At least that reminds you that you’re alive. 

The silence is heavy, weighing down on your shoulders as he smiles. He clears his throat. 

“Do you remember when we got engaged?” It’s not really a question. Of course you do. A private dinner at the Louvre with Saskia (the two of you certainly not the fifty necessary people but rather the children of people who one cannot refuse). An ambush, really. “Felt fast, didn’t it? But right. Practical.” 

You think about the woman he’s supposed to be sleeping with. Does he love her? 

“Sure,” you reply with diplomacy that destroys the haven of your bedroom.

He glances at you. “Are you still happy with it?” 

You pause. 

“With the practicality?” 

He nods like you’ve agreed with him. “Exactly.” 

You flick the lamp off without warning and lie back against the cold, starched sheets. His body is war beside yours, but it only makes your skin crawl. This preview is rather unpleasant. You’d like him to fuck off out of your bed. 

He shifts slightly, trying to gauge if he can get away with putting an arm around you. 

“The house you’ve bought… How many bedrooms?” 

“Enough for a family.” West London somewhere. Notting Hill, perhaps, with decent travel links. He dropped a lot of money on it. “An underground pool, too.” 

You hum in mild, faux impression. “I’d like my own bedroom.” 

The rejection is stark and clear. 

He sleeps with his arms by his sides. 

Minutes pass. The grandfather clock ticks away. You’ve always hated it, but it’s been there for at least a century so you can’t get rid of it. 

Richard breathes. Strained, careful. He must be scared of you. 

You think of Alexia. 

Of her hand at the small of your back, guiding you into her home safely and hungrily. The sound she makes when she yawns without meaning to. Her strong arms and the brutality of their capability. Her eyes – those eyes – which speak three thousand words before her lips even part. 

Discipline, restraint, passion. 

She’s like a fire. 

You wonder if she even cares that you’re gone. 

You pretend she doesn’t, because that hurts less. It’s easier to imagine she’s forgotten and moved on; returned to her routine of cold plunges and protein shakes and captaining a circus. 

In the dark, Richard turns over. The mattress dips towards you. 

You don’t sleep.

The next morning, it’s still grey when the Landy pulls up the gravel drive to another house in Oxfordshire. It all looks the same, but your mother would describe this as a cottage in comparison. 

Still, Richard takes your hand as you jump out of the car. “Don’t want you to slip,” he says to excuse the action, palm scolding your skin with how wrong it feels. You won’t slip in your wellies, and these are hunting trousers anyway, but you let him get away with it. 

“Fez!” comes a delighted shout, voice deep and coarse from countless cigars. A pack of men approach. “Oh, Fez, you’ve outdone yourself.” 

Another pats your fiancé on the back. 

They’re all wearing matching outfits, far too used to uniformity and conformity and stupid tradition. The rifles are apparently being checked for a final time. 

“Darling, meet Hugo, Anton, Raffie, and Ade.” 

You know them all, of course. Anton captained his rugby team to success. Hugo’s father ran away to Thailand with an eighteen-year-old after squandering his children’s inheritance. Raffie married Saskia’s friend last year – the wedding was elegant and simple, and most interestingly, fast enough to cover up the baby that was born eight months later. Ade has just been promoted to COO of his uncle’s shipping business. 

God, they are so dull. 

“Worcester College Summer Ball,” is all Ade says as the others kiss your cheeks and compliment your wax jacket. “Too much champagne.” 

The memory brings a smile to your lips, finally. A long dress torn to shreds, drenched in alcohol. Your tutor eyeing you with amusement. Ade helping you to your room. 

Richard guffaws and punches his friend’s arm. “Oh, fuck off, swot.” 

“You went too!” Ade protests. 

“I did Classics,” Richard declares. “Piss easy, that. We learnt half of it in year 5.” He juts an index out, flicking it between you and Ade. “Law was not a joke.” 

“Thoroughly uninteresting,” you affirm. That makes them laugh.

Hugo claps his hands together, perhaps feeling a bit insignificant with his measly degree from Exeter. “Right, enough nattering.” Clearly, this cottage is his. “There are pheasants to shoot, and a woman to impress.”

“I think you’ll be reasonably humbled after this,” you say with a smirk.

“You’re talking to the best shot on Stowe’s shooting team,” Hugo challenges. His competitiveness is reminiscent of a woman you can’t bring yourself to name, but she floats to the surface of your mind regardless. She’d find this barbaric. Confusing. They love their hunting in Spain, but you’d assume that Alexia’s family does not have a penchant for bloodsports. Aren’t they super against bull-fighting in Catalonia anyway?

Richard clears his throat and drapes his arm around your waist, kissing your cheek again in what feels like a threat. They don’t want to lose their precious pew-pew game to you. He’s probably begging for mercy. 

A miraculous smile tugs at your lips – something you felt was going extinct. And just like that, you let normalcy wash over you.

…

“You’re seeing someone.” 

Midnight. Barcelona. A city full of stars. 

Light obscured by the thought of someone finding out. 

Alexia gulps, turns to her sister, wishes she’d vanish from her flat and slink back to the prying hole from which she emerged. She’d made a promise after all – she doesn’t break those. It’s too precious to ruin. 

“I’m not seeing anyone,” she replies, lying through her teeth. Or perhaps not lying. She doesn’t know what it is. She hasn’t been allowed to name it. 

“Fucking someone, then,” Alba presses, smirking now, swirling what’s left of the rioja in her glass and letting it drip into a mouth like the most prestigious award for sleuthing. 

It’s too late for this, Alexia thinks. She feels the ache in her bones, the pull of tired muscles as they beg for reprieve. She should have told Alba to leave when the rest of their family did. Then again, these days Alexia supposes she should do a great deal of things that she inexplicably doesn’t.

“You know how I can tell?” The question is almost rhetorical. Arrogant and filled with pride. “You’re constantly fighting yourself not to care. To focus on football.” 

“It’s an important point in the season.” 

“Not as important as her.” 

That one is provocative. It’s like a dagger dripping in honey; alluring, tempting, but dangerous. Alexia knows what Alba is trying to do. She’s hardly subtle, and whether it is Alexia’s obsession over her fucking job or the idea of her actually loving someone that Alba wants to punish her for is simply irrelevant. 

Alexia sits back into the creased leather of her sofa, once brand-new but now accustomed to luxury and fortune. “There is no her,” she says, standing on this hill like an idiot who doesn’t know it’s not worth it. “And if there were, football would still come first. Football is what I love.” 

“Being the best in the world doesn’t resurrect the dead.” She doesn’t mean to say it. Really, it just slips out, dropped from wine-loosened lips like a nuclear bomb exploding on impact. “Papá wouldn’t want you to live your life like a soldier.” 

“How do you know what he would’ve wanted?” Alexia hisses. 

Alba holds her hands up in apology. Her little sister can be naive, Alexia accepts, forcing herself to take in a deep breath. Her little sister has no idea what she’s talking about. 

She doesn’t push. Not immediately. 

She blink at Alexia, lips parting for a response that doesn’t arrive. Hurt flashes across her face, and their shared grief is a mirror and a curse and a weight too painful to carry alone. So Alba searches in her sister’s eyes for something. 

The silence stretches on as Alexia lets her, too tired to hide it anymore, despite her knuckles tightening around the base of her own wine glass. Her jaw ticks. The shadows cast by the soft lamp in the corner, discreetly branded with a black tick, only exposing the lines of exhaustion indented in her skin. 

Alba tilts her head. “So…” she says eventually, lightly, like it might soften the blow she’s winding up. “You are seeing someone.”

This time, there is no satisfaction to be found in her discovery. 

Alexia doesn’t deny it any longer. She just lets the admission hang in the air, an open wound ready to bleed out. 

Her sister’s eyes shut briefly. She exhales. “Is it Kika?” 

Alexia lets out a low, humourless laugh. “No.” 

“Fine,” Alba mutters. It’s a torturous game of Guess Who? but Alba is a resilient woman if anything. “Is it the English girl?”

Alexia doesn’t flinch. That’s confirmation enough. 

Alba sighs again. This time it's deeper; a visceral echo of their mother. “Ale. Come on.” 

“What?” 

“You can’t be serious.”

Alexia doesn’t reply. 

Alba stands abrupt, pacing now, glass forgotten on the table. “She’s engaged, Ale. Her wedding is supposed to be the posh event of the century. Her fiancé is on the board of the brand that made your fucking car, per l’amor de Déu. You told me that!” Alexia’s agent had explained it after she’d questioned exploring a sponsorship deal. She has yet to find out the owners. She’d stopped listening to the conversation. “You said it like a joke and now you’ve gone and – what, fallen for her?” 

Alexia doesn’t look. Can’t look. 

She stares out the window instead, where the traffic lights turn red and make the street look infernal. Her eyes don’t move. 

“You haven’t thought this through,” Alba says, more firmly. She’s switching into reality-check mode. The worst mode. The one that she inherited from the hard, strong women of the family, who really needed a bullshit detector to deal with the rest of them. The one that dragged her from a disastrous night out in Ibiza after Jenni left. The one that makes Alexia blink and wonder where the baby she’d once held has gone. “This is a very, very bad idea.” 

“I know!” Alexia snaps. 

That catches Alba off guard. She quiets. 

“I’m not stupid.” Alexia’s voice is weak and unrecognisable. Defeated. Succumbent. “I know it’s doomed. I know this doesn’t end with her choosing me. Or staying. Or… whatever.” She finally turns to Alba, fire alight in her eyes and making her tears blaze. “But I’m not asking you for permission. I don’t need permission.” 

Entirely a lie when thought about, but a raft to keep her afloat nevertheless.

Alba’s gaze narrows. “You want permission. You’re hoping that I’ll say it’s okay, that it makes sense, that love is complicated or brave or whatever fucking poetry you’ve got stuck in your head. She’s… she’s changed you! She has filled your head with nonsense that you don’t get to subscribe to. A world that you don’t belong in.”

Alexia’s still stuck on ‘love’, concreted in ridiculous Epicurean notions that have never plagued her before she met you. 

God, she doesn’t love you, does she? 

How can she love you when you will never love her? 

How can she lose like this?

“You worked your whole life to get here,” Alba says, voice low and penetrating. “You’re going to throw that away for what? Stolen hours in the dark? For a girl who doesn’t even call you when she leaves?” 

“I told her to leave.” 

“But she hardly needed convincing.” Alba sits down now, as though her anger has depleted and now she only wants to protect her sister. “I’m trying to look out for you. I know it doesn’t seem like it. But I’m not trying to be cruel. I just… I don’t want to watch you ruin yourself over someone who doesn’t even know what she wants.” 

“She does know,” Alexia says, quietly. “She just can’t choose it.” 

Alba scoffs because her sister seems assured that that’s better. She opens her mouth to deliver the final blow, obligated to by simple preservation of her sister’s wellbeing. 

The doorbell rings out before she can get there. Exasperated, Alba marches off to the bathroom.

Alexia answers, quite happy for a break in the argument. 

You’re standing. Waiting. 

One of you gasps. You don’t know who.

“You’re in England?” she murmurs as you step over the threshold. 

“Obviously not,” you reply. 

Her expression changes. Slightly. Not pleased to see you, but not upset either. 

You don’t want to talk to her more than these pleasantries that have now been exchanged, so you don’t. She grabs your hips in response. Her hands are warm. 

Alexia kisses like she must train – sharp and focused, timing blended with artistry. Warmth slides up beneath your coat as she pulls you even closer, lips parting as if to speak but finding better use elsewhere. 

It’s consuming when it’s like this. Nothing else matters here, in this liminal space that relies on silence and accepts its fragility. You wouldn’t call it an experiment, but Alexia knows that she has to get everything exactly right for this to work. 

She tastes like wine tonight. You must smell of plane and people and the lingering stench of animal guts. She won’t ask why. You won’t either. 

That’s the point.

As you moan and gasp into her ear, pressed against her kitchen worktop now, you decide that that’s the point. 

Here is a release. Something physical and tangible, that has ten fingers and knows how to use them, and a tongue that is just as talented as the world claims her left foot to be. And it feels fucking good. 

So, so good. 

“Ale?” 

And then it crumbles. 

[onsomenewsht]

You've got a hold on this thing in my chest, babe

About the time you're hurt, she got hurt, and you find your way to each other

》 Lena Oberdorf x Reader

》 words count: +2.1k

》 Alles hat ein Ende, nur die Wurst hat zwei [German wordplay]: everything has an end, only the sausage has two

As soon as you see her going down on the pitch, you jump up from the couch and take a few steps to get closer to the tv.

Like it could get you closer to her, somehow.

Lena is a forceful footballer, always up for a challenge and never the one to shy away when the situation requires to get more physical. Playing against her was a nightmare, playing with her was even more stressful.

But right now, you never felt more helpless and stupid.

You have no business being this worried, it’s an international game that has little to no effect on your career. Yet, you’re pacing in front of the screen like it’s going to be the event that changes everything in your life forever.

The German midfielder is helped out of the field, almost in tears, and your heart breaks right there, once again. This time around, however, there’s an ocean in between and no way to hold her as close as your bodies allow while you whisper apologies and goodbyes – meaningful but needless.

“Maybe it looks worse than it is”

You snap your head back to take in Patri’s comment, forgetting you’re not alone.

All you do is raise an eyebrow and dare your friend to believe her words herself in the first place, “It looked worse than it was when you fucked up your foot?”

“Oh, wow, you’re mean when you’re worried”

Completely shocked by the situation – with Lena down and limping out of the pitch, and the obnoxious commentary going on about the dreadful amount of female athletes suffering career-threatening injuries –, you lose the filters that make your presence socially acceptable around other people.

“Sorry, I–”, you stop pacing, rubbing your face with shaking hands, “I guess I am mean when I’m worried”

The midfielder dismisses the apologies with a nod of her head, pointing at the couch with a pointed look.

It’s a new feeling, the one wriggling deep inside you. Like a deadly grasp you can’t escape despite how much you try to calm yourself and rationalise your thoughts.

Doesn’t matter how many times you’ve seen Lena going down after a tackle in games and training, or how many times you helped her up by taking her extended hand. Doesn’t matter how many times you were there. This one time is different, and you can’t do anything to help.

Not that she’d accept your help, not now anyway.

Not after everything that happened between the two of you, everything that went down so fucking bad.

It wasn’t a bad breakup per se.

It was messy and emotional, and unnecessary painful, but not bad.

There was a lot of love, still, and unspoken worries and insecurities. A lot of what-ifs and lingering touches, nights spent looking at the phone without reaching out. That’s why it still hurts so much.

Even now, your finger lingers on her contact – the name yet to be changed, as the memory of your last conversation hit.

“Drink this”, Patri hands you a glass of water as she takes the phone away, “She’s not gonna respond and it’s not because it’s you. I’m sure her head is a mess right now, she needs answers before she will be ready to give some”

Deep down, you know she’s right.

“I just feel so helpless”

“You are”

“Who is the mean one now?”

“What? It’s true”, she states, sitting by your side and gently placing a hand on your back, “You can’t do anything because there’s really nothing you can do. We don’t know what is going on or what she wants”

“What if she wants nothing from me?”

“Then you take it as the big girl you are. You’re the ex-girlfriend, and you’re not even her teammate anymore”

“Could you please be less rational?”, you quip back, still appreciating the wise reasoning, “I don’t need a voice of truth right now”

A couple of months ago, when you transferred to Barcelona, Patri took on the role of big sister – despite being just a few weeks older.

You briefly played together at youth levels, crossing paths again just when you finally got your senior call up at the worst time possible for your development. Things were getting increasingly worse with the Federation, so much that the more-experienced players felt the need to take you and Patri under their wings. They encouraged to do the best for your careers and that, for you, meant leaving Manchester, the club that got you under the spotlight, to accept the Wolfsburg offer over the ones in Spain.

That decision compromised your presence at Euro 2022 and worsened your position within the Federation. After that cruel summer, despite the desire and the pride to wear your national team’s crest, you left the squad and have yet to look back.

Your time in Germany, however, was incredible and that helped.

You played a lot and grew, as a footballer and as a person. You made friends who stayed by your side when you were going through some shit, both professionally and personally-wise. Friends who, you’re sure, will be life-long ones.

You made a name for yourself, proving your talent on the pitch.

You made a home away from your own.

But almost four years and an eventful winter transfer window later, you’re happy to be back in Spain and Patri is thrilled for the opportunity to annoy you everyday for undisclosed future.

“I can ask Ingrid to play the messenger”, she suggests, taking in your dejected look and uncertain hands.

You think about it for a moment, “No, I– I’ll text Lea”

“Doesn’t she hate you now?”

Good point.

“You’re not helping at all, I hope you’re aware of that”

The footballer smiles at you, despite the sentiment couldn’t be completely absurd.

Lea doesn’t necessarily hate you, you hope, but she’s not happy with how your relationship with her best friend ended – something you can totally understand.

Lena may look untouchable and unreachable from the outside, still, she wears her heart on her shoulder. And you broke that heart.

“Lea loves Lena more than she hates me, it’s my best shot”

The text you send to the German forward is rushed, but the best you can manage as replays and reviews of the game keep playing on the screen.

You just want to make sure she is okay.

~

Turns out, Lena is not okay.

Lea calls you back the day after. You pick up immediately, not even thinking about the possibility of being scolded or shouted at to mind your own business.

A reminder you’re not entitled of anything anymore could hurt really fucking much.

She doesn’t scream at you, she updates you with a lump in her throat.

They’re sending Lena back for the scans and to make it official, but it’s just a formality at this point.

“I can tell her you send your best wishes”

“Please don’t, that sounds awful”, you complain lightly, making the other girl scoff in agreement, “I’ll text her something in a couple of days”

“I’ll let you know when the surgery is planned”

It’s more than you expected, definitely more than you deserve.

~

In the summer Wolfsburg signs Lena, they have a green jersey with your name on it too.

Immediately drawn one onto the other, despite your reluctance to give into the playful and flirty attitude of the younger girl, it doesn’t take long to make it official.

It’s easy and fun and everything you could wish for in a relationship in your twenties – while you do what you love for a living, away from home, but comfortable with people you’re starting to consider friends.

“I thought you’d stand me up”

“Dramatic much?”, you greet Lena with a kiss on the cheek and an amused smile, yet to get used to her neediness. “I’m like three minutes late, it takes you longer to decide what to order. And then go for the same thing every time!”

“It’s the principal of it, darling”

Over two years into the relationship and you two still like to tease each at every given opportunity, making fun of the little things and supporting unconditionally when the bigger ones come knocking.

The German midfielder is by your side throughout all the Spain Federation shit-show since you confided about the environment behind closed doors and the aftermath of the Euro. You hold her hand and ease her mind every time she finds herself on the receiving end of unjustified online hate and unhealthy pressure from the expectations on her shoulders.

It’s a supportive relationship, it’s caring.

And it’s also so funny thanks to Lena’s playful character and your ability to match her ridiculousness.

“I was on the phone with Ingrid, guess who she asked about”, you reveal when your orders are placed – after calling her out at the umpteenth rereading of the menu, obviously.

It’s her favourite restaurant, she knows it by heart at this point.

“She has a type”

“Definitely”

“Do you think we were that obvious too?”

“Pretty much”, you answer with soft smile, aware of how the two of you acted when the flirting was innocent enough and the feelings slowly growing, “You still are, darling, it’s almost embarrassing”

“You love it”

“You’re lucky I do”

“I am, indeed”, she smirks, sipping her wine and making you roll your eyes at her annoying talent to always turn over a jab.

She may be wrapped around your finger, but you’re down for her as bad.

~

A couple of days after Lea’s call, you’re on a red-eye flight to Munich with nothing more than a backpack and a leap of faith.

Lena’s family is welcoming and way too happy to pick you up at the airport, which makes you think the younger girl didn’t paint you like the villain of the story.

As she could have done.

You assure them you’d find the way by yourself, although the taxi ride feels like a neverending series of turns and redlights. It gives you time to try and collect your thoughts as you approach the antiseptic halls of a minimalistic German clinic.

As soon as her mother spots you pacing around, she’s greeting you with a comforting hug and gentle words.

What if you indulged into it a little bit? You’re only human.

“We’re glad you’d make it”

“I couldn’t be anywhere else”, you answer sincerely, even if it’s not what you should confess to your ex-girlfriend’s mom.

She asks you one more time if you’re sure of not letting Lena know of your presence, but the truth is, this rushed decision is more for your own sake than hers. The footballer probably doesn’t need you here, most definitely doesn’t want you here.

Yet, your heart screamed to get on the first flight available.

The surgery goes on for what it feels like forever, or at least long enough for you to wear a groove on the floor. There’s no real reason to be this nervous, it's a well-known procedure done by a well-known surgeon.

Lena is in good hands.

You just want to hold hers.

“You can go say hi, she’s going to wake up soon”

Not a single word of the ones the older woman says after, reassuring the surgery went even better than expected, has registered for you. She has to shake you by the shoulder with a reassuring and understanding grin on her face.

Then she pushes you inside the room.

A smile grows as you notice that a sedate-Lena sleeps exactly like the one who used to fall asleep cuddled up with you, her head on your lap, dead to the world in the middle of a lazy afternoon.

The memory sparkles inside your chest, giving you the courage and the audacity to fill the gap between the door and the bed.

You hold on to her hand as soon as you’re close enough to do so.

“They must have given me some serious shit to see you”

It’s a good thing you’re surrounded by medical staff since how high you jumped out of tour skin, years just cutted out of your life expectation. You put the free hand on your chest, sure never been this close to risk a heart attack.

“You need me to call a doctor?”, she makes fun of you, softly.

“I need you to shut the fuck up, are you out of your mind?”

“I feel so loved, thank you”

The grip on your still intertwined-hands gives away the real honesty behind her sarcastic retort.

You look at her, heart yet to calm down from the scare, to find Lena’s eyes barely open and the ghost of a smile on her lips.

Maybe your mind is the one playing sick jokes.

“How do you feel?”, you ask.

Stupid question.

“Like someone with just one good leg”

Stupid answer.

fine.

[onsomenewsht]

🤭

[onsomenewsht]

you fucking blondie bitches really never done

[onsomenewsht]

STA SUCCEDENDO??

Non succede, ✨️ ma se succede ✨️

[onsomenewsht]

Non succede, ✨️ ma se succede ✨️

[onsomenewsht]

But just hold me now, ‘cause our love will light the way

About when, during a wedding, you are still scared of your love but she holds you closer

》 Alexia Putellas x Reader

》 word count: +5.7k

》 Happy is the bride the sun shines on, happy is the corpse the rain falls on [proverb with origins in folklore and superstition]

It may not look the same, not to anyone and not everywhere.

But for the athletes, especially footballers, when the regular season ends, another, way more challenging, starts.

The wedding season.

It’s a short window of time, holding on between the last games of the major championships and whatever international commitments are going to take place later in the summer. Spread widely all over the world, filled with long-time no-see acquaintances and friends who feel like home by now. Flowers, thoughtfully picked dresses, free drinks and music that after hours you end up dancing to without a care.

The years as a professional athlete forgets you for times like this, shaped you into a precise and infallible logistic-machine on heels. You collect the invitations, update the spreadsheet your sister teases you relentlessly for, and make sure to be dressed for the occasion.

Even before the regular season comes to an end, you have already attended two weddings. In two different continents.

The first one was a lovely, little ceremony in a rural cottage in Galizia. The bride’s an old family friend who, a couple of weeks after her 30th birthday, decided to move in the middle of nowhere to cook for pilgrims. She married a nice guy who delayed his arrival to the Catedral just to spend more time with her, walked his way back and asked her out on a date. Some cried hearing their story during the exchange of vows, more burst out laughing when the dog almost buried the rings.

The second one felt less like a fairytale and more like well-orchestrated chaos. A situationship-turned-friend decided to transform the wedding into a local festival, themed colors and a dress code included. Your date, a girl whose full name you realized you couldn’t quite recall mid-vows, showed up in costume sneakers and a flower crown, much to your dismay. No need to say that was your last date.

This time around, though, is going to be a little different.

The silk dress you pick for the occasion hugs your body in a way should be illegal if it weren’t so comfortable. The no-existen creases you keep smoothing are a clear tell of how nervous you actually are, standing with a single red rose in your hand and waiting for the bride to make her entrance.

You were barely older enough to live on your own, too far away from home to be left unsupervised by any kind of adult, when you met Titi – older, none the wiser. However, she took you under her wing without a hint of hesitation after spotting you recording random training and film sessions. You, unwillingly, admitted to go through them in the peace of your apartment, slower, sometimes too overwhelmed by the different language. Titi started to randomly appear by your side, whispering jokes and explaining the rapid spanish instructions in a more clear way.

You have been attached by the hips ever since.

The loan ended after two years and a dramatic Cup final, but the friendship’ still going strong – despite the bad jokes, the even worst dance moves and the tease for the most stupid thing.

So, when she called on a random Thursday, it’s clear she has more to say than just the latest drama on the national team. It took you a raised eyebrow and a half-truth threat of hanging up for her to spill everything.

Drunk and euphoric after a win, she blurred out a messy proposal to her long-time girlfriend – Beatrice. She said yes, obviously, because anyone who can put up with Titi this long must truly love her. Despite being proposed without a ring in a pub’s bathroom.

A month later, when you find yourself in Spain for a visit to the now happily-engaged couple, they dropped on you the bomb: they’re getting married in the summer and you will stand by Titi’s side as her maid of honor.

That’s how you ended up in this situation.

It’s the absurd music suddenly diffusing in the garden that brings you back to the present, causing a snort you don’t even try to hide. Only Titi could walk down the aisle with a barely slowed down version of “Highway Unicorn”.

Pride and happiness fills your chest, gaze fixed on your friend as she walks toward the front of the venue. Confident steps and bright eyes that can fool everyone but you.

Titi knows how to spot your tells, when you need to talk about something and when you just need to kick a ball as hard as possible. She knows when to tease and when to give the most insightful advice, always followed by some inappropriate joke. You, on the other hand, know how to read between the lines of her attitude and the way she hides behind an armor of apparent immaturity.

“I’m freaking out!”, she mutters out, close enough just for you to hear.

“You better be, I’ll not believe she actually will marry you ‘til I see it happening right in front of my eyes”

That seems to calm her long enough for Beatrice to appear, way more appropriate song announcing her. She walks the aisle with the certainty of someone who knows exactly what is doing and the genuine smile of who is doing it happily.

Not like you had any doubt.

The ceremony is officiated by the old lady of whom Titi destroyed all the plants with carelessly-kicked balls as a kid. She used to threaten to throw the girl’s ball so far away she could be too old to play with it once recovered – but also offered water breaks and help with homework.

The woman, wide grin and white hair styled better than most guests, starts a heartfelt speech about long-lasting love and commitment much stronger than the little flaws that can drive someone crazy. You listen attentively, catching the subtle hints and teases, at least till your gaze wanders around the venue.

Old teammates and family who traveled all over the world to be here, friends from both sides you meet in passing before. Faces you can’t put a name on, others you can’t wait to greet after long. Then, as if drawn by an invisible force, your eyes lock with a pair of green ones you remember all too well.

Alexia.

Of course she is here.

And, of course, she smiles in that way she reserved just for you.

Subtle, the curve of her lips barely raising, but sparkling something in her eyes that means so much more. The way she used to tell she loved you when words felt like not enough, when holding you felt like not close enough.

It started out of a bet.

You were already pretty familiar with each other, thanks to Titi’s insistence to have you in the same room – absolutely clueless of your crush. During an international friendly, joking about owing the one on the scoresheet drinks and teasing-rights over Titi’s new hairstyle. You ended up scoring twice, the first a worldie you find space outside the box for after winning a loose ball against none other than the Span’s captain. That same night, Alexia reluctantly buyed you a drink and, definitely less reluctantly, headed up to your hotel’s room.

And the rest’s history.

Improvised dates between fixtures and international breaks, subtle gestures during games against each other and not so subtle displays of affection in the privacy of your bubbles. Family teasing, friends relentlessly joking on your expenses – you two too whipped to care about it all. She filled your fridge with vegetables, your closet with a never ending stock of hoodies, and your life with heartwarming care and attention.

But it ended, out of all odds.

Memories still hunting your minds, the rest of the ceremony passes in a blur of touching vows and terrible jokes. You follow the wedding planner’s instructions to the letter, moving around the venue as she gestures like your life depends on it.

It probably does.

“You fucking made it!”, you whisper at Titi as soon as you manage to hug her.

“Let’s see how long before she asks for divorce”

“Don’t worry about that, I already filled the papers for her”

Beatrice laughs loud beside you, welcoming you into her arms as an older sister used to this kind of banther.

The fun is short lived as the planner kidnaps the just-married couple for some photos and all the guests are moved to a wider area of the garden. You nod at the nth recommendation of not disappearing for too long and not drinking too much – at least until your speech.

You’re pretty sure she’s holding back to ask to revise said speech.

“Why does she look at you like you’re a step away from ruining the whole wedding?”

The only reason why you don’t jump out of your skin is thanks to heels too high for you to do that without risking your ankles.

You meet Patri’s grin before hugging her, careful at both glasses of champagne and even more precocious make-up. A run in the bathroom to fresh up is in order before the couple comes back for more drinks and photos.

“She hates me”, you answer after a bit, not needing to follow her gaze to know the infamous wedding planner is still keeping an eye on you.

“What did you do?”

“I may have had a little too much fun with Titi at rehearsal dinner and now she think I’m a ticking bomb”

“Fair enough”

“An overkill, if you ask me”, you comment, sipping from the glass just to hide a grin.

You catch up with Patri like not time passed, like it’s not been months since she last saw you – since she heard from whispers in the locker room that you and her captain had broken up.

It’s easy enough to fall into the familiar banther, to remember why the friendship with the Majorcan is such a close one to your heart. Patri is a good friend, one who doesn’t need many explanations or reasons. She doesn’t ask questions, she just holds you when the world feels like falling apart or shows up at your apartment with enough food to feed an army and monopolises the TV putting on something absurd.

“You should come for a visit before the Euros”

“Not planning a trip to Barcelona anytime soon”

“Alexia got the rights on all the Barça’s friends?”, she calls you out, half-joking.

“No, we splitted equally. I picked Jana over you and Claudia”, you retort back.

Maybe you neglected some friendships after the break up, but the bond between Alexia and her teammates is so deep and personal that you felt like giving her the comfort of those relationships. You met most of them through her anyway, even a judge could have awarded full custody.

“I’m your friend too, I miss you too”

“I know, I know”, you admit, gaze fixed on the condensation covering the glass, “I’m sorry, I guess– I needed space”.

Space from Barcelona, the city having reminders of her and of your story around every corner. The spots that have been the backdrop of your dates, the roads you learned to navigate during the short visits, the name of her favourite treats in the bakery close to her apartment.

Space from the memories, the most random things that, completely out of nowhere, carve an Alexia-shaped hole in your chest. Roses and books remind you of the first Diada de Sant Jordi as girlfriends, Rosalìa’ songs passing on the radio sounds like her laugh on weekends off, the kid’s label she gifted as a joke still tied to your handbag because you can’t find the strength to get rid of it.

Space from Alexia, from a break-up either of you saw coming.

“I thought you two were it”, Patri says almost casually, almost cruelly.

You know she doesn’t want to be mean, but it still feels like your heart forgets to beat and your lungs can’t hold air properly. And yet, it’s so simple to admit, “I still think we are”.

“You should talk”

“I should go, the wedding planner is acting like a maniac again”, you state as you hug her, less carefully this time, promising to catch up later.

While talking with Patri, you felt Alexia’s gaze on you with a certainty that only comes with fears and insecurities shared to someone who knows how to protect them. But your eyes haven’t locked since that moment during the ceremony, she hasn’t come to you yet.

And you can’t tell if the breaths out are a sigh of relief or frustration.

The cool breeze that carries the flowers’ scent and the guests’ laughs is enough to make you forget your ex is walking around like she couldn’t crush your life and rebuild it just with soft words and even more gentle touches.

The planner is explaining to you, one more time, when you’re supposed to make your speech, but thankfully the couple’s entrance saves you – with an absurd redemption of “I Don’t Need a Man” by The Pussycat Dolls playing in the background and giving an heart attack to the already stressed woman in front of you.

You are almost sorry for her.

Almost.

Especially when, after another round of applause for the couple and drinks for the nerves, you find your seat for the wedding reception.

The tables arranged in a more open side of the landscape garden are framed by green plants and fragrant flowers, while the live band is alternating all-time pop classics and songs straight-out of an emo-kid’s playlist.

An incredible atmosphere, the perfect combination of Bea’s and Titi’s characters, that can entertain you up to a certain point after feeling Alexia approaching.

It may be her perfume, one so long lingering in your life that still permeates your couch’s pillows and a forgotten coat on the entryway rack. It may be the eyes fixed on you, both from her and some guests you care very little about right now. It may be the way your body reacts when hers is close by.

It remains a fact that, when she approaches, you feel it before she speaks.

“I think the wedding planner fucked up”

That, you don’t expect.

“What?”

As a good-enough response, she points to the little personalized place card on the seat at your right.

Oh.

The only reason why you don’t smash your head on the table, vigorously and repetitively to wake from this waking nightmare, is to avoid the already judging glances – planner included.

You will not give it to her so easily.

A moment too long passes, Alexia still standing close with that awkward smile she sports when she doesn’t know how to act properly. A part of you wants to know what she could do, but another, much bigger, wants this embarrassing situation to end as soon as possible.

“Sit your ass down, Titi’s mom is looking at us and I don’t want to cause a scene”, you hiss, nodding your head at the woman on a nearby table.

“She could drop her own daughter for you in a heartbeat”

“Yeah, I know, and I want to keep it that way”

Her smile turns more genuine and relaxed as she takes the seat next to you, as if she hasn’t done it a million times before. As if she never stopped.

Taking advantage of her engaging in small talks with the guests filling the other seats, you finally indulge and properly look at Alexia.

The dress is slick on her body, thin straps accentuating her defined, tan shoulders. A light turquoise that makes her eyes pop and take your breath away – the exact shade of your purse, because you’re over-prepared and she’s too attentive. Hair, tied up in a relaxed low bun, less blonde than you remember.

You study her profile as she politely follows a conversation you don’t even pretend to be interested in, too busy tracing her features to make sure everything is the same as engraved in your mind. Same moles, same wrinkles around her eyes when she smiles, same way to furrow her eyebrows at bad jokes.

However, she’s holding herself in a way you’re not used to. A way that doesn’t feel right between the two of you.

Still deep into your study, you don’t realise the bridal couple is making the nth round of greetings until Beatrice doesn’t wrap her arms around you. She’s holding you from behind like this is the best day of her life and she just had the best drink too, so you don’t complain when she down yours. The chat is funny and light-hearted, at least until Titi drops her wife’s hands to not-so-subtly nudging you to follow her.

“I swear I had no idea”, she blurs out, too troubled to notice you’re still too close to the table for this kind of apology, “I told the wedding planner to seat Ale with the other girls”

“It’s fine”

“We can still arrange it, I can tell them to add a seat there and–”

“Titi, please, breath”, you interrupt with a soft grin, “I said it’s fine”

Well, maybe it’s not really that fine, but you will manage.

Alexia could have been invited anyway, being Titi’s national teammate for longer than you even knew them, but you were supposed to come to the wedding together. As a couple.

The planner must not have received the memo but, at this point, you’re pretty sure she has an agenda against you.

“We can sit next to each other for the rest of the dinner, it’s not like I’m going to stab her with a butter knife”

“I’m more worried about you trying to stab yourself with a dessertspoon”

“I couldn’t even know what to look for”

“Reassuring. The fact you didn’t try to deny it is pretty alarming, but otherwise reassuring”, she points out, teasing just like a good friend could do.

You hold her in a tight hug, because you can and because one of the most important people in your life just got married to the love of their life. It’s a beautiful day. You’re not going to ruin it with what-ifs and self-pity, everyone is happy and you’re the happiest for them. Genuinely.

The part of you that wants to scream, shout and kick for how unfair and ironic life can be will behave for today.

Alexia seems to think the same, trying to hold back and making sure there’s space for Jesus if he wants to seat between you two.

Even though the desire to touch, to engage in conversation, to feel each other in a way that’s both familiar and foreign is so strong. Clear in the way she always makes sure your glass is filled with water and you pass finger-food and bread without her having to ask. Undeniable in the way it takes a moment too long to break contact when your arms barely brush or when your gazes meet in the middle of conversation.

If the other guests notice they don’t say anything, not out loud at least.

Not even Leon, Beatrice’s brother and best man, who has the same knowing smirk and sharp eyes. He makes a couple of comments between the appetizers and the main course, calling you out for a lingering touch or being distracted for apparently no reason. Thankfully, his wife has mercy and stops the teasing before Alexia’s blush could match the decorative roses and you could find that butter knife.

When you think you can finally enjoy the food without someone making fun of your almost-breakdowns anytime your ex does the most normal things, like thanking the waiters or humming the song playing, the wedding planner comes crushing your dream.

She passes the microphone as handing you a bomb, not even trying to hide how terrified she is of what you can say or do. You can stand close to the bridal table with the same resignation of someone sentenced to death.

Let’s get it over with.

“Here we are! For those of you who don’t know me, I’m sorry. For those who know, I’m sorry too”, you start, raising the glass of champagne in your hand and setting the mood. “First of all, thank you to the brides for asking me to speak today. Beatrice told me if I do decent enough job I can do her next wedding too, so bear with me”

The women burst out laughing, shaking their heads as the room joins in and you make sure to wink in the wedding planner’s direction.

“I know everyone is expecting a funny, witty speech filled with embarrassing stories of Titi and advice for Bea from a Tumblr blog called ‘how ancients used to kill their spouses and get away with it’. I was so proud of it, trust me. But five minutes ago Titi’s mom came up to me and said she couldn’t wait to hear my speech and I panicked. I don’t want to disappoint her, so I’ll improvise”, you breathe in and breathe out, not ready at all.

And right in that moment, your gaze locks with Alexia’s.

She’s smiling, genuinely, with elbows on the table and chin in her hand. Amused, you can tell that for sure after so long together, but also supportive in a way that makes you feel like climbing mountains with bare hands and swimming oceans with tied legs.

“I know you’re not supposed to talk about yourself in this kind of situation, for whatever reason, but I’m going to do just that. I am, indeed, the reason we’re all here today as one of my biggest achievements is that I brought Beatrice and Titi together. I’m not saying you own me one, but– yeah, you own me a huge one!”

A loud roar rises from the crowd as you hold up the glass in your best friend’s direction, blowing her a kiss.

You tell the story of how they met.

How you dragged Titi to an awful party seven years ago. How she didn’t want to go, complaining about a sore ankle and an alignment of the planets plotting against her. How you bribe her with drinks and half-hearted promises to indulge in her stupid pre-game dances.

But then, there she was.

Beatrice.

Standing by the bar, talking about books Titi had never read and plants she pretended to care about. You witnessed your annoying, over-confident friend turning into an even bigger idiot. She tripped over an empty glass, offering her number by writing it on a wet napkin, and still, somehow and for reasons not even the stars can explain, Bea didn’t run in the opposite direction.

You tell the story of the moment you felt it, so clearly, they’re perfect for each other.

“That was the moment I knew”, your voice softens, gaze never leaving the couple. Beatrice is looking at you, pride in her eyes as if you’re doing something remarkable, while Titi smiles like she’s hearing these stories for the first time.

“I got to witness a quiet miracle. Something small and messy and real. Two people finding each other, truly seeing each other. Ever since that day, I have witnessed this genuine, unconditional love growing. Loud and ordinary and everyday. So, if you can, I want you to rise your ass and your glass for a toast”

The room fills with a soft laughter and screeching cutlery. You glance at Alexia, one more time, just because you want to. She’s looking at you with something in her eyes you will never be able to fully understand. Something that resonates in your chest.

“To Beatrice, for showing me what it really means to know someone. Underneath the questionable jokes, the chaos, the quite disturbing dance moves. To Titiana, for showing me that love can be hilarious, sometimes messy, slightly scary, but always full-hearted. To the happy couple, for proving us love always finds its way. And if you ever forget how lucky you are– please, just remember, I did this”

The room erupts into applause while you exhale as if you just barely scored a penalty shootout. Titi bursts into a half-laugh-half-cry so raw and unexpected that you’re pretty proud of the confidence and the foresight to bribe the photographer. Beatrice, ever the saint, wraps the two of you in one of the warmest hugs ever experienced on heart.

Even the wedding planner looks impressed, or, at least, mildly relieved.

You make your way back to your seat, heart racing as you feel way too many eyes still on you. The attention is different when you’re not performing, whatever it’s on a football field or in front of a microphone.

Alexia pulls the chair out for you without saying anything at first, just passes you a glass of water and smiles. Like taking care of you comes naturally, instinctive. Your fingers brush for a second too long, familiar and foreign.

“Nice speech”, she eventually comments, her voice a soft contrast to the loud chatter and background music.

“Thanks, I wrote it using that stupid AI robot”

Her laugh is quiet, but real, and you hate how much you’ve missed it.

She knows you must have spent weeks in front of a blank page, cursing Titi and thinking about how to get away with such an awful task.

“I didn’t expect you to wrap it up like that”

“Neither did I”, you admit, “I was hoping for light and funny, accidentally took a detour through emotional growth”

The midfielder must realise just then you really did improvised the speech, not entirely because of Titi’s mom, she’s not sure if she wants to know why. The rest of the table has already drifted into their own conversations, distracted by more food arriving and chatting with other friends.

For a moment, it’s just the two of you in your own bubble.

As it once was, as it still feels so right.

“You were amazing”, she compliments, “You always are”

It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t make you feel like your heart sets on its natural rhythm, like your chest can fully rise and your mind finally eases.

You can’t look at her, turning away to stare across the garden. Fairy lights are strung through the trees, their soft glow reflecting all around the venue as the sun casts a magical atmosphere simply by dusking behind.

There’s so much you want to say, so many things that ache to break free. Instead, you offer her the chocolate dessert still untouched in front of you.

The silence isn't heavy, but it’s full of questions and desires. To reach out, to explain. To understand. To fix whatever breaks in your relationship for you to not realise sooner.

Moments after, the excuse to catch up with someone weak, but she let you go.

This time, not out of fear, but knowing you need to find your breath to come back to her.

As you walk around the garden, Titi’s mom stops you without a word to hold you firmly like a mother who knows what you need even if you’re not brave enough to ask for it. Your friend has the same warm, comforting way to wrap her arms around you completely.

Before you can properly freshen up and hide the signs of impending tears, Patri spots you and waves her hands as someone could do to get the attention of help while trapped on a desert island – same urgency. You can hear the laughs and smell the champagne even before reaching the group of loud footballers, holding glasses as there isn’t an impending international sport event waiting.

“Look who remembered she still has friends in Barcelona!”

“The last time we faced each other the scoreboard on your side wasn’t really that friendly”, you joke, taking turns to greet everyone you missed until then.

“At least you scored the one goal on yours”

As a response, you snitch the glasses from Mariona’s hand to pass it back emptied.

The others laugh, stealing a chair from a close table and welcoming you into the circle. Jana, clearly tipsy, keeps making faces and stopping mid-sentence to laugh at someone else’s comment. Irene, for some reason barefoot, is narrating a dramatic story about an away game turned into a reality show episode.

You fit right in, like no time has passed. Like you don’t feel a missing piece, used to be surrendered by these people with Alexia’s comforting presence by your side. Like you didn’t let heartbreak and distance pull you away from them.

Patri steps closer when most of the group is captivated by yet another of Jana’s adventures on English soil, her voice low as to not pry, “Are you good?”

You don’t answer right away, staring around in the landscape – your eyes searching for something, someone, in a way so instinctive that’s almost scary.

“She looks at me the same way”

“You expected her not to?”, the Majorcan asks, genuinely curious.

“I was terrified she wouldn’t”

“You’re allowed to miss her”, she states, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world, “But you’re also allowed to try again, you just have to do it scared this time”

You take a breath, not deep enough but steadier, “Let’s talk about literally anything else before I start crying at a wedding that isn’t even mine”

Patri laughs, clinking her glass with ones you find in your hand without even realising how.

The music changes then, bleeding into something upbeat and catchy. The band is playing one of those classics you’re legally required to dance to. The crowd begins to fill a makeshift dance floor in the middle of the garden, energy building over friends, couples and someone’s drunk aunt’s mad moves.

The girls drag you with them, stumbling into carefully pleased flowers and glowing under soft lights. It may be the top-shelf champagne, or the quite talented drummer, but you join in without a care. Surrendered by warmth and laughter and Patri’s terrible rhythm, it’s easier to think everything it’s going to be fine.

Jana pulls you into a spin, shouting something in Catalan you barely hear over the music, and for a while it’s just breathless laughter and out-of-tone singalong. You leave on the dance floor all you got, shame and sweat forgotten when someone unsuspectingly requests a song that reminds you of care-free teen times.

You feel the pull toward Alexia, dancing close by with Irene and some girls you can’t recognise by the back of their heads, but thankfully there’s always someone breaking in the middle.

And then, as to give you a moment to catch your breath, the music changes at a slower pace. The beat doesn’t resonate in your chest and the crowd dissipates, following a different flow. Only couples remain, taking space and moving on their own accounts like nothing else matters.

You withdraw silently, finding your seat on the now empty table. Leon and his wife are on the dance floor, while the others are scattered all around the venue. The wedding planner is somewhere around you, barking quiet but firm instructions as the cake’s moment is fast approaching, and you make a mental note to avoid her for at least the next hour.

A smile spreads on your lips as you spot Titi and Beatrice, dancing beneath the strings of light and surrender by people who love them. They move like they’ve got all the time in the world. And maybe, after today, it feels like they do.

You’re halfway through another glass when the air shifts.

“You gave up?”

“I’m too old and too alone to keep it up”, you half-joke, sipping your champagne.

Alexia is standing beside you, close enough for you to feel the heat from her skin – glowing under this light. She tilts her head toward you, teasing, “What happened to not disappearing or drinking too much?”

“I gave the speech, I’m off-duty. I don’t own that mad-planner anything else”

That earns a soft laugh that makes you glance at her, catching the moment she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, cheeks a little pink from the alcohol or the dancing or, maybe, from being near you again.

Too scared of this hope, you glance away to the dance floor, now filled with more guests. The brides are in the middle of it all, Titi whispering something, probably unhinged, right into Bea’s ear, who’s laughing too hard for theirs not to be true love.

“You want to dance?”, she asks, almost like she didn’t mean to say it too loud.

“Do you want to?”

“I’m trying something new”, Alexia grins at your raised eyebrows, “Not pretending I don’t want something and asking for it”

There’s a pause after that, your heart exploding in your chest and her smile growing on her face. The music shifts once again, the singer introducing a song you don’t know but you’re pretty sure will never forget.

And before you can change your mind, before fear could wrap around your wants, you take her hand.

It’s so familiar it almost hurts.

You lead her toward the dance floor, weaving through the other guests and ignoring the curious glances – especially Patri’s, who’s jumping happily with her thumbs up. You find your place on a more secluded side, however private it can be with Bea’s knowing smirk burning on the back of your head.

Alexia pulls you in with a hand lightly resting on your waist, like figuring out if she’s still allowed to hold you close. You visibly relax under her touch and almost hear her exhale in relief. The movements are slow, hesitant at first, but familiar. Comforting, even.

For a moment, it’s just the two of you together again.

So you let yourself be held. Between soft lights, colours and scents you had no idea could belong to flowers, instants straight out from a fairly tails. Between friends’ laughter and promises someone will fight to keep. Between before and after, Alexia allows herself to hold you like she wants to do forevermore.

“Do you think it was the right thing?”, she asks when your forehead brushes her cheek.

“No, but I don’t know how to fix it”

“We will figure our way out”

[onsomenewsht]

But just hold me now, ‘cause our love will light the way

About when, during a wedding, you are still scared of your love but she holds you closer

》 Alexia Putellas x Reader

》 word count: +5.7k

》 Happy is the bride the sun shines on, happy is the corpse the rain falls on [proverb with origins in folklore and superstition]

It may not look the same, not to anyone and not everywhere.

But for the athletes, especially footballers, when the regular season ends, another, way more challenging, starts.

The wedding season.

It’s a short window of time, holding on between the last games of the major championships and whatever international commitments are going to take place later in the summer. Spread widely all over the world, filled with long-time no-see acquaintances and friends who feel like home by now. Flowers, thoughtfully picked dresses, free drinks and music that after hours you end up dancing to without a care.

The years as a professional athlete forgets you for times like this, shaped you into a precise and infallible logistic-machine on heels. You collect the invitations, update the spreadsheet your sister teases you relentlessly for, and make sure to be dressed for the occasion.

Even before the regular season comes to an end, you have already attended two weddings. In two different continents.

The first one was a lovely, little ceremony in a rural cottage in Galizia. The bride’s an old family friend who, a couple of weeks after her 30th birthday, decided to move in the middle of nowhere to cook for pilgrims. She married a nice guy who delayed his arrival to the Catedral just to spend more time with her, walked his way back and asked her out on a date. Some cried hearing their story during the exchange of vows, more burst out laughing when the dog almost buried the rings.

The second one felt less like a fairytale and more like well-orchestrated chaos. A situationship-turned-friend decided to transform the wedding into a local festival, themed colors and a dress code included. Your date, a girl whose full name you realized you couldn’t quite recall mid-vows, showed up in costume sneakers and a flower crown, much to your dismay. No need to say that was your last date.

This time around, though, is going to be a little different.

The silk dress you pick for the occasion hugs your body in a way should be illegal if it weren’t so comfortable. The no-existen creases you keep smoothing are a clear tell of how nervous you actually are, standing with a single red rose in your hand and waiting for the bride to make her entrance.

You were barely older enough to live on your own, too far away from home to be left unsupervised by any kind of adult, when you met Titi – older, none the wiser. However, she took you under her wing without a hint of hesitation after spotting you recording random training and film sessions. You, unwillingly, admitted to go through them in the peace of your apartment, slower, sometimes too overwhelmed by the different language. Titi started to randomly appear by your side, whispering jokes and explaining the rapid spanish instructions in a more clear way.

You have been attached by the hips ever since.

The loan ended after two years and a dramatic Cup final, but the friendship’ still going strong – despite the bad jokes, the even worst dance moves and the tease for the most stupid thing.

So, when she called on a random Thursday, it’s clear she has more to say than just the latest drama on the national team. It took you a raised eyebrow and a half-truth threat of hanging up for her to spill everything.

Drunk and euphoric after a win, she blurred out a messy proposal to her long-time girlfriend – Beatrice. She said yes, obviously, because anyone who can put up with Titi this long must truly love her. Despite being proposed without a ring in a pub’s bathroom.

A month later, when you find yourself in Spain for a visit to the now happily-engaged couple, they dropped on you the bomb: they’re getting married in the summer and you will stand by Titi’s side as her maid of honor.

That’s how you ended up in this situation.

It’s the absurd music suddenly diffusing in the garden that brings you back to the present, causing a snort you don’t even try to hide. Only Titi could walk down the aisle with a barely slowed down version of “Highway Unicorn”.

Pride and happiness fills your chest, gaze fixed on your friend as she walks toward the front of the venue. Confident steps and bright eyes that can fool everyone but you.

Titi knows how to spot your tells, when you need to talk about something and when you just need to kick a ball as hard as possible. She knows when to tease and when to give the most insightful advice, always followed by some inappropriate joke. You, on the other hand, know how to read between the lines of her attitude and the way she hides behind an armor of apparent immaturity.

“I’m freaking out!”, she mutters out, close enough just for you to hear.

“You better be, I’ll not believe she actually will marry you ‘til I see it happening right in front of my eyes”

That seems to calm her long enough for Beatrice to appear, way more appropriate song announcing her. She walks the aisle with the certainty of someone who knows exactly what is doing and the genuine smile of who is doing it happily.

Not like you had any doubt.

The ceremony is officiated by the old lady of whom Titi destroyed all the plants with carelessly-kicked balls as a kid. She used to threaten to throw the girl’s ball so far away she could be too old to play with it once recovered – but also offered water breaks and help with homework.

The woman, wide grin and white hair styled better than most guests, starts a heartfelt speech about long-lasting love and commitment much stronger than the little flaws that can drive someone crazy. You listen attentively, catching the subtle hints and teases, at least till your gaze wanders around the venue.

Old teammates and family who traveled all over the world to be here, friends from both sides you meet in passing before. Faces you can’t put a name on, others you can’t wait to greet after long. Then, as if drawn by an invisible force, your eyes lock with a pair of green ones you remember all too well.

Alexia.

Of course she is here.

And, of course, she smiles in that way she reserved just for you.

Subtle, the curve of her lips barely raising, but sparkling something in her eyes that means so much more. The way she used to tell she loved you when words felt like not enough, when holding you felt like not close enough.

It started out of a bet.

You were already pretty familiar with each other, thanks to Titi’s insistence to have you in the same room – absolutely clueless of your crush. During an international friendly, joking about owing the one on the scoresheet drinks and teasing-rights over Titi’s new hairstyle. You ended up scoring twice, the first a worldie you find space outside the box for after winning a loose ball against none other than the Span’s captain. That same night, Alexia reluctantly buyed you a drink and, definitely less reluctantly, headed up to your hotel’s room.

And the rest’s history.

Improvised dates between fixtures and international breaks, subtle gestures during games against each other and not so subtle displays of affection in the privacy of your bubbles. Family teasing, friends relentlessly joking on your expenses – you two too whipped to care about it all. She filled your fridge with vegetables, your closet with a never ending stock of hoodies, and your life with heartwarming care and attention.

But it ended, out of all odds.

Memories still hunting your minds, the rest of the ceremony passes in a blur of touching vows and terrible jokes. You follow the wedding planner’s instructions to the letter, moving around the venue as she gestures like your life depends on it.

It probably does.

“You fucking made it!”, you whisper at Titi as soon as you manage to hug her.

“Let’s see how long before she asks for divorce”

“Don’t worry about that, I already filled the papers for her”

Beatrice laughs loud beside you, welcoming you into her arms as an older sister used to this kind of banther.

The fun is short lived as the planner kidnaps the just-married couple for some photos and all the guests are moved to a wider area of the garden. You nod at the nth recommendation of not disappearing for too long and not drinking too much – at least until your speech.

You’re pretty sure she’s holding back to ask to revise said speech.

“Why does she look at you like you’re a step away from ruining the whole wedding?”

The only reason why you don’t jump out of your skin is thanks to heels too high for you to do that without risking your ankles.

You meet Patri’s grin before hugging her, careful at both glasses of champagne and even more precocious make-up. A run in the bathroom to fresh up is in order before the couple comes back for more drinks and photos.

“She hates me”, you answer after a bit, not needing to follow her gaze to know the infamous wedding planner is still keeping an eye on you.

“What did you do?”

“I may have had a little too much fun with Titi at rehearsal dinner and now she think I’m a ticking bomb”

“Fair enough”

“An overkill, if you ask me”, you comment, sipping from the glass just to hide a grin.

You catch up with Patri like not time passed, like it’s not been months since she last saw you – since she heard from whispers in the locker room that you and her captain had broken up.

It’s easy enough to fall into the familiar banther, to remember why the friendship with the Majorcan is such a close one to your heart. Patri is a good friend, one who doesn’t need many explanations or reasons. She doesn’t ask questions, she just holds you when the world feels like falling apart or shows up at your apartment with enough food to feed an army and monopolises the TV putting on something absurd.

“You should come for a visit before the Euros”

“Not planning a trip to Barcelona anytime soon”

“Alexia got the rights on all the Barça’s friends?”, she calls you out, half-joking.

“No, we splitted equally. I picked Jana over you and Claudia”, you retort back.

Maybe you neglected some friendships after the break up, but the bond between Alexia and her teammates is so deep and personal that you felt like giving her the comfort of those relationships. You met most of them through her anyway, even a judge could have awarded full custody.

“I’m your friend too, I miss you too”

“I know, I know”, you admit, gaze fixed on the condensation covering the glass, “I’m sorry, I guess– I needed space”.

Space from Barcelona, the city having reminders of her and of your story around every corner. The spots that have been the backdrop of your dates, the roads you learned to navigate during the short visits, the name of her favourite treats in the bakery close to her apartment.

Space from the memories, the most random things that, completely out of nowhere, carve an Alexia-shaped hole in your chest. Roses and books remind you of the first Diada de Sant Jordi as girlfriends, Rosalìa’ songs passing on the radio sounds like her laugh on weekends off, the kid’s label she gifted as a joke still tied to your handbag because you can’t find the strength to get rid of it.

Space from Alexia, from a break-up either of you saw coming.

“I thought you two were it”, Patri says almost casually, almost cruelly.

You know she doesn’t want to be mean, but it still feels like your heart forgets to beat and your lungs can’t hold air properly. And yet, it’s so simple to admit, “I still think we are”.

“You should talk”

“I should go, the wedding planner is acting like a maniac again”, you state as you hug her, less carefully this time, promising to catch up later.

While talking with Patri, you felt Alexia’s gaze on you with a certainty that only comes with fears and insecurities shared to someone who knows how to protect them. But your eyes haven’t locked since that moment during the ceremony, she hasn’t come to you yet.

And you can’t tell if the breaths out are a sigh of relief or frustration.

The cool breeze that carries the flowers’ scent and the guests’ laughs is enough to make you forget your ex is walking around like she couldn’t crush your life and rebuild it just with soft words and even more gentle touches.

The planner is explaining to you, one more time, when you’re supposed to make your speech, but thankfully the couple’s entrance saves you – with an absurd redemption of “I Don’t Need a Man” by The Pussycat Dolls playing in the background and giving an heart attack to the already stressed woman in front of you.

You are almost sorry for her.

Almost.

Especially when, after another round of applause for the couple and drinks for the nerves, you find your seat for the wedding reception.

The tables arranged in a more open side of the landscape garden are framed by green plants and fragrant flowers, while the live band is alternating all-time pop classics and songs straight-out of an emo-kid’s playlist.

An incredible atmosphere, the perfect combination of Bea’s and Titi’s characters, that can entertain you up to a certain point after feeling Alexia approaching.

It may be her perfume, one so long lingering in your life that still permeates your couch’s pillows and a forgotten coat on the entryway rack. It may be the eyes fixed on you, both from her and some guests you care very little about right now. It may be the way your body reacts when hers is close by.

It remains a fact that, when she approaches, you feel it before she speaks.

“I think the wedding planner fucked up”

That, you don’t expect.

“What?”

As a good-enough response, she points to the little personalized place card on the seat at your right.

Oh.

The only reason why you don’t smash your head on the table, vigorously and repetitively to wake from this waking nightmare, is to avoid the already judging glances – planner included.

You will not give it to her so easily.

A moment too long passes, Alexia still standing close with that awkward smile she sports when she doesn’t know how to act properly. A part of you wants to know what she could do, but another, much bigger, wants this embarrassing situation to end as soon as possible.

“Sit your ass down, Titi’s mom is looking at us and I don’t want to cause a scene”, you hiss, nodding your head at the woman on a nearby table.

“She could drop her own daughter for you in a heartbeat”

“Yeah, I know, and I want to keep it that way”

Her smile turns more genuine and relaxed as she takes the seat next to you, as if she hasn’t done it a million times before. As if she never stopped.

Taking advantage of her engaging in small talks with the guests filling the other seats, you finally indulge and properly look at Alexia.

The dress is slick on her body, thin straps accentuating her defined, tan shoulders. A light turquoise that makes her eyes pop and take your breath away – the exact shade of your purse, because you’re over-prepared and she’s too attentive. Hair, tied up in a relaxed low bun, less blonde than you remember.

You study her profile as she politely follows a conversation you don’t even pretend to be interested in, too busy tracing her features to make sure everything is the same as engraved in your mind. Same moles, same wrinkles around her eyes when she smiles, same way to furrow her eyebrows at bad jokes.

However, she’s holding herself in a way you’re not used to. A way that doesn’t feel right between the two of you.

Still deep into your study, you don’t realise the bridal couple is making the nth round of greetings until Beatrice doesn’t wrap her arms around you. She’s holding you from behind like this is the best day of her life and she just had the best drink too, so you don’t complain when she down yours. The chat is funny and light-hearted, at least until Titi drops her wife’s hands to not-so-subtly nudging you to follow her.

“I swear I had no idea”, she blurs out, too troubled to notice you’re still too close to the table for this kind of apology, “I told the wedding planner to seat Ale with the other girls”

“It’s fine”

“We can still arrange it, I can tell them to add a seat there and–”

“Titi, please, breath”, you interrupt with a soft grin, “I said it’s fine”

Well, maybe it’s not really that fine, but you will manage.

Alexia could have been invited anyway, being Titi’s national teammate for longer than you even knew them, but you were supposed to come to the wedding together. As a couple.

The planner must not have received the memo but, at this point, you’re pretty sure she has an agenda against you.

“We can sit next to each other for the rest of the dinner, it’s not like I’m going to stab her with a butter knife”

“I’m more worried about you trying to stab yourself with a dessertspoon”

“I couldn’t even know what to look for”

“Reassuring. The fact you didn’t try to deny it is pretty alarming, but otherwise reassuring”, she points out, teasing just like a good friend could do.

You hold her in a tight hug, because you can and because one of the most important people in your life just got married to the love of their life. It’s a beautiful day. You’re not going to ruin it with what-ifs and self-pity, everyone is happy and you’re the happiest for them. Genuinely.

The part of you that wants to scream, shout and kick for how unfair and ironic life can be will behave for today.

Alexia seems to think the same, trying to hold back and making sure there’s space for Jesus if he wants to seat between you two.

Even though the desire to touch, to engage in conversation, to feel each other in a way that’s both familiar and foreign is so strong. Clear in the way she always makes sure your glass is filled with water and you pass finger-food and bread without her having to ask. Undeniable in the way it takes a moment too long to break contact when your arms barely brush or when your gazes meet in the middle of conversation.

If the other guests notice they don’t say anything, not out loud at least.

Not even Leon, Beatrice’s brother and best man, who has the same knowing smirk and sharp eyes. He makes a couple of comments between the appetizers and the main course, calling you out for a lingering touch or being distracted for apparently no reason. Thankfully, his wife has mercy and stops the teasing before Alexia’s blush could match the decorative roses and you could find that butter knife.

When you think you can finally enjoy the food without someone making fun of your almost-breakdowns anytime your ex does the most normal things, like thanking the waiters or humming the song playing, the wedding planner comes crushing your dream.

She passes the microphone as handing you a bomb, not even trying to hide how terrified she is of what you can say or do. You can stand close to the bridal table with the same resignation of someone sentenced to death.

Let’s get it over with.

“Here we are! For those of you who don’t know me, I’m sorry. For those who know, I’m sorry too”, you start, raising the glass of champagne in your hand and setting the mood. “First of all, thank you to the brides for asking me to speak today. Beatrice told me if I do decent enough job I can do her next wedding too, so bear with me”

The women burst out laughing, shaking their heads as the room joins in and you make sure to wink in the wedding planner’s direction.

“I know everyone is expecting a funny, witty speech filled with embarrassing stories of Titi and advice for Bea from a Tumblr blog called ‘how ancients used to kill their spouses and get away with it’. I was so proud of it, trust me. But five minutes ago Titi’s mom came up to me and said she couldn’t wait to hear my speech and I panicked. I don’t want to disappoint her, so I’ll improvise”, you breathe in and breathe out, not ready at all.

And right in that moment, your gaze locks with Alexia’s.

She’s smiling, genuinely, with elbows on the table and chin in her hand. Amused, you can tell that for sure after so long together, but also supportive in a way that makes you feel like climbing mountains with bare hands and swimming oceans with tied legs.

“I know you’re not supposed to talk about yourself in this kind of situation, for whatever reason, but I’m going to do just that. I am, indeed, the reason we’re all here today as one of my biggest achievements is that I brought Beatrice and Titi together. I’m not saying you own me one, but– yeah, you own me a huge one!”

A loud roar rises from the crowd as you hold up the glass in your best friend’s direction, blowing her a kiss.

You tell the story of how they met.

How you dragged Titi to an awful party seven years ago. How she didn’t want to go, complaining about a sore ankle and an alignment of the planets plotting against her. How you bribe her with drinks and half-hearted promises to indulge in her stupid pre-game dances.

But then, there she was.

Beatrice.

Standing by the bar, talking about books Titi had never read and plants she pretended to care about. You witnessed your annoying, over-confident friend turning into an even bigger idiot. She tripped over an empty glass, offering her number by writing it on a wet napkin, and still, somehow and for reasons not even the stars can explain, Bea didn’t run in the opposite direction.

You tell the story of the moment you felt it, so clearly, they’re perfect for each other.

“That was the moment I knew”, your voice softens, gaze never leaving the couple. Beatrice is looking at you, pride in her eyes as if you’re doing something remarkable, while Titi smiles like she’s hearing these stories for the first time.

“I got to witness a quiet miracle. Something small and messy and real. Two people finding each other, truly seeing each other. Ever since that day, I have witnessed this genuine, unconditional love growing. Loud and ordinary and everyday. So, if you can, I want you to rise your ass and your glass for a toast”

The room fills with a soft laughter and screeching cutlery. You glance at Alexia, one more time, just because you want to. She’s looking at you with something in her eyes you will never be able to fully understand. Something that resonates in your chest.

“To Beatrice, for showing me what it really means to know someone. Underneath the questionable jokes, the chaos, the quite disturbing dance moves. To Titiana, for showing me that love can be hilarious, sometimes messy, slightly scary, but always full-hearted. To the happy couple, for proving us love always finds its way. And if you ever forget how lucky you are– please, just remember, I did this”

The room erupts into applause while you exhale as if you just barely scored a penalty shootout. Titi bursts into a half-laugh-half-cry so raw and unexpected that you’re pretty proud of the confidence and the foresight to bribe the photographer. Beatrice, ever the saint, wraps the two of you in one of the warmest hugs ever experienced on heart.

Even the wedding planner looks impressed, or, at least, mildly relieved.

You make your way back to your seat, heart racing as you feel way too many eyes still on you. The attention is different when you’re not performing, whatever it’s on a football field or in front of a microphone.

Alexia pulls the chair out for you without saying anything at first, just passes you a glass of water and smiles. Like taking care of you comes naturally, instinctive. Your fingers brush for a second too long, familiar and foreign.

“Nice speech”, she eventually comments, her voice a soft contrast to the loud chatter and background music.

“Thanks, I wrote it using that stupid AI robot”

Her laugh is quiet, but real, and you hate how much you’ve missed it.

She knows you must have spent weeks in front of a blank page, cursing Titi and thinking about how to get away with such an awful task.

“I didn’t expect you to wrap it up like that”

“Neither did I”, you admit, “I was hoping for light and funny, accidentally took a detour through emotional growth”

The midfielder must realise just then you really did improvised the speech, not entirely because of Titi’s mom, she’s not sure if she wants to know why. The rest of the table has already drifted into their own conversations, distracted by more food arriving and chatting with other friends.

For a moment, it’s just the two of you in your own bubble.

As it once was, as it still feels so right.

“You were amazing”, she compliments, “You always are”

It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t make you feel like your heart sets on its natural rhythm, like your chest can fully rise and your mind finally eases.

You can’t look at her, turning away to stare across the garden. Fairy lights are strung through the trees, their soft glow reflecting all around the venue as the sun casts a magical atmosphere simply by dusking behind.

There’s so much you want to say, so many things that ache to break free. Instead, you offer her the chocolate dessert still untouched in front of you.

The silence isn't heavy, but it’s full of questions and desires. To reach out, to explain. To understand. To fix whatever breaks in your relationship for you to not realise sooner.

Moments after, the excuse to catch up with someone weak, but she let you go.

This time, not out of fear, but knowing you need to find your breath to come back to her.

As you walk around the garden, Titi’s mom stops you without a word to hold you firmly like a mother who knows what you need even if you’re not brave enough to ask for it. Your friend has the same warm, comforting way to wrap her arms around you completely.

Before you can properly freshen up and hide the signs of impending tears, Patri spots you and waves her hands as someone could do to get the attention of help while trapped on a desert island – same urgency. You can hear the laughs and smell the champagne even before reaching the group of loud footballers, holding glasses as there isn’t an impending international sport event waiting.

“Look who remembered she still has friends in Barcelona!”

“The last time we faced each other the scoreboard on your side wasn’t really that friendly”, you joke, taking turns to greet everyone you missed until then.

“At least you scored the one goal on yours”

As a response, you snitch the glasses from Mariona’s hand to pass it back emptied.

The others laugh, stealing a chair from a close table and welcoming you into the circle. Jana, clearly tipsy, keeps making faces and stopping mid-sentence to laugh at someone else’s comment. Irene, for some reason barefoot, is narrating a dramatic story about an away game turned into a reality show episode.

You fit right in, like no time has passed. Like you don’t feel a missing piece, used to be surrendered by these people with Alexia’s comforting presence by your side. Like you didn’t let heartbreak and distance pull you away from them.

Patri steps closer when most of the group is captivated by yet another of Jana’s adventures on English soil, her voice low as to not pry, “Are you good?”

You don’t answer right away, staring around in the landscape – your eyes searching for something, someone, in a way so instinctive that’s almost scary.

“She looks at me the same way”

“You expected her not to?”, the Majorcan asks, genuinely curious.

“I was terrified she wouldn’t”

“You’re allowed to miss her”, she states, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world, “But you’re also allowed to try again, you just have to do it scared this time”

You take a breath, not deep enough but steadier, “Let’s talk about literally anything else before I start crying at a wedding that isn’t even mine”

Patri laughs, clinking her glass with ones you find in your hand without even realising how.

The music changes then, bleeding into something upbeat and catchy. The band is playing one of those classics you’re legally required to dance to. The crowd begins to fill a makeshift dance floor in the middle of the garden, energy building over friends, couples and someone’s drunk aunt’s mad moves.

The girls drag you with them, stumbling into carefully pleased flowers and glowing under soft lights. It may be the top-shelf champagne, or the quite talented drummer, but you join in without a care. Surrendered by warmth and laughter and Patri’s terrible rhythm, it’s easier to think everything it’s going to be fine.

Jana pulls you into a spin, shouting something in Catalan you barely hear over the music, and for a while it’s just breathless laughter and out-of-tone singalong. You leave on the dance floor all you got, shame and sweat forgotten when someone unsuspectingly requests a song that reminds you of care-free teen times.

You feel the pull toward Alexia, dancing close by with Irene and some girls you can’t recognise by the back of their heads, but thankfully there’s always someone breaking in the middle.

And then, as to give you a moment to catch your breath, the music changes at a slower pace. The beat doesn’t resonate in your chest and the crowd dissipates, following a different flow. Only couples remain, taking space and moving on their own accounts like nothing else matters.

You withdraw silently, finding your seat on the now empty table. Leon and his wife are on the dance floor, while the others are scattered all around the venue. The wedding planner is somewhere around you, barking quiet but firm instructions as the cake’s moment is fast approaching, and you make a mental note to avoid her for at least the next hour.

A smile spreads on your lips as you spot Titi and Beatrice, dancing beneath the strings of light and surrender by people who love them. They move like they’ve got all the time in the world. And maybe, after today, it feels like they do.

You’re halfway through another glass when the air shifts.

“You gave up?”

“I’m too old and too alone to keep it up”, you half-joke, sipping your champagne.

Alexia is standing beside you, close enough for you to feel the heat from her skin – glowing under this light. She tilts her head toward you, teasing, “What happened to not disappearing or drinking too much?”

“I gave the speech, I’m off-duty. I don’t own that mad-planner anything else”

That earns a soft laugh that makes you glance at her, catching the moment she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, cheeks a little pink from the alcohol or the dancing or, maybe, from being near you again.

Too scared of this hope, you glance away to the dance floor, now filled with more guests. The brides are in the middle of it all, Titi whispering something, probably unhinged, right into Bea’s ear, who’s laughing too hard for theirs not to be true love.

“You want to dance?”, she asks, almost like she didn’t mean to say it too loud.

“Do you want to?”

“I’m trying something new”, Alexia grins at your raised eyebrows, “Not pretending I don’t want something and asking for it”

There’s a pause after that, your heart exploding in your chest and her smile growing on her face. The music shifts once again, the singer introducing a song you don’t know but you’re pretty sure will never forget.

And before you can change your mind, before fear could wrap around your wants, you take her hand.

It’s so familiar it almost hurts.

You lead her toward the dance floor, weaving through the other guests and ignoring the curious glances – especially Patri’s, who’s jumping happily with her thumbs up. You find your place on a more secluded side, however private it can be with Bea’s knowing smirk burning on the back of your head.

Alexia pulls you in with a hand lightly resting on your waist, like figuring out if she’s still allowed to hold you close. You visibly relax under her touch and almost hear her exhale in relief. The movements are slow, hesitant at first, but familiar. Comforting, even.

For a moment, it’s just the two of you together again.

So you let yourself be held. Between soft lights, colours and scents you had no idea could belong to flowers, instants straight out from a fairly tails. Between friends’ laughter and promises someone will fight to keep. Between before and after, Alexia allows herself to hold you like she wants to do forevermore.

“Do you think it was the right thing?”, she asks when your forehead brushes her cheek.

“No, but I don’t know how to fix it”

“We will figure our way out”

[onsomenewsht]

I did not see it coming, but ✨️ siamo in semifinale!! ✨️

[onsomenewsht]

let them get married!!, part III

Part 3

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

Wordcount: 14k

This first part is a bit random but it was cut from the end of the last chapter but my followers said I should include it and its needed as it becomes a joke between them

☀️

The sun’s already high and hot as you stand at the edge of the dock, bag slung over your shoulder, sunglasses on to hide more than just the brightness. There's this lump in your throat you’ve been pretending isn’t there, but it’s heavier than your overnight bag.

The yacht behind you looks quieter now, emptier, like it’s already moved on without you. Carmen hugs you tight, swaying you gently, her voice soft in your ear.

“Promise me you’ll come visit. Not just for weddings and hen dos.”

You nod against her shoulder, managing a smile. “Promise.”

When you pull back, she looks at you properly, something knowing in her expression, but she doesn’t say it, she doesn’t need to. “Go,” she says with a grin, “before Alexia changes her mind and leaves you behind.”

You laugh, but your stomach flips as you turn Alexia’s leaning against the car, doors already open, her sunglasses low on her nose, a half-smile tugging at her lips like she knows exactly what kind of effect she’s having on you.

Patri’s in the back, waving dramatically, Jana next to her with a grin like she’s already thinking up something inappropriate to whisper in your ear later.

You climb into the passenger seat, your bag dropped to the floor by your feet. The door shuts with a final sounding click, and just like that Alexia pulls away from the dock.

You glance once over your shoulder as the yacht disappears from view. “Sad?” Alexia asks, glancing sideways at you.

You shrug, trying to play it cool. “A little. It was… a good weekend.”

She hums her agreement. “Very good.”

You feel her eyes on you again, but you’re not quite ready to meet them, not yet. Not when the road is taking you closer to goodbye.

The car fills with quiet conversation from the backseat, the breeze through the windows tugging at strands of your hair, and the warmth of the Spanish sun following you all the way down the coast.

You pull the visor down, angling it to catch your reflection in the tiny mirror. Your hair’s a little windswept, lips smudged from the gloss you forgot to reapply, and you sigh before fixing it with your fingertip.

From beside you, Alexia grins, her voice casual and a little proud, “You look very pretty, pillow princess.”

You pause, finger still pressed to your lip.

You blink.

Then slowly turn your head toward her, trying to keep your face neutral. “I don’t think that’s what you meant, so… we’ll move on.”

Alexia frowns, glancing at you briefly before looking back at the road. “Yes? You are pillow princess. You sit, look pretty. No drive. This is right, no?”

You bite your bottom lip to stop the laugh already rising, breath catching in your chest. “Um… Alexia… A pillow princess is…” you glance at the girls in the backseat, suddenly very aware of them trying and failing to pretend they aren’t listening Alexia waits, eyebrows raised. You clear your throat. “It’s during sex. A pillow princess is someone who just… lies there and gets—”

Alexia’s eyes go wide. “No no no!” she waves one hand frantically, mortified. “No! I no talk about sex! No no—ahh… mierda.” Her ears are visibly turning red beneath her sunglasses. “I don’t know what I say. I mean—how you say? Pretty girl in car, who do nothing?”

You’re laughing now, actually laughing, shoulders shaking. “Passenger princess. The term is passenger princess.”

She groans, hiding her face behind one hand as the car swerves slightly, from the backseat, Jana and Patri erupt into laughter. Jana leans forward between the seats, wide grin on her face.

“Pillow princess, huh? Muy interesante.”

“Jana, stop.” Alexia mutters, glaring into the mirror at her.

Alexia groans again, slumping dramatically in her seat. “I never speak English again.”

You nudge her arm playfully. “You'll speak English for me though right?”

She peeks at you the corner of her eye, and even behind the embarrassment, there’s the hint of a smile. “Only for you, muppet,” she mumbles.

You turn back toward the road, heart fluttering in your chest, Passenger princess, pillow princess… whatever you are to her right now, you kind of like the sound of it.

1 month later

The locker room buzzed with its usual pre-match energy, boots being laced, music playing low from someone’s speaker, shirts tugged into shorts, tension and adrenaline sharpening the air.

Alexia sat on the seat in front of her locker, elbows resting on her knees, phone cradled low in her hands. The families group chat was pinging with emojis and last-minute good luck messages, but she wasn’t looking at that.

She was on your Instagram and there was nothing. She refreshed your page again and still nothing new. The last thing you'd posted was a photo from two days ago a blurry snap of London lights at night with no caption, just a sparkle emoji. She’d already liked it the second it went up, twice she’d almost messaged you since then. Three times if she was honest.

She went back to your story, still just the repost of someone else’s reel from this morning. Not even a glimpse of your face, that wasn’t like you. You usually posted something a meme, a silly outfit, a playlist, your morning coffee.

Alexia frowned, thumb hesitating over your name in her DMs, her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

'Hey muppet.' No that was too casual, 'Busy today?' No that was too obvious, 'Why no post today?' Weird and desperate and her English still felt clunky in texts.

She stared at the empty message bar, then back at your little profile picture. The one of you laughing in the sun, taken from the hen do on the yacht, she still thought your smile looked better in real life.

She didn’t know what this was, whatever it was she missed it. She missed you, but she didn’t want to be annoying, or worse someone you’d only ever see as a nice holiday story.

"Vamos, Ale!" Mariona clapped her hands sharply to break the moment, already half kitted, tapping her boot to get Alexia's attention.

Alexia quickly locked her phone, shoved it into her bag, and stood, “Ya voy,” she muttered, but even as she pulled on the red shirt of her country, she couldn’t help but wonder, where were you today? And why did it matter this much to her?

She hadn’t meant to think about you right now, but somehow, you were under her skin and you hadn’t even posted.

Alexia tugged her socks up, trying to focus on her breathing. Her head wasn’t in the right place not totally. She’d been trying to push thoughts of you aside all day, but nothing had worked. Not the team talk, not her boots, not even the plays run-through in her head.

She didn’t know why it bothered her so much, people drift after holiday flings. It’s just what happened, right? Could it even be considered a fling?

Across the locker room, Carmen was adjusting her shin pads, face a mix of nerves and fierce determination. It was her first start and Alexia had been so focused on her own spiral that she’d barely congratulated her properly. She made a mental note to fix that after warm-up.

“Ey,” Carmen called out casually as she stood, glancing Alexia’s way. “Y/N’s here. She’s in the stands with my family.”

Alexia blinked, her body catching the words before her brain did and then a smile broke across her face like the sun slicing through cloud cover. Small, almost sheepish, but instant, she bit it down too late.

“Oh my god,” Patri groaned from across the bench. “There it is.”

Jana burst out laughing. “I haven’t seen her smile like that since we beat Lyon.”

Alexia quickly ducked her head, pulling at the hem of her jersey. “Its nothing,” she mumbled, but it was too late, the grin had betrayed her.

“Nothing?” Patri said, grinning. “You look like someone just promised you a lifetime supply of dulce de leche.”

Alexia’s ears burned. “I just, she here? Really?”

Carmen smirked, catching her gaze knowingly. “You can pretend you’re not obsessed later. Focus now, capitana.”

Patri leaned in with a teasing whisper. “Better play well. She’s watching.”

Alexia rolled her eyes, but the grin kept flickering on her face, like it had a mind of its own. The nerves she’d carried all day melted, replaced by a new heat low in her chest. You were here, you’d come to watch.

She stood a little taller as she grabbed her training bib. “Let’s go,” she said, voice lower, firmer now, but inside, she was already planning where to find you after the final whistle.

☀️

You were already a few drinks deep not enough to be drunk, but just enough for your focus to wander unapologetically. The sun was dipping low over the stadium, heat still clinging to the concrete as fans filtered in around you, all decked out in red and gold. You were in the middle of Carmen’s family row, waving a small Spanish flag her little cousin had thrust into your hand like a gift of national importance and then the players came out to warm up.

You should have been watching Carmen it was her first start, after all. Your cousin’s wife, the reason you were even here, you meant to keep your eyes on her. You tried, but.. Alexia.

She jogged out like she belonged to the pitch. Hair tied up high, focus etched into her face until she spotted something, someone, in the stands.

You didn’t know if she was looking for you. You didn’t want to assume anything, didn’t want to read into things the way you sometimes did when you liked someone too much. But her eyes swept the stands near Carmen’s family and lingered just long enough that your breath caught.

Then she turned, and that was it. Your stomach did a strange little flip as you watched her stretch, flexing effortlessly, her focus back on warm-ups. Her legs moved with ease and control, and you tried, truly tried, not to just watch her body in that kit, but it was becoming a bit of a problem.

She looked unreal out there, confident, composed, and entirely in her element and here you were, fighting the urge to rewind time just to relive the moment she’d looked your way.

You leaned closer to Ben when he tapped you and he whispered, “You should be watching Carmen, right?”

They nodded enthusiastically, eyes wide with pride, you smiled, “I am. Totally. Watching Carmen.” But your gaze flicked back to Alexia again, just for a second, maybe two and that’s when you caught her glance up again, briefly toward your section and this time, you were already looking.

Her expression didn’t change much, not really, but you’d learned her little tells by now the way her mouth twitched slightly, that shift in her eyes, like her guard dropped just for you.

You blinked, heart doing something far too dramatic in your chest, you turned to Ben, "You want anything? I'm going for a drink"

Ben shook his head, "No I'm good thanks"

You were making your way down the stadium steps toward the concourse, the sun hot on your back, your fingers already itching for something cold non alcoholic to drink. The atmosphere was buzzing whistles, chants, the hum of anticipation just before kick-off.

As you reached the railing above the tunnel entrance, movement caught your eye a group of players finishing warm-ups, heading in. Patri was near the back, jogging slowly alongside a few of the others. She looked up and spotted you immediately, her grin wide and knowing.

She pointed, lifting her chin. “Who do you have on your shirt?” she called up, just loud enough to carry, playfully.

You leaned on the rail, flashing her a smug look as you turned just slightly so she could read the name on your back. “Yours,” you mouthed.

Patri squinted, then laughed big and genuine as she jogged backwards a few steps to keep you in view. “You’re brave!” she called teasingly.

You shrugged, but before you could answer, another figure appeared just behind her Alexia. She wasn’t jogging, she was walking, brows furrowed like she was still somewhere between focus and irritation until she followed Patri’s line of sight and saw you.

You weren’t sure if she was already looking, or if the mention of the shirt had caught her attention, but her eyes locked on yours sharp, unreadable. She held your gaze as she passed beneath, a subtle shift in her expression, not quite a smile, not quite a frown, but she saw it. She saw Patri's name on your back and despite herself, despite the game looming and the cameras and the teammates jogging beside her, her mouth twitched at the corners. Just a little.

☀️

You slid back into your seat with a cold drink in hand, cheeks still warm from the sun or maybe from that look Alexia had given you. Your heart hadn't quite settled from it as you tucked your sunglasses back on and reached for your phone, the screen lit up with a notification.

Alexia Putellas Instagram DM: You wear Patri shirt and not mine?

You stared at it, the corners of your mouth immediately tugging up into a grin you couldn’t stop if you tried. You glanced across the field the players weren’t back out yet but just imagining her, likely in the locker room, texting you that, made your stomach flip.

You quickly typed back,

You: What can I say? Patri gave me hers first. Gotta be quicker next time, Capitana.

The second you hit send, you leaned back, your grin getting bigger two seconds later,

Alexia is typing…

She was definitely going to make you pay for that one. Her reply came quickly, as you expected,

Alexia: Wow. Disloyal. This is betrayal.

You bit your lip, holding in a laugh as you watched the little typing dots disappear and reappear again.

Alexia: I not talk to you now.

You shook your head, amused beyond reason, then typed back,

You: You never offered one, so technically this is your fault.

A beat passed before another message popped up.

Alexia: I offer now.Too late?

You hesitated, heart fluttering a little more than it should’ve. Then you replied,

You: Maybe not. Depends what I get with it.

There was a longer pause this time before her next message came through.

Alexia: Shirt... and maybe... something else. If you behave.

You smiled, leaning back in your seat as the crowd anticipation was rising around you. You looked down at her message one more time before typing,

You: Guess I’ll be on my best behaviour then, but only if your shirt fits.

You looked up just in time to see the players reemerge to a warm reception, but your eyes found her like they always did. Alexia walked out at the front, all poise and power and impossible not to watch. She didn’t look up at your section, but you noticed the way her mouth quirked ever so slightly.

☀️

You were surprised how much you actually enjoyed being at the game like really enjoyed it. The energy in the stadium, the roar of the crowd, the little chants echoing every time Spain got close to goal it was infectious way more fun than watching it on TV.

Though, if you were being honest with yourself, maybe the view had a little something to do with it too.

The Spanish team was stunning like absurdly, unfairly beautiful. The kind of team that made you reconsider your entire skincare routine. You caught yourself watching not just the play, but the way they moved fierce, focused, composed, but your eyes, inevitably, always found their way back to Alexia.

She had the ball constantly directing play, always in control, always with that sharp vision and ridiculous precision that made everything look effortless and you weren’t the only one watching her. The people around you reacted every time she touched the ball, like something exciting was guaranteed to follow.

But for you well, it was the added bonus of how good she looked doing it. The way her ponytail whipped with every turn, the sharp lines of her jaw when she concentrated, how she always pushed her teams to get them where she wanted them. You caught yourself smiling like an idiot every time she called for the ball loud, commanding, that voice you could still hear saying 'Hola, muppet' in your head.

And when the final whistle blew, sealing a dominant 4–0 victory, you were probably clapping louder than anyone else in your row. Not just for Carmen, not just for Spain but because you were watching someone you were definitely in trouble over, grinning and high-fiving her teammates like she hadn’t just completely stolen your attention for 90 straight minutes.

You were supposed to just come and support family. Instead, you were falling a little harder for someone you probably weren’t supposed to.

☀️

The locker room buzzed with post-match energy sweaty hugs, congratulatory slaps on the back, the echo of boots against tile, the occasional burst of laughter from teammates replaying their favourite moments. Alexia was sitting on the bench, untying her boots with a satisfied grin still playing on her lips when Carmen plopped down beside her, fresh from her first ever start with Spain and riding the high of a clean-sheet victory.

"Not bad for your first start, eh?" Alexia nudged her gently, glancing sideways.

"Not bad? I’m still shaking," Carmen laughed, shaking out her damp hair with a towel. "But hey, 4-0? Not a bad debut memory."

Alexia hummed in agreement, and for a second they sat in a comfortable silence, just catching their breath. Then Carmen shifted, giving her a slightly mischievous look.

"By the way…" she said slowly, a little smirk tugging at her lips, "She was watching you the whole time, not me."

Alexia turned, pretending not to know who she meant, though the flush rising in her cheeks said otherwise. "Y/N?" she asked casually, eyes on the floor as she peeled off her socks.

Carmen nodded with a teasing grin. “Yep. Thought I’d have her attention for once, being the reason she’s here and all, but no. You had the spotlight, capitana.”

Alexia chuckled under her breath, trying and failing to keep her cool. “Well maybe it’s because we kissed.”

Carmen’s head snapped around so fast you’d think she’d just been slapped. “What?”

Alexia blinked at her, confused by the shock. “I thought you knew?”

“No!” Carmen barked, laughing now. “I did not know! You kissed? When?!”

Alexia hesitated for a second, a sheepish little smile appearing as she looked down at her hands. “On the yacht. In the water. After we jumped.” She bit her lip. “I thought she told you.”

Carmen let out a breath and shook her head, leaning back against the lockers with a soft laugh. “She tells me nothing, honestly, you could tell me you were retiring and I’d believe it before I believed she volunteered information about her love life.”

Alexia raised a brow, genuinely surprised. “Really?”

“She’s private,” Carmen said simply. “Even with me. Even with her mum. Especially with anything that matters.”

Alexia took that in, heart twinging a little. She suddenly felt the weight of that quiet moment on the boat, the way you smiled at her in the water, the softness of that kiss how you’d blushed after, how you never even told your family. She wondered if you really were private or just scared? “I didn’t want to make it weird,” Alexia said quietly, almost more to herself than Carmen.

Carmen glanced sideways at her again, eyes gentler now. “It’s not weird. She clearly likes you.”

Alexia stayed quiet, but the tiny smile tugging at the corner of her mouth gave her away.

Carmen nudged Alexia’s knee with her own, catching the quiet smile on her face. “You know,” she said casually, “Ben text he's in the hospitality with her. If you want to go see her… I’ll come with you.”

Alexia looked up, surprised. “Now?”

“She’s probably hoping to see you,” Carmen said. “And I know you’re not going to go alone to check, so…” She shrugged, tossing her towel over her shoulder. “I’m offering backup.”

Alexia hesitated, chewing on the inside of her cheek. Her stomach fluttered at the idea, nerves bubbling under the surface like a shaken bottle. “You think she’d want to see me?”

Carmen gave her a look. “Ale… she flew across countries to come support me, and spent the whole game watching you. I think it’s safe to say yes.”

Alexia rubbed her hands against her thighs, still in her shorts, suddenly nervous in a way that had nothing to do with the match she’d just played. “I don’t want to mess anything up.”

“You won’t.” Carmen’s voice was softer now. “You’re already under her skin, whether she’ll admit it or not.”

Alexia let out a quiet laugh, leaning her head back against the wall behind her. “She makes me nervous.”

“She’s the least intimidating person I know,” Carmen teased.

“Not to me,” Alexia said, without irony. “She looks at me like, like she sees too much.”

Carmen smiled, this time warm. “She wants to see you not your name. That’s the difference.” There was a beat of silence, then Carmen clapped her hands together and stood. “Alright, I’m showering and then I’m dragging you out of here. Get your stuff together. You’re not overthinking this tonight.”

Alexia blinked. “Wait! Seriously?”

“Seriously. We’re going. She’ll love it.”

Alexia stood too, heart racing in a completely different rhythm now. “You’re sure?”

Carmen glanced back at her from the showers, grinning. “I’ve never been more sure about you two being a thing.”

☀️

The hospitality suite was buzzing in a warm, understated way soft music playing under low conversation, the clink of glasses, families gathered around tables with tapas and cava. You were standing by the long window overlooking the now empty stadium, a glass of something sparkling in your hand, chatting politely with Carmen's mum about the atmosphere during the match.

You hadn’t expected to see Alexia again tonight, part of you had hoped, maybe even prepared in your head how you might act if you did. But when you heard your name spoken softly behind you, not in the clipped way most Spaniards pronounced it, but the slow, deliberate way she did your shoulders stiffened on instinct.

You turned and there she was, hair damp from her shower, curls slightly messy, in jeans and a simple white tee that made your stomach drop a little with how casually stunning she looked. Carmen stood beside her, all warmth and smug subtlety as she gave you a small wave.

“Hola, Muppet” Alexia said softly, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

You blinked. “Hi.”

Carmen cut in smoothly, “Didn’t want to miss the opportunity to say hi before this one stole all your attention”

Alexia narrowed her eyes at her, but you couldn’t help the grin that formed as you set your glass down. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Carmen, smirking as she gave Alexia a meaningful pat on the shoulder and turned. “I’m going to get a drink and let the two of you be incredibly awkward in peace.”

You watched her disappear into the crowd before looking back to Alexia, whose eyes were already on you that familiar, focused way she always looked when she wasn’t entirely sure what she was allowed to say.

“You played well,” you said, because it felt safe.

Her smile widened, just a little. “Gracias. You wear Patri name, so maybe I try harder.”

You chuckled. “Are you going to bring that up every time?”

“Yes.” There was a beat of quiet, the two of you only half existing in the room full of people, noise melting away like background static. “I didn’t know you’d come,” Alexia admitted. “To watch.”

“I didn’t know I’d enjoy it so much.”

She looked at you carefully, like she was trying to read something written on your skin. “You look, I don’t know. Different here.”

“Different good?”

“Different beautiful,” she said, so quietly you nearly didn’t catch it.

Your face warmed instantly, “You said that before, didn’t you?”

Her mouth curved, knowingly. “You finally translate it, eh?”

You laughed softly, cheeks burning. “I was… waiting for the right moment.”

“Maybe… this is it?”

Before you could answer, someone brushed past behind you and the moment broke just enough for you both to shift, glancing around the room again.

Just as you were about to say you best go see Carmen, she turned to you, voice soft but steady.

“I have… a wedding. Next weekend. Family.” Her fingers toyed with her rings, nerves flickering in her eyes. “Would you come with me?”

You blinked. “A wedding?”

Alexia nodded slowly. “My cousin. Big Catalan family, lots of people, food, dancing… drama.” Her smile twitched wider. “I need someone who makes me laugh and… someone I want to talk to.”

Your heart tripped in a way that made your toes curl inside your boots. “You want me to be your… date?” you asked, just to be sure.

She gave you a sheepish, lopsided grin. “Yes. If you want. But no pressure. It’s short notice. You live in another country. Maybe it’s crazy”

“I’ll come,” you cut her off gently, the corner of your mouth curving.

Alexia’s eyebrows lifted. “Sí?”

You nodded, smiling. “If only to see you try to survive your family asking if I’m your girlfriend.”

She made a face, a small groan slipping out. “They will ask. Many times. They nosey.”

“And what will you say?”

Alexia tilted her head, eyes dancing again as she leaned in just enough for only you to hear, “I say… we’ll see.”

Your stomach flipped, and she looked so pleased with herself that you had to laugh. “I need to find a dress.”

Alexia nodded. “I help. I have opinions.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do.”

She reached for your hand again. “So… yes?”

“Yes,” you said, “Take me to your chaotic Catalan wedding.”

“I need your number,” she said, a little awkward, a little charming, “for… plans. Times. Dress code. Family drama alerts.”

You raised a brow, teasing, “You’ve been DM’ing me for weeks and now you want my number?”

Alexia let out a laugh, rubbing the back of her neck. “Instagram no good for wedding details or calling.” She paused, then shrugged. “Maybe I want to hear your voice.”

That caught you off guard. You blinked, then tried to cover your flustered smile by pulling your phone from your bag. “You could’ve asked ages ago,” you said, unlocking it and holding it out to her, open on a new contact page.

“I didn’t want to scare you.”

“Oh, you don’t scare me, Putellas.”

She smirked at that, entering her number with impressive speed. When she handed it back and took her own out, your phone lit up with a new text before you even had a chance to save the contact.

Hola muppet. It’s me. Don’t block. Wedding info coming. Also you looked beautiful tonight.

You snorted at your screen and looked up at her. “Smooth. Real smooth.”

“I try.”

You saved her number, pausing just long enough to label it Alexia 🤎 before locking the phone again.

As the crowd in the hospitality suite buzzed around you family members chatting, waiters clearing glasses, music drifting faintly in from the corridor everything felt oddly still between you and her.

“Call me,” you said softly, stepping back but keeping your eyes on hers. “I want to hear your voice too.”

She gave you that grin again, the one that never quite reached her mouth but always hit her eyes. “I will,” she promised. “And this time… I won’t call you a pillow princess.”

You burst out laughing, nearly stumbling back into your seat. “Oh my God, never forget that.”

Alexia looked mortified but also slightly proud. “I die with that.”

“I live for that.”

Her teammates were starting to trickle back into the suite, so you gave her one last look, lips curling. “Call me, Ale.”

And with that, you turned away her number saved, her text unread again just so you could open it later and smile and the promise of a weekend in Catalonia already buzzing in your chest.

☀️

You were curled up on your sofa, oversized hoodie on, damp hair from a long shower tucked behind your ears, scrolling absently through your phone while a show played low in the background. You weren’t really paying attention to the screen the hum of normality felt grounding after the whirlwind of Spain, the wedding, the match, and her.

Your phone buzzed in your hand.

Incoming FaceTime: Alexia 🤎

You stared at it for a second, heart stuttering like it always did when her name lit up your screen. You hadn’t actually spoken on the phone yet just a flurry of texts, memes, the occasional voice note when she was feeling bold and playful with her english, but this, this was new.

You hesitated a moment, brushing your fingers over your hair before answering.

Her face filled your screen instantly, and she looked ridiculously good for someone who’d probably just finished training hair tied back, loose Barça sweatshirt on, cheeks flushed. She was sprawled across what looked like her bed, eyes lighting up when she saw your face.

“Hola, muppet,” she grinned, her voice a little rough, like she'd been shouting or laughing recently.

You grinned back, adjusting your phone so she didn’t get a view of your double chin. “Hi. Didn’t expect a FaceTime.”

“You didn’t answer my message for twenty minutes,” she said with mock seriousness, brows raised. “I think… maybe you are ghosting me.”

You rolled your eyes. “I was showering, dramatic.”

She gave a satisfied hum, like she’d decided she could forgive you. “You look nice.”

You looked down at yourself. “I look like a wet hamster.”

“A very beautiful hamster.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hand. “Do you flirt like this with everyone?”

“Only you,” she said, without missing a beat and you felt it, right down to your stomach. There was a pause, soft now, her expression going a little more serious as she tilted her head. “I wanted to see you,” she said simply.

Your heart flipped. “You’re seeing me now.”

She nodded, quiet for a second. Then, “You still come to the wedding? With me?”

You couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. “If the offer still stands, I’d like to.”

She grinned again, clearly pleased, clearly trying to keep her cool and failing just a little. “It’s this Saturday. My cousin. Lots of food. Too many aunts. Very big dress code.”

“Oh no,” you teased, “do I need to buy something appropriate?”

She gave you a look. “No. Just… pretty.”

“Define pretty.”

Alexia smirked, biting the inside of her cheek before saying, “Like you at Carmen’s wedding. Or other day. Or now. Always pretty.”

You leaned back against the couch, unable to hide your flushed grin. “You’re a menace.”

“Maybe,” she said, her accent thick with amusement. “But I FaceTime good, no?”

You laughed. “Yeah, you really do.”

You talked like that for nearly an hour nothing urgent, everything easy. She told you about training, you told her about your boring trip to the supermarket. It shouldn’t have felt special, but it did. Somehow, just the sound of her voice and the way her eyes softened every time she looked at you made everything else feel far away.

As the call wound down, she leaned closer to her screen, voice softer now. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Same time?”

You nodded, trying not to look too giddy. “Deal.”

“Bye, muppet.”

“Bye, Pillow Princess.”

Alexia groaned, dropping her face into the pillow. “Por favor, let it die.”

“Never,” you laughed, ending the call with a wide grin and already missing her face.

☀️

Your phone buzzed exactly at 7:02pm

Incoming FaceTime: Alexia 🤎

and you couldn’t help but laugh. Right on schedule.

You were mid-twirl in front of the mirror, tugging at the hem of a silky champagne dress, debating whether it was too much or not enough. The phone, propped precariously on your dresser, reflected your slightly flushed face and tousled hair. You reached for it quickly.

“Hola,” you greeted, slightly breathless, answering with a grin.

Alexia appeared on the screen, damp hair slicked back from a post-training shower, hoodie loose on her shoulders, the familiar warm smile spreading across her face the second she saw you. “You are… what is the word… early ready?” she teased, eyes already scanning your outfit. “Very early.”

“I’m trying things on,” you laughed, stepping back to show the full outfit. “Need to figure out if this is wedding date worthy.”

Alexia sat up straighter on her screen, brows lifted as her eyes tracked over you shamelessly. “You wear this?”

You shrugged. “Maybe. I’m not sure if it’s too much.”

Alexia tilted her head, a small smile playing at her lips. “Too much? No. It’s… perfect.”

Your cheeks warmed. “Yeah?”

She nodded, eyes still on you. “Very soft. Very elegant. Very… hard to look away.”

You laughed, covering your face for a second. “I swear you get smoother with every call.”

“I practice,” she deadpanned, then broke into a smirk. “For you, only.”

You twirled again just to tease her, watching the way her eyes narrowed slightly like she was focusing on every movement. “So you approve?”

“Very much,” she said, then leaned in toward her screen. “You wear this, I no dance with my family. I stay only with you.”

“Dangerous,” you said, amused, “I’m a terrible dancer.”

“Perfect,” she said, relaxed now, leaning her chin in her hand. “We be terrible together.”

You both smiled, something warm and quiet settling between you. The call didn’t need to be long. It was just another thread pulling you closer, another evening with your attention solely on each other.

You plopped onto your bed in the dress, phone cradled in your hand. “You know, if you keep calling me like this, I’m going to get used to it.”

Alexia's smile softened. “Bueno. I want you used to me.”

You swallowed the flutter in your chest, fiddling with the silky hem of the dress. “I’ll see you in two days,” you said softly.

“Dos días,” she confirmed, her voice low and promising. Then a pause “And don’t change the dress.”

"I have other options I could show you? I'm not sure, it's a bit out of my comfort zone" you smoothed the material with her hands looking down at yourself in it.

Alexia arched a brow, her smirk immediate. “You have options?” she asked, her voice dipping just enough to make it dangerous.

You sat up straighter on your bed, mock-serious. “Of course I have options. You think I only bought one dress for your fancy Spanish wedding?”

She leaned back in her chair on screen, arms crossed, but the gleam in her eyes betrayed her amusement. “Show me.”

You squinted at her. “Are you asking for a fashion show or just being nosy?”

Alexia grinned, slow and entirely self-satisfied. “Yes.”

Rolling your eyes, you stood up and made your way to the pile of maybe too many dress choices you'd gathered up earlier. You held up a bold red one first. “Okay, what about this one? Very look at me, very 'I’m here with the hot footballer.’”

Alexia tilted her head, considering. “You wear that… I don’t let you leave the hotel room.”

You blinked at her, laugh bubbling out. “That’s not an actual reasoned opinion, ma’am.”

“It is,” she said firmly. “Very serious.”

You reached for the next one a black satin slip that suddenly felt a little too revealing under her gaze. Still, you held it up.

Alexia bit her lip, shaking her head slightly. “No.”

“No?” you echoed, surprised.

“No. Not because I don’t like,” she said slowly. “Because I like too much.”

You raised your brows, pleased. “You have to use your words, Alexia.”

She made a helpless little motion with her hands. “That dress is… dangerous. I don’t speak good enough to explain. But… very bad for my focus.”

You tossed the dress over your shoulder with a laugh, smug now. “Maybe that’s exactly the energy I want to bring.”

She groaned dramatically. “Por favor, wear the first one.”

You looked back at the mirror, at the champagne one. “So… you’re telling me you’re going to be distracted either way?”

Alexia leaned into the camera, her voice soft but unshakable: “Muppet, I am already distracted. You could wear plastic bag and I don’t look away.”

You bit your lip, trying to keep your expression calm as your heart thudded at her honesty. “I was going to try on the green one next,” you said, voice a little weaker than before.

“Save it,” she said, now resting her chin on her hand again. “You wear what you wore now and bring change for after.”

“Why?” you asked, curious.

Alexia just shrugged, her voice calm but flirtatious. “So I can steal your hoodie.”

You laughed, sitting back on the bed again. “I haven’t even packed a hoodie yet.”

“You will,” she said simply, and then with a little smirk “Then it’s mine.”

The silence lingered this time, but it was the good kind, electric, comfortable and yours.

You looked down at your screen. “Okay,” you said, trying not to smile too wide. “But only if you steal it nicely.”

“Siempre,” she replied, eyes warm. “Only nice… for you. Like you stole mine nice”

☀️

It was ridiculously early, your suitcase rolled quietly behind you as you wandered aimlessly through Heathrow’s duty free, trying to kill time without convincing yourself you needed a £200 perfume just because it came with a free cosmetic pouch. You weren’t usually an anxious flyer, not really, but this wasn’t nerves about flying.

This was nerves about her, Barcelona, a family wedding with Alexia Putellas.

You caught your reflection in a display mirror near a sunglasses stand, and you paused. You looked decent and normal like a woman heading on a short-haul flight, not one spiraling internally because a world-class footballer asked you to be her plus one and had FaceTimed you every day since and flirted like she invented the concept.

You sighed and turned away from your reflection, heading toward the snacks aisle like that might help.

You pulled your phone out, half hoping there’d be a message from her something ridiculous or teasing, or maybe just a ‘you at the airport already?’ kind of text. Nothing yet, you debated sending a selfie in front of a giant Toblerone pyramid to tempt fate.

Instead, you wandered past Jo Malone, accidentally let a sales assistant spray something called ‘Wood Sage & Sea Salt’ on your wrist, and immediately felt more expensive than you had any right to.

You passed a group of teenagers in matching tracksuits and wondered if they knew how close they were to losing their minds if they ever found out where you were headed or who you were headed to.

Still, the truth hovered just under the surface of your calm expression, you were flying to Barcelona to be the date of a woman you were undeniably falling for and the flight couldn’t come soon enough.

☀️

You boarded with your boarding pass tucked between your fingers and your bag slung over your shoulder, eyes a little bleary from the early hour but heart racing for reasons you were definitely trying to play cool.

The flight was only half full, thank God, you found your window seat, tucked your bag beneath the seat in front, and slid into place, pulling your hoodie sleeves down as you settled. You leaned back with a sigh, the soft rumble of the plane filling your ears as passengers shuffled past, stowing bags, claiming spots.

Reaching into your pocket, you pulled your phone out to switch it to airplane mode but the screen lit up first with a new message.

Alexia🤎

Bon dia, have a safe flight. See you soon 🤍

Your smile was instant, stupid and completely involuntary. Your flight was at 7am, which meant unless she was already up for some early pre wedding training session and you knew she wasn’t Alexia had either set an alarm just to message you, or had actually woken up naturally and thought of you. Either way, your chest warmed in that soft, fluttery way that had become entirely hers lately.

You typed back quickly, thumb hovering for a moment before you hit send

You’re too sweet. Go back to sleep, menace. See you soon x

You switched your phone to airplane mode and tucked it into the pocket in the front of your hoodie, your smile lingering as the cabin door closed and the hum of the engine deepened.

Barcelona, here you come and somehow, that morning sky outside the window didn’t feel half as bright as what was waiting for you at the other end.

☀️

The wheels touched down on the Barcelona tarmac with a soft jolt, the familiar rumble of slowing engines buzzing through your spine as the plane taxied to the gate. You stretched a little in your seat, blinking at the brightness outside the window still early, but already warm, the promise of sun hanging in the air.

As soon as the seatbelt sign chimed off, you reached down for your bag and slid your phone from the seat pocket. The moment airplane mode clicked off, your screen lit up with notifications but only one caught your eye.

Alexia 🤎

Are you here yet or do I have time to fix my hair?

You snorted softly, trying and failing not to grin like an idiot in a row full of strangers.

Thumbs flying, you typed back

Landed. Your hair looked fine 3 days ago, I’m sure it survived the week.

Barely a beat later, another message buzzed in

Alexia 🤎

So you do stare at me. Good to know.

Your stomach did that annoying fluttery thing again, and you bit your lip to hold back a laugh, cheeks warming.

You slipped your phone back into your hoodie pocket as the queue to disembark began to inch forward, pulse already a little too fast.

Barcelona looked beautiful from the sky, but you had a feeling the best view was waiting just past baggage claim.

You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder, stepping out into the warm Barcelona air. It hit you like a welcome sun-soaked and soft, not a single cloud in sight. The concrete outside arrivals shimmered slightly under the heat, and the buzz of voices, car engines, and rolling suitcases all faded for a second when your eyes landed on Alexia.

Leaning casually against the side of her sleek black Cupra, scrolling her phone, totally oblivious. She wore sunglasses pushed up into her hair, tank top clinging to her in the heat, one foot crossed over the other. If she’d meant to look like the cover of some painfully cool magazine, she’d nailed it, but you could tell she wasn’t even trying.

You slowed your steps, just for a moment, watching her with that dumb feeling again like you’d dreamed her up on the plane and she’d actually shown.

You smirked, shifting your bag again as you approached, quiet on your feet until you were only a few steps away. “Is this where the wedding chauffeur picks up the VIP guest?”

Her head snapped up, and when she saw you, her whole face changed a slow, crooked smile blooming that made something in your chest do a full somersault. “You're early,” she said, pushing off the car and slipping her phone into her pocket.

“You’re distracted,” you teased, stopping in front of her. “Bad habit.”

She reached for your bag before you could argue and placed it in the backseat like it weighed nothing, then turned to you, a little closer now.

“I was checking the time,” she said softly, brushing a strand of hair from her own cheek, “and maybe... waiting for a text that said you changed your mind.”

You tilted your head, smiling. “So you didn’t think I’d come?”

“I hoped,” she admitted. “But I’m better with the ball than I am with people.”

“That’s unfortunate,” you said, stepping around to the passenger side, “because I happen to like people. One person in particular who’s very bad at pretending she doesn’t care.”

Alexia shook her head, laughing under her breath as she opened the door for you. “Get in the car, muppet.”

You slid into the seat, heart thumping, after she had opened and closed your door for you, watching her walk around to the driver’s side. You were just pulling the seatbelt across your chest when you noticed Alexia fiddling with the sat nav, one hand tapping in the postcode for the wedding venue. The Cupra was clean and cool inside, the air conditioning already humming gently against the summer heat outside. You shifted slightly in your seat, glancing at her as she leaned forward to double check the address.

Without looking at you, she nodded toward the cup holder between you. “Agua,” she said casually, then flicked her eyes toward you, a flicker of a smile on her lips. “For you.”

You looked down and saw the condensation spotted bottle, cold to the touch, resting perfectly upright in the holder. You blinked, mildly surprised. “You brought me water?” you asked, picking it up.

Alexia shrugged like it was nothing, but the tiniest smile betrayed her pride. “Is hot today and airport water costs, like, ten euro,” she said, eyes back on the screen.

You twisted the cap and took a sip, grinning over the bottle. “You’re thoughtful for someone who calls me a muppet.”

She finally looked at you, smirking. “Muppet need hydration, too.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Honestly, if this football thing doesn’t work out, you’d make an excellent road trip partner.”

“Lucky you,” she said, putting the car into gear, “this is only the beginning.”

The Cupra pulled away from the curb, Barcelona rolling out in front of you sun shining, music low on the speakers, and Alexia beside you with that maddening little smirk.

The city thinned out around you as Alexia merged onto the motorway, one hand steady on the wheel, the other adjusting the volume of the playlist she'd casually thrown on a mix of soft Spanish pop and old English hits that made you smile.

It was easy between you, the silence never too heavy, the conversation never forced. You rested your head back against the seat, bottle of water now wedged between your legs, stealing glances at her every now and then as she focused on the road.

“So,” she said after a beat, glancing at you sideways, “how early did you get to the airport? Five a.m.?”

“Earlier,” you groaned. “Security opened before even the coffee shops did. I wandered duty free like a zombie.”

Alexia chuckled. “Did you buy something?”

“Lip balm and regret,” you replied dryly. “I had three hours to kill and still almost missed my gate because I got distracted by a wall of sunglasses.”

She laughed at that, that soft raspy kind of laugh she had when you weren’t trying too hard. “Very on brand.” There was a short pause before she said, “You travel a lot?”

“Not really,” you shrugged. “I like it, though. Just don’t usually have such enticing reasons to hop on a plane.”

Alexia’s lips pulled into a crooked smile, eyes still forward. “Enticing, huh?”

“Well, I don’t make this kind of effort for just anyone,” you teased.

She gave you a quick glance, clearly biting back something smug, before returning her focus to the road. “Good. I like to be... exclusive.”

You snorted. “You sound like you’re pitching yourself as a limited-edition luxury item.”

“I am limited edition,” she said, mock serious. “Only one Alexia.”

“You forgot humble.”

She laughed again, shaking her head. “You talk a lot.”

“You like it.”

“I didn’t say I don’t.”

The conversation moved easily from there childhood stories, horror travel tales, favourite foods, music preferences. Every now and then you caught her watching you instead of the road for a second too long, and it did something to your chest you weren’t prepared for.

By the time the road signs started pointing toward the outskirts of the coastal town where the wedding was taking place, you were both grinning more freely, conversation flowing like you’d known each other much longer than you had and somehow, it felt like you had.

☀️

You were standing in front of the mirror, twisting one of your earrings into place with slightly shaky fingers. The nerves had crept in not just about the wedding itself, but about seeing her. You hadn’t seen Alexia since you arrived at the hotel between check-in and your frantic effort to shower, do your hair, and fit in a nap before then, time had slipped away.

You glanced at your phone 19 minutes until the ceremony. The knock on the door startled you just as you were adjusting the clasp of your second earring. You padded barefoot across the room and opened it, Alexia was standing there in a tailored suit that clung to her in all the right places. Her hair was swept back, a subtle curl still falling around her face, and she wore a faint, amused smirk, but it was her eyes that gave her away.

She looked at you like you'd knocked the air out of her. “Wow,” she said before you could even greet her. Her voice low, like she didn’t mean for it to come out as openly as it did.

You felt your cheeks heat up instantly. “You like the dress in person to?” you asked, glancing down like you needed to see what you were wearing.

Alexia’s gaze followed, slower than necessary. “Mucho.” Her spanish abandoned her halfway through. “Very... very much.”

You bit your lip, trying not to grin too smugly. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

“Not bad?” she repeated with mock offense. She stepped forward slightly, close enough for the scent of her perfume to settle around you. “You make me nervous.”

You blinked. “What?”

She chuckled under her breath, stepping back like she’d let herself get too honest. “Nada. Ready?”

You nodded, grabbing your clutch and heels from the bed. As you slipped your shoes on, Alexia leaned against the doorframe, eyes still not leaving you. When you looked back up at her, you asked, “You sure this isn’t too much?”

Alexia didn’t answer straight away. She just reached out and touched your wrist gently, steadying the clasp of your bracelet. “Perfecta,” she said simply. “Let’s go.”

☀️

The sun was low and golden, stretching shadows long across the lush garden as you and Alexia stepped out into the warm hum of the wedding. Laughter bubbled from every corner, kids in flower crowns ran barefoot between the tables, and soft music played somewhere behind a hedge of blooming jasmine. It felt magical.

Alexia walked with confidence, but her steps were slow enough that you never felt left behind. She greeted people with warm smiles, quick kisses on cheeks, and laughter that made you wish you understood more than you did. But then every time she would say something in Spanish, then follow it with a soft, ‘She’s English,’ or ‘ella no sabe español.’ Always gently and always kindly.

You didn’t have to ask what she was doing, she was making sure people spoke to you in English, or at the very least, didn’t overwhelm you with fast, excited Spanish. You noticed it more and more how she stood between you and the chatter when it got too quick, how she translated quietly when someone threw a question your way, and how she never once made you feel like an outsider, even though this was her world.

But it was the little things that hit you harder. The way her hand kept finding the small of your back light, but grounding. Like she was always aware of where you were. When you leaned forward to look at something, or got pulled slightly aside by someone smiling and trying to introduce themselves, Alexia’s hand would be there again, guiding, connecting. A soft touch on your waist, or your elbow, always drawing you back closer.

Once, when she leaned in to say something in your ear some inside joke about the tiny wine you’d both just had you turned your head and caught her watching you.

She didn’t look away and either did you. You weren’t sure what this was, is, between you both, but her touch, her attentiveness, her quiet consideration it all made it feel real. Not just wedding magic or summer-fling real. Something softer, more deliberate.

“You okay?” she asked you gently at one point, her hand at your back again as she guided you towards a small shaded table near the olive trees.

You smiled at her, nodding. “I’m really glad I came.”

She looked at you for a moment, then dipped her head and said softly, “Me too.”

☀️

The chairs were neatly arranged in rows facing the flower-adorned arch, the soft buzz of chatter fading as the guests slowly began to take their seats for the ceremony. The sun bathed everything in warm amber light, the air sweet with roses and citrus. You followed Alexia down the aisle of seats, nerves fluttering in your stomach not from the crowd or the occasion, but from the quiet excitement of being next to her.

She paused beside a row near the front and turned to you with that unmistakable proud little smile. “This is my mami,” she said, nodding gently to the elegant woman already seated, “and my hermana, Alba.”

You offered a warm smile and a soft “Hi,” doing your best to hide how nervous you suddenly were. Alexia, like she always seemed to, noticed. With a subtle but deliberate move, she slid herself into the seat between you and her family, settling in beside her sister so she could still hold your space beside her. A quiet kind of safety wrapped around you with that one decision.

She turned to you just as you sat down, the hum of the string quartet playing in the distance, and gave you a once-over that was so obvious and so bold it made your cheeks warm. “You look…” she paused, her eyes lingering just a little longer than necessary, “so beautiful.”

Your breath caught slightly, the sincerity in her voice knocked the air out of you more than you cared to admit. You held her gaze, both of you smiling, soft and a little shy despite everything that had passed between you already.

But you could feel it her mother’s and sister’s eyes on you both. Watching, reading more than you were ready to admit aloud yet. That only made the warmth rise higher in your chest.

“You’re a menace,” you whispered teasingly, eyes flicking to hers as you reached up without thinking and gently brushed a small eyelash off her cheek.

Alexia blinked. “What?”

“You had an eyelash,” you said, holding it up between your fingers. “Make a wish.”

She looked at it like it was a puzzle. “A wish?”

You nodded, grinning. “You make a wish and then blow it away.”

Alexia laughed quietly, the sound warm and low. “You are very… how do I say… dramatic.”

You arched a brow. “No, I’m romantic."

“Same,” she teased back, lips twitching with a smile as she leaned closer and blew the eyelash gently off your fingertip.

You didn’t catch it, too busy watching her, but her mum and Alba did. The way you looked at her like there was nobody else in the world, and the way she, smiling, relaxed, looked right back at you. A quiet glance passed between mother and daughter behind her. They saw it.

The ceremony was soft and golden, like something out of a dream. The vows floated through the garden air in Spanish you couldn’t fully follow, but the emotion in them didn’t need translation. You sat with your hands folded neatly in your lap, pretending not to notice the way Alexia had gone just a little bit still beside you.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught it her hand, hovering just shy of your thigh. Fingers twitching once as if deciding, then retreating slightly, then edging closer again. She was nervous. You could feel it in the tiny shifts of her body. Not the confident, teasing Alexia that had kissed you under a sunrise or given you piggyback rides, this was the Alexia who didn’t want to get it wrong.

You smiled, just faintly, lips curving like you were quietly amused by something in the vows, but you didn’t look at her. You didn’t want to make it harder, then finally you felt her hand rest gently on your thigh.

A featherlight touch at first, testing, questioning. You still didn’t look at her, eyes fixed ahead on the bride and groom, your heart beating just a bit faster now. You could feel her eyes on your face, checking, reading your expression, waiting for a signal. You didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Your smile deepened just a little, still soft and calm and full of affection and slowly, her thumb began to move. A small, steady back and forth stroke on the inside of your thigh.

Still, you didn’t look, you didn’t need to, she knew your answer.

As the final applause rang out and the couple kissed beneath the arch of flowers, guests stood, murmuring soft congratulations and beginning to drift from the garden seating. The warmth of the late afternoon sun settled across everyone’s shoulders, champagne trays already floating through the crowd like bait.

You felt Alexia’s hand give your thigh the faintest squeeze before she stood, smoothing her shirt down and flashing you that small, familiar smile, the one that made your stomach do something stupid. You stood too, waiting for her lead. This was her world, her people, her rhythm, you were just here to follow it.

She held her hand out to you casually, her fingers curling through yours as she leaned in. “Come,” she said quietly, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “We wait here before reception starts.”

You nodded, matching her step as she guided you toward a shaded spot at the edge of the garden where Alba and their mother were already standing, sipping on something fizzy and watching the other guests with mild interest.

Alexia slipped into Catalan with ease, greeting them both as she approached. Alba’s eyes flicked to you and immediately softened into a smile, one that mirrored her sister’s. You gave her a polite nod before Alexia turned to her mum and began speaking gently in Catalan pausing now and then to glance at you as she translated bits back and forth.

“My mum say she is happy to meet you,” Alexia said quietly, almost shy. “She hear… things.”

You laughed softly, just once. “All good things I hope?”

Alba spoke up then, her English clean and confident. “Only good,” she assured with a grin, then gestured between the two of you. “She has not stopped smiling since you got here. It’s… nice to see her like this.”

You tried not to blush, but Eli seemed to catch your embarrassment anyway. She reached out to gently tap your hand with hers warm and maternal before saying something that made both Alexia and Alba smile.

“She says you’re prettier than I say,” Alexia translated, her voice laced with amusement. “She like your dress.”

“Well, she has good taste,” you teased, and that made them both laugh.

You lingered there with them half-understanding, half-smiling, mostly watching Alexia as she navigated the space between you and her family with such soft ease. Every so often her hand would brush against yours again, grounding you in the moment.

You stood quietly beside Alexia, just slightly in front of her, as she spoke softly with her mother and Alba in Catalan. You couldn’t follow the full conversation, at all but you were listening to the tone, the rhythm, and the warmth in her voice. It was comforting, like background music you didn’t need to understand to enjoy.

Her fingers touched your back, barely there at first just the softest drag of her fingertips over the fabric of your dress as if she wasn’t even conscious of it but it sent a ripple down your spine nonetheless. Slow, tracing a gentle line between your shoulder blades, and then drifting lower. You felt the goosebumps bloom instantly, the hairs on your arms rising as your breath caught slightly. You didn’t turn to look at her, if anything, you leaned into it just a fraction, trying not to let your lips twitch with the smile that threatened.

Your eyes wandered to the horizon, where the sun was now halfway dipped behind the hills, the vineyard glowing in its last light. Without thinking, you slipped your phone from your bag and held it up, framing the moment the warm light flaring at the edges, the silhouettes of a few other guests moving through the frame.

You snapped the photo just as Alexia’s voice lowered beside your ear, still mid-conversation with her family but now closer, her body brushing lightly behind yours. “Bonita, no?” she murmured, gesturing subtly to the view, though her eyes weren’t looking at the sky they were on you.

You finally turned to face her, your phone still in hand, the grin on your face giving you away. “Beautiful,” you replied, eyes on her now and you weren’t talking about the sunset anymore.

There was a gentle clinking of glass and the soft tap of a microphone drawing the crowd’s attention. A voice rang out in Spanish warm, celebratory, and clearly ushering the next part of the evening. You again didn't understand any of it, but before you could even glance toward Alexia for translation, her hand tightened around yours slightly. “They say… now we go sit,” she told you with a smile, her voice low and light in your ear.

Before you could respond, her fingers slipped effortlessly between yours, the ease of the motion making your stomach flip. It wasn’t overly romantic or performative just natural. Like she’d done it a hundred times before. She tugged you gently, walking a step ahead, guiding you toward the long tables laid out under strings of lights.

You were the first to arrive to the long table you were on, guests still lingered with drinks and conversations, but Alexia led you straight to your seats near the centre. She held your chair out for you, and once you were settled, she didn’t move to sit down right away. Her arm came around the back of your chair, her body leaning in close, her voice low just for you. “You good?” she asked, eyes searching yours checking in, grounded, real.

You nodded, your heart stuttering a little at how close her face was to yours now, her hand still linked with yours under the table. “I’m good,” you said softly, your smile small, your gaze fixed on her lips.

It happened quickly, naturally like exhaling, you leaned in just a little, and she met you there. The kiss was brief, just a press, soft, lips catching but there was nothing tentative about it. It was warm, confident, hot, despite its brevity. A flicker of something intense and wanting, disguised in something so casual it could’ve gone unnoticed.

When you broke apart, Alexia didn’t move far. She lingered close, her fingers stroking your hand beneath the table, her mouth brushing a smile near your jaw as she sat beside you finally, her eyes glancing sideways. “More later,” she whispered, almost mischievously.

You giggled, unable to help it, the sound escaping before you could even try to stop it. Her voice low, teasing, close to your ear lingered in your mind like static warmth. You leaned in with a sly smile, letting your hand drop casually onto her thigh beneath the table, the contact made her pause.

You didn’t look at her right away, just kept your gaze forward for a moment, your fingers giving a slow, barely-there tap against her leg like it was nothing. Then, turning toward her, you tilted your head slightly and murmured, just loud enough for her to hear

“What makes you so sure I’ll offer more?”

Alexia turned to look at you fully, intently and you saw the flicker of surprise in her eyes before it gave way to something deeper. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, and her brow arched like she wasn’t used to being challenged but definitely didn’t mind it.

She didn’t answer right away, she just stared at you for a second longer than she probably should have, and then said, voice thick with her accent but clear with intent, “Because I know how you look at me.”

Your hand stilled on her thigh, a tiny flutter in your chest giving you away even if your expression stayed playful. You swallowed your smile, turned back toward the table, and let your fingers trail slowly off her leg like it hadn’t been a deliberate touch. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you replied, cool as ever.

Alexia laughed softly under her breath, leaning just slightly closer again. “Liar.”

As the rest of the guests began filing in, Alexia leaned over and pressed the lightest kiss to your temple. It was barely a second, but it left warmth blooming across your cheek. Her hand brushed your back again as she reached for the menu laid neatly in front of you both.

Her mum, Eli, took the seat to Alexia’s other side, with Alba settling in across from you at the very end of the long table, the quiet shuffle of chairs and hum of conversation building around your little corner of the long table.

Alexia opened the menu and began reading under her breath, scanning the courses before glancing over at you. “Okay…” she said softly, “first is ensalada de marisco, then… ah, paella mixta… meat and seafood, and then dessert. You like this?”

You looked at her, amused. “I’ve never actually had paella in Spain,” you admitted.

Alexia froze, her head whipping toward you like you’d just admitted you’d never seen a football match in your life. “Perdona?” Her brows shot up. “Never? In Spain?”

You tried not to laugh. “Only in England. Like, the ready-made ones at the supermarket, or once at a restaurant in London that definitely wasn’t run by actual Spanish people.”

She blinked. “No, no, no. This is… no. That is not paella. That is rice with lies.”

You burst out laughing, covering your mouth, and her hand came to rest again on your knee beneath the table as she gave you a long, exaggerated look of horror.

“I can’t believe this,” she muttered, shaking her head. “You say this with confidence? In front of my family?”

“I didn’t think it’d offend your whole bloodline,” you teased.

Alexia’s eyes narrowed playfully. “You are lucky you are pretty,” she muttered.

Alba glanced between you both with a knowing smile, clearly catching the tone even if she wasn’t following every word. Eli leaned in and asked something softly in Spanish, and Alexia answered quickly, translating for you a moment later, “My mum asks if you like seafood.” You nodded, and Eli gave a pleased little smile before turning to speak to someone down the table. As the staff began bringing out glasses of wine, Alexia leaned back toward you and murmured in your ear, “We fix this paella problem tonight. Real food, real Spain.”

You looked at her, your smile soft but teasing. “You gonna personally oversee the cooking too, chef?”

She gave you a lazy shrug and that crooked grin that made your heart act stupid. “If that’s what it takes, muppet.”

The starters arrived on delicate ceramic plates a beautifully plated ensalada de marisco, mussels arranged with avocado, crisp lettuce, and a citrusy dressing that hit your nose before your fork even touched it. You’d barely taken a bite before you found yourself humming appreciatively.

“Okay, this is already better than anything I’ve had back home,” you said, leaning slightly toward Alexia with a grin.

She shot you a smug look as she popped a prawn into her mouth. “Told you.”

You turned your attention across the table to Alba, who had just asked about your job. One thing you quickly noticed was how different she was from her sister louder, not as reserved, but still warm and kind with her words. “I teach primary school,” she explained in slow, clear English, “but I’m trying to move toward special education full time.”

“That’s amazing,” you said, honestly impressed. “I imagine that’s a really rewarding job.”

“It is. Hard, but good,” Alba nodded. “The kids… they teach you, also.”

You smiled at that, genuinely enjoying the exchange. “Do you work close to home?”

Alba nodded. “Just outside the city. I like it… slower than Barcelona.” She gave you a curious look, still polite. “You like London?”

“I do,” you replied, “but I think the weather’s trying to kill us.”

That made her laugh, a soft, full sound, and Alexia, who’d been cutting into her salad while keeping an ear on the conversation gave you a quick glance, like she was pleased you were getting along.

As you chatted with Alba, you kept reaching for your wine glass between bites, and each time your arm brushed Alexia’s, it was easy, the whole moment, the food, the warmth, the language shifting around you, and this quiet comfort of being tucked beside Alexia.

“You like it?” Alexia asked softly, dipping her head toward your plate.

“I love it,” you said, then leaned closer to her ear with a little smirk, “Don’t let it go to your head, though.”

Alexia grinned, eyes on your lips for a second too long before she went back to her wine, Alba definitely noticed.

The second course arrived with a flourish steaming plates of vibrant paella, the saffron rice glistening with shellfish, wedges of lemon tucked around the edge. You blinked at the plate in front of you, fork hovering. The prawns, still in their shells, stared back at you. You were used to the convenience of chicken paella back home, where everything was already neatly shredded or deboned this felt like a different sport entirely.

Alexia had excused herself just moments earlier for the bathroom, and before you could even start awkwardly peeling anything, her mami leaned forward and said something quickly to Alba in Spanish.

Alba smiled gently at you and said, “My mami will show you how. It’s easier if you see.”

Before you could even respond, Eli slid into Alexia’s empty seat with a warm expression and no hesitation. She picked up a whole prawn from her plate and, with slow, practiced hands, began to demonstrate twisting the head, peeling the shell back delicately, her fingers moving with the ease of someone who had done this thousands of times before.

You watched intently, then picked up your own prawn, copying her movements exactly. Eli nodded approvingly as you peeled it clean in one go. “Así,” she said with a smile, pointing at the prawn in your fingers. “Perfecto.”

You grinned back, a little proud of yourself, even if your fingers were now slippery and smelled intensely of shellfish. “Gracias,” you said, a little shyly, hoping your pronunciation wasn’t terrible.

Eli beamed and said something else to Alba, who translated with a laugh, “She says you’re better than Alexia.”

That made you laugh just as Alexia reappeared, pausing behind her mother and watching quietly. She didn’t interrupt, just observed arms loosely crossed, head tilted, an unmistakable softness in her eyes as she saw you smiling with her mum, mimicking her technique, completely immersed in the moment.

You finally noticed her standing there and gave her a sheepish look, lifting the perfectly peeled prawn in victory. “Look what I learned.”

Alexia smirked as she moved to stand behind her mum’s chair. “Of course she teach you. She never show me.”

Eli, understanding enough English to catch the tone, waved her hand like she was dismissing Alexia entirely and said something that made Alba snort.

Alexia rolled her eyes dramatically and then leaned down between you and her mother, whispering near your ear, “Traitor. You steal my mother.”

You tilted your head to meet her gaze with a teasing smile. “You left your seat. Fair game.”

Alexia shook her head in mock betrayal, then kissed her mother’s temple before gently nudging her up from the chair with a fond, “Venga, mama.”

Eli stood with a little wink in your direction and returned to her seat. Alexia settled back beside you, legs brushing yours beneath the table. She looked down at your plate, now missing a few prawns, and murmured, “I leave you five minutes and you become paella expert.”

You grinned, “I had a great teacher.”

Alexia just watched you for a beat longer before her hand found your knee again under the table, fingers gentle. She didn’t say anything more, but her smile lingered.

After finishing most of your paella thanks to your honorary seafood masterclass you leaned over to Alexia and whispered, “I’m just going to pop to the bathroom.”

Alba, catching the movement, tapped your arm lightly. “I need it too. Come, I’ll show you where it is.”

You both slipped away from the table unnoticed, weaving between other guests and servers, heels clicking against the stone path that led around the side of the garden venue. The bathroom was tucked inside a small building draped with ivy and glowing lanterns. As you washed your hands beside Alba, both of you laughing softly at how fancy the soap was, you found yourself instantly at ease with her like the friend of a friend you already trusted, and who somehow already knew your secrets.

On the walk back, as the soft music of the reception filtered through the open air, Alba suddenly slowed when she spotted the bar. “You want a shot?” she asked, eyebrow raised, mischief in her grin.

You hesitated, just for the thrill of pretending to consider it, then said, “Only if we don’t tell Alexia.”

Alba laughed, grabbed your hand and tugged you over. “Deal.”

The bartender didn’t ask questions, just poured two small glasses of tequila as Alba gave him a winning smile. You clinked your shot glasses together and both said “Salud!” before throwing them back.

You winced as the tequila burned on the way down, but it was warm and quick and oddly satisfying. You both scrunched your faces before laughing together, Alba fanning her face slightly.

“I needed that,” she said, grinning.

“You and me both,” you replied, wiping under your eyes and catching your reflection in the mirrored wall behind the bar. “How do I look?”

“Like someone who’s starting to fall for my sister,” she said, cheeky and matter of fact. You blinked at her, caught off guard, but Alba was already turning toward the path again, hands clasped behind her back, walking as though she hadn’t just dropped a truth bomb.

You followed, laughing under your breath and muttering, “You lot are very bold.”

Alba tossed you a look over her shoulder. “We’re Catalan. You’ll learn.”

As you both slipped back toward the reception, your lips still tingling slightly from the tequila, you spotted Alexia looking around scanning the space, eyes catching yours just as you turned the corner.

She smiled, instantly softening, and you felt it in your chest more than you cared to admit. Alba whispered without looking at you, “She was checking her watch. She definitely missed you.”

You laughed, shaking your head as Alba’s words replayed in your mind, as you both stepped back into the glow of the reception, Alexia's fingertips brushed your arm as you slid back into your chair.

“What you laughing at?” she asked, her voice low, curious, and far too charming.

You looked over at her, giving her an innocent smile. “Nothing. Your sister thinks she’s funny… like you do.”

Alexia raised an eyebrow, glancing past you to Alba who was now settling back into her seat with a far too satisfied smirk. “Ah,” Alexia said knowingly, “she say something?”

You shrugged, lips curving. “You’ll never get it out of me.”

Alexia leaned in just slightly, a playful glint in her eye. “I find ways.”

Her tone made something flutter in your stomach, and you glanced away quickly, pretending to study your wine glass instead. Alexia just chuckled under her breath, resting her arm back along your chair.

Across the table, Alba caught your eye and gave you a tiny wink, you groaned under your breath, grinning anyway. This family, honestly.

☀️

The soft hum of voices and clinking glasses had faded into the background. Dinner was over, the plates cleared, speeches done. Laughter echoed in the open air venue under strings of golden lights as the first dance came and went, and now the night had settled into something quieter, something more intimate.

You had wandered off on your own without meaning to, standing just at the edge of the dance floor, your heels dug slightly into the grass. Chris Stapleton’s Tennessee Whiskey began to play through the speakers slow and smooth, the kind of song that sank right into your chest.

You started to sway gently on your own, arms folded around yourself, smiling faintly as you watched couples fall into rhythm some holding each other close, others whispering in laughter. Your lips moved softly with the lyrics under your breath, familiar with every word.

"You're as smooth... as Tennessee whiskey..." You didn’t realise you weren’t alone anymore not until you felt her.

An arm snaked around you from behind, sliding easily across your chest, fingers brushing the edge of your collarbone, and you froze for a second before relaxing into the familiar warmth of her body pressing gently into your back.

Alexia sang along with you, just as softly. Her voice wasn’t perfect a little unsure of the English but it made you grin without turning your head. You could feel her smile where her cheek almost rested beside yours.

You leaned back slightly into her, her hand squeezing your side as you both swayed in time with the music. Then she stepped around you slowly, her fingertips dragging lightly down your arm before curling around your hand. She pulled you gently, coaxing you forward without saying a word. You went without hesitation, letting her guide you toward the space where the others danced.

She didn’t let your hand go as she turned to face you, her other arm slipping around your waist, settling like it belonged there. Yours naturally went around her neck, fingers brushing the skin at the nape of it.

You swayed together, pressed close. The world narrowed, the music wrapping around the two of you like a cocoon, you tilted your head up to look at her, your lips curling. “Don’t get cocky,” you said softly, teasing.

Her smile deepened, eyes flicking down to your lips and back up again like she was already there. You didn’t give her a chance to be smug. You leaned in first, your lips catching hers in a kiss that started sweet but didn’t stay that way.

Alexia didn’t hesitate her mouth moved against yours with more urgency, her hand flattening against your back to pull you tighter into her. Your fingers tightened in her hair, your kiss deepening as her tongue slid against yours, slow and purposeful.

You kissed like no one was watching and for a moment, you truly didn’t care if they were. The music kept playing, the stars blinked above and Alexia's arms around you felt like the safest, easiest place in the world to be.

Alexia’s hands stayed steady on your waist, warm and sure, her thumbs rubbing gentle, unconscious circles against the fabric of your dress. Your bodies pressed so close you could feel every breath she took, every shift in her weight as the two of you swayed to the slow pull of Tennessee Whiskey.

You pulled back slightly from the kiss, lips tingling, her breath ghosting across your skin. The lights from the venue cast a soft golden glow over her features her flushed cheeks, the lazy grin she was trying and failing to bite back, the unmistakable heat in her eyes.

“You good?” she asked, voice low and thick with her accent.

You nodded, your smile soft and a little breathless. “Very good.”

Her fingers squeezed at your hips before settling again. You rested your forehead against hers, noses brushing. Around you, other couples danced, but no one seemed to pay attention or if they did, neither of you noticed. It felt like you were floating in your own little bubble, untouched by the world.

“You surprised me,” she murmured.

“With what?”

Alexia tilted her head, eyes gleaming. “You kiss me like you do this all the time.”

You let out a soft laugh, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes. “You don’t exactly make it easy not to.”

That earned you a smirk. She ducked her head slightly, then nudged her nose against yours. “You’re dangerous,” she whispered.

You hummed playfully. “So are you. Maybe we cancel each other out.”

Her smile turned crooked, her gaze flicking again to your lips. “Maybe.”

You danced through the rest of the song and into the next without even noticing the transition. It was something a little faster, but neither of you let go. Your movements just shifted, her hands guiding you with ease, her confidence showing up in every step. You followed her lead and then resisted it playfully just to tease her.

“Are you always this bossy on the dance floor?” you teased, stepping away, spinning yourself before she pulled you back effortlessly.

“I’m Catalan,” she replied with a grin, “we come with opinions.” You laughed, head falling back slightly before her arms locked you back into place, her forehead touched yours again. “But only for you, I try to be gentle.”

Your heart kicked up hard in your chest and just like that, she kissed you again softer this time, slower. Her lips moved with intention, like she was memorising the shape of your mouth, the way you responded to her. One of her hands came up to cradle the back of your neck, keeping you close. It felt like a promise or the beginning of one.

You didn’t realise the music had faded again until the DJ called for everyone to gather near the cake. There was a murmur of laughter and cheers, and Alexia reluctantly broke the kiss, resting her forehead against yours one last time before she pulled away with a reluctant smile. “Come,” she said, tugging your hand.

“Cake?” you asked, breath still uneven.

Alexia nodded. “Yes. And then… later?” The sparkle in her eyes said everything.

“Later,” you agreed, letting her lead you again off the floor and back into the soft, electric chaos of the night.

☀️

The evening had slipped into a soft, sleepy kind of quiet. The music had dulled, guests were starting to drift off in pairs or small groups, laughter still echoing from a nearby terrace as the wedding wound down.

You were just outside your hotel room now, the hallway quiet, dimly lit, the buzz of the day still tingling faintly through your limbs. Alexia stood beside you, close, one hand tucked into her pocket, the other absently brushing the edge of her jacket.

You’d said your goodbyes to Alba and Eli a few minutes ago, each warm and kind in their own way. Alba had given you a teasing smirk and a hug that lasted longer than expected. Eli, despite her limited English, had held your hand in hers and nodded with the kind of motherly affection that said more than words could.

Now it was just you and her Alexia leaned a little into the wall as you turned to face her. “Today was… something,” you said, your voice hushed in the hallway.

Her eyes crinkled slightly, the corners warm. “Yeah,” she agreed. “You make it better.”

That stopped you for a beat, she wasn’t usually so direct, not in words, you gave her a quiet smile. “You say that like I didn’t spend most of dinner trying to understand what your mum was saying with your help.”

Alexia shrugged, her grin crooked. “You tried. She liked you.”

“Yeah?”

She nodded, stepping in closer now. “They both do.”

You swallowed, her eyes were on your mouth again. “And what about you?”

Alexia tilted her head slightly, her voice soft. “You really have to ask?”

You didn’t. The silence stretched in that comfortable way you’d both found too easily around each other. You were close enough to kiss, and for a moment, neither of you did just looked, just breathed.

You put the key in the lock behind you but didn’t push the door open. Her eyes flicked briefly to the handle, then back to you.

“Do you want to come in?” you asked quietly, unsure if it was too much, too soon, but already knowing your answer.

Alexia didn’t answer right away. Her gaze searched yours for the briefest moment, then she nodded once, slow, deliberate. “If you want me to.”

You reached for her hand, fingers curling gently around hers as you stepped backwards, guiding her into the room behind you.

She followed.

[onsomenewsht]

now let them get married, part II

Part 2

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

Wordcount: 13.7k

It had been a few weeks since Carmen’s wedding.

A few blurry, grey skied, coffee fuelled weeks of trying to convince yourself you hadn’t romanticised the whole thing. That it wasn’t just the Spanish sun and wine and heat of the moment. That the version of her you’d held onto in your head, sharp-m eyed, smug, soft when no one else was looking wasn’t just some dream your brain stitched together in the haze.

London felt particularly grey today. The sky was heavy with that pre-storm pressure, and your scarf kept sliding off your shoulder as you wandered through Soho with a paper bag full of takeaway dumplings and zero plans for the evening.

You were halfway to the tube when your phone buzzed in your coat pocket. You didn’t think anything of it at first just another group chat, probably Carmen sending details of the girls trip you’d been invited to. Hen do 2.0 for one of her friends who couldn’t make either, but when you glanced down at the screen, your feet actually stopped moving.

alexiaputellas followed you

You blinked looked again. Yup. Still there.

Your heart jumped in your chest in a way you hated admitting to some involuntary thrill you couldn’t quite suppress, like your body had been waiting for it even when your mind had given up hope.

You tapped the notification like it might vanish if you waited too long.

There it was, her profile, blue tick a thousand posts and now, that tiny line of text at the top

Follows you

You stared at it for a moment, standing on the edge of the pavement as people brushed past, your dumplings going lukewarm in the paper bag.

It wasn’t a message, It wasn’t a like from 2019, but still.

Your thumb hovered, then you flicked back to her profile, stared at that stupidly cute profile picture, and smiled before muttering under your breath “…Took your time, menace.”

You waited, not because you wanted to play games, but because the tube was packed and you were standing elbow to elbow with a man chewing gum like it owed him money, and it didn’t feel right not the moment you wanted to follow her back in.

So you waited, walked home, scarf looped twice around your neck, headphones in, the sky cracking open just a little on the walk from the station. You could still smell the rain on the concrete by the time you unlocked your flat door and dropped your keys into the bowl.

And then you did it casually, quietly. Followed her back.

You threw your coat over the chair, kicked off your shoes, turned toward the kitchen and Ping.

Your phone lit up almost instantly.

One message.

alexiaputellas: Hola, Muppet 🧡

You stopped right in the middle of your kitchen and let out a breath of a laugh. Of course she messaged first, you stared at the screen like it might wink at you.

You typed… and deleted. Typed again. Paused, then finally sent

Didn’t know Barça did background checks that slow.

Another couple messages appeared in quick suggestion,

alexiaputellas: We had to run yours twice alexiaputellas: Very suspicious. alexiaputellas: Too pretty to be trusted.

Your heart stuttered a little at that one. You took a slow step back until you were leaning back against the counter, the phone warm in your hand.

You still owe me translations, you know.

alexiaputellas: No alexiaputellas: I said… in England alexiaputellas: You home now, no?

Are you tracking me??

alexiaputellas: Romantic. Not weird.

You snorted, fingers flying now before you could second guess it,

What’s the Spanish for cocky bastard?

There was a pause, you could picture her face so clearly the slow grin, the narrowed eyes, probably showing her phone to someone smugly like she knew she had you hooked.

alexiaputellas: Translate it yourself alexiaputellas: Google. Later. In bed. Alone. alexiaputellas: Like you did with very beautiful 👀

You paused, feeling the blush creep to your ears,

Can I ask you something?

alexiaputellas: You already are alexiaputellas: But okay alexiaputellas: Yes alexiaputellas: I think about you too alexiaputellas: Was that the question or no?

You covered your mouth with your hand, like that might keep the grin from splitting wider, no, it hadn’t been but it worked just the same.

You toss your phone onto your bed, half-laughing, half-panicking at that last message. Yes. I think about you too. It stares up at you from your duvet like it’s dared you to reply and now you have to pretend you’re calm.

You turn on your bedside lamp, take off your socks, and tug your hair up into a messy bun as you pad to the bathroom, phone in hand. The screen keeps lighting up as you turn the tap on to wash your face.

Another message flashes,

alexiaputellas: Are you blushing?

You lean on the sink, dripping, as you type with your pinky,

Obviously not. I’m completely composed. Washing my face like a normal person. Not pacing. Not checking the mirror, not smiling.

Your phone buzzes again as you’re dabbing at your face with a towel.

alexiaputellas: You are cute when you lie alexiaputellas: I can feel it alexiaputellas: Like heat waves

You laugh, shaking your head, your smile caught in the mirror.

Back in your bedroom, you pull your tank top over your head and swap it for a worn hoodie, tugging it on with one hand while still typing with the other.

What are you doing right now then, poet?

alexiaputellas: Stretching alexiaputellas: not a joke alexiaputellas: Recovery session in the morning alexiaputellas: We have yoga alexiaputellas: I’m very bendy

You stop mid-motion, one knee on the bed as you read that.

…Is this your version of flirting?

alexiaputellas: What gave me away 😇

You snort and shake your head, crawling under your duvet with your phone still in hand. You reply,

I liked you better when you were grumpy losing at beer pong.

alexiaputellas: Liar. alexiaputellas: You like me more now. alexiaputellas: Admit it

You pause.

Roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling for a second, lips pressed together in a half-smile, wondering if maybe this isn’t just harmless fun.

Then, you type

I admit… I liked you then I like you now

Another pause.

But I still would’ve crushed you in a rematch.

This time it takes a little longer for her to reply.

alexiaputellas: I want to see you again. alexiaputellas: I mean it.

Your stomach dips a little. You sit up slightly in bed.

You type slowly

I’d like that.

alexiaputellas: Then we’ll make it happen. alexiaputellas: I’ll find an excuse to be in London alexiaputellas: Or you come back to Spain alexiaputellas: Or we meet halfway alexiaputellas: but somewhere with beer pong

You laugh, biting your lip.

You look around your room soft lamp glow, quiet hum of the city through your window, the warmth under the blanket flicking on your TV to watch the latest episode of love island from the comfort of your bed.

☀️

You didn’t think turbulence could last an entire flight, and yet.

By the time the plane finally skidded onto the runway in Mallorca, your arms were stiff from white knuckling the armrest and your mouth tasted like overpriced airport coffee and regret. You hadn’t slept, the man behind you had sneezed every five minutes without covering his mouth, and the toddler across the aisle had kicked the seat rhythmically, like a metronome designed by Satan.

You were not your most glamorous self as you trudged through arrivals, hoodie creased, suitcase wheel squeaking every few steps and then you saw Patri.

Leaning casually against a pillar just past the barriers, sunglasses perched on her head, holding up a cardboard sign that read,

Muppet the beer pong queen

You burst out laughing the moment your eyes landed on it and her face lit up. She grinned as she shoved the sign behind her back and opened her arms wide. You didn’t hesitate you walked straight into the hug.

She pulled back and looked you over. “You look like hell.”

“Gracias.”

“De nada.” She smirked and took your suitcase from you. “Come on. Carmen’s already on the yacht. I left her with too much rosé and too few snacks, so we’ve probably got a tipsy captain situation by now.”

The warmth of the island wrapped around you as soon as the terminal doors opened not just the heat, but the hum of Spain again. Loud voices, the smell of sunscreen and ocean and that undercurrent of something fizzy and alive.

You glanced sideways at Patri as you walked toward the car. “So. This whole thing’s just a bonus hen do for the friend who couldn't make either of the first two?”

Patri shrugged, loading your bag into the boot. “Any excuse, really. We don’t need much.”

“Clearly.”

“And…” She glanced at you quickly before slipping into the driver’s seat. “Carmen said you needed a break.”

You raised an eyebrow. “From what?”

Patri grinned. “London. Work. Thinking too much.”

You shook your head and climbed in beside her, but she wasn’t wrong, snd as she pulled out onto the sunlit coastal road, your phone buzzed softly in your pocket.

You didn’t need to check.

You had a feeling who it might be, you pulled it out, the screen lighting up with a message from Alexia.

alexiaputellas: Hola, muppet. alexiaputellas: Did you survive the flight? alexiaputellas: I was going to say I missed you but that might be too much for one message.

You smiled, fingers already moving.

You’re too smooth. But yes. I survived. Barely. And I missed you. But that’s definitely too much for one message.

Her reply came almost instantly.

alexiaputellas: Good. alexiaputellas: Because I’m counting on seeing you again soon. alexiaputellas: You better not be hiding in a hoodie and avoiding me.

You laughed softly to yourself as you typed back.

Hoodie is essential armor, you should know that. But maybe I’ll risk it. Depends on how convincing your ‘counting on’ is.

Her response was quick, teasing.

alexiaputellas: Very convincing. alexiaputellas: Also, I’ve been practicing my English so I insult you better next time.

You grinned.

Can’t wait, but you’re already winning at that.

You tucked your phone away, heart fluttering just a little.

Patri glanced over with a knowing smile. “Someone’s got you grinning like a fool,” she said.

You shook your head, trying to look casual. “Just a friend.”

☀️

The yacht rocked gently beneath your feet as you stepped aboard, the sun hanging high in the sky, casting a glow over the turquoise water. Laughter spilled from the deck, mixing with the faint clink of glasses and the distant call of seagulls.

Carmen was already there, perched on the edge of the boat, her smile bright and effortless as she greeted you with a quick hug. Around her, the group buzzed with energy friends from Spain, England, and everywhere in between, all gathered for one last celebration.

Carmen waved you over, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “You made it! Finally! We thought you’d been eaten by the airport demons.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “Barely survived.”

The day unfolded with sun drenched swims, shared stories, and endless rounds of sangria. Someone started a playlist, and soon the deck was alive with music.

You found yourself talking to one of Carmen’s teammates, swapping funny wedding stories and learning a few Spanish phrases that made everyone laugh when you butchered them spectacularly.

Between the chatter and the splash of waves, you caught a glimpse of Carmen watching you with an amused expression, shaking her head but clearly pleased you were slotting into her group despite your apprehension to come.

You’re sitting on the deck in your shorts and bikini top, the sun warming your skin as you hold your glass of wine loosely in one hand. The laughter from the girls playing games in the ocean drifts up to you, carefree and infectious. You smile, watching them splash and compete, their joy contagious.

You glance down at your phone and realise it’s the quietest it’s been all week. You scroll through your messages, but nothing new from Alexia. You sigh softly, almost disappointed, 4 hours was the longest you'd gone without hearing from her, she always found a reason to message you. The silence was noticeable but suddenly, the volume level spikes dramatically, breaking through the relaxed atmosphere. You look up, squinting toward the dock, and spot Alexia striding confidently toward the yacht with a few of her teammates trailing behind her. Your heart skips a beat, you had no idea she was coming.

You lean on the railing, taking a slow sip of your wine to steady yourself, trying to play it cool. Carmen catches sight of Alexia and moves over to greet her warmly. You can’t hear their conversation over the hum of the party, but you notice Carmen’s eyes flick up to you and a small smile plays on her lips as she points you out.

Alexia’s gaze follows, and for a moment your eyes meet. She offers a quick, teasing smirk before turning back to Carmen, who nods and gestures for her to go join you. Your pulse quickens as she makes her way across the deck, and you feel the familiar flutter of excitement mingled with nerves.

She’s going to come up the stairs, you don’t even pretend not to notice, she saw you watching her. One hand curled around your wine glass, the other resting casually against the warm railing, eyes fixed subtly, you hope, as Alexia moves across the lower deck, sun lighting up the streaks in her hair and that chain she seems to always wears catching the light with every step.

She laughs at something one of her teammates says effortless, that low, raspy kind of laugh that carries and then she glances up.

Right at you.

Your stomach dips, sharp and sudden, and you almost choke on the last sip of your wine. She takes the stairs slowly, deliberately, her hand sliding along the rail as she climbs. Her top is simple, black, paired with loose cream shorts that hang low on her hips. She’s tanned, relaxed, glowing in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the Mallorca sun.

Your grip tightens slightly on your glass as she reaches the top deck and stops in front of you. She grins and then, with that accent that makes the word softer, almost affectionate, she says, "Hola, muppet."

Your laugh slips out before you can stop it. “Do you ever greet anyone normally?”

She shrugs, brushing hair off her shoulder. “Only the boring ones.”

You tip your glass at her. “Lucky me.”

“Very,” she says, stepping closer. Her eyes scan your face, like she’s making sure this is real, like she didn’t just spend days talking to you but still needed to see you to believe it.

It’s quiet up here, just the breeze, the water, distant shouting and music below. You feel like you're standing in a bubble with her like time’s paused for a second. You smirk. “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“You didn’t either.”

Touché. You lift a brow. “Are we keeping secrets now?”

Alexia smiles, slow and unreadable. “Surprises,” she corrects. “Better word.”

You look at her for a beat longer. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Some are.”

Alexia tilts her head slightly, her eyes flicking down subtle, but not that subtle. You watch her take you in.

From your loose shorts, to the bikini top clinging to your sun-warmed skin, to the lazy way your wine glass tilts in your hand. Her gaze lingers just long enough to make your chest feel a little tighter. You shift your weight, heat blooming under your skin not from the sun.

“Have I passed inspection?” you tease, lifting your brow.

Her eyes meet yours again, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I already knew what I’d find.”

That makes you grin surprised, flustered, flattered all at once. She steps beside you, close enough that you feel the brush of her bare shoulder when the wind tugs her hair across her face. She tucks it behind her ear, then glances at you.

“I didn’t think you’d be here,” she says quietly.

“Neither did I,” you admit. “Last minute decision.”

She nods, gaze still on you. “Good decision.”

Your heart kicks hard against your ribs, as there’s a beat of silence between you, and then she adds, more lightly, “Though… I was not told about the uniform.” She gestures toward your bikini top. “You’re showing off. Is this on purpose?”

You laugh, playful but a little breathless. “We're on a yacht in Mallorca don’t pretend this is a surprise.”

“It is,” she says, deadpan. “Because now I have to focus.”

You bite your lip to stop the grin from spreading. “Focus on what exactly?” you ask, sipping your wine, eyes on hers.

She shrugs. “Not falling in love.”

You choke on your wine actually choke, coughing once into your shoulder as she smirks, completely unbothered. “Oh my God,” you say, wiping your mouth, laughing. “That was so corny.”

Alexia shrugs. “You like it.”

You narrow your eyes, trying to hide the smile now clawing at your cheeks. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

Her smirk softens, just slightly. “You think I'm pretty?”

“Shut up menace.” you mutter before sipping your wine trying to deflect, but there’s a moment where her eyes hold yours, and neither of you says anything.

“Do you want to stay up here?” she asks, after a beat. “Avoid the chaos for a little longer?”

You nod. “Yeah. I think I do.” You’re thinking up something sarcastic about her 'not falling in love' comment, because you will get the last word when a voice bellows as someone's rushing up the stairs behind you.

“OI!” Carmen’s voice barrels across the top deck, followed by a chorus of laughter and the unmistakable sound of flip-flops slapping wood. “Are we boring you two? Or are we witnessing a seduction?”

You roll your eyes, groaning under your breath as you turn around, “Absolutely nothing’s happening,” you say, a little too quickly.

Carmen arches a brow. “Hmm. Your body language says something is.”

Alexia, maddeningly unbothered, just leans back against the railing with her arms crossed, smirking as the others begin to flood the space towels draped over shoulders, glasses clinking, swimsuits still dripping from the sea.

Patri trails in behind them, eyes immediately darting between you and Alexia before she sidles up to your side and whispers, not nearly quietly enough, “So. Just friends, huh?”

You glare at her. “I hate you.”

She clinks her glass against yours. “No you don't”

You look at Patri as Alexia walks to go claim a spot on the large day bed, "Can two gay girls not just have a conversation now?"

Patri smirked leaning in, "What were you talking about?"

You stared at Patri plotting your get out strategy, your brain was short wiring so all you could think of was to say, "Shut up!" like a petulant teenager and walk away.

Someone’s dragged a speaker up, shouting about needing 'a proper playlist,' and another girl is rifling through the drinks cooler like she’s on a timed challenge show. Just like that, the top deck is full of voices bouncing, music swelling, feet kicking off wet sandals and hands reaching for sangria.

You should feel annoyed, maybe, or self-conscious, but you don’t.

Alexia’s still watching you. Even as she talks briefly with one of her teammates, her gaze keeps sliding back to you like a thread pulling taut. She catches your eye and gives you the smallest, most knowing smile and your stomach turns to glitter.

Carmen’s holding court, retelling the story of how Patri somehow fell into the sea while trying to take a selfie, when you catch her eye and lift a flat, hand-decorated box from under the table like you’re revealing buried treasure.

“What is that?” she asks, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

You grin. “Something I made.”

You set the box down and lift the lid. Inside: twenty-eight little printed cards, all neatly laminated, and a matching board fitted with tiny windows. All the cards are photos of players Spanish players, Carmens brow furrows as you wait for a reaction you deemed worthy for the effort

“…Is that—?”

“Spanish Women’s Football Guess Who,” you announce proudly, like it’s your greatest achievement to date. “I spent hours printing and cutting these out. Don’t act like this isn’t impressive.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Carmen shrieks with laughter, immediately grabbing the board and turning it to show the rest of the girls. Patri gasps, someone yells “NO WAY,” and another yells back

“Oh my god look at Pina’s face on this one!”

“I’m obsessed with you,” Carmen says, genuinely delighted. “You are so unserious and I love it.”

Behind her, Alexia appears, casually glancing over Carmen’s shoulder, her mouth twitches as she spots the game.

She locks eyes with you and smirks. “Is that another game for me to beat you at, muppet?”

You shoot her a bored look, resting your chin in your hand. “This again?”

Alexia walks forward, slow and theatrical, pulling out a chair across from you. She sits, tilts her head slightly, and pats the table between you. “Set them up,” she says with mock authority. “I make it quick and painless for you.”

You raise a brow as you reach for the second board. “You’re awfully confident for someone who still thinks the wind sabotaged her at beer pong.”

“It did,” she says, deadpan. “You saw no?.”

You’re grinning as you slide the windows up, your board clicking into place. Around you, the noise has shifted Carmen’s taking pictures, Patri’s already trying to look over your shoulder, and someone is calling for drinks to be refilled because “this is about to get serious.”

Alexia leans forward, resting her elbows on the table as you shuffle the deck between you.

She picks her card, eyes scanning it before she places it facedown.

Then looks up at you, all confidence and challenge.

“Preparada?” she asks, low and smug.

You smirk, "Vamos"

The corner of her twitches as her eyes lower, "You ask first"

“How kind,” you deadpan. You glance down at the grid of faces, flicking through potential eliminations. "Does your player have blonde hair?"

"Si"

Alexia watches with mild alarm as you flick down the first row. Then the second. Then half of the third.

“Qué?” she blurts, leaning forward to look at your board like you’ve just performed some sort of witchcraft. “Wait, wait, how many gone?”

You give her a smug look as you sip from your drink, board now nearly bare. “Math’s not your strong suit, huh?”

She narrows her eyes at you like she’s already plotting revenge, “Okay,” she mutters, dragging her finger across the little plastic windows of her own board, clearly stalling. “Hmm. Let see…” She looks up at you with a glint in her eye. “Do yours…” she draws out the pause, “…have tattoos?”

You grin. “Yes.”

“Ha!” she exclaims, flicking down a measly five faces, the rest still proudly standing. She glares at the board like it betrayed her. “There are too many tattoos on this team.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

Patri snorts from the side, muttering something in Spanish you don’t understand but makes Carmen nearly choke on her drink laughing.

Your turn again.

You squint at your board, already whittled down to six faces.

You glance at her across the table, feigning sweetness. “Is your player wearing a headband?”

Alexia’s mouth pulls into a tight line. She doesn't answer right away, Carmen groans. “Just say goodbye, Ale.”

Alexia sighs, “Yes.”

You flick down two more windows. “Three left,” you announce, smug as hell.

Alexia squints at you, eyes narrowed. “You cheat"

“Oh I’m sorry,” you say, leaning across the table like you’re letting her in on a secret. “I thought you were gonna make it quick and painless for me?”

The table explodes with laughter Alexia kicks at your foot under the table, which only makes you laugh harder. “Alright,” she says, determined now. “Is yours… defender?”

You consider, then look at Patri over your shoulder who smiles and shakes her head. “Nope.”

Alexia groans and dramatically flicks down another few faces, her confidence has officially cracked.

You stare at your board, three faces left, you look at her, she’s chewing the inside of her cheek now, watching you too carefully. You smile sweetly. “Is your player…” You draw out the tension, grinning. “Is your player... Ona?” You glance to Ona standing mere feet away.

She stares you down. You stare right back, then she exhales sharply, slapping her card face up.

Ona.

You raise your arms in victory. “YES!”

Alexia collapses back in her chair, groaning as the girls around you burst into applause and jeers. Someone starts clapping slow and mocking and Patri reaches over to high-five you.

“You’re so dramatic when you lose,” you tease.

Alexia shakes her head, but she’s smiling as she points at you. “You are not allowed to make games anymore.”

“Oh, I’m making every game now.”

She leans in, smirk pulling wider. “Muppet, I destroy you next time"

“You already tried.”

“I was distracted.”

You give her a look. “By what?”

Alexia just shrugs, nonchalant, eyes dancing as she holds your gaze and your heart does something stupid again. You shuffle the selection deck, "You really should know your team better capitana"

She leans forward again, resting her arms on the table, a cocky tilt to her chin. “I know my team,” she replies, slow and sure, the accent curling soft at the edges of each word. “Just… not with your face smiling all the time.”

You freeze halfway through shuffling the deck. “What?”

Alexia grins wider, clearly proud of herself for making that land. “You are” she waves a finger at you, squinting like she’s trying to translate something in her head “how do I say… not helpful for brain.”

You laugh, caught off guard. “Not helpful for brain?”

She nods firmly. “Exact.”

Carmen passes behind you and drapes an arm dramatically around your shoulders. “Ay dios mío, are you two flirting or arguing, I can’t tell anymore.”

“Both,” you and Alexia say at the same time, and Carmen just laughs and ruffles your hair before disappearing again.

You slide her a new draw card from the deck. “Here, distraction. Try again.”

Alexia picks it up without looking, tapping the back of it against the table like she’s preparing for war. “Okay, but… you do not smile so much now,” she warns, deadly serious. “No smile. Very serious.”

“I’m always serious.”

“You are never serious,” she shoots back, grinning.

You glance around most of the group has now filtered toward the bow of the boat, distracted by music and the sudden reappearance of food. The buzz of conversation shifts away from your table, leaving a small pocket of quiet between you two again.

Alexia rests her chin in her hand, watching you with soft eyes that still hold something sharp underneath. “Okay, you ask.”

You lift your brows. “Oh, so we’re playing again?”

“I must win,” she says with mock solemnity, placing her hand over her chest. “For… pride. For Spain. For… honour.”

You smile, propping your chin on your fist. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You are ridiculous,” she says back, lips twitching. “But… maybe cute also.”

Your pulse kicks up a little. You shake your head and look down at the board, trying not to give her the satisfaction of seeing the effect she’s having.

You flick the first card down, but your focus is all wrong now. The air between you has changed quieter, softer, charged with something unspoken.

Alexia’s watching you, head tilted slightly, fingers idly tapping the table like she’s not entirely sure whether to keep playing or say something else. Her knees nudge against yours beneath the table, barely there, but she doesn’t move them. Neither do you.

You clear your throat, trying to sound casual. “Alright. Blonde hair?”

Alexia glances down at her card, then back up at you. “No.”

You flick a few cards, but there’s no rhythm to it. Your hands move slower now. She notices because of course she does. “You okay?” she asks, voice low and quiet.

You look up, and something in her expression hits you harder than it should, concern, but not just that. Curiosity, a kind of tenderness that doesn’t match the teasing grin she usually throws around. You nod, offering a little smile. “Yeah.”

A pause, then, softly, “Are you sure?”

Your throat tightens. “I just… forgot how warm Spain is,” you joke, but your voice doesn’t quite carry the joke.

Alexia hums, not calling you out, not pushing, but her eyes stay on yours, steady and searching.

After a beat, you look down at the table, trying to collect yourself. “I didn’t expect you to be here,” you admit, quietly again, "It never crossed my mind to be honest"

“Mallorca?” she says, her accent turning the word into something prettier. She shrugs. “Carmen say come.”

“I thought you had… training"

“I ask.”

You blink. “You asked to come?”

Her mouth curves. “Carmen said you be here. I say… okay, maybe I have time.”

Something in your chest tightens, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s something sweeter. You look at her for a long moment, sunlight catching on the gold chain around her neck and the small curl of hair escaping the bun at the nape of her neck. “I don't think this trip is going to be what I expected it to be,” you murmur.

Alexia smirks. “Good?”

You smile faintly. “Yeah. Good.”

She leans in again, conspiratorial now, like you’re sharing something secret. “Wanna know something?” You nod. “I don’t care about, game,” she says. “Just wanted to sit here. With you.”

Your breath catches slightly at the bluntness of it how honest she is, even with broken English. You look down at the game between you and then back up at her. “Well,” you say, your voice soft, “we can stop pretending, then.”

Alexia reaches over, slow and deliberate, and flicks all the tiles on your board down. “I win,” she says, but it’s a whisper now.

You laugh, barely, under your breath. “Sure you did, Capitana.”

She nods, "Si, you forfeit" you giggle sitting back as she smoothes her loose hair watching you

Neither of you move, you just sit like that close, quiet, the rest of the world soft and far away until a shout from the other end of the yacht cuts through the moment.

“Y/N ALE WE LEAVE IN TEN MINUTES!” someone screams.

Alexia groans, leaning her forehead against her hand. “I must win again!,” she says dramatically.

You stand slowly, grabbing your drink, and glance at her over your shoulder. “Yeah?” you smirk. “You’ll need all the help you can get later" and when you walk away, you don’t have to look back to know she’s following.

☀️

You step off the boat and onto the pier, shoes in hand, the heat still clinging to your skin from the sun-soaked deck. The group’s laughter carries through the breeze as you all wander barefoot up a dusty path, Carmen leading the way like she’s got some grand surprise up her sleeve.

You follow, sipping what’s left of your drink, eyes squinting against the late afternoon light until, the path opens up.

A football field, real grass, proper goals, painted lines, you stop dead in your tracks.

“…Are you actually kidding me?” you ask, blinking at the sight of several girls already kicking a ball around. Your gaze sweeps over the pitch like maybe it’ll magically disappear if you blink enough times. “You’re on a hen party and you want to train?”

Alexia jogs past you in shorts and a tank top, ball at her feet, ponytail swinging. “I warm up only,” she calls, not even glancing back, like that somehow makes this more normal.

You look to Carmen. “Seriously?”

Carmen just grins, shrugging like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “What? We got itchy feet. You don’t keep a player still too long.”

You shake your head slowly, dragging your towel out of your bag and dropping it right there at the edge of the pitch. “You lot are actually insane.” Then you flop down onto the grass, stretching out dramatically. “I’m sunbathing,” you declare, lying back with an exaggerated sigh. “Y’all can kick each other and pretend this is 'just a warm up'. I’m getting a tan and minding my business.”

You hear Patri laugh somewhere nearby, the sharp thud of a ball being passed between feet. Then Alexia’s voice drifts over again, “Muppet is scared.”

You lift your head, squinting toward her. “I’m not scared, I’m sane.”

“Same, same,” she says, but the grin she throws you is anything but innocent. She spins the ball on one finger before catching it again and pointing it toward you. “One shot. If you score… we no run.”

You raise your brows. “If I score, you wait on me this entire trip.”

Alexia’s grin widens. “Deal.”

You groan, pushing yourself up slowly, “Fine, but after this, I’m retiring.”

You pad barefoot onto the pitch, knowing full well it’s a trap, but you’re already smiling. You trudge reluctantly onto the pitch, wiping your palms on your thighs as Alexia spins the ball lazily in her hands, waiting for you. Just as you reach her, she looks past you, calling out, “Patri, muppet on your team!”

Your head snaps toward her, scandalised. “Are you serious? I thought we had something special.”

Alexia just smiles sweetly, tossing you the ball like she didn’t just betray your trust in broad daylight.

Patri jogs over, already amused. “Perfect. Y/N, you’re in defence.”

You blink. “Defence? That’s… near the back, right?”

“I need you to man mark Alexia.”

You stare blankly. “Cool, yes, because I totally understand what that means.”

Alexia steps in, hand brushing your arm as she leans close enough that her voice rumbles just by your ear. “You follow me. Always.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Like… wherever you go?”

She grins. “Yes.”

“Oh.” You smirk. “So like a shadow, but annoying.”

“Exact,” she says, eyes gleaming, "You just be yourself"

Your mouth drops as the game kicks off, "You'll regret that comment Putellas"

You immediately ignore the ball and just wrap your arms around Alexia like you’re a child latching onto its mother's side. “How’s this for marking?”

She bursts out laughing, twisting as you cling to her like Velcro. “You are bad at this.”

“I’m great at this,” you say, tightening your grip as she tries to step around you. “You’re just mad because I’m winning.”

“There is no ball,” she points out, wheezing through her laughter.

“Semantics,” you reply, as she breaks into a short sprint and you trip slightly trying to keep hold.

The ball does finally roll your way, and just as you’re about to shout something vaguely helpful, Alexia turns, grabs you by the waist, and lifts you clean off the ground like you’re made of feathers.

“WHY ARE YOU SO STRONG?!” you shout, kicking your feet mid-air.

She laughs, breathless. “You are small!”

You flail as she sets you back down, ball already passed off. “That’s rude. I am compact.”

“You are problem,” she says through a grin, nudging your hip with hers.

You stumble, but catch yourself, grinning. “Still man marking though. Pretty sure I’m nailing it.”

She steps closer, that same familiar glint in her eye. “You are not football player.”

“No,” you agree. “But I’m very talented at being annoying.”

“You are… very good, yes.”

And neither of you notice the goal scored behind you, too busy laughing, limbs tangled and rules forgotten just you, Alexia, and the kind of game that doesn’t need scoreboards.

You’re both still half-heartedly pretending to play football, but really it’s devolved into something much sillier wrestling like kids, arms looping and dodging, feet tripping over each other as the rest of the pitch carries on the actual game somewhere in the distance.

You’ve been holding your own surprisingly well, mostly by using the tactic of clinging to Alexia and refusing to let go but she’s sneaky. Smirking like she’s up to something, like she’s winding herself up for revenge, her fingers drift too casually to your side and then disaster.

You squeal, loud, louder than necessary really, it escapes you like an involuntary alarm, sharp and high and completely humiliating, as her fingers graze just under your ribcage. That awful, ticklish spot you forgot even existed until she found it with sniper precision.

You jump back like she’s electrocuted you, eyes wide in betrayal, “Don’t!”

But it’s already too late Alexia’s gone. She doubles over, laughter cracking out of her like thunder, stumbling in a circle before crouching down to the grass, arm wrapped around her middle as she practically sobs with laughter at the noise you made.

You stand there, half horrified, half laughing yourself, cheeks flushed. “It wasn’t that funny!”

Alexia gasps for breath, eyes watery, voice cracking. “You scream, like, pequeña rata!”

“Like a what?”

“Little rat!” she manages through tears, curling forward again, face flushed and delighted.

You pout, crossing your arms. “I cannot believe this. You’re bullying me on a field. There are witnesses.”

“No,” she wheezes. “Just me. Just you.”

You glance around none of the others are even paying attention, too busy actually playing. Of course they are. It’s just you two, tangled in your own private chaos on the edge of the pitch.

Alexia looks up from where she’s crouched, wiping tears away with the back of her hand, still grinning. “I win.”

You drop beside her, breathless. “You cheated.”

She shrugs innocently. “Is not in rules. I check.”

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, leaning back onto your elbows as you breathe in the sunset-warm air beside her, “you keep playing like this, I'll get you back.”

Alexia flashes you that cheeky, dimpled grin. “Promise?”

Patri scores with a clean shot, and the others on the pitch let out a chorus of cheers, but she barely celebrates she throws a hand up, exasperated but smiling. “Look at these two.”

Everyone glances over.

There you are, perched back on your hands in the grass, face tilted toward Alexia, who’s lying on her side next to you like it’s a picnic, not a football game. You’re both in your own world, grinning, animated, lost in some conversation that clearly has nothing to do with football. You laugh at something she says, shoulders shaking, and Alexia’s eyes light up like she’s never heard a better sound in her life.

“You think they know we’re still playing?” Ona says, arms crossed, amused.

“They don’t even know we exist,” Patri replies, shaking her head with a fond sigh. “We could light fireworks over their heads and they’d still be like, ‘Anyway, do you put ketchup on pasta in England?’”

On the pitch’s far edge, you shift your weight and bump her with your knee playfully Alexia nudges back with her foot and you both laugh again. Totally oblivious.

“I’m telling you,” Patri adds, glancing at the others, “we could call full-time, go back to the yacht sail off, and they’d still be lying there an hour from now, pretending to argue about who's more competitive.”

Behind her, Carmen just smirks knowingly. “Leave them. They’ll figure it out.”

Alexia turns her head then, just for a second, catching Patri’s gaze across the field. Patri raises her eyebrows pointedly and gestures at the ball like, hello? remember this?

Alexia waves her off without even hiding her grin, then turns back to you, you’re still smiling, still talking, still utterly unaware of the small audience watching you like a romcom scene they never agreed to be extras in.

The girls come wandering over, the game having naturally fizzled out because honestly, what was the point when their star striker and your half-baked defender were giggling in the grass like it was a sleepover?

Patri folds her arms, looking directly at you, mock stern. “Seriously?”

You blink up at her, all wide eyes and fake innocence. “What?”

She points at Alexia, who’s now lazily tossing blades of grass at your knee like she hasn’t a care in the world. “You told me you didn’t know football.”

“I don’t,” you protest, brushing off a bit of grass. “But you told me to man mark her and I did exactly that. I think I’ve been incredible, honestly. She’s been absolutely useless this entire game. I think you should be thanking me.”

Alexia lets out a breath of laughter beside you, not even trying to defend herself.

“I’m the best defender you’ve got,” you continue confidently. “Better than Ona running around like a lunatic.”

“Oye!” Ona calls out, laughing but offended enough to squint at you. “I’ve been playing two positions!”

You grin. “Yeah and I’ve been playing Alexia out of the game. I’d say we’re even.”

“She didn’t even touch the ball after the first five minutes,” Carmen says, trying not to smile.

“Exactly!” you shrug, “I was just doing my job very well. I was basically Velcro.”

Carmen’s shaking her head, laughing as she throws an arm around Ona. “Honestly, I’m giving Y/N player of the match just for commitment.”

Alexia finally chimes in, glancing up at Patri with a smug little smirk. “She is very... sticky.”

You hold your hand up for a high five. “Thank you. I take that as a compliment. I think”

Ona narrows her eyes playfully. “I will nutmeg you next time.”

“Wouldn’t even notice,” you grin, “I’ll be busy man marking the captain.”

Alexia leans in, voice low with a smirk, “You like to follow me, eh?”

You flash her a grin. “You wish.”

Patri groans. “Dios mío, we’re not playing football anymore, we’re watching flirting with extra steps.”

Carmen’s laughing. “That’s generous. There were no steps. Just vibes and poor defending.”

The sun had started to dip lower in the sky, as the impromptu match fizzled out into nothing but laughs, teasing, and sweat-slicked hair clinging to sun-kissed skin. Someone shouted something about drinks and showers back on the yacht, and slowly everyone began to head for the gate.

You stretched your arms overhead, groaning dramatically. “That was exhausting. I was man-marking the most chaotic player on this field. I deserve an award.”

“You did nothing,” Ona called over her shoulder with a grin.

“I did plenty, I rendered your captain useless,” you said, tossing a thumb toward Alexia beside you.

Alexia, still glowing with that half-smirk of hers, crouched slightly in front of you, glancing back over her shoulder. “Get on, Muppet. You cry too much.”

You blinked. “Wait—seriously?”

She didn’t answer, just wiggled her fingers expectantly and without thinking you grinned, ran a few steps, and hopped onto her back, arms slinging around her shoulders.

She rose with ease, steady, strong, her hands slipping to your thighs to hold you in place as she began to walk back with the others.

You let out a surprised little laugh. “You’re going to regret this when your legs give out.”

“I carry trophies,” she said smugly. “You are lighter than Champions League.”

You tried not to let that go straight to your chest. “Well then, I’m honoured. Shall I sing as we go? Serenade you?”

“Please don’t,” she muttered, but her voice was smiling.

You rested your chin on her shoulder, eyes closing for a second, just feeling the sun on your back, her warmth under your hands, the rumble of her laugh in her chest as someone ahead cracked a joke you didn’t catch.

“Is this a normal hen party tradition in Spain?” you asked, lifting your head. “Kidnap your opponent and carry them to sea?”

“No,” she said. “Just for you.”

You rolled your eyes, but the blush crept up your neck all the same, behind you, Carmen was definitely watching and smiling. A picture secured for future use.

☀️

The sun was melting into the horizon now, all burnt orange streaking across the sea like someone had taken a paintbrush to the sky. The heat of the day had cooled into something softer, and the laughter had quieted down to that mellow kind of content that follows a good meal and too much wine.

You were stretched out along the cushioned area at the back of the boat, legs pulled up, arms folded loosely across your chest. You’d only thrown your bikini top back on after the shower and were still in your shorts, goosebumps forming slowly on your arms with every passing minute. The sea breeze picked up, curling around you and making you shiver slightly not enough to get up and change, but just enough that you rubbed your hands over your arms absentmindedly.

Carmen sat beside you, legs folded beneath her, drink in hand. The others, Patri, Pina, Ona, Jana were still up front somewhere, music playing low and distant. Only a couple of Carmen’s old friends lingered nearby, chatting quietly, a couple of metres away.

Which is probably why Carmen struck now. She leaned in, elbow on the back of the seat. “So.”

You turned your head lazily. “So…?”

She gave you a look, the older cousin one. “Are we going to talk about the fact you’ve been glued to Alexia’s side since she got here?”

You blinked. “Glued is a strong word.”

Carmen arched a brow. “She gave you a piggyback. You’re not ten.”

You laughed, cheeks warming. “Okay, that was a little unhinged.”

“And sweet,” Carmen added, voice softening. “Very her, too. She's quiet, but when she decides to like someone…”

You blinked, caught off guard. “You think she likes me?”

Carmen tilted her head. “Do you?”

You didn’t answer right away. You bit the inside of your cheek, then glanced down at your fingers where they were tangled in your shorts’ drawstring. “I don’t know. She’s fun. Surprising. Funny even though we barely understand each other half the time and it’s been nice... being around her.”

Carmen smiled, her tone gentle now. “That didn’t sound unsure.”

You gave a small, helpless laugh. “It’s just… this bubble. The wedding, the yacht, the Spanish sun. It doesn’t feel like real life.”

“But you wish it was?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

You didn’t say anything, you didn’t have to, she reached over, squeezing your knee gently. “Well, if anything were to happen... she’s one of the good ones.”

You smiled, something soft in your chest stirring, before you could say more, footsteps sounded behind you.

You turned slightly Alexia stood at the edge of the deck, a soft hoodie in her hand.

She didn’t say anything as she stepped forward and gently draped it over your shoulders, her touch feather-light.

You looked up at her, eyes wide, and she just said, “You cold.”

Not a question, just a quiet statement of fact you nodded once, lips quirking. “A little.”

She smiled, just barely. “Better.” she sat beside you, her thigh brushing yours.

Carmen, without a word, stood up and slipped away into the shadows of the boat, leaving you two alone beneath the glowing sky.

You slipped your arms into the sleeves of the hoodie, the fabric warm. It smelled faintly like salt, sunscreen, and something distinctly her. It hung off you like a blanket, the sleeves far too long, but you didn't care.

Alexia didn’t say anything, she just sat beside you, close but not overwhelming, the two of you facing out over the sea in a rare, easy silence. You scrolled lazily on your phone, the gentle sway of the boat and the last gold streaks on the water lulling you into a kind of soft quiet that made everything else, London, real life, feel impossibly far away.

She shifted beside you a moment later, sitting forward to grab a cushion from in front of her. As she moved, you got the first clear look at her back tattoos. You tilted your head a little, curious.

“What’s this one?” you asked gently, reaching forward without thinking.

Your fingers brushed her lower back, just along the ink, and you didn’t miss the way her skin instantly prickled beneath your touch goosebumps, but she didn’t flinch or move away.

You ran your fingers lightly over the edge of the tattoo, a detailed little portrait. the lines were delicate, fine, intimate.

“That’s you?” you asked, tilting your head. “As a baby?”

Alexia nodded, glancing over her shoulder. “Mm. Me and my papa.”

You stilled a little. The way she said it, my papa, soft and full of something deeper, something quieter.

“From a photo,” she continued. “I was maybe… couple weeks old?”

You smiled, fingers still resting lightly against her skin. “It’s a beautiful tribute.”

She hummed, a small smile tugging at her mouth, but she didn’t speak. You didn’t ask more, you just let your hand fall gently away, giving her space, but your knee bumped hers again like a silent reassurance.

She sat back again, hugging the cushion to her chest this time, the hush between you settled like a blanket, you sat still, scrolling idly on your phone, though your attention wasn’t really on the screen. The hoodie helped, but your legs were still curled tight to your chest, your arms wrapped around them. You were colder than you wanted to admit, but you didn’t say anything, didn’t want to ruin the quiet.

But Alexia noticed, of course she did. She shifted slightly beside you, and without a word, her hands touched your knees, nudging them gently. You let her move you, slowly, without hesitation, until your back pressed lightly into her chest, your body guided to rest between her legs. She was warm against you, solid and unhurried, and she wrapped her arms around you without asking, one resting across your stomach, the other looping just under your shoulders.

“You’ll be warmer like this,” she murmured, her voice low against your ear.

You exhaled softly, something unspoken settling in your chest, “Is this part of the captain’s duties?” you teased, voice quiet, eyes still fixed on the water.

“Only… special cases,” she replied, her English slow but sure, the smallest smile in her voice.

You could feel the steady rhythm of her breathing behind you, the faint brush of her knuckles against your side. You leaned back just a little more, letting yourself melt into her, hoodie sleeves pulled down over your hands now, her warmth seeping into your skin, your chest, your thoughts.

From the far end of the boat, tucked in a corner of the upper deck just out of view, Carmen leaned against the railing with a glass of sangria in hand. Patri stood beside her, sipping hers more slowly, while Ona and a couple of the other girls lounged nearby, all of them speaking in quiet voices now that the sun had dipped and the air had settled into a cooler, calmer stillness.

Their attention wasn’t on the water, or the music, or even their own conversation anymore. It was on the back of the boat, on the two of you.

You, leaned into Alexia, her arms wrapped around you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her chin rested lightly against your shoulder, no kissing, no obvious display just quiet closeness. The kind that said more than loud affection ever could.

“They’ve been like that for almost half an hour,” Ona whispered, smiling into her drink.

“She looks so smug,” Jana muttered playfully. “Like she won something.”

“She did,” Carmen said under her breath, but there was a fondness in her voice.

Patri glanced at her. “They both did. Not that either of them would admit it.”

Carmen huffed a laugh, brushing her fingers over the rim of her glass. “You know what’s funny? They both really like each other… and yet somehow both are completely convinced the other doesn’t.”

Patri raised an eyebrow. “You’ve spoken to both of them about it?”

“I don’t need to. You can see it.” Carmen gestured with her glass. “Y/N acts like it’s just wedding bubble magic and Ale? She’s all nerves under that whole too cool to care thing. We've known her for years when have we ever seen her like this with anyone.”

Ona gave a knowing smirk. “She didn’t even bring her phone to dinner. You know how rare that is?”

“She’s pretending to play it cool,” Carmen said, half-laughing. “But then she shows up with her hoodie, sits behind her like a human radiator, and acts like that’s normal.”

They all looked over again.

Alexia was now leaning in slightly, saying something low near your ear. You smiled, eyes closing briefly as you shook your head in amusement. Whatever she said, it made you laugh soft and genuine. She rested her chin back on your shoulder, her eyes still on you like she was watching something she couldn’t quite believe was real.

Patri tilted her head. “You think either of them will say anything?”

Carmen let out a quiet sigh, eyes never leaving the two of you. “Honestly? I don’t know, but I hope so. They look like they forgot the rest of us exist.”

“Yeah,” Ona agreed, almost wistful. “They look happy.”

☀️

The night had fully draped itself around the yacht, the stars scattered across the sky, the only sounds now the gentle lap of the water against the hull.

The others had gone to bed or slipped inside, but neither of you had moved. You stayed out at the back of the boat, still resting against Alexia who was know laying down, her ribs your pillow. The string lights above cast a warm glow across her face, softening the sharp lines, making her look almost unreal. She still hadn’t asked for her hoodie back, and you had no plans to give it up.

“You’re very quiet,” she said suddenly, her Spanish accent curling around the words.

You looked over at her, the smallest smirk tugging at your lips. “Maybe I’m just shy.”

Alexia raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “No. No shy. Liar.”

You laughed, shifting slightly so your knees brushed. “I’m not lying. I’m just… mysterious.”

She leaned in a little, eyes narrowing like she was studying you. “Mysterious. Hm.”

You nodded solemnly. “Exactly. Deep, complicated, unreadable.”

Alexia hummed, unconvinced. “No. You are… how do you say…” she paused, thinking, then pointed a finger at you, “Trouble.”

That made you grin. “I’ve been called worse.”

Her smirk widened, and she looked far too pleased with herself. “You like when I call you that.”

“You call me a muppet most of the time.”

“Because you are.” She shrugged, casual, but her eyes were gleaming. “But… pretty muppet.”

You gave her a look, trying not to laugh. “Wow. That’s the smoothest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Wait,” she said, holding up a finger. “I have better.”

You leaned in, amused. “Do you?”

Alexia shifted so she was facing you more directly. “Tu… eres muy bonita.”

You blinked, smiling slow. “That’s the same one you wouldn’t translate last time.”

She just gave a lazy shrug. “Still won’t.”

You tilted your head. “Why not?”

“You already know.” The air stretched between you, electric and easy all at once.

“I think you like being mysterious too,” you said softly.

“I think…” she began, then reached forward to tug playfully at the hoodie sleeve, “you like me.”

You raised a brow, pretending to consider it, lips barely hiding your smirk. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” she echoed, mock-offended, hand to her chest. “After you stole my hoodie?”

“You never stole it,” you said, nudging her leg with yours. “You gave it to me."

She grinned, leaned up on her hands, your head naturally moving to rest on her stomach. “Still counts.”

You tilted your head, letting your eyes linger on her. “What are you going to do if I don’t give it back?”

Alexia’s gaze flicked to your lips, then up to your eyes. “I come to London.”

Your heart stuttered but you didn’t let it show, you only smiled wider. “Just for your hoodie?”

“Maybe.” She grinned, eyes dancing. “Or maybe for the trouble.”

You leaned back beside her, bumping her shoulder. “You’re such a flirt.”

“You love it,” she said, barely above a whisper and God help you, because you really did.

The hours slipped by unnoticed, as if time had stepped back to give the two of you space.

You and Alexia stayed there, tucked into the back of the boat beneath the stars, the yacht swaying gently on the dark sea. The air had gone cool but not uncomfortable, and you were still wearing her hoodie, legs pulled up beneath you as you sat facing her, a blanket shared between you.

The flirty energy had quietened into something softer intimate, you’d both stopped trying to impress each other. You were just talking, learning, listening.

She spoke slowly, sometimes pausing to find the English, other times slipping into Spanish when her emotions outran her vocabulary and you didn’t mind. You were patient, you’d ask again if you needed to, or you’d just watch her hands move as she tried to explain. Sometimes the way her eyes lit up said more than her words could.

She told you about her family how close she was to her mum, her sister, the memories that came sharp when she talked about her dad.

“I was eighteen,” she said, staring out at the water, her voice quieter now. “He… he loved football. He is why I love football.” She glanced over at you. “He never see me play for Barça, he love Barca, he wanted me to play for Barca”

You didn’t interrupt, just gently reached out, your hand brushing over hers where it rested between you.

“But… I feel him,” she added, tapping her chest lightly. “Always.”

You nodded, your throat a little tight. “I think he’d be proud. Probably wouldn’t believe what you’ve done.”

She smiled, soft and knowing. “Sometimes, I don’t believe.”

Then she told you about when she was little playing with boys in the street, ruining shoes, getting in trouble for coming home muddy. About her first time putting on a professional jersey, about the World Cup both the heartbreak and the victory. How it felt to wear the armband for Barcelona.

“You make it look so easy,” you murmured.

“It’s not,” she said honestly. “But… it’s my life.”

You admired that about her how she never glamorised it. She wasn’t chasing fame, it was about the game, the work, the love, to you it came across that the fame was a burden she bore to enhance the game.

Between the heavier parts, there were moments of laughter, she told you a story about her first red card how it was completely unnecessary and she’d gotten sent off because of a stupid tackle when they were already winning by four.

“I was… how do you say… idiota.” She laughed, rubbing her hands over her face.

“You still are,” you teased. “But like, in a charming way.”

Her smile came easy now. “Muppet.”

Eventually she leaned her head back, eyes closed as she breathed in the sea air. “It’s late.”

You nodded. “Very.”

“Still want to talk.”

“So do I.”

Alexia cracked an eye open and looked at you, her voice a little hoarse now from hours of talking. “You make me… feel calm. It’s… strange.”

You smiled, your hand finding hers again without thinking, “Not strange,” you said. “Just rare.” You don’t know how it happened but at some point, you both burst into quiet, tired laughter, faces lit by the first pale strokes of dawn brushing across the sea.

“The sun is rising,” you whisper, eyes wide with disbelief as you glance out toward the horizon. “We’ve literally talked the entire night.”

Alexia leans her head on your shoulder, yawning softly. “Oops.”

You laugh again. “I can’t believe neither of us noticed.”

She turns slightly, "I never see sunrise before,” she says, like it’s nothing, like she hasn’t just dropped a little bomb into the moment.

You pull back slightly, looking at her. “Wait. Never?”

Alexia shakes her head, sleepy eyes blinking. “Always… sleep. Or travel. Or game. Never this.”

You gape at her, exaggerated. “You’ve never stayed up and watched the sun rise?”

She shrugs. “Maybe from plane. But not… like this.”

You glance back at the soft glow pushing up over the edge of the sea, golden light washing everything in soft, dreamy colour. The water glistens, the world still, quiet, and unreal. “Well,” you say gently, nudging her side. “Now you will.”

You lay in silence for a few minutes, shoulders touching, eyes fixed on the horizon. Eventually, Alexia lets out a sigh so relaxed it almost sounds like a lullaby. “This is nice.”

“It really is.” You glance at her to find her blinking slower, lashes heavy over her eyes. She’s trying to stay awake, but failing beautifully. She tilts further toward you, head resting just beside your shoulder as she moves to lay on her side. “Don’t fall asleep on me,” you whisper, even though your own eyelids are heavy now too.

“I stay… for sunrise,” she mumbles, already halfway gone.

You smile, your cheek resting on your own shoulder toward her, the suns slowly climbing higher, but your eyes flutter shut. There, in the soft orange glow of a brand new day, with Alexia’s slow, steady breathing warming your shoulder, you both fall asleep, the sound of the sea your lullaby.

☀️

The sound of footsteps and soft chatter starts to filter into your half-dreaming mind, but you're too comfortable too warm and weightless in the cocoon of Alexia’s arms to really react.

Up the steps come Carmen, Patri, and a few of the other girls, all blinking against the light and clutching coffees in oversized mugs.

Carmen stops first, mouth parting in quiet disbelief as she nudges Patri. “Are you seeing this?”

Patri follows her gaze and lets out a sleepy laugh. “No jodas… they’ve been there all night?”

“Still in the exact same spot,” Ona adds, sounding both amused and concerned. “Have they moved at all?”

“Nope,” says Pina, peeking around Carmen. “Same position.”

Carmen crosses her arms, a wide grin forming as she takes in the sight of you, curled gently away from Alexia, her arm wrapped securely around your waist, her head nestled perfectly behind yours. There’s a cushion half-draped over both of you and her hoodie still snug on your frame.

“I said they liked each other,” Carmen mutters, shaking her head. “They just don’t believe it yet.”

“Should we wake them?” Patri asks, raising an eyebrow.

Carmen smirks. “Let them sleep. They’ve clearly had more important things to do than sleeping anyway.”

“Talking?” Ona suggests.

Another round of quiet laughter rolls through the group as they move quietly past, trying not to disturb you. But one of the girls, Jana probably whispers a little too loud,

“I give it two days before they finally kiss.”

Still half-asleep, Alexia shifts a little behind you, burying her face more against your shoulder.

You mumble, barely conscious, “Is someone talking?”

“Shhh,” Alexia says, her voice groggy but affectionate. “Ignore. Dreaming.” And with that, you both drift right back off, leaving the girls now above deck in collective awe and maybe a little smugness as they head for coffee and breakfast, quietly placing bets on how long it’ll take for the two of you to finally admit what everyone else already knows.

☀️

The sun is high and unforgiving now, glinting off the calm sea and warming every surface of the yacht. You step out from below deck in nothing but a bikini, your hair piled messily on top of your head, sunglasses half-slipped down your nose as you squint into the light.

Patri's the first to spot you and waves you over. “You finally ready for the day, sleeping beauty,” she grins, sipping her iced drink.

You roll your eyes playfully. “I blame your captain. She talks so much.” You stretch your arms overhead with a quiet groan, and the motion draws more than just a few eyes not that you notice.

You walk over and join Carmen, chatting softly as the two of you start to wander toward the front of the boat, leaving the others behind, but the others are watching.

Patri’s smirk is practically feral as she nudges Alexia, who hasn’t even tried to hide the fact that she’s staring and not in a subtle way, no, Alexia’s eyes have been shamelessly following the sway of your hips, the line of your spine down the middle of your back, the way your laugh lingers in the air behind you.

“She is walking away,” Jana mutters behind her shades. “You want to follow with tongue dragging or...?”

“Shut up,” Alexia murmurs, finally blinking and tearing her eyes away.

“She’s hot, we get it,” Ona adds, grinning. “But so are you. Go talk to her.”

“I did talk,” Alexia says, crossing her arms like it’s a winning argument.

Ona, lying stretched out in the sun nearby, scoffs, “You fell asleep with her. That counts as more than talking.”

“It was just… talking,” Alexia mutters, cheeks pinking.

“No, no. That was emotional intimacy, amiga,” Patri chimes in. “You two are dangerously close to soft launch territory and you haven’t even kissed her yet?”

“She’s British,” Alexia argues weakly, still watching the direction you walked in. “They flirt like… like joke. You know? Maybe it’s not real.”

Patri squints. “She literally fell asleep in your arms and was walking around in your hoodie like it’s her favourite possession.”

“She’s not wearing the hoodie right now,” Alexia says quickly.

Pina raises a brow. “But you noticed.” That shuts her up Patri leans in, serious now. “Ale, she’s not playing with you. I saw how she looks at you. If you like her… just do something.”

Alexia hesitates, glancing again toward the bow of the boat where you and Carmen have disappeared behind the sunshade and she doesn’t say it out loud but her mind is already made up.

She just needs the right moment.

☀️

You’re sat on the curved white cushion at the very front of the yacht, knees pulled up loosely to your chest, sunglasses still perched on your nose as the wind tousles strands of your hair. Carmen lies next to you, propped up on one elbow, eyes scanning the horizon but her attention keeps flicking back to you.

“You’ve gone quiet,” she says, nudging your foot with hers. “That usually means something’s brewing.”

You shrug, smiling faintly. “Just thinking.”

“About football?”

You snort. “When have I ever been thinking about football?”

She raises a brow. “About a footballer, then?” You give her a look, biting your lower lip to hide your smile, Carmen laughs knowingly, tipping her head back. “Right, there it is.”

“It’s stupid,” you murmur, fingers tracing absent circles over your shin. “We barely know each other. It’s all wedding magic and sea air and too much rosé. That’s not… real.”

Carmen shifts a little closer, eyes narrowed in mock scolding. “Don’t be thick. You think I haven’t seen the way you two look at each other?”

You roll your eyes behind your glasses. “We flirt. That’s not the same thing.”

Carmen tilts her head. “No, but the way she looks at you when you’re not even talking! That’s not just flirting.” You fall silent, staring out to sea. You hadn’t thought anyone had noticed. You didn’t think she would actually, “She told me she’s nervous,” Carmen continues gently. “Which is wild, because I’ve seen her captain Spain in a World Cup and she didn’t blink, but with you? She’s clueless.”

Your stomach twists in that infuriating, wonderful way it always does when Alexia’s name comes up now. “So what do I do?” you ask, voice quieter, unsure.

Carmen smiles. “Be honest. She’s not going to risk something unless she knows it’s safe.”

You exhale, leaning your head back against the sun-warmed railing behind you. “She makes me feel like a teenager.”

“That’s probably a good sign,” Carmen says, nudging your foot again with hers. “Or a terrible one. Either way, you’re in trouble.” You laugh despite yourself, Carmen grins. “And now I’m going to leave you right here so you can figure out what you want.”

You glance sideways. “You’re abandoning me?”

“Absolutely,” she says, standing up and stretching, “I’ve done my part. I’m going to pretend I need a drink and let you sit with your feelings.”

She pats your shoulder, dramatic like she’s imparting some ancient wisdom, and walks off, leaving you alone with the breeze, the sun, and a head that suddenly feels too full.

You pull your sunglasses back down and lean into the railing again, watching the water sparkle.

Something makes you glance over your shoulder just a flicker of instinct, Alexia’s there, by the side rail on the mid deck. She’s got a bottle of water in one hand, talking casually with Ona and Jana, but her eyes flick to you and linger. Only for a second. Just enough for your breath to catch, then she looks away with a small smile, brushing hair behind her ear as she says something to Jana, and you watch the way her shoulders shake lightly with laughter.

☀️

The sun is at its highest point in the sky now, casting everything in a warmth, glittering across the waves around the yacht. The music has mellowed, some of the girls are dozing in the sun or sipping drinks, and you’re back near the railing, lazily watching the sea roll beneath you.

You hear the soft patter of feet before you feel the light splash of water flicked your way.

“Hey,” Alexia says, her voice a little breathless. She’s slightly damp, her hair messy from the salt water, a towel thrown over one shoulder. “Come swim.”

You tilt your head. “Your friends stop playing with you?”

She shrugs, smirking. “Yes. Jump with me.”

You glance at the ocean, then back at her. “You’re not gonna throw me in or something stupid, are you?”

Alexia holds up both hands innocently. “I swear. Together. Come.”

You hesitate for only a second. “Fine, but if I belly flop it’s your fault.”

Alexia laughs. “No belly flop. I teach you perfect jump.”

You both climb to the top deck railing, she stands close, shoulder brushing yours, both of you looking down at the water below.

“On three?” you ask, your heart kicking up.

She grins. “Uno, dos… tres!”

You jump. For a second there’s only the sound of rushing air, then the cold, wild shock of the sea and it swallows you whole. You surface with a gasp, blinking away water, laughing breathlessly as you smooth your hair from your eyes, but she’s not next to you.

You spin in the water, treading, scanning, “Alexia?” Then you feel it her hand grabbing your thigh underwater, lightning quick. You yelp, nearly jumping out of your skin and suddenly she bursts up in front of you, close, eyes bright, laughing with reckless joy.

“Muppet!” she says between laughs, wiping water from her face. “You scream like little child!”

You swat water at her. “You psycho! You scared the life out of me!”

Her grin only widens. “Worth it.”

The two of you float closer together, feet kicking lazily beneath the surface, the water cradles you both, the laughter fades, leaving behind the hush of waves and your quiet, steady breaths.

Alexia floats closer, eyes never leaving yours. You don’t speak neither of you needs to. Her hand finds your hip beneath the surface, fingers light but certain, and your breath hitches.

There’s a stillness between you now, a moment stretched thin like glass, you glance down her mouth, then up again and she sees it.

Her brow lifts a fraction, asking permission without words and when you don’t pull away, when your fingers lightly skim the water between you, her head tilts forward until her lips touch your own.

The kiss is slow, warm, her lips soft and unsure at first, like she can’t quite believe you’re letting her, but then she deepens it, just slightly, and it feels like you’ve never been kissed properly before this.

There’s nothing urgent, nothing messy, just the sun, the sea, her hand on your hip, and that one perfect, heart stopping kiss sweet and surprising and unbelievably careful.

When she finally pulls back, eyes still half-closed, she exhales softly like she’d been holding her breath the whole time and you’re smiling.

You’re still close, water lapping gently around you, your heart doing wild, clumsy things in your chest. You try to play it cool, but the warmth blooming across your cheeks gives you away.

Alexia notices instantly, her lips twitch, the corner of her mouth pulling into a soft, amused smirk. “Ay,” she says, voice low, teasing, “you shy now?”

You glance away, biting your lip, trying not to grin. “I’m not shy.”

She raises an eyebrow. “No?” You shake your head, even though you absolutely are. Alexia hums, brushing a wet strand of hair from your face, fingers feather light against your cheek. “Muppet… you are very red.”

You splash water at her face. “I hate you.”

She wipes her face dramatically, laughing. “No, no… no you don't.”

You squeal as a splash of water hits your face way too aggressive to be accidental. “Alexia!” you cry, laughing as you swipe water from your eyes, spinning in the sea. “I’m literally not bothering you!”

She’s already grinning, smug, floating a few feet away now with her brows raised like she’s done nothing wrong. “What? I swim. The water is free.”

“You’re so annoying.”

Before you can splash her back, she darts forward, faster than you expect, and suddenly both her arms are around your waist from behind after she turned you, lifting you slightly in the water as you shriek and kick.

“Muppet, stop crying,” she laughs in your ear, holding on tightly while you flail in her grip. “So dramatic.”

“You’re a menace,” you giggle, wriggling but not really trying to get away. “I’m gonna drown and it’s gonna be your fault.”

“You don’t drown. You float,” she says, her lips brushing close to your temple, voice warm with laughter. “You float and complain.”

You laugh harder, leaning back into her slightly, your hands resting over hers as she holds you above the gentle sway of the sea. The water sparkles around you, her chest pressed to your back, both of you breathless and giddy.

She rests her chin on your shoulder for a beat. “You’re really fun,” she says, more quietly this time, like it slipped out by accident.

Your smile softens. “You’re really annoying.”

Alexia just squeezes you gently in response. “Still… you don’t let go.”

You’re still in her grip, laughing and kicking lazily, the warmth of her breath near your ear making it far too easy to forget you're supposed to be retaliating.

So, you strike. Quickly twisting in her arms, you push down on her shoulders and dunk her under with a triumphant shout. “That’s what you get!” But the moment her head disappears beneath the surface, something shifts. You know that you’ve made a huge mistake, you feel it a second later, her hands sliding firmly up your legs under the water, gripping your thighs. Then your hips and waist, she uses your body for leverage and shoots up with shocking strength, resurfacing right in front of you, water dripping from her face, eyes sharp and locked on yours.

Your breath hitches, because you felt all of it, every inch of her touch. The way her fingers trailed, the way your skin lit up like fire when she moved. Alexia’s close now you’re treading water but it feels like you're floating without control.

She pushes wet hair back, smirking. “Bad move, muy mal.”

You’re still catching your breath, blinking at her. “I… yeah. Regret.”

Her grin spreads, lazy and far too knowing. “You okay, muppet? You look…”

“Don’t say it.”

She leans closer, brushing her nose against yours playfully. “Nerviosa.”

You groan, half embarrassed, half giddy. “I hate you.”

She hums like she doesn’t believe you at all and she’s right, because right now, all you want is to dunk her again… or kiss her again, maybe both.

☀️

You’re sprawled out on the lounger, sunglasses on, drink in hand, all the ingredients of relaxation at your disposal and yet, you are absolutely not relaxed.

The girls have discovered the makeshift shower hose at the back of the yacht, and one by one they’ve started copying your photos Carmen was taking from earlier. You watch them giggle and pose dramatically under the stream of water, the whole scene chaotic in the most endearing way.

But now it’s her turn, you’d clocked Alexia’s bikini hours ago, burnt orange, minimal, and devastating but now, standing under the soft arc of the shower hose at the back of the yacht, she’s basically committed a personal attack.

Your stomach tightens, you sip your drink, but it might as well be sand with how dry your mouth suddenly is.

She moves slowly at first, fixing the hose, laughing as Jana gives her chaotic instructions in a mix of Spanish and Catalan. You watch a droplet run down the slope of her collarbone, between her breasts, and lower, okay, yeah, this isn’t just heat from the sun.

Her front is mostly to you, all smooth skin and muscles shifting gently beneath golden tan, the curve of her waist impossible to ignore. The bikini bottoms sit low on her hips, and the top, it clings in a way that makes you cross your legs without thinking.

You can’t look away, like your brain is gone and all that’s left is instinct and want.

You fan your neck with your free hand, entirely defeated by how smug she somehow looks while doing absolutely nothing. Her stance is casual, but confident one hand lost in her hair, the other adjusting the water flow, the tattoo on her ribs catching glints of light.

It should be illegal and then her laugh rings out, husky and sudden, like someone had said something actually funny, you feel that sound. Deep in your chest, like a ripple of heat.

Carmen catches your expression, you glance at her, and she just raises her brows like, yeah. I know.

You flush, but don’t deny it. How could you? The woman looks like she was carved by Mediterranean gods and dipped in sunlight and now she’s refusing to smile for the camera.

You sit up a little straighter, pressing your thighs together and calling out, “Smile, Alexia!”

She doesn’t, just tosses you a glare over one perfect shoulder, eyes shaded by wet strands of hair, the sun catching the droplets still clinging to her skin.

She doesn’t smile, so you make her. “Alexia, smile, it’s cute!” you call again, biting your lip as she visibly tries to suppress it. Still nothing, you swing your legs off the lounger, leaning forward. “You're cute when you smile!"

Still nothing and so you do it, loud and unapologetic, with all the flair of a karaoke queen with no shame,

"Hey sexy lady, I like your flow, your body's bangin', out of control!"

The girls burst into laughter Patri actually collapses against the railing Alexia turns, giving you the most unimpressed look she can muster but her mouth twitches, the corners betray her and there it is, the smile, soft, beautiful and real.

It curls across her face and your heart actually skips. You soak it in, her lips, parted slightly, the dimples you hadn’t let yourself stare at too hard before, the gentle crinkle at the corner of her eyes.

You want to bottle the image, or maybe frame it, or possibly throw yourself overboard to cool off. She shakes her head at you, the hose forgotten. “Muppet,” she mutters, that smile still dancing there like she can’t get rid of it even if she tried.

You grin, cheeks burning, probably blushing head to toe, she turns back to pose, more relaxed now, a little sassier, and maybe her next smile is for the camera, but you swear the one before it was just for you.

Jana’s still directing, crouched low to get the angle just right, Alexia tipping her chin, shifting her weight like she doesn’t know how good she looks which somehow only makes it worse.

She’s standing under the shower again, rinsing off salt and sun, water gliding across the dip of her waist, tracing the lines of her abdomen, catching on the hem of her bikini bottoms.

Your throat tightens and it hits you, just like that, what happens after this?

The laughter, the sun, the sweet kisses, the way her hand had fit on your waist like it had always been meant to be there. The flirting, the games, the look she gives you when she thinks you’re not watching.

It’s all happening in this capsule of perfect time, but what happens after? After the yacht docks, after the bags are packed, after you’re back in London, and she’s in Barcelona living her life with cameras in her face and teammates who see her every day. You're just the girl she met at a wedding.

You shift your weight, uncomfortable under the weight of a thought you didn’t want to have.

Will I get to see her again?

You don’t dare say it aloud, not to Carmen, not even to yourself.

You feel it instead in the way you try to commit every detail to memory. The way Alexia leans into the sun, half smiling. The outline of her tattoos scattered over her back. The way she laughs when Jana nearly drops the phone.

You want to press pause, to stretch this moment just a little longer, because what if this is the last time?

---

Where do you think these two would meet again?

[onsomenewsht]

Just don’t step on my foot - the short story - Alexia Putellas x Reader

Writer's note: Inspired by Alexia's Instagram photo dump, dancing salsa with her mother.

It started with a text.

Alexia: Is it weird I kinda wanna learn salsa?

You squinted at your phone. This was at 11:47 p.m. on a Tuesday. She followed it immediately with another:

Alexia: Like… like actually learn it. With you. 💃🏽🕺🏽

You: You just compared yourself to a small man emoji.

Alexia: I panicked.

And that was it. A casual comment turned into a real plan. Three weeks later, when her birthday rolled around, you handed her a small red envelope.

"Ten salsa lessons," you said. "Beginner level, so we don't die."

Alexia’s eyes widened. “Wait, really?”

You shrugged. “You said you wanted to. You’re impossible to shop for. And, selfishly, I want to see you in dance shoes.”

She leaned in and kissed you. Soft and sure. “Best gift ever. Also, I’m leading.”

You snorted. “Of course you are.”

The first lesson was an exercise in humility.

Mostly yours.

“I didn’t think there would be this much… counting,” Alexia whispered, wide-eyed, as Marina, your instructor with a suspicious amount of cheer, clapped her hands and shouted, “ONE two THREE… FIVE six SEVEN!”

You were still trying to figure out what happened to four and eight when Alexia spun you effortlessly. Like she’d been waiting her whole life to salsa dance.

Meanwhile, you were trying not to trip over your own feet. Or hers. Or thin air.

“How are you already good at this?” you hissed. Exasperated, after the third turn you flubbed.

Alexia shrugged, smug. “Natural talent. Leadership skills. Strong sense of rhythm.”

“You played football, not Dancing with the Stars.”

“And yet here we are.” She winked. Catching your hand again like a pro. “Try to keep up.”

You wanted to throw a shoe at her. But you were still clinging to the hope that Marina would call a water break before you collapsed in shame.

Each week, it got worse. Or at least, you didn’t get better.

Alexia? She was thriving.

By week four, she was casually humming salsa tunes while brushing her teeth.

By week six, she had moved on to practicing spins in the living room. With a broom.

“Okay,” you snapped one evening as she dipped it, dipped it, with alarming grace, “if you give that broom one more longing stare, I’m going to lose it.”

She laughed, flipping imaginary hair over her shoulder. “What can I say? It follows my lead.”

You flopped onto the couch with a groan. “I hope it steps on your foot.”

“You’re just mad it dances better than you.”

She wasn’t wrong. But you weren’t going to give her that satisfaction.

Not yet.

You almost quit during week seven.

Not dramatically. Not with a speech or storming out of the studio. You just kind of… stopped. Halfway through a basic step, your feet froze, your timing went off and you pulled your hand out of Alexia’s before she could twirl you again.

“I can’t,” you muttered. Turning away. “I seriously can’t.”

Alexia, for once, didn’t make a joke. She stepped back. Giving you space and tilted her head just enough to catch your eye. “Hey,” she said gently, “what’s going on?”

You waved a hand at the mirror-lined wall like it could explain everything.

“I look like a broken marionette. My rhythm sucks. I’m offbeat. My brain can’t process the steps fast enough, and you...” You gestured toward her. “You’re out here channeling Shakira meets ballroom royalty. I’m just trying not to elbow you in the nose.”

Alexia stepped closer. Not touching you yet. Just… being there.

“You’re being hard on yourself,” she said. “It’s not a competition.”

“Easy for you to say. You’ve got the hips of a goddess and apparently, salsa blood in your veins.”

That got a laugh. “I absolutely do not. I just… like it.” She looked down. Nudging her foot against yours lightly. “But I didn’t start out good either, you know?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure you were born spinning.”

“I’ve been practicing at night,” she admitted sheepishly. “On YouTube. Tutorials. Watching our videos back. Because…” She trailed off and bit her lip.

“Because?”

“Because I wanted to impress you.”

You stared at her. “Are you kidding me?”

She finally took your hand again. Warm and steady. “You’re doing this for me. The least I could do is meet you halfway.”

Something softened in your chest. “I just didn’t want to suck at it,” you said. Quieter now. “I wanted to be good. With you. You’re so confident out there. And I feel like I’m always two beats behind and one misstep away from public humiliation.”

Alexia stepped forward until your foreheads almost touched. “You don’t need to be perfect for me. I didn’t want to learn salsa to become a professional dancer. I wanted to learn it with you.”

Your breath caught a little.

She grinned. “Also, you look very attractive when you’re angry at the music.”

You snorted. “This doesn’t mean I forgive you for dating the broom.”

She laughed. “I broke up with it. We weren’t spinning in the same direction.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. And that night, when Marina cued up the music again, you let yourself have fun with it.

You still missed half the steps. Your turns were slow. And your cross-body lead looked more like a traffic accident. But for the first time, you weren’t focused on being good.

You were focused on her.

Week eight was a revelation.

Somehow, you got it. Not perfectly, but enough. You hit a clean eight-count in time with Alexia. You turned and didn’t trip. You even dipped slightly at the end... and when you looked up at her, wide-eyed, she looked just as surprised as you did.

“You did it!” she gasped. “You didn’t maim me!”

“I know!” you shouted. Arms flailing with joy. “We didn’t look like baby giraffes learning to walk!”

“Okay, that’s a stretch,” she teased. “But yes. Much less giraffe-y. You even gave me a flourish at the end.”

You paused. “That was not intentional. I tripped on your shoelace and disguised it as style.”

Alexia grinned and kissed your forehead. “Well, your tripping has flair now. I love it.”

By week nine, you had a routine down. A rhythm. She would stretch while you filled your water bottle. You’d both complain about Marina’s obsession with clapping. She’d help you tie your shoelaces because, in her words, “You’re a liability and I like my toes unbroken.”

And somewhere between missed beats and shaky steps, you started to feel it. Not just the music, but yourself in it. She gave you her hand and instead of apologizing for where you placed your feet, you started looking her in the eyes again. Smiling. Moving.

Dancing.

After the last class, the night air was cool and still buzzing with leftover music.

You and Alexia walked home slowly. Fingers intertwined. Your limbs sore but heart full. She couldn’t stop smiling. Her little dimple kept peeking out like it had a mind of its own.

“I still can’t believe I didn’t fall during that last spin,” you said, limping slightly from your most dramatic dip to date.

“You were basically majestic,” Alexia said. Dead serious. “You should’ve had a wind machine behind you.”

You nudged her hip. “Save the dramatic flair for your broom ex.”

She chuckled, then checked her phone. “Okay,” she murmured. “She’s home.”

“Who?”

“My mom.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re going now?”

She nodded. “I told her I wanted to stop by. Didn’t say why.”

Her mother answered the door wearing her reading glasses and a mismatched set of pajamas... floral bottoms and a Barça hoodie that had clearly once belonged to Alexia.

“Hola, cariño,” she said. Smiling tiredly. “Everything okay?”

Alexia leaned in and kissed her on both cheeks. “I have a surprise.”

Her mom immediately narrowed her eyes. “Is it a dog? Because you’re still technically not allowed to surprise me with living things after that duck situation.”

Alexia laughed. “It’s not a dog... or duck.”

Her mother tilted her head. “What is it then?”

Alexia reached out her hand. Palm up.

“Dance with me.”

“… Excuse me?”

“Salsa,” she said. Grinning wide now. “I want to salsa with you.”

Her mom blinked. “Are you having a fever?”

“No. I’ve been taking lessons.”

Her mother stared at her for a full ten seconds. Mouth slightly open. “Since when do you dance?”

Alexia turned toward you. Who was standing behind her with your arms folded and the smuggest smile on your face.

“Since she gave it to me for my birthday.”

Her mom’s eyes darted between the two of you. “You’re serious?”

Alexia pulled her phone out. Thumbed through a few videos, and handed it over. You watched as her mother squinted, hit play, and then… went quiet.

It was your freestyle. Shaky camera work. A bit blurry but full of movement and laughter and something real.

When it ended, her mother looked up. Blinking fast.

“Tu padre would’ve loved that,” she said softly. “He used to say, ‘Dancing isn’t about the steps... it’s about who you’re holding.’”

Alexia took her hand again. A little firmer this time. “So come on. Let me hold you.”

Her mom let out a laugh. Half disbelieving. Half tearful. And shook her head. “I’m going to need to change first. If I’m doing this, I’m not dancing in duck pajamas.”

Alexia turned to you, face glowing. “She said yes.”

You smiled. “Told you. No one can resist your strong leadership energy.”

She kissed your cheek and whispered, “I learned from the best.”

They danced in the small living room. Alexia leading. Her mother laughing. Both occasionally forgetting the steps but remembering to smile through every one.

You watched from the couch. A quiet spectator to something bigger than music.

Grief. Joy. And love tangled between their hands like an invisible rhythm. Steady and healing.

At the end, her mom pulled her into a hug and whispered something only Alexia could hear. You saw her eyes close. Saw her swallow hard. Then she nodded.

Later... as you both slipped out and walked home under the city’s sleepy sky... she turned to you and said, “Thank you. For the gift.”

You bumped her shoulder. “I didn’t give you salsa. I just gave you lessons.”

She looked at you. Eyes soft. “Yeah. But I got so much more.”

Then she reached for your hand again. And this time, she didn’t need to lead. You both just walked. Quietly in step.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Writer's note: writing inspiration is drained. Not sure what to write next but I guess inspiration will come back soon

[onsomenewsht]

good, now let them get married

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.

[onsomenewsht]

for fucks sake

why did you change?

leah williamson x reader

part one, part two

summary: you meet leah in a VIP bar and can't decide what to do with her

words: 3625

content warnings: smut (i think), references to smut, just general misery

notes: this was fun lol x

also idk if any of you noticed, but all the part titles are lyrics from the smiths fun fact!

You fuck Leah in Zürich. 

It’s good. You said that last time. She bathes in your confirmation anyway. 

She saves your number in her contacts, saying, “I thought it was you but I wasn’t sure,” as if that explains why she never replied. As if that reveals to you how she miraculously found your hotel. “I wanted to tell you to ignore Alex,” she lies as you lead her to your room, the both of you knowing that this is a bad idea and accepting the mistake. Leah hesitates for a moment, taking in the hunger in your eyes. “I remember the rules.” 

You see her again in London. 

It’s not part of the schedule, not where you should be. Neither of you mention that. She messages you when you land. A charter to Luton. Nearby. Of women to fuck, one a twenty-minute taxi ride away is the most convenient. 

It becomes a rhythm. She doesn’t come to any other shows. Never asks about them. Doesn’t care whether you’ve added to the setlist or banned the glitter she had licked off your neck in Zürich. 

You familiarise yourself with the hotels in St Albans. Soon, with her house and the code for her gate. 

You keep moving – Munich, Amsterdam, Budapest – but London seems to be a regenerative point. You appear, sleep with her, and fly back with the ache still between your thighs. Your shoes are always off by the time she closes her door, coat dropped in the hallway. She always tastes of the ridiculous berry-flavoured electrolyte drinks she keeps stocked in her fridge. She shoves them into your hands just before you leave. 

It is neither kindness nor a joke. It’s a parting gift. You are certain it is because she has been drilled to think about hydration levels like they bring impending doom. You’re not sure you will ever grow to like their bitter taste. 

And still, it continues. 

You don’t text her from Vienna. You don’t call from Prague. But she seems to know when you will be circling back. Somehow. Like a bad habit she disappointedly awaits. 

One night, she’s in Paris at the same time as you. You’re playing a sold-out arena where no one listens to the lyrics; she’s playing in a Champions League match and scores in the 78th minute. The timing is off, but you get her message before you go on stage. 

1-0. You’re welcome.

You had made the mistake of letting it slip that you’d grown up in a red-and-white household. You regret it, deeply. 

You reply with a photo of the crowd and a message following it that just says, Sold out. 

She doesn’t respond. That’s the way it is. 

You joke once, half-asleep in her sheets, wearing down the minutes remaining in the space between sex and your taxi arriving, that you have never seen her play.

She shrugs. “Why? You’d hate it.” 

“You don’t know that.” You’re a little offended – no idea why. You’ve been to a football match before. Your father is a Manchester City fan. He took you with his family. He couldn’t shield you from the glares of his wife. 

Leah only smirks and shakes her head, because she knows she doesn’t have to explain. There’s hardly time for you to disagree, anyway. 

Weeks later, you’re at her house again. She buzzes you through the gate without a word. You’re barely past the threshold before her hands are on your waist. Clothes drop like the pretence of formality. Then she veers left, not towards the stairs that lead to her bedroom. 

The corridor opens into a study.

No. 

A shrine. 

Clean white walls, soft lights, and a glass cabinet full of medals and trophies. Some still shine like they were won last night. 

She presses you against it, her mouth at your neck. You let it go for a moment, her tongue hot enough to counteract the cold surge of glass against your bare back, until you push her away, breathless. She blinks at the glint of her silverware. 

“Did you want to show them to me or something?” you ask. She freezes. Only slightly. “Because this isn’t the way to your bedroom, and I’ve heard that you do have a gigantic ego.” 

She laughs. Head thrown back, eyes rolling. 

“I don’t show them to anyone,” she says, though you find that hard to believe. 

“Then why are we fucking next to them?” 

“I didn’t expect you to stop me.” 

“I didn’t expect a detour through your autobiography.” 

She bites your shoulder lightly and guides you backwards out of the room, into the hallway, then the bedroom. You quell your curiosity. 

Her bedroom is dark but you can tell she tidied before you came; dirty clothes folded and piled on a chair, bed made only for the covers to be ripped off as she pushes you onto it. 

She’s on top of you, moving like she’s got time to waste – a lie, but she tells it well. Her mouth is on your collarbone and her hips grind into you with the smug rhythm of someone who knows exactly how much she’s already turned you on. 

You’re trying to focus, trying to stay in it, but something is itching at the back of your mind. 

Your gaze flickers to the doorway. 

“Wait,” you blurt out, hand almost leaving Leah’s waist to cover your mouth. 

Leah stills. “What?” 

You hesitate, hating the question that rests in your tongue. You say it anyway. “Which ones are with England and which are with Arsenal?”

She blinks down at you. Her face is flushed, breathing a little heavy, and for a second she just stares, absolutely blindsided. “Are you seriously…” Her mouth twitches. “You want a medal breakdown now?” 

You shrug beneath her, already grinning. Her forehead crinkles from unfettered irritation. “You dragged me into your trophy porn palace. I’m just trying to understand what’s fucking me.”

Another beat passes with Leah’s gormless stare. Then, she groans like you’re the most frustrating, irresistible thing she has ever met. “You’re unbelievable.” She rolls off you, griping about the mood being killed under her breath, but she’s laughing. And then, to your surprise, she grabs your wrist. “Come on.”

“No way.” 

But you’re halfway out of the bedroom. And she’s so excited, you can tell, although she tries not to be. 

Half-naked. Flushed. Barefoot. 

She nudges the door open and flicks on the light. You look around again like you hadn’t the first time – not breathless, not with your back pressed to cold glass, not with impatience. 

Leah crosses to the cabinet like muscle memory is pulling her there. She points. 

“These,” she says, knocking gently on one glass shelf, “are club-level. Arsenal. Most of the silver ones. That’s the Conti Cup. That’s the FA Cup.” She reaches into a drawer and takes out a box. “This is the community shield. Far from flashy, but it still counts.” 

You squint. “And that one?” you ask, nodding towards the only medal not inside the case. It looks as though it had been haplessly dropped in the chair tucked under a desk. You briefly wonder what on earth she needs a desk for. 

She turns, following your gaze, and you see the change in her face before she says anything. The medal’s ribbon is thick, the metal heavy. Sleek. Recent. And she looks at it with pride. A different kind to the other accolades she has shown you. 

“That one,” she says, stepping over, lifting it gently. “Champions League. We beat Barça in May.” You remember how Jess went to the match, invited you to come with. How you’d scoffed and said no. How your younger brother, with whom you’d replaced your friend, insisted he put it on in the background as a die-hard Arsenal fan unsatisfied by the men’s season. 

“It was 1-0, wasn’t it?”

She nods and then walks back to you with it, dangling it loosely in her hand. “I haven’t put it away yet.” 

You look at her. “Still parading it around?” 

She snorts. 

“I don’t know where it should go.” 

Her answer is more pragmatic than you had expected. Then again, any humility Leah shows you never fails to surprise. 

She’s standing too close now. You’re still topless, still wet, but suddenly this feels too intimate for sex. You glance down at the medal in her hand, then back up. “Are you going to let me wear it?” 

“You want to?” 

You shrug. “Might as well flex my pretend abs and bathe in fantastical glory.” 

That makes her laugh. Then, without ceremony, she reaches up and drops it over your head, letting the ribbon settle around your neck, the weight of the medal thunking against your chest. 

It’s heavier than you had assumed. She adjusts it slightly, fingertips brushing your skin.

“There.” Her voice is suddenly quieter than before. “You’re officially decorated.”

She’s smiling, teeth showing, lips parted proudly. Her eyes reflect the trophies behind you. She exudes a warmth that you know you shouldn’t be seeing. 

You look down at her lips. 

Your mind flashes red and angry but intrigued. Wanting. It feels as though you are being torn apart. 

It’s spectacular. It’s painful. 

It’s a terrible, terrible thought. 

Still, it comes fast and stupid and true. 

You’re in love with her. 

Leah’s hands find your waist, lips on your neck, teeth scraping past the medal adorning it. You gasp into her. You force your eyes shut.

…

“Is this sanitary?” 

You jump out of bed, hastily pulling on a t-shirt that has been left to grow creases on the floor. The girl you were just about to go down on hides her face under the covers. 

“Jess!” Your tone should be enough for her to leave the room, but she doesn’t. “How did you even get in here?” 

“Your manager gave me the second key. Said something about you needing to be interrupted.” 

Angrily, you plonk back down on the bed, crossing your legs as if restraining yourself from physically attacking her. The girl’s legs are folded into her stomach, and you feel a bit bad for her. 

“Jess, turn around so she can leave.” 

It’s a clear dismissal of the girl, whoever she is.

She obliges, sighing at the sound of zippers being done up and the wet kiss the girl presses to your cheek as she scurries out of your hotel room. Arms folded, eyes closed, she only waits for the door to close before swivelling on her heels and giving you whiplash. 

“As I said, is that sanitary?” You look at her as though you don’t get it. “Multiple sexual partners.” 

“I get checked.” 

“I mean in an emotional sense.” She frowns. “What happened between you and Leah?” 

“We still fuck. When I’m around.” But Jess isn’t entirely convinced by your blasé demeanour. You falter. “It’s just harder to get flights to London during this part of the tour.” 

She walks towards you slowly, brushing the sheets of the bed as though that will purge it of the bodily fluids, before sitting down and mirroring your position. For some reason, it is hard not to flinch. 

“What happened between you and Leah?” she repeats. 

“How did you know we were…?” 

“Leah told Alex.” Right. You suppose it never was an official secret. Perhaps you’re just a bit more private. Or you shout less about your conquests. 

“Nothing happened,” you finally say. “We still fuck.” 

Jess looks at you in a way that forces you to confront the disappointment in her eyes. As you stare helplessly, you notice the care that mixes with it. She’s worried about you. 

“Why haven’t you let her kiss you?”

The answer rolls off your tongue, automatic, reflexive. Insincere. “I don’t let anyone–” 

“But this is Leah.” 

She raises an eyebrow. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first. 

“We just fuck.” 

There’s a pause. Jess doesn’t argue, but she wears an expression that belongs to an observer watching a car crash in slow motion. You hate that look.

“Apparently with you wearing her Champions League medal.” 

You shift, uncomfortable. “It was hot,” you defend, more to the sheets than to her.

“It was personal,” she counters, not missing a beat. “And there’s nothing wrong with that.” 

You want to point out that there is. Explaining would be fruitless, however, since Jess has never understood why you refuse to attach yourself to other humans and you have never had the courage to fully come out with it. 

Instead, when faced with this challenge, you deflect. Your arms fold over your chest, your eyebrows knit together. “Do you have an actual reason to be here?”

“It’s the last show before your break.” 

You’d like to be annoyed but it’s sweet that she knows that. It’s sweet that she can see the exhaustion in your eyes and the fatigue that weighs down your bones. It’s sweet that Jess gets how important the break over Christmas will be. Christmas is far too complicated to be cocktailed with performing, anyway.

“I wanted to offer you an escape for your favourite holiday, too,” she says after a moment. Gently. Treading on cracking ice. “If you don’t have plans?” 

You hesitate. “I think I’m spending it with my father.” 

“He asked you to?” 

“Well, Stephen and my mother are in the Maldives. Cecily is in New York.” The days of opening presents around the ostentatiously large tree are long gone. Your little sister perhaps wishes for the memories to linger, like of the Rockefeller and skiing with your step-father’s American friends. “God knows where our darling brother is. And so Johnny asked me and I agreed.” 

“That’s good!” She tried to be enthusiastic. 

You know she means it kindly, but the strained positivity make your throat feel tight. There’s no easy way to convey the place this second ‘home’ holds in your life — awkward dinners, a half-decorated room, forced attempts at wanting to be there. Your father’s wife still winces when she sees you, refuses to ever join the boys if they go to one of your shows. She can’t bear the reminder of her heartbreak. You can’t bear the scorch of your parents’ mistakes. 

Jess is watching you now and you realise that your silence has revealed far too much. She was already scrutinising you, aware of the situation, but now you have really exposed yourself. 

“I didn’t mean—” she starts.

“No, I know,” you cut in, voice a sharpened blade ready to kill this topic. You shake your head. “It is good. It’s good.” 

It isn’t. Not really. But it’s better than spending Christmas alone. Or worse… trying to invent an excuse for ending up in London just to perhaps see Leah again. 

You’re not sure what that would even look like. She’s probably let you in without asking why. Probably have one of those godawful drinks in hand as though she has been expecting you. Probably would have been. 

Jess sighs and stands. “Okay. Well, I said what I came to say.” 

You nod. 

She walks to the door and pauses, hand hovering over the handle. This time, her voice is softer. 

“You know you’re allowed to want something more, right?” 

You swallow. “What if I don’t?” 

She gives you a look that has had its frustration sucked out and replaced. You know she can see through you, as though your skin were transparent and your organs on show. Your heart on show. 

And then she leaves. 

…

You see Leah again in late January. 

The new year rolls in with fog and conflicted emotions. A kiss with a stranger — a man, just so it wouldn’t mean anything. A brief respite between a family that’s not yours and the intensity of the tour. 

That is until the emails start flooding in from people who you pay to care about your schedule. Demands, requests, suggestions. Chords to new songs with pleas for lyrics. 

You’re meant to be writing. Everyone expects you to be writing.

But you can’t. 

Then, the tour picks up again. The crowds are delighted and entertained, and the glitter never really washes out. With the rhythm comes the need to escape. You’re on a lead and the collar is itching. 

No one questions you when you ask for a layover in London. 

She answers your text in twenty minutes. 

You’re in London? 

Technically, you’re supposed to be elsewhere. 

I’ve got training tomorrow. Early. 

It means nothing, which you know. 

I haven’t changed my gate code.

You know this too. 

It isn’t long until Leah is pressing you against the inside of her front door, teeth desperately scraping your neck as if she has missed you. You slide your hands under the back of her training top (she has only just returned) and she gasps at the feeling (your hands are cold from the biting wind outside). 

You want her to gasp like that every second of every minute. Every minute of every hour. 

You want her to devour you. To free you. To trap you. 

You want her to fuck you until nothing else matters and it is just you in Leah’s bed, naked and wet, sweating and moaning and writhing until she makes you come. 

And. Well. 

You want her to kiss you. 

She is leading you to her bedroom, hand in yours, hair tousled. She doesn’t check to see if you’re still following, even when she drops your hand to pull off her clothes. She’s practical. Efficient. 

You’re standing there like a lemon. 

You only realise when Leah gives you a puzzled look, a flash of vulnerability crossing her face when she notices you haven’t copied her. 

“Are you okay?” she asks, and she shouldn’t have done that.

She really shouldn’t have. 

“Leah…” It comes out splintered, hoarse. 

For a moment, she hesitates, as if deciding whether or not to pry. But she does, because she can. Because you’d tell her. “What’s wrong?” 

“The rule.” 

Leah’s brows draw together. “Yeah, I know the rules.” 

You swallow hard, still fully clothed, still frozen. You shake your head. “No, I know you know the rules.” She moves towards you, a hornier version of a shrug, prepared to carry on. You shake your head again. “I don’t kiss the people I sleep with. I never have.” 

Her jaw tenses. “Okay,” she says, slowly. “I kind of figured that out.” 

You look away. The words don’t come easily. “Kissing is different, you know? It’s not like the rest of it. It’s… more dangerous. Or something.” 

You hear Leah’s breath hitch quietly, but she says nothing. 

“I know that sounds stupid,” you murmur. 

“No,” she says. “It doesn’t.”

Her eyes are calm. Understanding. Settled on you like that is where they belong. 

Her eyes are beautiful, you suddenly think to yourself. 

“Leah,” you start, and it’s so quiet it almost doesn’t count. “I want to.” 

Leah blinks. “You… want to kiss me?” 

No one can know about this. 

No one can know, you decide, even as she closes the distance between you, fingertips brushing lightly against your collarbone. She lets her fingers trail upwards, just barely grazing your jaw. 

“Are you sure?” 

You nod. It’s small, but it’s there. 

She smells like wind and perfume and the conditioner she pretends not to care about. You must smell like an aeroplane and cigarettes, and maybe the coffee you had with your salad at lunch. 

Leah doesn’t seem to mind. 

Your eyes flutter shut. 

When Leah kisses you, you feel as though you have lost the game. 

[onsomenewsht]

Alexia, my queen, keeps on giving

[onsomenewsht]

Not enough (but still yours)

Not sure how many words because my Google docs was unkind - the long story - Alexia Putellas x Reader - Angst

Writer's note: not my best work but I hope you still like it.

You’ve been awake since before the light.

Your chiquitina stirred at five-thirty with one of those tiny squeaks that always startle you into full alertness. Even after months.

She's in that half-sleep state now. Warm against your chest. Her little body draped like a koala across your hoodie. The same faded gray one Alexia used to steal before matches.

You haven’t taken it off in three days.

Her fingers twitch in sleep. You wonder if babies dream. If she dreams of voices. Of faces. You hope it’s yours. You hope it’s Alexia’s too.

The apartment is quiet in that way it only gets in early morning. When even the street noise is muted, like the city hasn’t remembered it’s supposed to be alive yet. You don’t mind it. You’ve come to love this hour. Just you and your chiquitina. Everything still soft.

You gently bounce her as you hum something under your breath. It’s not even a song, really. Just a sound you make now, something your body invented in the dark weeks after your mariquita was born. Something that calms you both. A shared language built from exhaustion and love.

The front door opens.

You don’t need to look. You feel her before you hear her. Alexia’s quiet way of entering. Her keys barely making a sound as she drops them in the bowl. That used to mean something. Now it just tightens something inside you.

You turn your head.

She’s still in her rehab gear. Black leggings. A fitted long-sleeve top. Hair scraped back like she’s trying to pull her focus tight enough to survive the day. Her eyes flick to you, briefly. They land on your mariquita for half a second.

And then she walks past.

No greeting. No 'Hola, amor.' No hand brushing your shoulder. No kiss for the baby. Just the soft scuff of her socks down the hallway and the bathroom door closing behind her.

The water starts running.

You’re left blinking at the blank space where she was a moment ago. Like you imagined her. Like she’s some echo you keep chasing through the apartment.

Your chiquitina stirs. Her nose wrinkles. Then she settles again with a sigh. You press your cheek to her forehead. She smells like sleep and milk. Like something impossibly alive.

You try not to feel anything.

But you do.

Of course you do.

You remember how Alexia used to come back from training and drop to her knees at the edge of the couch. Reaching for the baby like she couldn’t stand being apart one more second. How she used to bury her face in that soft tuft of baby hair and whisper, “Mi chiquitina, qué ganas tenía de verte.”

You remember how she used to look at you, like the world had narrowed to two people and one baby in a sunlit apartment. Like she’d never leave.

And now she showers with the door locked.

You shift your chiquitina higher against your chest and close your eyes.

“Still us,” you whisper, but the words fall flat in the empty room. “We’re still here.”

You close your eyes, and the memories come rushing back like a tide you never wanted to feel again.

You remember her hands first. Always warm. Warm enough to melt away any chill in the room. Warm enough to calm your mariquita’s cries in the dead of night. Those hands would cradle the baby’s tiny body, tracing slow circles on her back or gently brushing stray hairs from her forehead.

You remember how Alexia’s voice used to be. Soft and low. Like a secret meant only for your chiquitina and you. The lullabies she sang weren’t from any book or old tradition. She made them up. Little melodies that flowed from her heart. Words wrapped in the kind of love only a mother could invent:

“Duerme, mi niña, sueña sin miedo… aquí estoy, siempre te espero.”

Sleep, my girl, dream without fear... I’m here, always waiting for you.

And then there was the nickname. Chiquitina. You remember the first time she said it.

You had been struggling to soothe the baby one restless evening. Her tiny fists flailing like she was trying to grasp the whole world at once. Alexia had been watching quietly. Eyes heavy with fatigue but sparkling with tenderness.

She smiled softly. Bending close so only you could hear, and whispered: “Look at her, so little. Small but so fierce. That’s our chiquitina.”

It stuck instantly.

Chiquitina. The little one. A little symbol of hope and strength all wrapped in one small wriggling bundle.

But since the ACL injury, everything changed.

She’s quieter now, but it’s not the peaceful silence you once loved. It’s the kind born from frustration. From anger. The kind that makes her pull away even when she’s in the same room. It’s like a storm trapped inside her. Tearing at her from within.

You see it in her jaw. Tight and clenched when she thinks you’re not watching. In the way her hands tremble sometimes. Like they remember the strength they used to have but can’t find it anymore. In the sharp, haunted look she catches in the mirror.

She’s angry. Angry at her body. Angry at herself for the things she can’t control.

Conversations have shrunk to nods or quiet, clipped answers. No more late-night talks. No more whispered dreams. No more teasing smiles that made everything seem possible.

She rarely talks now.

Sometimes you think she’s here but not really. Llike she’s trapped somewhere between what was and what might never be.

And yet, you see her trying.

The mornings when she forces herself out of bed. The long hours in rehab, even when she cries quietly. The rare moments when she brushes her hand against your mariquita’s soft cheek, tentative but full of love.

You hold onto those moments like lifelines.

Because you love her.

Because you believe in her.

And because, even in the silence and distance, she’s still your Alexia.

Days blur together like watercolor paintings left out in the rain. Edges bleeding. Colors fading. You wake. You feed your chiquitina. You change diapers. You watch Alexia move around the apartment like a shadow passing through a room she no longer owns.

You try, every day, to bridge the silence between you.

One afternoon, after your chiquitina falls asleep in her crib, you find Alexia sitting on the couch. Scrolling through her phone. Her eyes are tired, but there’s something sharper in them today. A flicker of impatience, maybe.

You sit beside her, heart pounding quietly.

“How was rehab today?” you ask softly. Trying to sound casual. Like you’re talking about the weather, not the fragile state of her soul.

She shrugs, barely looking up. “Okay.”

Okay.

The word hangs between you like a cold fog.

You swallow the lump in your throat and try again, because you refuse to give up. “Maybe we could all go for a walk later? Fresh air might do our chiquitina good. And you too.”

Her eyes flicker toward the window, then away. “I’m tired.”

You nod, biting back the disappointment. “Okay. But if you change your mind... ”

She stands suddenly. Grabbing her rehab bag. “I’m going out.”

Before you can say anything, she’s gone, leaving the door ajar and a hollow space behind her.

Later that week, you bring your chiquitina to the living room. Bouncing her gently on your hip, and you find Alexia sitting quietly. A book unopened in her lap.

“Do you want to hold her?” you ask, hopeful.

She looks at the baby with a complicated expression. Longing mixed with something else. Maybe fear or frustration. She nods almost imperceptibly.

You carefully place your chiquitina in her arms.

At first, Alexia’s hands tremble as they settle around the baby’s soft frame. Your chiquitina looks up, eyes wide, then smiles. A small, bright thing. As if sensing the tension and trying to smooth it away.

Alexia’s lips twitch into a fragile smile. “Hola, mi chiquitina,” she whispers.

But when you reach out to touch her arm, she pulls away just slightly.

“I’m tired,” she says again. Voice low, barely above a whisper.

Tired of what, you wonder.

Tired of trying?

Tired of feeling broken?

You don’t say it aloud. You only nod and sit beside her. Your fingers brushing hers where they rest on your mariquita’s back.

It’s the smallest victory, but it’s something.

Still, you can feel the wall rising between you. Brick by brick.

And every time you try to knock it down with words or gestures, she steps further away.

You love her.

You want to be there for her.

But right now, the woman you know seems lost somewhere behind the silence. Somewhere behind the tiredness. Somewhere ehind the injury that stole more than just her body.

And you wonder... how much more can you hold before everything falls apart?

The days blur together in a slow, aching rhythm, but the nights... those are something else entirely.

She’s gone longer now.

Sometimes, it’s just a few extra hours at rehab or training. Other nights, she doesn’t come home until long after you’ve put your mariquita to bed. The front door’s soft click becomes a hollow echo in the empty apartment. Asound that used to mean relief but now only sharpens the silence between you.

You catch her in the living room one evening. Curled up on the couch. The flickering light of the TV casting shadows over her face. She’s watching film. The same clips she used to analyze obsessively. Breaking down every move with sharp eyes. But tonight, her gaze is distant. Glassy. Like she’s watching through the screen instead of at it.

You sit down beside her, hoping the quiet will invite her back. She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t reach for your hand. Doesn’t even glance your way.

Later, your chiquitina fusses again and your chest tightens with the ache you’ve learned to live with. The cracked, sore nipples that burn with every feeding. You try to catch Alexia’s attention, your voice gentle but urgent.

“Alexia... it’s really hurting today,” you say, trying not to sound desperate. “I don’t think I can keep going like this without some help.”

She shrugs. barely looking up. As if the pain is just a fact of life, something small and unimportant.

“It’s normal,” she says. The words cold and clipped.

Your throat tightens. You want to explain. How it feels like your body is betraying you. How every feed is a battle. How sometimes you cry in the shower because the pain is so sharp. But the words get stuck.

Instead, you swallow the lump in your throat. The familiar ache of being dismissed settling deep in your chest.

You want her to see you. To see your chiquitina. To see everything you’re juggling. Everything you’re sacrificing. But she seems so far away. Wrapped in her own world of frustration and exhaustion.

You catch yourself watching her. Trying to find a sign that she still loves you both. That beneath the distance, she still cares.

Sometimes, she’ll reach out and brush her fingers against your chiquitina's cheek or give you a fleeting smile that feels like a whisper of who she was before the injury.

But most days, she’s there but not really there. An island you can’t swim to.

You remember the early days. How she held your chiquitina close. How her voice could soothe any cry. How her hands were always warm. Steady. Full of love.

Now, even when she’s in the room, it feels like she’s shutting you both out. Like the injury took something from her that you can’t bring back.

And every time she shrugs off your pain or turns away when you try to talk, it breaks you a little more.

You don’t say it aloud, but sometimes you wonder if she even knows how much you’re hurting. Not just the physical pain, but the loneliness. The fear. The exhaustion of holding everything together alone.

You hold your chiquitina tighter that night. The weight of the silence pressing down on you.

And you realize, maybe for the first time, that love isn’t always enough.

The quiet between you has grown heavy. Like a storm waiting to break, and tonight, you can’t hold it in any longer.

You find her in the kitchen, standing by the window. Shoulders hunched as if carrying the weight of the world. The city lights blink softly behind her, but her eyes are dark. Distant. Like she’s somewhere else entirely.

Your chiquitina is asleep in the other room, but you can feel the tension coiling tight in your chest. Twisting every word you want to say into something fragile and uncertain.

You take a deep breath. Your voice barely more than a whisper. “Alexia... are you still with me? With us? With our chiquitina?”

She turns slowly, and you see it then... the storm inside her. Her eyes flash with a raw. Painful anger that stops you cold.

“You think I want to be like this?” she snaps, voice sharp and trembling with something fierce and broken all at once. “You think I planned to come back broken? To lose everything I worked for? To be... this?”

Her words cut through you. Sharper than any wound. And you can feel the tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.

You want to reach for her. To hold her. To say it’s going to be okay. But she’s pulling away faster than you can catch her.

Then, from the next room, your chiquitina's cry slices through the tension. A tiny, urgent sound that breaks the moment open.

Alexia’s body stiffens. For a second, you see the woman you love flicker in her eyes. The exhaustion. The guilt. The love tangled in the chaos. But then she turns her back and walks away without a word.

You’re left standing there. Heart pounding. Feeling like you’ve just lost her all over again.

The baby’s cries grow louder. Echoing through the empty space she leaves behind.

You want to scream. To beg her to stay. To tell her you need her.

But instead, you swallow the pain and go to your chiquitina. Holding her close as the silence closes in around you.

The day drags on like a storm with no end in sight.

Your chiquitina's cries have been relentless since morning. A high, desperate wail that rattles your nerves and fractures your patience. Her tiny body is burning with fever, and no matter how much you hold her. Rock her. Or soothe her. She won’t settle. She vomits again. This time, right down your shirt and you barely have the energy to change.

Your breasts ache in a way that feels different from the usual soreness. They’re swollen, almost burning beneath your skin and there’s this strange tightness you can’t ignore. You’ve been putting off calling the hospital, but now you know you can’t wait any longer. Something isn’t right.

You’re barely holding it together. Every breath feels like you’re drowning in exhaustion. Pain. And the crushing loneliness of doing it all alone.

You glance around the quiet apartmen. Empty except for the wails of your sick baby and realize Alexia isn’t here. Again. No note, no message, just silence.

That’s when the weight breaks you.

You gather your things and your mariquita, still whimpering in your arms, and head to Eli’s house. Alexia’s mother. You don’t even think twice. You just need somewhere. Anywhere, to let go.

When Eli opens the door, her eyes widen immediately. There’s no need for words. The chaos clings to you like a storm cloud. Your legs feel weak. Trembling beneath you as you step inside, clutching your chiquitina close. Her tiny body hot and restless against your chest.

Your voice cracks before you even realize you’re speaking. Words tumbling out in a flood as you try to hold yourself together but fail.

“The nights... I don’t sleep anymore,” you say, your throat raw and tight. “Our chiquitina cries and cries... like something’s wrong. Like she’s hurting but I can’t fix it. And my breasts... they burn, it’s not just soreness anymore. I think something’s wrong. I need to go to the hospital.”

You swallow hard. The lump in your throat nearly choking you. But the words keep spilling out.

“And Alexia… she’s gone. Not just out, but gone from us... From me... She doesn’t come home. She doesn’t talk. I’m alone in this, Eli. I’m so tired, and it’s like I’m sinking and no one’s there to pull me up.”

Tears spill over your cheeks. Hot and helpless. You cradle your chiquitina closer. Rocking her gently as the baby whimpers softly against your chest. Your body shakes with exhaustion. Grief. And the weight of trying to be everything for both of them when it feels like your own strength is running dry.

Behind the door... quiet and unseen, Alexia stands frozen. Your broken voice seeps through the walls, carrying every shattered piece of your heart.

Her breath catches. Sharp. Uneven. As if she’s been holding it without realizing.

Your pain crashes into her like a wave, breaking down the walls she thought would protect her, flooding the parts of her she had kept locked away.

Her eyes widen, shimmering with raw regret and sorrow.

Slowly, almost trembling, she steps into the room.

Without a word, she wraps her arms around you.

The tears she’s been holding back finally spill over, mingling with yours as you cling to each other.

You both cry. Quiet, broken sobs. As the tension. The loneliness. And the pain begin to unravel.

In that moment, with your chiquitina safe in your arms, you find each other again.

---------------------------------------------------------

Writer's note: I can maybe do another part where we go build their relationship up again. I feel like it's kinda unfinished? Even though the words were not coming out of me anymore... 🙈

[onsomenewsht]

I'm not any God strongest soldier

DROGA

Alexia Putellas x Reader

Based on Droga - Mora, C. Tangana

I apologise for any whiplash experienced while reading this x

[…]

The sea breeze whispers through the open doors of Alexia’s room in this year’s off-season villa, curtains billowing as though they are gently signalling her to get on with her day.

She groans when she wakes up alone.

She hasn’t yet grown accustomed to that.

With groggy eyes and blurred thoughts, as she sits up, the only thing that comes to mind is you. Last year. Italy and beautiful memories in that suite. A balcony that wasn’t as private as you had decided.

She smiles. She frowns.

If it were up to her, she’d do it all again. “Fuck Ibiza,” she’d say, and book somewhere for the two of you. She would get to know you once more, close the chasm that ruptured your relationship.

“Alexia!” Someone is shouting her name from outside. Probably Jenni, already in a bikini, halfway to drunkenness despite the sun still lingering in the east. “Alexia-a!”

“¿Qué quieres?” she barks back, wincing at the tension in her tone. She told herself she would be cool. Adaptable. Even if the roof has been blown off her house of love and only the skeleton is left.

Alexia shakes her limbs as though the pricks on her insides will disappear. Methodically, she prepares herself to have fun. She will have fun. She’s fine.

Jenni and Leila. It’s Jenni and Leila who ruin her mood.

As she has already reassured herself, she’s fine. But now she’s drunk. And she’s thinking — thinking about things. You, mostly. What happened. How it was entirely accidental on her part.

She didn’t give you her heart. It was a robbery. Stolen by smashing down walls and sweet-talking her into staying the night and going on dates and falling love. Alexia didn’t do love before you. Drunk-Alexia declares to Jenni and Leila that she will not be doing love after you, either.

“You’re still in love with her,” Leila says, eyes glistening under the warm string-lights draped across the imaginary walls of the villa’s patio. Her smile is encouraging. Satisfied.

Alexia is shaking her head. “But if I saw her with someone else”—she’s still disagreeing at this point—”I’d make a scene.”

“Oh, surprise, surprise,” Jenni drawls.

The laughter comprises of only two voices.

Much later, when drunk-Alexia has forced water down her throat and, when that didn’t quite fix her wobbling vision and hazy bad ideas, two fingers, she stumbles into the bed she commenced this miserable day in. Still alone. Still fine.

Still tossing and turning as if she might replicate the feeling of your body beside hers.

Still talking to herself, because her thoughts don’t quiet even though she has no one to share them with.

When Jenni shouts at her from the next room (“SHUT UP, ALE!”), she accepts the prompt to embark on her next step to bring herself closer to sleep.

Alexia, who scoffed at deep-breathing during her recovery and despises the inertia of yoga, meditates.

And it doesn’t fucking work.

Perdona la hora

It’s the first test she has sent you in three weeks. Perhaps it is pathetic that she hasn’t even lasted a month without you.

You read the message instantly.

You don’t reply. She doesn’t really know what to say past sorry.

The pain doesn’t get better. Alexia considers investing in pharmaceuticals — only some miracle drug could fix this.

You’re driving her wild and you’re not even here. No, you left. The absence is felt.

Your lingering presence is loathed.

Three dots appear as she continues to stare at the violation of post-break-up etiquette she couldn’t help but resign to.

Hola…

You must have spent a long time thinking about what to say. She’s comforted by the idea of you struggling just as much as she is. She is obviously more fine than you. So she’s winning. Even if she didn’t get a choice to participate in this competition.

Ibiza passes then. Almost in the blink of an eye.

On the final night, they get her drunk again and she calls you. “Try it with me again, even if it doesn’t last long.” She’s begging. She never does that.

“Alexia,” you warn. Your voice is hoarse. She must be upsetting you.

“I don’t want to look for you in other people,” she confesses.

You close your eyes.

“Please don’t say that.”

“But I mean it.”

“She means it,” chimes in an equally-hammered Leila.

You wince at how your ex’s friends are mocking her. You wince again when you catch yourself pitying your ex.

“Venga, vale.” Oh, that sounds like Jenni, although her tone is unusually responsible. “Say sorry for the late call, Ale.” You catch a murmured apology down the line.

“It’s fine, Jenni.”

Jenni chuckles, but this is separate from anything else you’ve been subjected to for the past twenty minutes.

“Have a nice evening,” she replies.

You’re free after that. Lying alone in your bedroom, boxes packed up and stacked in the corner. The ceiling is dull and grainy as your eyes slowly lose focus. You will yourself to sleep but the aching in your chest won’t let you float away.

In a month’s time, you will no longer feel this way. You’ll be somewhere else — somewhere free and new and exciting. You’ll meet someone else.

You solidify the mantra in your mind. You march around Barcelona with the promise silently playing on repeat. Your final days in the city are carried out with the enthusiasm of a dilapidated merry-go-round.

“You’re a pessimist,” is what your best-friend labels you as she chains you to her on her overly extensive shopping trip. “Or a nihilist.”

“I just no longer give a fuck.”

Her lips press tightly together. Then she looks you up and down.

“Mhm.” It’s not a sound that a convinced person would make. “You know, you’re allowed to admit you’re sad.”

“I’m the one who wanted it,” you protest. You’re not sure why you are arguing.

“I mean…” She trails off and doesn’t finish her sentence. You glare.

You know what she wants to say.

“Go on.”

“No, no,” she insists with a smirk. Perhaps this is a trap.

“No. Say what you wanted to say.”

Your firmness makes her laugh. Ridiculed, you turn your back and bless a rack of linens with your attention instead. She can fuck off with her truths and assumptions and oddly perceptive advice.

“She’s angry,” says Alba at the dinner table, fingers rubbing the dents in the wood she herself had made as a child in this very house.

Alexia looks up from her plate. Her mother has been alert to this impending topic since they all sat down for dinner, but she delays her intervention, awaiting a response from her eldest child.

The women hear a loud gulp. “How do you know that?” It’s sharp. Cutting. Alexia’s investment is poorly veiled.

“I saw her the other day. With a woman.”

“What did she look like?”

Alba thinks for a moment, trying to recollect details that really were just meant to provoke. She probably should have expected an interrogation so that’s on her. When she remembers, she says, “brunette. Small. Pija, I don’t know.”

“Her friend.”

Alba raises an eyebrow at her sister’s firmness. “Anyway, yeah. I saw her with her friend or whatever. She looked bummed the fuck out. And kind of… bored.”

“Sad and bored?” Alexia could jump for joy at this very moment.

She’s so winning.

She doesn't need to invent a drug because maybe you’ll do it before her.

You performed some kind of witchcraft on her, she has concluded in recent days; you put a spell on her. Perhaps you had read about it. You were always reading.

You remind her of a dog who always runs away but goes straight home when it is finally set free.

She should resent it, but she feels mildly inclined to remind you what it feels like to be close to each other. Plus, she’s not sure anything else will blunt the knife piercing through her chest.

Perdona la hora

Her teeth sink into her lip as she sees her message go through.

Otra vez, she adds.

She imagines you must be more reluctant to read it now that you have no certainty regarding her alcohol intake.

Hola Alexia

Something like disappointment settles in her gut.

K quieres?

Alexia signed her way into this without reading the small print.

No sé — typed out hesitantly.

Three dots appear. It’s as if you can see her burning alive and are finding even more cans of fuel to douse her in.

Your response is a statement. A deflection.

You called me

Alexia could make a thousand excuses. She settles on ‘I was drunk’. She cannot bring herself to explain the truth.

You begged, you text back, instantly. You said “try it with me again”

This could be an addiction. She’s never satisfied. She never will be — not when it comes to you.

Well I still mean it.

You take a long time to even start typing. She rolls over onto her side, tucking her elbows into her stomach and bringing her phone closer, as if examining it with care will provide solutions for unspoken problems.

You left without saying goodbye: Alexia wants to say that, to send the message she has already typed out. It’s hardly productive but it means a lot to her. If you knew the impact your stupid fucking breakup text has had on her life this last month… well, maybe you’d at least grant her the mercy of no longer replying to her.

Alexia doesn’t even know why the hell she’s texting you right now in the first place.

You type. You stop. You restart.

You bite your lip and kick at your duvet, suddenly far too hot under the covers.

You sigh and you delete a word.

You type some more.

You take a deep breath.

Then come here.

You both know that she will.