༺☆༻

neve | any pronouns | 19

[lyricii]

strangers

pairing: uconn!dallas wings!paige!exs!lovers x uconn!dallas wings!reader!exs!lovers

wc: 3.8k

request: y/n

anon asked: I was thinking for the first one that Y/n was crashing out because the referees called her for an offensive foul but she’s the one who got screened

summary: the whistle blows and you're already gone and the only person who can pull you back is the one person you're not supposed to still know that well.

🏷️: @333dee, @timunhater, @marleymarleymarleymarley, @yourmom-25s-blog, @authentic-girl03, @sammiejane22, @ladyluvbugs, @italy4life, @nervoussagittarius, @ilovemesomepb

the whistle cuts through the arena before you've even landed an offensive foul on your number you whip around so fast your ponytail catches you in the face, and you're already talking before you've decided to—she screened me, are you kidding me, she was standing right there—and the ref doesn't even look at you, just points down the court like your entire body of evidence is beneath a response.

indiana's bench is already up, clapping, someone yelling something you can't hear over the blood in your ears your own bench is quiet in the specific way it goes quiet when they think you might actually get tossed you don't remember deciding to walk toward the ref. 

you just know you're moving, and coach fernandez is already off the bench, and there's a hand closing around your bicep from behind, not rough, not grabbing, just there, solid, familiar in a way your body recognizes half a second before your brain does. "hey." paige's voice, low, pitched just for you. "hey — look at me, not him."

you don't want to look at her looking at her has never once made anything easier. "that was a clean screen, paige, she was standing —"

"i know." she's already walking you backward, toward the bench, her hand sliding down to your wrist like she's done it a thousand times, because she has. "i know it was a bad call. you're not wrong. but you're about to be out if you don't sit down in the next ten seconds, so sit down."

the way she says it is not soft, not coddling, just certain is the only reason you let her steer you onto the bench instead of the girl who fouled you somewhere in the part of your brain that isn't currently on fire, you register that everyone is watching this. 

watching her handle you like it's nothing like it's normal like she isn't the one person on this team who used to know exactly what your hands were doing under a blanket at two in the morning in a dorm room three states from here. "breathe," she says, crouching in front of you so her back is to the court, blocking you from the cameras panning the bench. "in for four."

"i don't need —"

"in for four." her eyes don't move off yours. "you're not doing the ref any favors by getting a tech. you're doing it for you."

you breathe it's humiliating how easily your body still listens to her it wasn't supposed to be like this none of it was storrs, sophomore year, a supply closet that smelled like dry-erase markers, her hand fisted in the front of your jersey like she couldn't decide whether to shove you away or pull you closer. 

it had gone on for two years like that quiet, contained, folded into the corners of a life that had no room in it for anything that might get out.

people will make it about the team, she'd said, the night she ended it, the two of you sitting in her car in a parking lot because it was the only place that felt private enough. they'll say we're playing favorites with each other. they'll say it's why i get more touches. i can't have that follow me into the league.

you remember not crying you remember being proud of that, in the sick way you're proud of things that cost you something you remember saying okay like it was a normal word and not the worst one you'd ever had to use.

you didn't know then that you'd both end up drafted to the same team you don't know, even now, whether that was luck or something crueler. "you good?" her voice again, present tense, snapping you back into the arena, the scoreboard, the fourth quarter about to start without you in it.

"i'm good."

"you're not, but you will be in about ninety seconds, so." she stands, offers you a hand up like it's nothing, like her palm against yours isn't a small, private earthquake every single time. "coach wants you back in with four on the clock. can you give her four clean minutes?"

"yeah."

"say it like you believe it."

you almost laugh it startles you that she can still do that, pull something unclenched out of you in the middle of the worst quarter of your season. "yeah, paige. four clean minutes."

"good." she squeezes your hand once, quick, before she lets go quick enough that no one watching would call it anything quick enough that only you would know it happened at all. "go be a problem for indiana instead of the refs."

you give her four clean minutes you give her a game-tying three with forty seconds left, actually, and when you look to the bench on the way back down the court she's already looking at you, not celebrating, just watching, the way she used to watch you across a dorm room like she was memorizing something she knew she wasn't allowed to keep.

dallas wins by six in the tunnel after, your teammates peel off toward the locker room in loud, happy clumps, and you hang back to retie a shoe that doesn't need retying, and paige hangs back too, because some habits don't unlearn themselves just because you told each other they had to.

"you good?" she asks again, quieter this time, no bench, no cameras, no team five feet away pretending not to listen. "i don't know how you do that." you're not looking at her. you're looking at your shoe. "talk me down like it's nothing. like you're not —"

"like i'm not what."

like you're not the reason i needed talking down from in the first place tonight, you don't say. like some part of me was crashing out about a foul call and a bigger part of me was crashing out about four years ago and you can't tell the difference from the outside, but i can't stop knowing it.

"nothing," you say instead. "forget it." she's quiet for a second too long. "i don't forget it," she says finally, and it's not clear if she means the game, or the question, or something further back than either of those. "i just got good at not saying so."

you don't have an answer for that you're not sure there is one that doesn't reopen something you both agreed, once, in a parked car, to keep closed.

"good game, paige," you say, because it's easier than the truth, and you leave her standing in the tunnel light with her hands in her pockets and an expression you used to be the only person allowed to read.

she doesn't stop you, you don't know, walking away, if that's relief or the thing that's going to keep you up tonight maybe it's both it usually is with her.

it's eleven seconds of footage and it's everywhere by the time you wake up you, on the bench, reese crouched in front of you blocking the cameras her hand on your wrist the way you're looking at her not at the ref, not at the court, just at her, like she's the only stable thing in a building full of noise. 

someone's slowed it down and put a sad piano song under it and the caption says the way she talks her down every single time 🥹and it has four hundred thousand notes by the time your coffee's cold.

you don't watch it paige texts you a screenshot at 8am with no caption at all, which somehow says more than words would have the reporter asks about it before shootaround, phone already out, already recording.

"there's a clip going around from last night — you and paige bueckers on the bench. people are calling it one of the best teammate moments of the season. can you talk about that chemistry?"

chemistry like it's a stat like it's something that started this year.

"paige is good at keeping people even-keeled," you say, and it's true, and it costs you nothing to say, and it still feels like handing someone a photograph with half of it torn off. "she's been doing that for me since college, honestly. she just — knows how to get through to me."

you didn't mean to say since college it slips out easily, unremarkable, the kind of true thing that's dangerous specifically because it sounds so ordinary the reporter doesn't clock it why would she you and paige went to the same school; it's public record, it's nothing, it's two lines in both your wikipedia pages. only you know what's folded up inside those four words.

zaza finds you at your locker after, arms crossed, the specific look on her face that means she was your teammate in college too and she remembers more than she's ever said out loud. "since college, huh."

"we were teammates. it's not a secret."

"i didn't say it was a secret." zaza's voice stays light, easy, but her eyes don't. "i said since college, huh — because i was there, and i remember exactly how much keeping you even-keeled reese used to do for you at two a.m. in dorms she wasn't assigned to."

your stomach drops the way it does every time someone gets close to the thing without saying the thing. "zaza —"

"i'm not saying anything." she holds her hands up. "i'm just saying that clip is doing four hundred thousand notes of a story you two clearly haven't finished telling yourselves, let alone anyone else."

she leaves before you can answer, which is its own kind of mercy, because you don't have one as paige finds you in the hallway outside the locker room, hood up, eyes tired in the specific way that means she's seen the clip more than once. "you told a reporter since college."

"i didn't think —"

"i know you didn't think. that's not what i'm —" she stops, drags a hand down her face. "it's fine. it's true. it's not even the part that matters."

"then what's the part that matters?" she looks at you for a long moment, long enough that you feel it in your chest, that old specific ache of being looked at by someone who used to be allowed to look at you for as long as she wanted.

"the part that matters," she says finally, "is that four hundred thousand people watched eleven seconds of us and called it the best thing they saw all night, and neither of us can say why it looked like that. and i don't think either of us has figured out yet whether that's a coincidence or not."

you don't have an answer you're not sure there is one that doesn't require opening a door you both spent four years agreeing to keep shut. "i have to get to shootaround," you say, which isn't an answer either, just an exit.

"yeah." she steps back, lets you have it. "me too." neither of you moves for a second longer than the exchange requires then you both do, in opposite directions, and the clip keeps climbing notes behind you, telling a story neither of you has agreed to finish.

you beat the toronto tempo two nights later a real win, a statement win, the kind that snaps a three-game skid against them and has the whole locker room loud in a way that has nothing to do with clips or reporters and someone's parents have rented out the top floor of a bar downtown, and by eleven o'clock zaza is doing a truly unhinged rendition of a song from a movie no one under thirty has seen, and paige is sitting next to you on a bar stool with two drinks in her and her shoulder warm against yours. "can i tell you something," she says, the words a little soft at the edges.

"you can always tell me something."

"i think about the closet a lot." she says it into her glass, not looking at you. "the one at storrs. i know that's insane. i know it's been years. i just — i think about it a lot." your heart does something complicated and fast. "paige —"

"i think i made the wrong call," she says, still not looking at you, "back then. i think i picked something that felt safe and it wasn't even — it wasn't even that safe, it just felt like something i could control, and i traded you for it, and i've been regretting it for so long i stopped calling it regret and just started calling it normal."

you should say something you don't, for a second too long, and she seems to hear the silence for what it almost is, because she laughs, short and a little broken. "you don't have to say anything back. i'm just drunk enough to finally say it out loud." and that drunk enough is the exact thing that lets you off the hook, and you take it, because it's easier than the alternative.

"you're drunk," you say, gently, like you're handing her an excuse she can use tomorrow. "we don't have to talk about this right now."

something in her face closes, just slightly, just enough that you notice. "yeah," she says. "you're right. i'm drunk." she doesn't bring it up again that night you tell yourself that's a mercy you don't sleep much either way.

she finds you two days later, at your locker after practice, everyone else already gone, and she's not drunk this time, and her voice doesn't have soft edges anymore it's steady; it's the voice she uses on the bench when she needs you to actually hear her. "i need to say something and i need you to let me finish before you tell me i'm just something."

your stomach flips. "paige —"

"let me finish." she takes a breath. "i said something at the bar the other night and you let me off the hook for it, and i let you, because it was easier that night. but i wasn't drunk enough to make it up. i was drunk enough to finally say it. those aren't the same thing."

you don't move. "i picked my image over you," she says, "when we were twenty, and i've spent every year since then telling myself it was the smart choice, the responsible one, and maybe it was, for my career, i don't know. but it wasn't smart for me. and it's been four years of watching you across locker rooms and benches and tunnels, knowing exactly how you take your coffee and which shoulder you sleep on and what your face does right before you cry, and telling myself none of that means anything anymore because i'm the one who ended it."

"paige —"

"i'm not done." her voice shakes, just barely, just enough that you know it's costing her something to keep going. "i'm not asking you to forgive four years in one conversation. i'm not even asking you to want this back. i just needed you to know it wasn't the alcohol talking at the bar. the alcohol just made me brave enough to say out loud what's been true the entire time. i love you. i don't think i ever stopped. i just got very good at pretending i had."

the locker room is quiet enough that you can hear the hum of the vending machine down the hall. you can hear your own heartbeat, honestly, loud and stupid and four years overdue. "you can't just —" your voice cracks and you hate that it does. "you can't say that like it undoes what it cost me. you left me in a parking lot, res. you made a decision about both of us and only told me after it was already made."

"i know." she doesn't flinch from it. "i'm not asking you to pretend that didn't happen. i'm asking you to know that i've spent four years wishing i'd chosen differently, and i finally have enough nerve to say so, sober, in a locker room, with nothing to blame it on."

you look at her really look, the way you haven't let yourself in years, not the bench-crouch, careful, professional look, but the full weight of it and something in your chest that's been clenched since a car in a parking lot four years ago loosens, just slightly, just enough to feel dangerous. "i'm not saying yes to anything tonight," you say, finally, quietly.

"i'm not asking you to."

"but i'm not saying no, either." you exhale, and it shakes on the way out. "ask me again. properly. when it's not eleven at night and neither of us has just showered off a practice." something in her face breaks open, relief and disbelief tangled together. "yeah?"

"yeah, paige." you almost laugh, and it almost turns into something else. "ask me again."

"okay." she nods, like she's filing it away somewhere she won't lose it this time. "okay. i will." and then, like she can't quite help herself, like four years of holding back finally runs out of road she closes the distance and kisses you. soft, careful, asking permission even as she does it, one hand coming up to rest against your jaw like she's afraid you'll disappear if she doesn't.

you let her for a second, just one, you let yourself have this before you pull back. "that wasn't asking properly," you murmur, breathless, forehead still close to hers. "no." her thumb brushes your cheek, reluctant to let go. "that one was just for me. the real ask is still coming."

"good." you exhale, and it shakes on the way out, but it isn't just nerves this time. "make it count."

"i will." she presses one more kiss to your temple, brief, promise-shaped, before she finally steps back — and for the first time in four years, the space between you doesn't feel like distance it feels like something you're finally, both of you, walking toward.

she asks properly three days later not at a bar, not in a locker room with the vending machine humming down the hall she asks at your apartment, showered and sober and visibly more nervous than you've ever seen her on a court, holding a bag of takeout from the place you used to order from in storrs like she remembered on purpose.

"i said i'd ask you properly," she says, standing in your doorway, "so. can i come in, and can i ask you properly, and can you please not make this harder than it already is for me, because i've rehearsed this in my car for twenty minutes."

you step back and let her in. "you rehearsed it?"

"extensively." she sets the bag down on your counter like it's fragile. "okay. here it is." she takes a breath, and for a second she looks exactly like she did in a parking lot four years ago except this time she's not the one leaving. "i don't want to hide this anymore. any of it. not because i'm not scared of what people will say, because i am, i think i'll always be a little bit scared of that. but i'd rather be scared and honest than safe and lying to both of us again. i want to date you. actually date you. tell people, if you want to. not tell people, if you don't. i just don't want it to be a secret anymore just because that's easier for me." your chest does something complicated and warm. "that's a good ask."

"i practiced it twenty times."

"i believe you." you cross the space between you, slow, deliberate, the way she was with you in the tunnel that first night. "yes, res. i'll date you. properly. loudly, if you want. quietly, if that's what you need. i just want it to be real, however we do it."

relief breaks over her face like something physical, and this time when she kisses you there's no hesitation in it, no asking permission first just four years of waiting finally allowed to land somewhere. "for the record," she murmurs against your mouth, "i would've said all that even without the rehearsed speech."

"i know." you're smiling too hard to hide it. "but i'm glad you rehearsed it anyway."

"twenty times," she says again, like she can't quite believe she's here, saying it, meaning it, with nothing left to blame it on. "i wanted to get it right."

"you did." you pull her back in before she can say anything else. "you got it right."

the takeout goes cold on the counter for a while neither of you mind later, sitting cross-legged on your couch with cartons balanced between you, she tells you the rest of it the parts she didn't have room for in the doorway. 

how she almost said something after your first game together this season, and lost her nerve how zaza cornered her in the weight room two days ago and said, flatly, if you don't tell her, i will, and i'll embarrass you both doing it — which paige swears is the real reason she finally worked up the courage.

"i owe zaza," you say.

"zaza's insufferable and i owe her everything." as paige steals a piece of your food without asking, the way she used to. "she's going to be unbearable about this, you know. she's going to act like she orchestrated the whole thing."

"she kind of did."

"don't tell her that." you laugh, and it feels easy in a way it hasn't in years not careful, not folded into a locker room or a parked car, just yours, out loud, in your own apartment with no one to hide it from. "so what happens now," you ask, "with the team. the reporters. all of it."

"whatever we want to happen." paige shrugs, but her eyes stay steady on you. "we don't owe anyone an announcement. we also don't owe anyone a secret. if someone asks, i'm not going to lie about it anymore. i'm just done doing that part."

"okay." you set your carton down, lean into her shoulder, feel her arm come around you like it's always belonged there. "no more secrets, then."

"no more secrets." she presses a kiss into your hair. "just us. finally just—us."

outside, dallas is still buzzing about the win over toronto, and somewhere a clip of the two of you is probably still circulating, still collecting captions from strangers who don't know the half of it. 

but in here, on this couch, with cold takeout and four years of unfinished sentences finally put down, none of that matters you got here that's the only part that counts now.

[ceesimz]

are you my soulmate?

maybe the team’s endless meddling isn’t such a bad thing after all, even if you do wake up in a bed that isn't yours with a slight hangover. (16k of chaos and confessions)

Alexia knew, objectively, that inviting nearly the entire team over to her house had been her own decision.

That did not stop her from regretting it a little now.

(Majorly. Majorly regretting it.)

“Well,” Irene murmured from beside her, sipping calmly from her bottle of beer. “At least they haven’t broken anything yet.” 

“Don’t jinx it, Irene.” 

Alexia kept her eyes on the scene playing out in her backyard, her fingers curled loosely around the neck of her own bottle. The condensation was already slicking her palm, a losing battle against the lingering heat of a Barcelona summer dusk.

Around them, the garden had settled into the easy, sprawling chaos of an end-of-season night. Music drifted from the speakers in her ceiling, a mix of reggaeton and something a little mellower (it was a barbecue after all, not an Ibiza outing). There was a rare and welcome kind of lightness to the team when the pressures of the season finally broke. 

Alexia watched them all, a passive smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. It was a good view. It was her home, filled with her people, at the end of a year that had taken everything out of them. She should have been relaxed.

She wasn’t.

Her gaze drifted, entirely out of her own control, toward the other end of the patio. 

You were sitting on the low stone wall, one leg tucked beneath you, laughing at something Kika had just said. You were holding a fresh beer – your third, if Alexia’s internal, irritatingly precise counter was accurate – and the fading sunlight was catching the edge of your shoulder, turning the skin there a soft, golden tone.

You looked at ease. A part of the landscape.

And you hadn't looked at Alexia once in twenty minutes.

“You're doing it again,” Irene said, her voice dropping below the volume of the music, though she didn't turn her head. She just took another slow sip of her beer, her eyes fixed forward on the patio.

Alexia’s jaw tightened. She took a deliberate drink of her own beer, the crisp bitterness doing nothing to clear the sudden, tight heat in her throat. “Doing what?”

“Staring at her like you're trying to figure out if she's a tactical problem you can solve by running harder.” Irene shifted her weight, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. “It's June, Ale. The season is over. You don't have to mark her out of the game anymore.”

“I am not marking her," Alexia muttered, her voice clipped, though her ears felt suddenly warmer than the night air warranted. “I am hosting. I am ensuring my guests have everything they need.”

“Right. Of course.” Irene tapped her bottle against Alexia's with a dull clink. “That must be why you've spent the last ten minutes looking like you want to, first, physically remove Kika from her personal space, and then personally remove her clothes.”

Alexia choked.

A sudden, dramatic splash of a cough that sent the crisp liquid straight to the back of her throat. She swallowed hard, her knuckles tightening around the neck of her bottle as she tried, with every ounce of discipline possessed, to keep her features entirely flat.

“Irene,” She hissed, her voice dropping to the low and lethal register that usually meant she was scolding a teammate for mouthing off to the referee, seconds away from a yellow.

“What?” 

Irene didn’t even blink. She just took another casual sip, the glass bottle clinking softly against her teeth as she watched Patri teach Clara, who apparently had a bit of a fear of open flames, carefully flip the meat over on the grill. The younger midfielder managed two steaks before she screeched and jumped away as the juices sizzled on the coals.

“Watch your mouth,” Alexia muttered, her cheeks burning with a heat that had absolutely nothing to do with the warm Mediterranean air. She shifted her stance, deliberately turning her back slightly toward the patio to break her own line of sight. “She’s a teammate. It is completely inappropriate to say things like that. If anyone heard you–”

“Nobody is listening, Ale. Everyone is halfway into their fourth drink, except you, who has been nursing that same bottle like a sixteen-year-old at their first house party. And Patri, who I’m convinced is trying to smoke us all out with that grill.” Irene finally turned her head, fixing the captain with a calm, unimpressed look. “And let’s be honest–”

“I don’t want you to be honest.”

“–if I said that in the locker room? Half the squad would agree with me. The tension between you is thicker than Pere’s hair.”

Alexia closed her eyes for a brief second. “There is no tension, Irene.”

“There is enough tension to string a tennis racket!” Irene exclaimed with an outraged lift of her shoulders, though entirely untroubled by the stare she was receiving. “You’ve spent the last six weeks passing to her only when necessary in training because every time you get within a two-metre radius of her, you look like you’ve forgotten how to play football. You have also spent almost the whole season blushing like a love-sick teenager anytime you talk to her.”

“Oh my God, no I h–”

“It’s pathetic, really.” Irene shrugged with a sigh. “You’re the captain. Fix up and fix it.”

“There is nothing to fix!” Alexia insisted, though… her words felt hollow even to her own ears.

She knew Irene was right. At least about the physical reality of it– the blushes. She really was like a teenager with a crush. 

And in training, too. Which was fucking foolish. 

It was a strange and irritating sort of paralysis that’d settled into her bones recently. On the pitch, she could read a game three steps ahead of anyone else; a trait she’d always been proud of. She knew exactly where the space would open and exactly when to release the ball. That didn’t change during actual games, which she was glad for. 

But when you ran up beside her, when your shoulder brushed hers in the midfield or when you gave her that small breathless grin after a solid transition? Her brain simply emptied out. It was a biological design flaw.

Two ballon d’ors, maybe soon to be three, and she still went weak at the knees in training when her crush smiled at her. 

So unprofessional.

“If you say so.” Irene murmured, her tone dripping with an infuriating lack of belief. She tapped her fingers against her beer bottle. “But if you don’t do something about it before pre-season, so two whole months, I’m going to actually bang your heads together. Concussion protocol date. In bed. Low-lighting, no phone distractions…”

“My god, Irene. Two kids has sunk you beyond saving.” Alexia tutted under her breath with an eye roll.

“I haven’t slept in two days, Ale. I think I can see the veins in my eyes.” 

Before Alexia could express any semblance of concern for the Basque woman, a loud burst of laughter erupted from the low stone wall.

Alexia’s eyes snapped back over her shoulder, bypassing her own rules.

Kika had her arm thrown over your shoulders now, her face bright and animated as she leaned in close to your ear, whispering something that had you throwing your head back, your laughter clear over the music. You looked slightly flushed, the tipsy looseness of the evening finally catching up to you as you leaned into Kika’s side.

Right on cue, Marta drifted past the wall, subtly dropping a fresh, cold bottle into your lap while winking at Kika. It was a seamless handoff, so quick that under normal circumstances Alexia wouldn’t have thought twice about it.

But tonight, with Irene’s words lingering in the air, Alexia’s eyes narrowed.

There was also a huddle forming. Patri and Clara had abandoned the cooking lesson and were now drifting toward you, effectively cordoning you off into a small circle of the yard. 

“They're up to something.” Alexia grumbled, her host instincts overriding her embarrassment.

Irene followed her gaze, her eyes tracking the movement of the younger players. A tiny, knowing smirk touched the corner of her lips, though she quickly hid it behind another drink.

“They're just enjoying the night, Ale.” Irene said smoothly, though she didn't sound too convincing. “You should do the same. Go talk to someone who isn't me.”

“Ale!” Patri’s voice boomed across the grass, cutting through the heavy reggaeton beat. She was holding up an empty green bottle, shaking it upside down for emphasis. “The cooler out here is empty! We are parched!”

The brunette let out a slow sigh, shooting a sideways glance at Irene. “Parched, she says. They’ve gone through four crates in two hours. Why did I host this, again?”

Before she could even take a step toward the glass double doors of her kitchen, Patri shouted again, her eyes darting over toward the stone wall with a look that was too sharp for someone who’d been allegedly huffing grill smoke and an unknown amount of beers all evening.

“Oye! Don’t go on your own, it’s heavy! You–” Patri pointed a blunt finger directly at you, your alcohol-flushed face blinking in surprise. “Go help her. Show some respect to our host.”

“I c-can manage perfectly fine–” Alexia started, her voice tight, but Kika was already giving you a gentle, completely unnecessary shove from the wall. 

“Go on, help her out.” Kika grinned, her fingers subtly tapping your hip as you stood up.

You didn’t look annoyed at all. In fact, as you steadied your footing against the grass, a warm smile broke across your face. The type of smile that only came after three and a half beers; unfiltered and lacking the careful, self-conscious guard you usually kept up around her. 

You looked straight at Alexia, your eyes slightly glassy but full of a soft, hazy affection. 

“Lead the way, our gracious host.” You said, your voice a little louder, a little looser than normal.

Alexia’s chest did a violent and uncalled-for flip. 

She swallowed hard, offering you an awkward knot of a smile in return, and grabbed the cooler before turning on her heel to hide the immediate pink flush creeping up the back of her neck.

As the glass doors slid shut behind the two of you, cutting off the bass of the music, a sudden silence descended upon the garden.

Irene didn’t move from her spot, but she didn’t have too. Within three seconds, a conspiratorial huddle had formed exactly where she stood. Marta arrived first, holding her beer like a weapon, closely followed by Vicky, Cata, and Pina, while Patri abandoned the grill entirely to jog over. On the other side of the patio, Kika immediately corralled Clara, Esmee, and Sydney to follow her over too.

The rest of the squad, the ones who hadn’t been roped into the weeks of subtle matchmaking (or just didn’t want to involve themselves), simply watched on from the outdoor sofas with varying expressions of amusement and exasperation.

“Alright, we don’t have much time.” Patri said as she wiped her brow with the back of her forearm, smelling faintly of smoke. She leaned into the center of the huddle, her eyes locked onto the kitchen window where two silhouettes were moving behind the glass. “They’re in the pantry. If Alexia takes her time to count the bottles like she usually does, we have a few minutes.”

“She will definitely count them.” Marta scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. Her eyes were gleaming with mischief. “Anyway, not the problem. The problem is that they’ve been doing this awkward dance all season, these last couple months especially. I am tired of watching them exchange glances across the tables at the canteen like they’re in a culebrón.”

There was a collective noise of agreement, along with a few comments of exasperation and tutting of tongues.

“We all are.” Cata chimed in. “It’s painful. Last week, she asked Alexia to put the GPS thing in her vest, and Alexia’s face was red for the whole hour.”

Irene stood at the edge of the circle, her head tilted slightly as she kept watch. “Alexia won’t budge. She’s too stubborn, and she’s convinced she’s being professional by hiding it. If we leave it to her, next season will come around and we’ll be stuck in the exact same loop.”

Kika nodded her head towards where you stood in the window, watching Alexia.

“She’s loose tonight.” The Portuguese woman whispered with a fierce grin. “I’ve been making sure she’s never got an empty bottle.”

Vicky whistled and slapped Kika on the back in praise.

“She’s at that perfect stage where she’s relaxed enough to ramble about what’s inside her head, but she needs a push. She’s too intimidated by Alexia… when they’re looking right at each other. The second Alexia makes eye contact, her guard goes right back up.”

Irene spots that Kika looks incredibly consumed by her thoughts after that. A plan is building, she can sense it. She loves it.

“So we separate them?” Clara asked, her brow furrowing as she tried to visualise the logistics. “That’s stupid. And Patri just sent them inside together.” 

“No, tonta.” Vicky tuts, swiping her over the back of the head. That sends the two of them off into some kind of cat-fight.

“No, inside is just the warm-up.” Kika smirked. A conniving look entered her eyes as she began to piece the elements together. She glanced towards the shadow of the stone wall, then toward the corner of the house where the terrace curved out of sight toward the side garden. “We need to get her to open up without feeling like she’s on display. If she thinks anyone is watching her, or if she has to look Alexia in the eye, she’ll clam up and call it a night.”

Another cacophony of curious and considering sounds. 

Fingers tapped against chins and foots tapped against the floor in thought.

Until–

A dramatic gasp.

“Oh my god.” Kika breathed out. Her hands flew to her mouth, her eyes widening as a massive, borderline sinister grin broke across her face. “I know what we can do.”

Meanwhile– inside the pantry, Alexia was crouched over, her spine curved beneath the fabric of her linen shirt as she meticulously lifted bottles of beer by their necks, slotting them into the cooler. 

“One… two… three.” Counting them, of course. “Four–”

“Really, Ale?” You stood with your hands on your hips, feigning an unimpressed look just to tease her. 

She startled as if she’d forgotten you were there. 

You stood exactly two feet away, your back pressed against a shelf stacked with neatly labelled jars of spices and herbs. The three and a half beers had settled into your limbs as a pleasant warmth, stripping away the edge of the self-consciousness that usually kept you up-right and guarded around her. 

You’d just been watching her the whole time. 

And as she reached for the fifth bottle, her hand froze for a fraction of a second when she caught your unblinking gaze out of the corner of her eye. The pink flush that’d started on the patio flared right back up, colouring the tips of her ears. 

She cleared her throat, lifting a cardboard case of bottles and turning to face you. “Shush. Take this one. Do not drop it.”

As she pushed the case into your arms, your fingers brushed. Literally just the briefest sliding contact, and her breath hitched.

You caught the box against your chest, letting out a lazy chuckle that vibrated right against the cardboard. “Please, Capi, I have excellent hand-eye coordination. You know that.” 

You laughed to yourself, missing how the harmless comment sounded strangely… inappropriate to her ears. She had to clear her throat again. 

Then, you tilted your head. A teasing smile crinkled the corners of your eyes. “Unless you think my form has dropped since the season ended?”

Her eyes widened as she had her back to you, accidentally dropping one of the bottles unceremoniously into the cooler. You let out a scandalised gasp, before you tutted at her for it.

“That doesn’t even make sense.” She grumbled under her breath at your comment, making a mental note to watch how much you drank for the rest of the night. You were far too focused on the fact she’d nearly smashed all the bottles to hear it.

The brunette stood, once she was finally happy with the collection of drinks, and she turned to look at you. Only to get entirely trapped by how relaxed you were, how easily you were sliding into her space without a care in the world.

“Your form is fine,” She muttered. She tried for a stern, captain-like expression, but the severe pink tinge stretching across her cheeks completely ruined the effect. “Your discipline, however, leaves much to be desired. You’re supposed to be helping, not mocking me.”

“I am helping,” You drawled happily, shifting the weight of the box against your hip as you took a step toward the door, not without a final glance back at her face. “And I can follow instructions perfectly well when I want to, thank you.”

Alexia let out a quiet huff that was supposed to be a sigh but sounded suspiciously like a defeated, flustered laugh.

“Just walk,” She murmured, nudging the door open with her elbow. “Before they come inside and raid the kitchen.”

When the double doors opened again, the atmosphere in the garden made Alexia’s footsteps slow down.

The team looked normal. Casual.

Far. Too. Casual. 

The transition was so jarring it felt manufactured. Patri was suddenly back at the grill, leaning over the food on it with the hyper-focused expression of a surgeon mid-operation. Marta and Vicky were sitting on the edge of their pool, dangling their feet in the water and conversing with a rigid calmness, their shoulders strangely stiff. 

You, completely oblivious to the weird shift, didn’t notice a thing. The moment you stepped outside, a wide grin broke across your face. 

“Supplies have arrived!”

Cata, Pina, Patri and Kika erupted into a chorus of cheers that felt three notches too enthusiastic for a box of beers. You laughed, buoyed by the alcohol and the affection, and trotted over to dump the case onto the grass beside them, immediately getting pulled into their chaos.

Alexia, however, remained rooted to the spot. Her eyes scanned the yard, her analytical brain instantly picking up the anomalies.

She locked eyes with Irene first. The defender didn’t say a word; she just took a slow sip of her beer and shrugged one shoulder, her expression blank. Then, Alexia’s gaze flicked to Marta, who chose that exact moment to stare intently at the water rippling around her ankles, refusing to meet her eyes.

Finally, Alexia’s eyes landed on Clara. 

The younger midfielder looked like she was carrying a state secret. Her shoulders were hunched, her mouth pressed into a thin line, and she gave Alexia a sheepish look that practically screamed ‘I am hiding a secret that I am greatly excited by, please don’t ask me about it otherwise I’ll accidentally give it away.’

The captain’s jaw tightened. 

She grumbled something incoherent and slightly threatening under her breath, her fingers tightening around the handle of the cooler before she finally forced herself to walk across the garden toward the noise of the group.

With an unnecessary dramatic flair, she dumped the cooler onto the grass with a deliberate thud, hoping the sound would startle into someone giving up the game. 

No such luck.

Patri just kept aggressively poking one of the steaks to see how much it’d cooked, and Cata gave her an overly bright smile that looked rehearsed. 

Alexia kept her eyes narrowed, her gaze sweeping over the perimeter like a prison guard. Kika was standing just behind Cata, her arms crossed, watching you with an expression that was far too pleased with itself. When Kika caught Alexia looking, her grin didn’t falter. It just turned incredibly knowing.

“Alright. Everyone stop.” Alexia said firmly, stood with her hands on her hips as everyone turned to her. “What’s going on?”

“What’s going on?” Marta repeated from the edge of the pool, her voice trailing over the grass with an air of complete innocence. “We’re just enjoying this lovely summer night celebrating the team in the beautiful garden of your mansion, Ale.”

“It’s not a mansion–”

“Why do you always assume there is a crisis?” Vicky asked with a grin that just confirmed Alexia’s fear.

“Because of the smile on your face, and because Clara looks like she’s about to hyperventilate.” Alexia countered smoothly, pointing toward the younger midfielder in question.

Clara immediately gasped, her eyes darting frantically toward the others for backup. “I’m just– the smoke! The grill smoke is getting in my eyes! I’m going to go… rinse them. In the bathroom.”

The girl practically bolted out of the garden and into the house.

“She’s fine, Ale. Leave the kid alone.” Kika chuckled, stepping forward and smoothly bypassing Alexia altogether.

The Portuguese woman’s attention pivoted to you, where you were happily letting Pina explain a complicated card game she wanted to play later whilst not understanding a thing she was saying.

Kika dropped an affectionate arm around your neck, leaning her weight into you. 

“Hey. You’re looking a little flushed, how many of those have you had?” She tapped the side of your beer bottle that you’d picked up after coming back out.

“Three and a half.” You replied proudly, before you tilted your head back at Alexia. “But Alexia likes to keep count apparently, so maybe she’s got a better idea.”

Alexia closed her eyes, praying for the ground to swallow her whole. Por favor. Her hair was going to be grey by the end of the night. 

“Right! Food’s ready!” Patri announced loudly. Saved by the bell.

“Perfect timing.” Kika beamed, not looking at Alexia as she began steering you away from the main garden area. “It’s getting a bit chaotic out here. Let’s go sit around the side garden, the view of the sunset is much better from there anyway.”

You blinked, the alcohol slowing your reaction time by half a second. Then you went willingly, thrilled by the promise of good food and a sunset, grabbing a plate from Patri as you walked by her.

Your eyes found Alexia as you walked past, giving her a soft and slightly questioning glance without really thinking about it. The brunette caught it, her heart doing another one of those terribly inconvenient flips. She wanted to tell you to stay. Pull you away from Kika’s obvious, hovering trap.

“Are you coming, Ale?” You called back over your shoulder, giving her the perfect opportunity.

“Maybe in a minute.” 

She remained rooted to the spot. Her eyes tracked you as you walked, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting decisions. 

Part of her – the part that wore the armband and took care of her home – knew she should stay right here, keeping an eye on Patri’s dangerous handling of the barbecue and ensuring the rest of the squad didn’t completely derail the night.

But the other part of her, which had been steadily gaining ground for months, just wanted to give in. For once, she wanted to drop the responsibility, walk around the corner, and enjoy your company without the barrage of overthinking that normally consumed her whenever she let her thoughts drift to you. 

She took a breath, trying to unravel the ball of hesitation in her chest. And she made a move to follow after you.

“Let them go ahead, Ale.” Marta said smoothly, materialising out of nowhere and wrapping her arm around Alexia’s shoulders. Her grip iron-like, she guided Alexia towards the opposite side of the garden. “You need to eat, soak up all that beer before you start doing sentimental speeches again.”

The midfielder rolled her eyes at the mention of the night in Oslo following the Champions League win, where she may have had a few drinks and didn’t really… let the microphone leave her sight for about half an hour.

“You all wanted me to do a speech, and then you complained when I did.” She scoffed.

Her internal alarm bells were ringing loudly as Marta led her away. The division was now fully functional. You’d been isolated by Kika, Clara, Esmee, and a few others, who were currently settling you onto a cluster of floor cushions just around the corner of her house– completely out of Alexia’s line of sight where she ended up sitting with Marta. Still close enough to hear your laughter though, which wasn’t lost on her.

Patri slammed a plate of food in front of her at the glass table, while Irene, Cata, Marta and Pina took up the remaining seats around the table. Effectively forming a human wall.

“What is this?” The captain hissed under her breath, glaring at Irene who was cutting into a piece of steak. “Why is everyone acting so fucking weird?” 

“We’re just eating, Ale.” Irene answered placidly, not even looking up. “Eat up. You’ve been really tense all day.” 

“I wonder why” Alexia muttered, her chest tightening as she heard another distinct burst of laughter from around the corner. It sounded a little higher, a little more uninhibited. Kika was definitely giving you more drinks. “Clara looked like she was going to throw up from anxiety when I walked past her.”

“Clara has a weak stomach,” Marta lied seamlessly, taking a huge bite of bread. “Don’t worry about it.”

Around the corner, hidden in the shadows of the side garden, phase two of Kika’s master plan was already in full swing.

The air was cooler over there, the light of the dusk fading into a deep, bruised violet against the horizon. You were leaning back against the masonry, your legs stretched out on the grass, feeling incredibly warm and thoroughly disconnected from any form of reality. The noise of the main party was just a background noise now.

“Drink up,” Kika whispered, clinking her own bottle against yours with a grin. She leaned in close, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone. “So… you were in that pantry for a while. Just counting bottles, or what?”

You let out a hazy, amused sigh, the alcohol making your head spin in a way that was weirdly pleasant. “She really was counting them. Literally one by one. She’s ridiculous.”

“Yeah?” Kika’s eyes gleamed as she exchanged a look with Esmee over your head. “Just ridiculous? Or do you like it when she gets all captain-like and bossy?”

Under normal circumstances, you would’ve laughed the comment off, changed the subject, or lay into Kika for suggesting such a stupid thing. Yet, with four beers humming in your system and the relief of a four-titled season, your guard was completely gone. 

You looked down at your bottle, a helpless smile tugging at your lips as you thought about the way Alexia’s ears had turned that furious shade of pink when your fingers brushed.

“She’s just…” You trailed off, your voice dropping to a quiet mutter that made Kika virtually vibrate with excitement. “She’s always so put-together and… pretty. Even when she’s stressed, she’s really pretty. It’s annoying.”

Clara let out a tiny, stifled squeak, immediately covering her mouth with both hands afterwards.

“Go on,” Kika nudged your shoulder gently as she baited the trap. “Tell us more. We won’t say a word.”

You took another slow sip, the cold liquid taking the edge off the sudden heat in your face. The violet dusk was deepening around the corner of the house, and with every passing minute, the boundaries you usually kept so firmly in place during the season felt farther and farther away.

“It’s just…” You started, waving your bottle in the air as you searched for the words. “She never drops the act. She walks around like she’s completely untouchable, like nothing can faze her. And then she looks at me, and I swear she’s trying to read my mind or pick apart whatever I’m doing. It throws me off completely.”

Kika leaned in further. “Throws you off bad? Or throws you off good?” 

“It’s just infuriating,” You sighed, though the massive, helpless smile on your face completely ruined the defense. You leaned your head back against the cool stone wall, looking up at the first few stars blinking into view through the deep purple sky. “Because she’ll do that quiet, serious routine, and then the second I actually step into her space, or—or brush against her like in the pantry? She just freezes. She blushes. It’s like this tiny crack in her armour where she's a completely different person for two seconds, and it makes me want to…” 

You trailed off, the realization of what you were actually about to say finally catching up to your beer-soaked brain.

Your mouth snapped shut. Your eyes widened slightly as you looked at the three girls sitting around you. Sydney was leaning forward so far she was practically falling off her cushion, while Esmee looked like she was witnessing history being made in real-time. Clara was still holding her breath, her hands glued tightly over her face.

“Want to what?” Kika prompted, evidently hanging onto your every word and desperate for you to continue.

“Nothing!” You said quickly, cheeks burning a flaming red. You took a hasty gulp of your beer to cover the slip. “Nothing. I’m drunk. Forget I said that.”

You were talking to possibly the worst people on the team for gossip. Oh fuck.

“Oh, no, we are not forgeting that.” Kika grinned. She knew she had you right on the edge. If she pushed you too hard now, your defenses would go back up. Luckily for you, she had the perfect next move. “In fact, I think you need a safe space to properly vent about this.”

Meanwhile, back at the table, Alexia was staring blankly at her plate as her fork pushed around a piece of asparagus. 

The human wall around her was proving to be a lost cause; her ears were hyper-tuned to whatever was occurring around the corner. The murmurs had quieted down, and she hadn’t heard your voice in almost three minutes. 

“Ale.” Irene’s voice cut through her thoughts.

Alexia blinked, looking up. Irene hadn’t stopped eating but her eyes were fixed on the captain. 

“If you chew through your lower lip, you won’t be able to talk tomorrow.” Irene told her. “Relax, girl. They aren’t going to kidnap her.”

“They are definitely doing something.” Alexia whispered fiercely so that Patri wouldn’t hear. “I know Kika. She had that look in her eyes. The up-to-no-good look. She’s plotting.”

“Then let her plot.” Caro chimed in smoothly from her left. “Maybe she will do the heavy lifting for you. God knows you’ve had all the time in the world and haven’t made a single move.”

Alexia opened her mouth to deliver a thoroughly scathing response, but before she could speak, a small figure came shuffling around the stone corner.

It was Clara. The younger midfielder walked with her hands jammed deep into her pockets, her head down, completely refusing to make eye contact with anyone at the main table as she headed straight for the kitchen doors.

Alexia’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Clara.”

The girl froze, her shoulders snapping up to her ears. She slowly turned her head, giving Alexia a terrified, trembling smile. “Yes, Capi?”

“Where is she?” Alexia asked, her voice dropping into that commanding register which brooked absolutely no arguments.

“She’s… around the corner,” Clara stammered, her voice squeaking slightly on the last word. “With Kika. They’re just talking. And I’m just going to get water.”

She practically threw herself through the sliding glass doors, leaving them to bounce shut behind her.

Alexia stood up. The chair scraped loudly against the stone tiles of the patio.

“Alexia, sit down,” Patri groaned. “The meat is getting cold.”

“I’m the host,” Alexia muttered, her jaw set in a line that Irene knew meant there was no stopping her. She smoothed down the front of her linen shirt, her heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against her ribs. “I am going to check on my guests.”

She didn’t even make it past the edge of the table before Patri was up and out of her chair.

“Sit down, Ale.” Patri commanded. “You’ve been hovering over everything like a helicopter parent since we all got here. I’ll go inside and make sure Clara isn’t having an anxiety attack.”

Alexia opened her mouth to argue as her eyes darted toward the stone corner of the house, but a warning look from Irene pinned her to the spot. With a frustrated click of her tongue, the captain begrudgingly sank back into her chair.

Patri darted inside and intercepted a frantic-looking Clara right as she was about to go back outside. 

“How’s it going?” The older midfielder asked in a hushed tone, grabbing Clara by the shoulder.

“She’s basically gone already,” Clara answered, her eyes wide as she gripped a glass of water. “She’s so tipsy she’s practically floating. She just confessed to Kika that she thinks Alexia is beautiful when she’s stressed! Kika is setting her up right now– we need you.”

Patri’s face split into a slow smirk. “Perfect. I’ll go to them, you go to Ale.”

Around the now infamous corner, entirely unaware of the tactics and the planning that was occurring, you were staring at Kika with a look of profound skepticism.

“This is the stupidest thing I have ever heard in my life.” You groaned, voice slurring just a fraction. “You are literally insane.”

“It’s not insane! It’s… therapeutic.” Kika argued back smoothly, sitting cross-legged on her cushion and looking extraordinarily proud of herself. “You’re completely bottled up! You’ve been carrying it around almost all season. Whereas tonight, you are actually relaxed enough to talk about it.”

“So your grand solution is a fake confessional?” You deadpanned with a breathless laugh. “You seriously think sitting me and Patri around the corner of a wall from each other as I ramble is going to help me get over my crush on Alexia?”

Kika didn’t even flinch. She shrugged and threw her hands out. “Duh! Yeah! It’s all psychological. You don’t have to look at her, she can just listen and give you typical-Patri advice, and you get it out of your system. Win-win.” 

You closed your eyes, taking a moment to actually think through the fog in your brain. 

The four beers were making the ridiculous proposal sound strangely, terrifyingly logical. If you just confessed to Patri – who was too loud and dense to ever overthink it anyway – maybe the weight of it would finally stop pressing down on your chest every time you saw Alexia walk into the locker room.

You let out a long, defeated sigh, your shoulders slumping into the cushions. “Fine. Fine, whatever. Let's just do it.”

Kika bit her lower lip, desperately trying to suppress the victorious shriek that was threatening to burst out of her throat. She cleared her throat quickly, leaning closer to run you through the logistics.

“Okay, okay. Ground rules,” Kika whispered fiercely, her eyes scanning the shadows. “Patri doesn't know, obviously. Because you haven't told her.”

(Technically true, you hadn’t told her yourself. You had told Caro in a moment of weakness, who told Marta, who both told Irene, who then told Patri. And it had spread like a wildfire from there.)

“Don’t say Alexia’s name. Don’t say anything about training or the team– or just anything to do with football.” Kika continued, tapping your knee for emphasis. “Just refer to her as this girl you like. If you give it away, it'll make things a bit awkward, and the whole thing is ruined. Got it?”

You blinked your heavy eyes, processing the instructions with a slow nod. When put that way…

“Okay.” You said with a shrug. A hazy smile returned to your face as you looked back at Kika. “Okay, yeah. It’s actually a pretty good idea. Let’s do it.”

“Excellent.” Kika drawled, basically bouncing on her heels as she scrambled up from her floor cushion. “Take a pillow, go get comfy by the wall. I’ll go fetch our priest!”

You did as you were told, chuckling under your breath at the thought of anyone calling Patri a priest.

You got comfy, legs outstretched with one foot over the other, hands linked together and resting in your lap. There was some commotion you overheard, but honestly, you felt like you were floating in a very comfortable and slightly dizzying bubble.

End of season celebrations really were fun. 

“Alright, Patri’s ready,” Kika whispered as she crouched in front of you. “I’m going to leave you two to it. Remember the rules.”

Then, her footsteps faded away. You shifted a little, pressing your spine firmly against the rough stone brick wall. Around the corner, you could hear someone shuffling around.

“Patri?” You called out.

“Yeah, tía, I’m here.” Patri’s voice boomed back, muffled a little by the wall, but definitely her. Perhaps if you weren’t so far gone, you would have noticed how uncharacteristically subdued she was. “Go ahead. Kika said you needed to get some things off your chest.”

You let out a long, ragged breath, staring down at the grass between your knees. “It’s just… I’m so tired of feeling like this. I’ve spent months pretending I don’t completely lose my mind every time she walks into a room. And it’s exhausting, Patri. It really is.”

There was a brief pause from the other side of the wall. “Right. And… what exactly does she do that loses you your mind?”

“Everything,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands with an embarrassed laugh. “The way she carries herself. She’s just so incredibly composed, you know? Like nothing in the world could ever rattle her. She has this quiet authority that completely takes over the room, and whenever she actually focuses on me, I feel like I forget how to breathe.”

Around the corner, Patri’s eyes were wide as saucers. She was gripping the edge of the stone masonry, her chest heaving as she swallowed down a massive laugh. This was gold. This was worth every single Euro she’d bet against Marta earlier in the week.

“But the worst part,” you continued, your voice dropping into a quiet, almost melancholic murmur, “is when she drops it. Just for a second. Like earlier tonight, we were… well, we were somewhere quiet, and our fingers accidentally brushed. And she just froze. She turned this beautiful, furious shade of pink right to the tips of her ears. It’s like there’s this whole other side to her, this incredibly soft, flustered side that she tries so hard to hide. And it makes me want to just… pull her out of her own head and kiss her until she completely forgets to be serious.”

Patri went completely rigid. Madre mía. She had expected some light pining, maybe a bit of standard venting, but this? Uff. It made her more giddy than the quadruple they’d won.

“Wow.” Patri cleared her throat. She needed Alexia here. Right now. “That’s heavy, tía. I get why you needed to get this off your chest. Go ahead.”

Alexia, still back at the main table, was oscillating with irritation. 

Marta was in the middle of an elaborate and definitely fabricated story about a dog that’d breached her apartment complex and ran rings around the security for hours, while Irene was nodding along with an expression of feigned interest. 

“And then,” Marta waved her fork in the air, leaning across the table. “The dog stopped outside our door and sat there, looking straight into my soul. I think it was a sign.” 

“Marta, I don’t care about the dog.” Alexia snapped, her patience completely evaporated. “I swear, I will–”

And it was that precise moment where Kika came jogging over, cutting Alexia’s threat off before she could finish it. She did not look casual. She bypassed the rest of the table and grabbed Alexia by the table, hauling her out of her chair.

“Kitchen, now.” Kika demanded.

The captain’s mind went into overdrive. “What happened? Is she– is everyone okay?”

“Just move!” The Portuguese grunted, dragging her through the glass doors.

The second they clicked shut, cutting off the outdoor noise, Kika spun Alexia around and her hands clamped down on her captain’s shoulders with a terrifying level of intensity. 

“Listen to me carefully.” Kika whispered. “You are going to go around the corner right now. You are going to sit in Patri’s place, and you are not going to say a single word. You are just going to listen.” 

Alexia’s brow furrowed, a defensive look entering her eyes. “What are you talking about? What did you do to her?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Kika hissed, shaking her slightly. “In fact I have done you a favour, alright? She is currently pouring her heart out to Patri, Ale. And if you don’t go over there and take her place right now, I will post the videos of you dancing after Oslo and not delete them.”

Alexia froze comically. Wide eyes as her heart skipped a beat, and all. Her jaw slackened slightly as the piece shifted in her mind, the realisation hitting her a few moments later.

“She’s… what?” Alexia breathed out.

“Go,” Kika demanded, giving her a shove towards the side door that led to the patio curve. “And for the love of God, Ale, don’t mess this up. I have a hundred euros riding on you taking the shot tonight.” 

The brunette didn’t even have time to process the threat before Kika was fully pushing her through the side door. The second her feet hit the cooler outdoor pavement, she was completely ambushed. 

A solid, tanned arm clamped around her chest as Marta appeared beside her, while Irene smoothly blocked any path of retreat. And before Alexia could even inhale to demand what they were doing, Vicky’s palm slapped firmly over her mouth, clamping her lips shut. 

Together, they muscled Alexia down the small stretch of pavement like a high-value asset under guard. Alexia wasn’t even fighting them; her legs were moving on instinct, her wide eyes fixed ahead as her brain tried to process everything Kika had just told her.

Around the stone corner, you were still leaning your head back against the brickwork. The dizzying buzz of alcohol had completely isolated you from the quiet rustling of footsteps the the brief scuffle just a few feet away.

Patri, seeing the cavalry arrived, executed a flawless retreat from her floor cushion and away from the wall, giving the rest of the group an enthusiastic thumbs up. Vicky shoved Alexia down onto the vacant cushion, Alexia hardly on the ground before she was ripping the hand away from her face.

She whipped her head around, baring her teeth in a silent, lethal glare at Vicky, and opened her mouth to aggressively whisper a lecture and a demand for them all to leave.

But before the first syllable could leave her tongue, your voice drifted from around the masonry.

“And I know it’s stupid, Patri.” You murmured, a self-deprecating sight hitching in your chest. “Like, I know I shouldn’t even be thinking about it. But then Alexia smiles at me after a tough session, or she does that little thing where she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s listening to me speak, and I just… I completely lose it.”

Alexia went utterly still.

The reprimand died in her throat. Her hand, which had been raised to shove Vicky away, froze in mid-air before slowly dropping back down to her lap. Her chest swelled, her heart hammering so hard against her ribs she was certain you would hear it.

Alexia. You’d said her name.

To the right of her, hidden away from your eye line, various members of the team who were clearly in on this huddled together. The smug, triumphant smirks they’d been wearing all night had softened, replaced by a captive silence as they watched two of their teammates finally, at least approach, a bridge they’d been too scared of. 

“I can’t tell her,” you continued, your tone dropping to one that sounded agonizingly vulnerable in the cool night air. You tilted your head back against the brick, staring up at the dark sky. “How am I supposed to look her in the eye and say any of this? She’s Alexia. She is a woman who needs everything to be in its exact place, who handles the weight of the world by closing herself off and locking things down. And I am just… me. I'm not organised, I'm spontaneous, and I handle pressure by trying to find something to laugh about.”

Alexia’s breath hitched. She sat perfectly rigid on the cushion, her eyes fixed on the rough stone wall separating the two of you, hanging onto every word.

“We just speak completely different languages,” You let out a bitter chuckle, tracing a pattern on the fabric of your shorts. “When she gets stressed or guarded, she builds up these massive walls to protect her peace. And because I’m naturally wide open, I always feel like I’m misreading the room around her. I don't know how to navigate those walls without feeling like I'm breaking something, or just being an annoyance to her carefully balanced life. If I say something, I’m just going to complicate things for her. She already carries so much for the team, Patri. She doesn’t need me messing with her peace.”

Every word felt like a physical weight pressing directly into Alexia’s chest. It wasn't awe or intimidation keeping you back; it was a deeply rooted fear that your core personalities would clash, that your natural brightness would only disrupt the careful structure she worked so hard to maintain.

Alexia could read between the lines. You were terrified that you weren’t good enough for her. Wouldn’t fit into her life. And that she wouldn’t like you back.

Beside Alexia, Kika bit her lip as a wave of sympathy hit her at how small you looked on the cushion, weighed down by an overthinking tipsy brain. She shot a sharp look at the side of Alexia;s head, silently urging her to fix this.

The captain didn’t move, but her fingers slowly curled into the bottom of her shirt, her jaw tightening as she listened to the raw, unfiltered truth. You thought she wanted to be left alone behind those walls. You believed she didn’t want you there.

“She definitely doesn’t need me.” You whispered to yourself, before falling silent.

How wrong you were.

Everything seemed to catch up with you, then.

Having all those buried thoughts dragged out into the open air left a raw, aching pain in your chest. The fuzzy warmth of the beer suddenly turned cold, and the burden of your own overthinking pushed a stinging dampness to your eyes.

Before the silence could stretch too long, you abruptly scrambled up from your cushion. Your knees shook slightly from the combination of the drinks and the rush of adrenaline, and with a tight swallow, you quickly wiped a stray tear from your cheek with the back of your hand. Desperate to just be alone with your thoughts, you stormed off toward the far edge of the garden, heading straight for the large outdoor sofa tucked away from the main lights.

Alexia remained stuck in her seat, in disbelief at what’d occurred, her ears straining as the sound of your hurried footsteps faded into the distance. The sudden emptiness in your voice before you left echoed in her mind, leaving her stunned.

Slowly, the captain tilted her head, her dazed glance rising until she met Irene’s eyes.

The Basque woman was leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, looking down at Alexia with a definitive told-you-so expression. There was no smugness in her face, a just the satisfaction of someone who had spent months listening to Alexia stubbornly insist that she was completely misreading your signals. 

Irene had heard all about Alexia’s agonisingly deep feelings for you, and after catching snippets from Patri about how much you were pining from afar, she’d tried – repeatedly – to tell her captain to just open her eyes.

Alexia simply stared up at her, jaw slack, the certainty she usually carried now shattered by the reality of what she’d just heard.

Clara was the only one who broke away from the huddle to follow you. Mostly to get away from Alexia’s surefire scathing lecture, but also because she genuinely cared about you as a teammate and someone who spent a lot of time mentoring her too, like Alexia. 

And as expected, Alexia scrambled up from the floor, her posture rigid and her eyes wide as she turned on Kika, Patri, and the others.

“What the hell is wrong with you all?!” She seethed in a furious whisper that she tried to keep from carrying across the yard. “Are you insane? All of you? To trick her like that, force her into saying things when she’s– when she’s had too much to drink? It is completely out of order!”

“Oh please, Ale.” Kika scoffed, unfazed as she crossed her arms. “We didn’t force her to say anything. We just… gave her a wall.”

“It's a violation of her privacy!” Alexia defended hotly, her chest heaving underneath her linen shirt as she gestured wildly toward the empty corner. “She thought she was speaking to a friend in confidence! If she finds out you all orchestrated this, she will be devastated. You cannot just play with people’s feelings for the sake of your stupid bets!”

“Ale,” Patri cut in with a lazy, amused grin spreading across her face. “It’s very hard to take your captain’s lecture seriously when your ears are currently the colour of a ripe tomato.”

A collective, poorly suppressed titter broke out among the rest of the group. Marta had to shield her face behind Irene’s shoulder to hide her grin, while Vicky openly chuckled. The commanding authority Alexia usually radiated was completely cancelled out by the blush spreading all the way down her neck. She looked less like a quadruple-winning captain and more like an incredibly flustered teenager who had just been caught reading a diary out loud.

“Go take some time to collect your thoughts and calm down, Ale.” Irene placated with a dismissive wave. “You’ve lost the locker room on this one.”

Realising she was fighting a losing battle against a squad that knew her far too well, Alexia let out a sharp breath, before turning and beelining for her house. She deliberately avoided looking at the side garden where the sofa was hidden, and marched straight inside to get away from everyone. 

Once inside, she stopped in the kitchen and took a deep inhale. 

This was not the night she had envisioned. 

So far, it’d left her feeling nothing but stressed, antsy, slightly irate. 

As a result, her hands immediately went to work out of pure habit. She couldn’t just sit still with her brain firing at a million miles an hour. She stood at the kitchen island, her movements precise as she began wiping down surfaces that were already clean, determined to begin winding the party down for the night.

And she stayed there for a while; loading a few stray plates into the dishwasher, organising the remaining catering trays with an aggressive level of focus. Disposing of many, many bottles of beer and numerous paper plates, she couldn’t help but think of you outside. 

But she stayed in the kitchen for a long time regardless of you. She didn’t want to cause you any more torment by heading outside to see you when it was her you were upset about.

Nearly forty minutes passed before she finally dropped the dish towel. Most of the team had headed inside by now, away from the darkness and cooler air of the night. They’d taken over her living, though in a much calmer manner, so she didn’t feel the need to supervise. 

She took a steadying breath, before deciding to do one final sweep of the garden to bring in any bottles or plates or food before locking the door for the night.

Sliding the glass door open quietly, she stepped out outside to her empty garden. 

Almost empty.

Because she then heard your shaky voice drifting through the air again. Her eyes scanned the side garden, and there she found you.

Under the dim glow of a single wall lamp, sat Clara. The younger midfielder looked completely trapped. Her legs were pulled up to her chest on the cushions, eyes wide with a look of sheer deer-in-the-headlights terror as she tried her absolute best to be a good friend.

And right next to her, curled up into an emotional ball, you were still thoroughly caught up in your tearful ramble, oblivious to the fact everyone else had headed inside to wind down for the evening.

The captain didn’t mean to eavesdrop (again), but the vulnerability in your tone anchored her feet to the floor.

“-it’s just the way she looks at me, Clara.” You sighed into your knees. “Maybe I’m imagining it, but sometimes it seems like she’s trying so hard to keep her distance, but then she’ll do something really sweet and I can’t ever get it off my mind. Because I know she has a million things on her mind. She’s running the whole show, looking after everyone, and still finds time to do these little things for me.”

Clara gave a stiff nod, eyes wide as if praying for some kind of saviour.

“Meanwhile I’m just over here trying not to trip over my own two feet when she comes near me.” You ran a hand through your hair, letting out a watery laugh that pierced right through Alexia’s chest. “I’m just a mess compared to her. It’ll never work. She’d just think I’m… some annoying distraction.”

Any lingering doubt, any tiny stubborn part of Alexia that was trying to protect herself from misinterpreting the situation, completely vanished. 

And it was that exact moment that Clara’s panicked gaze flicked toward the house and locked right onto Alexia standing in the doorway. 

Somehow, the girl’s eyes widened impossibly more. She looked like she’d just seen a ghost. For a second, it looked like she might actually faint from the overwhelming weight of the drama that’d unfolded.

Sensing her cue, Clara clumsily scrambled to her feet.

“Right!” Clara blurted out, her voice a little too loud and high-pitched in the quiet garden. You blinked up at her, startled by the sudden movement. “You– you know what? You need water. A very large, cold glass of water. I’ll go get some for you. Don’t move!”

Before you could even formulate a question to ask why she was being so weird, Clara practically sprinted away, past Alexia and disappearing into the safety of the house without looking back. She closed the door behind her with a click, leaving the garden silent.

You blinked into the shadows, a bit dazed by the abrupt departure, before your eyes slowly tracked the movement by the doorway.

Alexia was standing there. Her hands were tucked into the pockets of her trousers, her shoulders dropped, and she was looking at you with an expression so soft that the breath caught in your throat.

She stepped fully out of the doorway, the soft scuff of her shoes against the tiles breaking the silence. She walked over slowly, deliberately giving you time to adjust to her presence so she wouldn’t startle you again.

You didn't scramble to hide your face or panic. Instead, you just tilted your head back against the sofa cushions, looking up at her through a heavy, calm, and deeply tired haze. A half-hearted smile of acknowledgment tugged at the corners of your mouth. The sharp edge of your earlier distress had melted into a quiet exhaustion; the alcohol was still humming in your system, but it had left you feeling grounded, heavy-limbed, and thoroughly spent.

“Hey,” You murmured, your voice a little raspy from crying.

“Hi,” Alexia replied softly.

She didn't hesitate. She crossed the small gap and sank down onto the outdoor sofa beside you, leaving just enough space between your shoulders so you wouldn't feel crowded, though the warmth of her presence instantly filled the cool night air. She leaned back, mirroring your relaxed posture, and looked at you sideways.

“What's up?” She asked gently, keeping her tone light and casual.

You let out a tiny, breathy sigh, your eyes dropping down to your lap where your fingers were loosely intertwined. 

Despite the beers stripping away your filter, a sudden wave of self-conscious embarrassment kept you guarded. You were mortified by the scene you’d made earlier, thoroughly convinced you'd made a fool of yourself in front of Kika and Patri, even if you still had no idea Alexia had heard a single word of your confession.

“Nothing.” You answered, a little secretive, your shoulders shrugging slightly. “Just... overthinking. The usual.”

“What about?" Alexia pressed in a polite, pressure-free manner.

You just shrugged again, a disheartened frown crossing your features. “Just stupid stuff. Doesn't matter.”

Alexia watched you for a long beat, her chest tightening with an immense, overwhelming fondness. 

“Matters to me.” She stated quietly. 

The comment made your heart ache, but you remained quiet.

The vulnerability you had just displayed to Clara – the worries that you were too different, too loud, or too much of a disruption to her life – swirled in her head. She wanted to tell you right then and there how wrong you were, but she knew your tipsy, fragile pride couldn't handle the shock of finding out she’d been eavesdropping.

And there was always the chance you would forget it in the morning; if she was going to find the confidence to do it, she at least wanted you to remember it.

Didn’t mean she wasn’t going to take a chance, though.

Instead, a knowing smile took over her mouth. She shifted slightly on the cushion, reaching out and gently nudging the side of your knee with the back of her hand. The contact was brief, but it sent a warm jolt throughout your body.

“You know,” Alexia said, her eyes locked onto yours. “Sometimes people build up walls because… not because they want to keep everyone out, or anything. Definitely not because their lives are too perfect.”

You let out a barely there, amused breath, not looking at her.

“Sometimes they do it because they’re just trying to figure things out. And they might just be waiting for someone brave enough to ignore the structure, make a stupid joke, and break through it.”

You blinked, her words slicing through the foggy, disheartened thoughts in your brain. You turned your head and met her gaze.

The sincerity in her dark eyes was staggering. It wasn’t the look of a captain evaluating a teammate; it was personal, warm, intimate.

“Sound familiar?” Alexia wondered with a smile you recognised as too-proud, even if you hadn’t fully caught the meaning of her words. 

A shy, proper smile slowly bloomed across your face. The knot in your chest loosened at the reassurance you didn’t even realise she was giving you, and you gave her a nod.

Her grin widened at the sight and her body flooded with relief as she watched your sadness melt away.

“Anyway,” She hummed, tone shifting back to something a bit more playful as she nudged your knee one more time. “The point is, you shouldn’t overthink things so much. It’s bad for you.”

You let out a tired chuckle, shaking your head against the cushion. “I can’t promise that, Ale. It’s what I’m best at.”

Alexia lifted her hand from her lap, curling her fingers inward until only her smallest finger was extended. She held it up between the two of you, right in your line of sight. 

“Well,” She said, her expression perfectly serious though her eyes were dancing with mischief. “You’re going to have to promise.”

You stared at her hand, then up at her face, and a light burst of laughter escaped your lips. The absurdity of the two time Ballon d’Or winner and stern Barcelona captain demanding a pinky promise was too much for your tipsy brain to handle.

“Are you serious right now?” You teased with a bright smile, brighter than one you’ve had in hours. “A pink promise? What are you, twelve?” 

“It’s a legally binding contract without pen and paper.” Alexia insisted, her grin turning borderline wicked as she shook her extended pinky closer to you. “Come on. Secure the deal.”

You rolled your eyes, but the helpless smile never left your face. You raised your own hand and looped your pinky finger tightly around hers. 

The moment your skin met, the teasing banter ebbed away for the time being. Neither of you pulled away. You held absolute, unbroken eye contact in the dark light of the garden, the tiny physical connection keeping you both still.

Alexia’s smile turned into something tender. You swore you saw her gaze drop to your lips for a split second, before they rose back to your eyes.

The click of the glass doors cut through the silence, making you both break eye contact.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Pina called out, stepping into the garden with her jacket over her shoulder. Behind her, Cata and Vicky were peering over her shoulders, their faces split into identical delighted smirks as their eyes darted down to your linked hands.

“We’re just heading out now, we can see ourselves to the door.” Vicky chimed in with a wicked grin, nudging Pina with her elbow. “We just wanted to say goodbye. We didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Yeah, you stay there, Ale, don’t stress yourself,” Cata added, holding up a hand before she gave you both an exaggerated wink. “See you guys soon!”

Alexia slowly unlooped her pinky from yours, though her fingers lingered against your skin for a fraction of a second before she settled back against the cushions. “Text me when you get home!”

You quickly offered a sheepish, slightly flushed wave with your free hand as the trio backed through the door, closing it behind them,

The second it shut, the reality of the late hour and the amount of alcohol in your system hit you at once. You let out a long, pathetic groan, and slapped a hand over your eyes.

“Oh god,” You said, your voice muffled against your palm. “I just remembered… I drove here.”

Alexia let out a soft, amused chuckle from beside you. “Did you?”

“Yes!” You whined, peeking out from behind your fingers with a frown. “I didn’t know there would be so much beer and chaos and… whatever the hell Kika was up to. Now I'm stuck. I can’t get home.”

Alexia watched you, her expression melting into something a little shy. She cleared her throat, her fingers tracing the seams of her trousers as she looked at you.

“Actually,” She offered quietly, a tentative smile playing on her lips. “You can stay here tonight if you want. All of the spare rooms are made up.”

A spike of heat hit your cheeks, completely bypassing the beer buzz. Your mouth went a little dry, your brain immediately going into hyper-drive at the thought of sleeping under her roof.

“Oh—no, no, I couldn't” You stammered quickly, waving your hands in a polite, panicked refusal. “I can just call a taxi. It’s fine, really! I don't want to be a bother or invade your space after you’ve been hosting all day. I'll just get an Uber.”

“It's nearly one in the morning, you won't find a taxi easily out here,” Alexia pointed out smoothly, her tone turning a fraction more firm as she leaned in slightly, refusing to let you brush her off. “And you're not a bother. I'm literally offering.”

“But–”

“No buts,” She interrupted gently, her eyes full of a warm, teasing authority that you had no strength to fight. “You made a legally binding promise not to overthink things, remember? The spare room is yours. Unless you'd prefer to sleep out here on the terrace?”

You stared at her for a moment, totally defeated by her logic and the sheer kindness in her eyes. Letting out one final, dramatic sigh, you let your head drop back onto the sofa cushion.

“Fine. I’ll stay.” You murmured, that same helpless and bashful smile returning to your face. You gazed at her, your stomach doing that weird fluttery thing it often did whenever she went out of her way to do something for you. “Thank you, Ale. Really.” 

“Don’t mention it.” She replied, her shoulders dropping as she relaxed back into the cushions. She gave you a gentle, assessing look, her eyes scanning your tired face. “Besides, you look exhausted. It’s been a long day, and you need some rest.”

You let out a quiet hum, closing your eyes for a brief second as the weight of the alcohol and the emotional rollercoaster of the night fully settled into your bones. “Yeah. You’re right. My brain feels like mush.”

“Well, luckily for you, I happen to have an excellent solution for that,” Alexia said, a sudden, playful spark returning to her voice. She leaned in a little closer, gesturing back toward the dark house with a perfectly serious expression. “The mattresses in my house? Unbelievable. They’re the best things I’ve ever bought.”

You opened your eyes and stared at her, a breathless laugh escaping you at the absolute ridiculousness of the pitch. “Are you trying to sell me a bed right now?”

“I’m just trying to make you overthink your decision a little less. You won’t regret it when you lay on one,” She grinned, finally standing up from the sofa and extending a hand down to you. “Come on. Let’s get you inside before you fall asleep out here.”

You took her hand, letting her easily haul you to your feet. Your legs were a bit heavy and unsteady, but Alexia kept a steadying grip on your arm until you found your balance, guiding you gently through the glass doors and into the quiet, pristine interior of her house.

The main rooms were completely dark now, the rest of the team having finally headed out. Alexia led you up the stairs, the soft ambient lighting illuminating the hallway as she guided you toward one of the guest rooms near the end of the hall.

She pushed the door open, revealing a beautifully neat, cozy space that already felt incredibly welcoming.

“Make yourself at home,” Alexia murmured, stepping inside to turn on a bedside lamp before turning to face you. She took a quick look at your clothes and snapped her fingers softly. “Wait, you need something to sleep in. Hold on.”

She disappeared down the hall toward her own bedroom, leaving you standing awkwardly by the edge of the bed, your heart doing a nervous little dance. A minute later, she returned with a neatly folded pile of clothes in her hands.

“Here,” she said, handing them over. It was an oversized, incredibly soft grey cotton t-shirt and a pair of drawstring shorts. “They might be a little big, but they’re comfortable. Oh, and here.” She reached into her pocket and produced a brand-new, packaged toothbrush. “There’s an en-suite bathroom right through that door. Fresh towels are under the sink in case you want to shower at any point.”

You took the items, your fingers brushing against hers again, sending a familiar warmth rushing up your arms like it had done earlier in the pantry. “Ale, seriously, thank you. You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I told you, it’s fine,” She replied, her voice dropping into that quiet, intimate register again. She stepped back toward the doorway, her hands finding the pockets of her trousers as she looked at you under the warm glow of the lamp. She looked suddenly a little shy herself, her eyes lingering on your face. “Sleep well, okay?”

“You too,” you smiled, a bashful warmth settling in your chest. “Goodnight, Ale.”

“Goodnight.”

The brunette gave you one last smile before slowly stepping out into the hallway and closing the door behind her. You sat on the edge of the bed with a long sigh, a hopeless smile breaking across your face. Then you pressed your palm into the bed, almost groaning in delight at how it was a perfect mixture of density and softness.

On the other side of the door, Alexia hadn’t moved far. 

She stood perfectly still in the dimly lit hallway, her hand still hovering near the doorframe. Her stomach fluttered as she took a deep, shaky breath.

The echo of your voice from earlier tonight, confessing how much you liked her and how deeply you cared and how terrified you were of messing up her peace, it all made her heart ache with an intoxicating happiness. 

She leaned her head back to the ceiling, a near-silent stunned laugh escaping her lips in the darkness. You were right there, would be sleeping just a few feet away in her house, and it made her feel weightless. 

Eventually, with a lingering glance at your door, she turned and walked down the hall to her own room, a smile fixed on her face the entire way.

—

The morning sun was already streaming through the gap in her blackout curtains when Alexia opened her eyes, feeling mostly rested despite the chaotic emotional rollercoaster of the previous night. 

She lay in bed for a while. Her brain replayed almost the entire night through, from when people arrived to leading you upstairs to the spare room once everybody had left. The corner of her lips quirked upwards at a few things, and she looked down at her hand where it rested atop the sheets, the one that’d linked with yours in a gesture that was much more than just sealing a promise. 

It was past 10AM, and she hadn’t heard any movement from the end of the hall, where you’d stayed. 

So she sat up against the headboard with a yawn and a stretch, before she leaned over to the bedside table and grabbed her phone.

(Alexia) Morning :) are you awake yet?

She dropped her phone onto the bed beside her and rubbed her eyes, waiting as three dots appeared, disappeared, and reappeared a few minutes later.

(You) Hi. Yeah. Morning. My head hurts just ever so slightly.

Alexia chuckled to herself, already moving to get up out of bed. 

She padded downstairs and went to the kitchen, moving to open the cabinet where she kept all things health related. Before she could grab what she was after, her phone vibrated in her pocket again.

(You)  I’m also incredibly embarrassed by everything that happened yesterday, so please don’t look at me

The midfielder burst into a quiet laugh, her cheeks aching at how endearing you were being. She locked her phone, filled a tall glass with cold water, and grabbed a pack of painkillers. 

Once she’d made it up the stairs, she stopped outside the guest room door and knocked quietly, the rap of her knuckles echoing in the hallway.

Silence.

No movement and no answer.

Amused, Alexia leaned her shoulder against the doorframe, a knowing smirk on her lips.

“I know you’re awake,” She called out, her voice loud enough to cut through the wood but keeping its gentle, teasing warmth. “We literally texted two minutes ago.”

There was another period of silence from inside the room before a muffled and incredibly meek voice finally drifted through the door. “Come in.”

Alexia turned the handle and pushed the door open, stepping into the sunlit room. Her eyes immediately found the bed, and a soft adoring smile took over her face at the sight.

You were curled up tightly on your side, practically swallowed by the sheets. You had apparently raided the clean pile of laundry sitting on the chair in the corner she’d been yet to sort, because you were now drowning in a thick grey hoodie that belonged to her, despite it being Summer. 

You’d pulled the hood over your head, leaving only the tip of your nose and your tightly shut eyes visible to the world. 

“Good morning,” Alexia said softly as she walked into the room. She kept her steps quiet, setting the tall glass of water down on the nightstand before sitting on the edge of the mattress beside you.

You emerged from the sheets, letting out a tiny embarrassed whine as you slowly sat up. You reluctantly pulled the hood back off your head, allowing Alexia to look at you properly. She had to blink herself out of her trance as she grabbed the sheet of tablets from her pocket.

“Here,” she murmured, popping two of the tablets into your palm and handing you the water. “Take these.”

You swallowed the pills, chasing them with a long sip of the cold water, throat parched from the night before. As you set the glass back down, you finally risked a glance up at her.

Alexia was simply sitting there, watching you with an unhurried and awfully tender gaze. There was no judgement in her eyes, no teasing smirk, just an attentive focus that made your stomach do a stupid flip.

Under the weight of her undivided attention, you felt a burning blush creep rapidly up your neck, painting your cheeks a crimson that gave away how flustered you were.

Alexia definitely noticed, you could tell by the tiny increase in her smile, but she chose not to comment on it.

“How are you feeling? Aside from the headache?”

“I’ve been better and I’ve been worse.” You answered in a mutter, sleep still evident in your voice as you pulled your knees closer to your chest.

Alexia let out a soft, amused huff. “Well, that’s a start. It was a hectic night.”

“You can say that again.” You grumbled, resting your chin on your knees and staring down at the rumpled sheets. “I can’t believe it was that chaotic. I’m never going to hear the end of it all.”

The brunette watched you, her expression shifting, turning just a bit shy as she cleared her throat and her fingers traced light patterns on the duvet.

“So… how much of it do you remember?” She asked, eyes locking onto yours with a poorly disguised intense curiosity. 

A fresh wave of heat hit your cheeks, but you managed a small self-deprecating smile. “God, Ale, I wasn’t that drunk. I remember it. All of it.”

Her smile widened, a spark of satisfaction lighting up her eyes as she slowly nodded, carefully filing that piece of information away for later.

If you remembered everything, you remembered all the things you’d said about her. As well as what she had subtly hinted at on the couch, too.

“Good to know,” She hummed, before pushing herself up from the edge of the bed. She stood at full height, tugging her vest back into its proper place and smoothing down her shorts. “I was going to make some breakfast, are you hungry?” 

“Starving, actually," You admitted sheepishly. “Is it alright if I take a quick shower while you do that?” 

“Of course.” She replied instantly, gesturing toward the bathroom with an easy smile. “Take as long as you want. I’ll get some more clothes for you and get started on the food.” 

With a final, reassuring nod, Alexia slipped out of the room, leaving you to the blissful sanctuary of a hot shower. 

True to her word, by the time you stepped out of the bathroom, a cloud of steam rolling out behind you, a fresh stack of clean clothes was sitting neatly at the foot of the bed. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t enjoying the endless supply, drowning in both her clothes and the laundry detergent you’d loved the scent of for a little while now.

You quickly changed, taking a deep, steadying breath to steel yourself before finally bracing the hallway and padding down the stairs.

You walked into the kitchen slowly, your shoulders slightly hunched and your hands tucked into your pockets, still carrying that quiet morning-after bashfulness.

Alexia was standing over the hob, the rich, savoury aroma of frying eggs and toasted bread filling the bright room. She didn’t even have to look up to hear your hesitant footsteps, letting out another amused huff as she flicked the spatula expertly.

“You don’t have to be so awkward, you know,” She said, turning her head to flash you a warm, easy smile. She rested one hand on her hip, looking at how carefully you were hovering near the edge of the kitchen island. “You’re more than just a guest, you’re welcome here anytime. You’re… you’re like Bambi right now. Just totally unsure of your feet. Stop being so scared.”

A quiet, involuntary giggle slipped past your lips, the tension in your shoulders dropping a fraction. “I hope the nickname Bambi doesn’t stick.”

Alexia’s smirk returned in full force, her dark eyes dancing with a wicked, playful light as she turned back to the pan. “Well, that entirely depends on how you behave.”

You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your mouth as you moved to pull out a barstool. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No,” Alexia hummed, her chuckle low and thoroughly satisfied as she plated up the food. “You definitely shouldn’t have.”

The slight hints of tension evaporated into the steam of fresh coffee as you both sat down at the island. The initial awkwardness settled down into a comfortable silence as you both ate. It wasn’t an unpleasant or empty quiet; it was full of the domestic scraping of forks against plates, the hum of the kitchen appliances, the morning chirps of birds in the garden outside, clearly glad the chaos of the previous night was over.

It was a shared lazy morning lull, underscored by the lingering warmth of the sun hitting the kitchen floor.

But as the last few bites were finished and your cutlery finally scraped against the ceramic to a halt, Alexia’s mind began to wonder again. Right back to the shadows of the side garden on the sofa, again.

She stared down at her empty plate, her fingers idly tapping against the handle of her mug. She couldn’t let it go.

Hearing you admit all those things to Clara had been causing an uncomfortable twisting pain within her all morning. 

Alexia was used to having to be the structured one, the fortress, the captain who held it together. She revelled in it. 

Most of the time.

Hearing that her guard, the very wall she built to survive the pressure, had made you feel small and unwelcome in her life? It made her stomach churn.

Those walls were just a facade. And though, she supposed, it was good enough that it could fool almost anyone, she didn’t want it to affect her life in such a way like it had with you.

She wanted to lay it out, but she needed to be careful. You were still fragile, what with the hangover and the embarrassment. 

She took a final slow sip of her coffee, before setting the mug down with a soft clink to break the silence.

“You know last night,” she started, not looking up, keeping her eyes on her mug to give you space. “Before everyone left, when you were on the sofa.” 

You instantly felt a spike of adrenaline shoot straight to your chest, your mind racing through the fuzzy timeline– the weird confessional Kika and Patri had baited you into, and then the pathetic tearful rambles you’d unloaded onto an unprepared Clara.

“Yeah?” You squeaked out, clearing your throat to try and sound normal. You gripped your glass of water a little tighter. “What about it?”

“Just…” Alexia trailed off, shifting her weight on the barstool. She glanced up then, trying to gauge how much you could handle. “You seemed really… overwhelmed when you left the group. And when I came out later, you still looked… weighed down. So I just… I guess I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. Because you don’t have to lie or pretend with me, you know.” 

“Oh. Right.” You mumbled, looking everywhere but at her. You traced the edge of your plate with your thumb, trying to skirt around the massive elephant in the room. “Yeah, no, I’m fine. Just, you know, too many beers. And I get emotional when I’m tired. I probably just said a bunch of nonsense to Clara. You know how it is.” 

Alexia stayed quiet for a minute, mulling it over. 

“Was it? Nonsense?” She asked quietly a little later. Almost afraid of the answer.

“Total nonsense.” You liked quickly, nodding your head with a strained, bashful laugh. “Completely ridiculous stuff. Don’t even worry about it.”

Alexia watched you scramble, and though she perhaps should’ve been disheartened at your answer, a helpless surge of affection overtook her instead. 

She couldn’t keep the secret anymore; it wasn’t fair to let you hide behind a lie when you were both desperate for the truth.

A small, knowing smile broke across her face. She leaned her forearms onto the island, tilting her head slightly.

“I heard some of it, you know.” 

Your hand stopped dead on the table, your eyes widening to the size of saucers as the breath caught squarely in your throat. Your mind blanked out in pure panic as you froze under her gaze.

The brunette let out a low, amused chuckle at the reaction, her eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“Again with the Bambi.” She teased, lightly bumping her knee into yours. 

“I– I wasn’t… it really wasn't what it sounded like,” you scrambled to defend yourself, the words tumbling out in a panicked rush as you desperately tried to piece together a coherent excuse. “I was tipsy, and Clara was just there, and I talk so much rubbish when I’ve had a few beers, Alexia, seriously, you can’t take anything I say after midnight–”

“Hey, hey, breathe,” Alexia cut in gently, her soft voice instantly halting your spiral. She didn't let the distance grow between you, instead leaning in a fraction closer. The teasing smirk was entirely gone, replaced by an expression so genuinely reassuring it made your mind spin. “Calm down. I’m not mad. I promise you, I’m not mad at all.”

You blinked, your mouth shutting instantly as you stared at her, your heart still thumping a frantic rhythm against your ribs. Your eyes darted around the kitchen, desperately scanning the marble countertops, the coffee machine, the windows– literally anything to avoid the intense, steady focus of her gaze while your brain frantically searched for a way out.

“Why are you looking at the toaster like it’s going to save you?” Alexia asked, a breathless laugh escaping her lips, though her eyes remained completely soft.

“I’m not,” You mumbled miserably, finally dropping your gaze back to your lap. “I just… I really didn't mean to drag you into my messy thoughts.”

Alexia stayed quiet for a moment, letting the room settle. Then, slowly, she shifted her arm across the cool marble of the island and placed her hand directly over yours. Her palm was incredibly warm, her fingers resting securely over your trembling knuckles, grounding you completely.

“Look at me,” She requested softly.

Reluctantly, you lifted your eyes to meet hers.

“If I heard what I think I heard out there,” Alexia murmured, her thumb making a slow, incredibly tender stroke across the back of your hand, “then… you don’t need to be nervous at all about how I will react. Not even a little bit.” She paused, her dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made all your hesitations dissolve. “Just… be honest with me. Please.”

The raw sincerity in her voice almost overwhelmed you. A fresh, deep blush crept right back up to your cheeks, but beneath the embarrassment, an all-consuming sense of relief took over. You swallowed the lump in your throat, staring at her hand over yours, and gave a small nod.

Once the floodgates opened, there was no stopping it.

The slight hangover and the months of suppressed longing collided all at once, causing the words to come rushing out your mouth in a desperate, unfiltered torrent.

“It’s just… I’ve felt like this literally for months, Ale.” You started, your hands gesturing wildly as you tried to explain the chaos in your head. “And every time I wanted to say something, I’d look at how completely composed you are, how you handle everything with this intense focus, and I’d just chicken out.” 

Alexia gave a wistful smile, the sight almost derailing you. But you wanted to power through this now, no matter what. No looking back.

“I was so convinced that if I let it slip, I’d just… be an annoying distraction to you. I didn’t want to throw a wrench into your peace or make things awkward at training, and then Patri and Kika kept setting up stupid traps, and I was just so mortified because the last thing I ever wanted to do was burden you with my messy feelings, and I–”

You paused to catch your breath, your eyes finally flicking back to the woman sitting next to you. 

Alexia hadn't moved an inch. 

She was sitting with her elbow propped casually on the marble island, her chin resting comfortably in her hand as she gazed at you. Her eyes were fixed entirely on your face, completely captivated, and a soft, deeply affectionate smile played on her lips as she drank in every single word of your chaotic confession. She looked entirely untroubled, thoroughly content, and devastatingly beautiful in the morning light.

The undivided intensity of her gaze caused the rest of your sentence to completely die in your throat. Your cheeks flared an even deeper shade of crimson, and you shifted uncomfortably on your stool, suddenly feeling very small under her look.

How the tables had turned; now it was you who couldn’t stop blushing.

“...and I don’t know what to do with myself when you look at me like that, especially,” You finished in a tiny, breathless murmur, your voice trailing off as you nervously tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

Alexia’s grin only widened at that, a quiet rumbling chuckle vibrating in her chest as she watched you squirm.

“I can’t help it,” She murmured smoothly, her eyes dancing with an unapologetic fondness.

You let out a breathy, nervous huff and rolled your eyes, though the defensive gesture did absolutely nothing to cool the burning heat in your cheeks.

Alexia let the comfortable quiet of the kitchen settle around you for a moment. She dropped her hand from her chin and shifted her posture, leaning closer until the space between you was practically non-existent. She gently took your hand back in hers, her thumb resuming that slow stroke against your skin. 

She knew it was her turn now, and she needed to make sure you fully absorbed every single word.

“I need you to listen to me very carefully,” Alexia began, her voice dropping to a low, incredibly gentle whisper. She waited until your eyes flicked up to meet hers, holding your gaze so you couldn't look away.

“You are not too chaotic for me,” She stated firmly, erasing any room for doubt. “You are not an annoying distraction, and you could never, ever disrupt my peace. Nothing of what you’ve built up in your head to be terrified of is true.”

You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs as you listened to the sheer conviction in her tone.

“I like you exactly because you are the opposite of me,” Alexia continued, her expression softening into something heartwarmingly vulnerable. “My entire life is structured, heavily monitored, and constantly under pressure. But you... you bring out entirely different sides of me. Sides I sometimes forget I even have. You make me laugh when I’m stressed, you make me forget about the weight of the captain's armband, and those walls you think I have up?”

She paused, her thumb pressing a little firmer into the back of your hand.

“Whenever you’re around, they come falling down without you even trying,” She confessed quietly, laying her heart completely bare. “You don't need to worry about breaking through them, Bambi. You’ve been on the other side of them for months.”

The breath rushed out of your lungs in a shaky exhale, your vision blurring slightly at the edges as her words washed over you. All those months of agonising over every little interaction, over every lingering touch, suddenly clicked into place.

Alexia’s brow furrowed slightly, a flash of genuine guilt passing through her dark eyes. “It breaks my heart that I made you feel like you were a burden. I was trying so hard to respect your boundaries and not make things complicated for you at the club, but I am so sorry that my distance made you feel–”

“Don’t,” You cut her off quickly, your fingers instinctively curling around hers to squeeze her hand tight. “You don’t need to apologise, Ale. Seriously. You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

Alexia paused, her eyes searching yours, wordlessly questioning if you really meant it.

“It’s just my useless habit of overthinking.” You admitted with another self-deprecating chuckle. “You were just being you. I build these massive worst-case scenarios in my head and then convince myself they’re real. It’s stupid.” 

A grin spread slowly across Alexia’s face, her eyes lighting up with that familiar playful mischief. She leaned in just a fraction closer, her knees bracketing yours as you both sat sideways on the barstools. 

“That’s alright, because we found a solution to that last night, didn’t we?”

You blinked, a little confused. “What do you mean?” 

Without breaking eye contact, Alexia slowly shifted her hand. She uncurled her fingers from yours, slid her hand just an inch down the marble counter, and hooked her smallest finger tightly around your pinky. She gave it a firm, teasing wiggle right there on the kitchen island.

A bright, genuine laugh burst from you at the sight, your whole body relaxing as the lingering remnants of your morning panic finally vanished. 

“You and these fucking promises.” You shook your head, unable to tear your eyes away from how she looked at you. 

You quietened after that, though. Your laughter melted into something smaller, just the corner of your mouth turned upward as your fingers remained hooked together and her gaze never left yours. Each of you slowly began to process the others’ words, internally beaming at the unexpected turn of events. 

“I can’t quite believe we’ve finally… talked about it.” You whispered, staring down at your intertwined fingers before looking back up at her. It felt completely surreal, sitting in her kitchen and holding her hand while she confessed her feelings.

Alexia just smiled, as a soft and context expression took over her features at the same time she gave a casual shrug of her shoulders. “It’s been a long time coming. We were both just being too stubborn.” 

“Definitely too stubborn.” You nodded in bashful agreement, shaking your head. Then you let out a quiet snort as you thought about the madness of the previous night. “Stubborn to the point where our idiotic team had to basically bang our heads together.” 

Alexia threw her head back, a loud laugh echoing through the kitchen. “Don’t give them too much credit.” 

“They’re never going to let us live this down.” You added with a sigh, your thumb tracing the smooth skin of her hand.

Alexia hummed in agreement, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she kept her pinky firmly hooked with yours. The kitchen fell back into a quiet, content silence, but the air felt entirely different now. The suffocating weight that had been hanging over your chest all morning was completely gone, replaced by a warm and bubbling lightness.

You sat there for a few unhurried moments, just taking her in. 

The way the bright morning sun caught the golden undertones in her brown hair, the relaxed slope of her shoulders, and the soft, incredibly peaceful expression on her face. For months, you had viewed her as this untouchable fortress, but right now, sitting sideways on a barstool in a kitchen that smelled of coffee, you were left wondering how on earth you’d let those thoughts slide.

Her gaze dropped to your hands, her thumb mindlessly rubbing the side of your finger. Following her line of sight, your chest swelled with a sudden, overwhelming wave of affection. It was a bizarre, beautiful contrast– the stern captain holding your pinky like a schoolgirl on her kitchen island.

Slowly, your gaze drifted back up, tracing the sharp line of her jaw before finally landing on her mouth. The morning light caught the soft, natural curve of her lips, and the sudden realisation of what you actually wanted hit you all at once. The craving was so sharp it made your breath catch.

You leaned in just a tiny bit, your knees shifting against hers, shrinking the space between you until you could feel the faint warmth radiating from her skin.

“I really want to kiss you,” You whispered, piquing her interest. Only for you to sigh dramatically and lean back again. “But I can’t right now.” 

Alexia’s eyebrows shot up, a startled but highly amused laugh escaping her lips at your sudden turnaround. She didn’t let go of your pinky, instead leaning forward with a bright, curious gleam in her eyes.

“No?” She asked, her voice rich with a teasing undertone. “You can’t? You literally just said you wanted to.”

“I do!” You defended dramatically, throwing your free hand up in the air before dropping it back onto your lap. “But I haven't even brushed my teeth yet, I just feel completely gross. I don't want our first proper kiss to be overshadowed by a hangover and general morning grogginess. I want it to be a good memory, Ale.”

Alexia stared at you for a short beat, her expression softening so fast it was almost dizzying. A noise of pure, melting affection escaped her throat, her eyes crinkling deeply at the corners.

“You’re really something, hm,” She murmured, shaking her head. She slowly unhooked her pinky from yours, but before you could miss the contact, she slid her stool even closer, her knees firmly slotting around yours. “Alright. Fine. If you’re being stubborn about that… let me do this instead.”

She reached up, her warm hands gently coming to cradle your jawline. Her fingers were soft against your skin, her thumbs lightly tracing your cheekbones as she tilted your face up slightly. You held your breath, your pulse instantly starting to quicken.

Slowly, deliberately, Alexia leaned in. She pressed a soft, warm kiss to your left cheek, her lips lingering just long enough to make your skin tingle. Then, she shifted slightly, her breath brushing against your skin as she dropped an identical, tender kiss onto your right cheek.

You thought that was it, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she moved to the center, her eyelids fluttering shut as she pressed a firm, affectionate, lingering kiss right against the middle of your forehead.

The contact sent your heart into absolute overdrive. It felt like a physical shockwave of warmth rolling straight down your spine, leaving your stomach doing a series of wild, uncontrolled flips. It wasn't just a casual gesture; the sheer care and gravity behind the way she held your face made you feel like you were floating.

(And not because of alcohol this time.)

When she finally pulled back, her hands slid down to rest casually on your shoulders, a soft, triumphant smile playing on her lips as she looked down at your inevitably crimson face.

“Who’s the blusher now?” 

You let out a groan of pure embarrassment, completely defeated, and dropped your forehead forward until it rested heavily against her shoulder. Your face was buried in the soft fabric of her top, your hands instinctively rising to lightly grip the sides of her waist.

Alexia let out a low chuckle that vibrated right through your chest, burying her face into your hair for a brief second.

“That was too soft, Ale,” You grumbled against her shoulder, though a smile was tugging at the corners of your own mouth. “You’re cheating.”

“Too soft?” Alexia retorted, her voice dropping into a thoroughly amused, teasing purr. “Not true for you. I can literally feel your heart hammering from here.”

To make matters worse, she brought her hands down from your shoulders and began to rub them in slow, soothing strokes up and down your back. The gentle friction through the thick grey hoodie only made your stomach do another round of ridiculous flips, and you squeezed your eyes shut, completely content to stay hidden against her forever.

The domestic bubble was abruptly shattered by a sharp ping from the marble counter.

You reluctantly pulled your head back, shooting a glare at your phone as it buzzed again. You slid off the barstool, your legs still a little heavy, and reached for the device. Glancing at the screen, your eyes went wide as the digital clock and a message stared back at you.

“Oh, damn it,” You groaned again, running a hand over your face. “I completely forgot. I have plans with my family this afternoon. I… I have to leave right now or I’m going to be late.”

Alexia’s expression softened with instant understanding, her hands dropping away as she stood up with you. “Don’t stress. Go grab your stuff from upstairs, I’ll wait by the door.”

Ten minutes later, you were walking down her front path toward your car. The midday air was warm and crisp, a stark contrast to the heavy, tearful shadows of the garden the night before. You felt a million times lighter.

“Send me a text when you get home,” Alexia called out from the open doorway. She was leaning her shoulder comfortably against the frame, her hands tucked into the pockets of her shorts as she watched you.

You paused by your driver’s side door, turning back to face her with an easy smile. “I will.”

Alexia lingered for a second, her eyes tracking your face before a small, uncharacteristically bashful look crossed her features. “And… text me after that, too?”

Your heart did a violent, happy flip in your chest. You looked at her, entirely charmed. “As long as you promise to text me back.”

Without a word, Alexia lifted her hand from her pocket and held up her pinky finger, her eyes swirling with that playful affection. You couldn't help the wide, helpless grin that split your face as you lifted your own hand, mimicking the gesture from across the lawn to seal the silent contract.

With a final wave, you unlocked your car and climbed into the driver’s seat. As you pulled the seatbelt across your chest, your hand brushed against the thick, heavy fabric of the grey pullover. You froze, looking down at yourself, and realised with a sudden jolt of amusement that you were still wearing her clothes.

You let out a quiet huff and reached up to adjust the rearview mirror before backing out of the driveway. 

But as your eyes tracked the reflection, your gaze travelled past your own face and straight through the large glass window of her kitchen.

There she was, completely oblivious to the fact you were watching. Alexia was standing by the sink, idly wiping down the marble island after breakfast, and she was smiling uncontrollably to herself– a completely private grin that reached all the way to her eyes.

You shifted the car into gear and drove away, the lingering smell of her fabric softeners surrounding you, your own smile matching hers the entire ride home.

—

once again, no idea how this is so long, but hopefully it was worth it 🫠 do let me know if you enjoyed it :)

[bonrussso]

nothin' you can say - leah williamson

༄ all you need is love - the beatles

༄ pairing - leah williamson x fem!reader

༄ series - part one ; part two ; part three

༄ synopsis - while a routine friday training session leads leah to vent about her infuriating new neighbour during a physio appointment, winonah realises- (with growing amusement) that the woman driving one of her closest friends mad is none other than christopher’s younger sister, leaving her and christopher to quietly wonder whether their worlds are about to collide in ways neither woman could possibly expect.

༄ word count - 4.0k

༄ notes - i have like hundreds of millions of ideas; not proof read

༄ read more - masterlist

friday mornings belonged to football.

they always had.

long before headlines and interviews. before captain’s armbands and sold-out stadiums. before children wore shirts with williamson stitched across the back in white block lettering.

they’d belonged to frost-covered pitches in milton keynes.

to muddy boots left abandoned by the front door.

to a mother who would insist on another slice of toast before she left the house, and a father who’d grumble that no arsenal supporter should be allowed under his roof while secretly driving her to training anyway.

they belonged to jacob shouting that she’d never score from there.

to david insisting spurs were still the better club.

to amanda rolling her eyes because she’d heard the same argument every saturday morning for the better part of twenty years.

some things never really changed.

thank god for that.

⸻

london colney was already alive by the time leah pulled into the car park.

the familiar hum settled over the training ground before she’d even stepped out of her car.

groundskeepers chatting over the distant whine of a mower.

members of staff carrying crates between buildings.

the occasional burst of laughter floating across from somewhere near reception.

routine.

predictable.

comfortable.

she liked predictable.

football was one of the few places where everything made sense.

if you worked hard enough, you got better.

if you looked after your body, it usually looked after you.

if beth mead disappeared for more than five minutes…

she was almost certainly winding someone up.

leah smiled to herself as she slung her kit bag over one shoulder and headed inside.

she hadn’t even made it through the changing room door before-

“there she is!”

beth.

obviously.

beth was balancing on one foot while attempting to tie her boot, somehow still possessing enough energy to greet every person who walked through the door.

“morning.”

“you’re late.”

leah glanced automatically towards the clock.

“i’m three minutes early.”

“exactly.”

“…”

“…”

“that’s not how being late works.”

beth shrugged.

“depends who you ask.”

“i’m asking reality.”

“boring.”

“accurate.”

from the opposite bench, lotte looked up from wrapping tape around her wrist. “don’t bother arguing.”

“i wasn’t planning to.”

“good.”

“she’d only move the goalposts anyway.”

beth looked offended. “i absolutely would not.”

three pairs of eyes landed on her.

she sighed dramatically. “…alright, maybe a little.”

“shocking,” leah deadpanned.

“i know.”

by the time everyone made their way out onto the pitches, the sun had finally pushed through the morning cloud.

training passed the way it usually did.

fast.

renee’s voice carried across the grass, stopping drills, correcting positioning, praising movement.

balls flew between boots in sharp, crisp rhythms.

someone celebrated far too enthusiastically after finishing a shooting drill.

someone else immediately reminded them it had only been training.

chloe spent most of the morning talking.

katie spent the rest replying.

leah found herself laughing more than once.

it was a good session.

hard.

competitive.

exactly how she liked it.

by the time they finally headed back inside, sweat clung to the back of her neck and one calf felt just tight enough to be worth checking before it became annoying.

nothing serious.

just… tight.

she peeled herself away from the group as they drifted towards the gym and recovery room.

“where you off?” steph called after her.

“physio.”

steph nodded knowingly. “tell win i said hello.”

“tell her yourself.”

“too much walking.”

“it’s twenty metres.”

“exactly.”

leah shook her head, smiling despite herself “lazy.”

“efficient.”

“debatable.”

she continued down the corridor.

the physio room door was already half open.

she knocked lightly against the frame before pushing it wider.

“please tell me you’ve got coffee.”

without looking up from the notes spread across the desk, winonah smiled. “good morning to you too.”

“i’m taking that as a no.”

“correct.”

“heartbreaking.”

“you’ll survive.”

“debatable.”

only then did winnie lift her head. “you’re three minutes late.”

leah frowned. “i’m not.”

“you were supposed to be here straight after training.”

“steph started talking to me.”

“that sounds like a steph problem.”

“it very quickly became a leah problem.”

a laugh escaped winnie before she gestured towards the treatment table. “up.”

“bossy.”

“occupational hazard.”

leah dropped herself onto the edge of the table with an exaggerated sigh. “how bad is it?”

“depends.”

“on?”

“whether you actually stretched afterwards.”

“…”

winnie folded her arms.

“…”

“…define stretched.”

“leah.”

“i jogged.”

“that’s not stretching.”

“close enough.”

“not even remotely.”

leah grinned. “worth a try.”

winnie only shook her head, reaching for the massage oil. “one day you’ll listen to me.”

“unlikely.”

“I know.”

there wasn’t a trace of annoyance in her voice.

there never was.

they’d known each other too long for that.

winnie had patched leah up through knocks, bruises, tight muscles and the occasional injury scare.

she knew exactly when leah was genuinely hurting.

and exactly when she was being dramatic.

today…

was definitely the second one. 

“left leg?”

“mm.”

winnie rested a hand against her calf, testing the muscle. “tight.”

“that’s what i said.”

“i like confirming things myself.”

“control issues?”

“professionalism.”

“same thing.”

winnie smiled to herself. “keep talking.”

“about?”

“anything.”

leah leaned back onto her elbows, staring absently at the ceiling. “not much to report.”

“family?”

“good.”

“your mum?”

“still pretending dad will eventually support arsenal.”

“she’s optimistic.”

“she’s delusional, that’s what she is.”

“jacob?”

“still winding everyone up.”

“good.”

“he’d lose his identity otherwise.”

winnie laughed softly.

“fair.”

the room settled into an easy silence, broken only by the quiet sounds of treatment and the muffled chatter drifting in from somewhere further down the corridor.

it had always been easy with winnie.

no effort.

no performance.

just conversation.

winnie worked quietly for another minute, her hands practiced and steady.

“how’s christopher?” leah asked.

the corners of winnie’s mouth lifted immediately. “good.”

“wedding planning still sane?”

“define sane.”

leah laughed. “fair enough.”

“we’re making progress,” winnie said. “slowly.”

“that’s usually the best way.”

“i keep telling him that.”

“and?”

“he keeps asking if we can just elope.”

“can you?”

“absolutely not.”

“thought as much.”

winnie smiled to herself. “he’d have us married by next tuesday if i let him.”

“romantic.”

“impatient.”

“same difference.”

“not remotely.”

leah chuckled. “he’s a lucky bloke.”

winnie glanced up briefly.

“i know.”

the answer came so simply that it made leah smile. “he knows it too?”

“he’d tell you he does.”

“confidence.”

“lovingly.”

“dangerous combination.”

“very.”

another comfortable silence settled between them and winnie shifted lower down her calf. “tell me if that’s sore.”

“…that’s sore.”

“good.”

“good?”

“means i’ve found it.”

“i preferred not finding it.”

“i’m aware.”

leah let out a theatrical sigh. “you’re a sadist.”

“occupational requirement.”

“i knew it.”

“we actually cover it in university.”

“how to make footballers complain?”

“week one.”

leah laughed, shaking her head. “i’ve always suspected.”

“most of you are very dramatic.”

“i’m not.”

winnie simply looked at her.

“…”

“…”

“…don’t answer that.”

“wasn’t planning to.”

leah folded her arms behind her head. “how’s work?”

winnie raised an eyebrow. “we’re currently at work.”

“you know what i mean.”

“i do.”

she thought for a moment. “good.”

“everyone behaving themselves?”

“mostly.”

“mostly?”

“kyra attempted to convince one of the academy girls that ice baths are optional.”

“they’re not.”

“i’m aware.”

“did she believe her?”

“thankfully not.”

“excellent.”

“i’ve also confiscated approximately four packets of sweets this week.”

“only four?”

“it’s only friday.”

“there’s still time.”

“don’t remind me.”

they both laughed.

outside, someone called for another football.

a burst of applause echoed briefly from one of the indoor pitches.

the training ground carried on around them.

familiar, busy, but alive.

winnie eased the pressure from leah’s calf. “that should settle down.”

“you’re a magician.”

“i’ll take physiotherapist.”

“less exciting.”

“considerably.”

she reached for a clean towel. “anything exciting happening outside football?”

leah’s answer came automatically. “not really.”

winnie hummed quietly. “nothing?”

“no.”

she paused. “…well.”

winnie looked up.

there it was.

the tiny hesitation.

the sort that usually meant there was something.

“…well?” she prompted.

leah rubbed a hand over the back of her neck, almost laughing at herself before she’d even begun. “i’ve… acquired a neighbour.”

winnie’s eyebrows lifted. “acquired?”

“don’t.”

“i wasn’t going to say anything.”

“you were thinking it.”

“perhaps.”

leah shook her head. “she moved in next door about a week ago.”

“new to london?”

“don’t think so.”

“you’ve spoken then?”

leah let out a short laugh. “unfortunately.”

“unfortunately?”

“she’s…” she searched for the word before settling on, “…completely insane.”

winnie bit the inside of her cheek.

“that’s a strong opening.”

“it’s an accurate one.”

“what happened?”

leah leaned back again, smiling despite herself 

“i walked outside one morning…” she laughed once under her breath “…and she was halfway up the side of her own townhouse.”

winnie’s eyebrows rose. “…halfway up?”

“third floor.”

“you’re joking.”

“i genuinely wish i was.” leah laughed to herself at the memory “apparently she’d locked herself out.”

“oh.”

“exactly.”

“so, naturally…”

“she decided climbing the outside of the house was the most sensible solution.”

winnie smiled, shaking her head. “did she make it?”

“eventually.”

“eventually?”

“there were… complications.”

“complications?”

“her coat got caught.”

winnie let out a surprised laugh. “you’re awful.”

“i didn’t do anything.”

“you laughed.”

“a little.”

“a lot?”

“…possibly.”

winnie rolled her eyes fondly. “poor woman.”

“she survived.”

“how reassuring.”

“she also called me unintelligent within about thirty seconds of meeting me.”

“did you deserve it?”

leah considered the question. “…debatable.”

“which means yes.”

“i’m choosing not to answer.”

winnie smiled to herself, continuing to work “and that was the end of it?”

“i thought so.”

“but?”

“next morning she was in the café around the corner.”

“same one you always go to?”

“mm.”

“and i accidentally walked straight into her.”

winnie looked up. “accidentally?”

“completely.”

“leah.”

“it was.”

“if you say so.”

“i wasn’t even looking where i was going.”

“i believe that part.”

“thanks.”

“you’re welcome.”

leah rubbed at the bridge of her nose. “i ended up wearing about half my coffee.”

“and the other half?”

“…landed on what turned out to be an extraordinarily expensive coat.”

“oh dear.”

“that was more or less her reaction.”

winnie laughed softly. “she wasn’t pleased.”

“that’s putting it mildly.”

“did you apologise?”

“of course i apologised.”

“good.”

“she called me an imbecile.”

“…less good.”

“then informed me it was sable.”

winnie’s hands paused for the smallest fraction of a second before continuing again. “sable? like the animal?”

“apparently.”

“did you know the difference?”

“not until i was educated against my will.”

“i see.”

“i also discovered people apparently still call mobile phones ‘cellulars’.”

that made winnie laugh properly. “she called it a cellular?”

“with complete confidence.”

“how wonderfully specific.”

“i’ve never heard anyone under the age of eighty say it.”

“perhaps she’s bringing it back.”

“i sincerely hope not.”

there was another comfortable silence and leah smiled to herself, almost absent-mindedly. “then i saw her again at the farmers’ market.”

winnie didn’t miss the smile. “again?”

“we reached for the same punnet of cherries.”

“of course you did.”

“naturally.”

“let me guess.”

“she insisted they were hers.”

“immediately.”

“and you?”

“pointed out my hand had technically been there first.”

winnie smiled. “i imagine that went down well.”

“she told me manners feared me.”

“…that’s actually quite funny.”

leah huffed a laugh. “don’t encourage it.”

“i’m not.”

“she’s impossible.”

“mm.”

“completely.”

“mm.”

leah frowned playfully. “you’re agreeing with me very easily.”

“i’m listening.”

“i don’t think you are.”

“i promise i am.”

she was.

perhaps a little too closely.

leah finishes adjusting her position on the treatment table, rolling her ankle once like she’s testing it.

“so yeah,” she says finally, exhaling through her nose. “that’s her.”

winnie hums softly, still focused on her hands “sounds… memorable.”

“that’s one word for it.”

“and you’ve only spoken a few times?”

“unfortunately, yes.”

leah stretches her arms above her head. “i don’t know what it is. she just shows up and starts arguing like it’s a personality trait.”

a small smile tugs at winnie’s mouth. “maybe it is.”

“hers, maybe.”

winnie lets out a quiet laugh, stepping back from the treatment table and reaching for a towel like nothing unusual has just been said. “how’s the calf?”

“better.”

“good.”

leah sits up slowly, swinging her legs over the side. “you’re distracted.”

“am i?”

“yeah.”

winnie shakes her head lightly. “just thinking.”

“about?”

“nothing important.”

leah narrows her eyes. “that sounds like a lie.”

“it isn’t.”

“it is.”

winnie smiles, entirely unbothered. “you’ll live.”

leah scoffs, grabbing her water bottle. “rude.”

“honest.”

there’s a beat where leah just watches her, then shrugs like she’s decided not to push it.

“anyway,” she says, hopping off the table. “i’m telling you, if you ever meet her, you’ll understand exactly what i mean.”

winnie’s hands still for the smallest fraction of a second as she folds the towel.

just enough.

barely anything at all.

then she continues. “i’m sure i will.”

leah heads for the door, already half distracted by the next thing on her schedule. “see you later, win.”

“see you.”

the door clicks shut behind her.

the room goes quiet in a way that feels heavier than it should.

winnie stands still for a moment, looking down at the treatment notes she hasn’t actually been reading.

then, very slowly, she exhales.

a small laugh slips out before she can stop it.

of course.

of course it’s her.

she leans back against the counter, presses a hand briefly to her forehead, and lets the realization settle properly this time.

next door.

leah williamson.

and y/n lovett.

no idea.

she shakes her head, still smiling, already imagining how this is going to unfold.

then she reaches for her phone.

not rushed, not dramatic.

just inevitable.

a new message starts forming at the top of the screen.

christopher

she pauses for half a second.

then types:

you are not going to believe this.

and sends it.

⸻

for winonah carrington, friday evenings belonged to home.

not in quite the same unwavering way thursdays belonged to the lovetts.

these were quieter.

smaller.

less ceremonial.

just two people, one enthusiastic dog, and whichever meal christopher had decided to attempt that evening.

winnie had grown rather fond of them.

⸻

by the time she turned onto their street, the evening rush had begun to thin.

the sun sat lower over london now, washing the rows of victorian terraces in warm gold.

she parked outside the house, gathered her bag from the passenger seat and climbed out, already able to picture exactly what she’d find inside.

music.

something simmering.

christopher pretending he wasn’t waiting for her.

she smiled to herself.

some things became wonderfully predictable.

the front gate clicked softly behind her.

before she’d even reached the front door-

thud. paws… lots of them.

“i’m coming,” she laughed.

the scratching intensified.

she’d barely managed to get the key into the lock before the door flew inward.

honey launched herself forward immediately.

all golden curls, wagging tail and complete absence of personal boundaries.

“hello, sweetheart.”

the two-and-a-half-year-old golden doodle stretched up onto her back legs, front paws landing gently against winnie’s shoulders as she enthusiastically attempted to lick her face.

“yes, hello to you too.”

another wag.

and another attempted kiss.

“have you missed me?”

honey answered by leaning all thirty-odd kilograms of herself against winnie with complete confidence.

“i’ll take that as a yes.”

from somewhere deeper inside the house-

“she’s been sat by the window since half five.”

christopher.

winnie looked up from where she was rubbing behind honey’s ears. “has she really?”

“wouldn’t leave.”

“poor thing.”

“don’t encourage her.”

“i wasn’t talking about honey.”

a beat. “…rude.”

winnie laughed, slipping off her shoes before honey proudly picked one up and began trotting triumphantly towards the living room with it. “absolutely not.”

honey paused.

looked back.

continued walking.

“christopher.”

“don’t look at me.”

“your dog.”

“our dog.”

“currently stealing my shoe.”

he appeared around the corner carrying a wooden spoon, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, an apron tied loosely around his waist that read kiss the cook despite the fact he’d insisted buying it had been ‘entirely ironic.’

he watched honey disappear into the lounge.

“…she’ll bring it back.”

“will she?”

“…eventually.”

winnie folded her arms.

“…”

“…”

“…after negotiations.”

“that’s what i thought.”

christopher grinned. “welcome home.” he stepped forward, leaning down to kiss her softly.

brief.

easy.

the sort of kiss exchanged by two people who’d stopped trying to impress each other a long time ago.

“missed you.”

“missed you too.”

he studied her face for perhaps half a second longer than usual. “…long day?”

“not particularly.”

“interesting day?”

“…”

“…”

“…possibly.”

one eyebrow lifted.

“interesting enough to text me, ‘you are not going to believe this’?”

winnie sighed.

“…perhaps.”

“i’ve been thinking about that message all afternoon.”

“i know.”

“i was in a meeting with my father and his mates when you sent that and i proceeded to develop seventeen different theories.”

“seventeen?”

“roughly.”

“any of them correct?”

“i’m hoping one involves dinosaurs.”

“…it does not.”

“shame.”

she laughed quietly as she wandered into the kitchen.

it smelt of garlic, rosemary and something roasting in the oven.

comfort.

home.

christopher turned back towards the stove, giving whatever was simmering in the pan another stir. “right.”

winnie recognised that tone immediately. “…christopher.”

“from the beginning.”

“i’ve not even put my bag down.”

“you can put it down while talking.”

“i’d quite like a glass of water.”

“you may absolutely have one.”

he pointed the wooden spoon towards her. “…while talking.”

she looked at him.

“…”

“…”

“…you’ve been thinking about this all day.”

“since approximately eleven forty-three.”

“that’s oddly specific.”

“that’s when your text arrived.”

“of course you know the exact minute.”

“i checked twice.”

winnie laughed, shaking her head as she crossed to the fridge.

behind her, honey finally reappeared.

still carrying the shoe.

tail wagging proudly.

“look.” christopher gestured towards the dog. “she’s returning it.”

honey dropped the shoe directly into the middle of the kitchen.

then looked impossibly pleased with herself.

“thank you,” winnie said solemnly.

honey barked once.

“i think she wants paying.”

“she gets dinner in twenty minutes.”

“she’s negotiating for bonuses.”

“takes after you.”

“excuse me?”

“you negotiate everything.”

“professionally.”

“selectively.”

“successfully.”

“…can’t argue with that.”

winnie slipped onto one of the stools at the island, twisting the cap off her water bottle before taking a long drink.

christopher plated up a handful of chopped vegetables without looking away from the stove.

he waited.

patiently.

for almost five entire seconds.

then- “so?”

winnie laughed into her water. “you’re impossible.”

“i’ve heard.”

“multiple times.”

“usually by you.”

“for good reason.”

he finally looked over at her. “…well?”

she rested both elbows on the island “alright.”

he nodded once. “good.”

“first…” she smiled despite herself. “…you need to remember y/n telling us about her neighbour last night.”

christopher didn’t even hesitate. “the woman she called an imbecile.”

“yes.”

“the one who spilled coffee on mum’s sable coat.”

“lovey’s sable coat.”

“close enough.”

“the one she climbed a townhouse in front of.”

“using ivy.”

“yes.”

he pointed the spoon towards her. “i’m with you.”

winnie took another sip of water, then looked up. “…today leah came in for a physio session.”

christopher blinked once. “…leah?”

“mm.”

“as in leah.”

“yes.”

“arsenal leah.”

“how many leahs we you know?”

“…fair point.”

she smiled. “we were chatting.”

“normal chatting.”

“very normal chatting.”

“until…”

“until she casually tells me she’s got a new neighbour.”

christopher frowned slightly. “…go on.”

“she starts telling me about this woman.”

“a woman who apparently climbed the outside of her own townhouse.”

his eyes widened a fraction. “…no.”

winnie nodded once. “yes.”

he slowly set the wooden spoon down on the worktop. “…no.”

“yes.”

“…”

“…”

“…you’re joking.”

“i genuinely wish i was.”

christopher doesn’t speak for a moment.

the only sound in the kitchen is the soft simmer of the pan and the distant click of honey’s nails as she circles the hallway, presumably still supervising the shoe situation like it’s a full-time job.

he slowly leans one hand against the counter.

“…leah.”

winnie nods once.

“leah williamson.”

that lands differently.

his expression shifts immediately- not shock, not confusion.

recognition.

“i know her.”

“i know you do.”

he looks at winnie properly now. “…you’re friends with her.”

“yes.”

“proper friends.”

“yes.”

“…not just ‘we say hello at physio and move on’ friends.”

winnie gives him a look. “we’ve known each other for years, chris. you know that.”

he exhales through his nose, almost laughing at himself. “right.”

a pause.

he turns back to the stove, stirring again, but slower now. “…and she’s next door to y/n.”

“apparently.”

“…that’s insane.”

“i agree.”

he nods once, like he’s accepting a difficult business merger. “that’s actually insane.”

winnie leans her elbows back on the island, watching him carefully now. “you’re not worried.”

it’s not a question.

he smiles faintly. “no.”

“why not?”

he thinks about it properly this time.

lovey at sixteen- boarding school in switzerland, sitting alone with books while everyone else went out.

lovey at nineteen- arguing that friendships were “logistically inefficient.”

lovey at twenty-three- calling home from another airport, insisting she preferred it that way.

lovey now- thirty seconds of chaotic interaction with the same woman on repeat.

he shrugs. “because she’s talking to someone.”

winnie softens slightly at that.

he continues, quieter now. “she doesn’t do that much.”

a beat.

then, lightly again:

“also she called someone an imbecile and climbed a house. which has to be the most athletic thing she’s ever done in her life.”

winnie laughs under her breath. “fair.”

he points the spoon slightly. “and she hates footballers.”

winnie tilts her head. “she doesn’t know leah is a footballer.”

“no.”

“and leah doesn’t know who she is either.”

“good.” he says it immediately.

winnie raises an eyebrow. “good?”

christopher shrugs again, more relaxed now. “less chance of assumptions.”

“from either side.”

“exactly.”

he goes back to the pan, but there’s a small smile lingering now. “…leah’s actually a good person.”

“i know.”

“lovey will hate that though. she hates being wrong.”

winnie laughs. “she already does.”

“of course she does.”

he shakes his head slightly, amused. “she’s spent her entire life saying footballers are arrogant.”

“has she?”

“since switzerland and she had a crush on that girl- mandy. and then mandy kicked a football into her head. i only remember it because i remember her going home to mum and dad with this massive purple bruise on her head- it was ghastly.”

winnie hums in recognition. “that tracks.”

christopher gestures loosely with the spoon. “and now she’s living next to one and arguing about cherries.”

“it’s a good start.”

he pauses. then, more softly:

“it’s more than a start.”

winnie looks at him properly now.

he doesn’t elaborate.

he doesn’t need to.

there’s a quiet understanding there between them- one that doesn’t need pushing or naming.

he just adds, almost offhand:

“as long as she’s not miserable, i’m happy.”

winnie smiles to herself. “you’re very soft about her.”

“i’m not.”

“you are.”

“i’m realistic.”

“same thing.”

he scoffs lightly, but there’s no bite to it.

then, after a second:

“…leah’s going to be very confused by her.”

winnie nods. “i think she already is.”

christopher smiles properly now. “good.”

a pause.

then, quieter again:

“lovey could use someone who doesn’t back down.”

winnie watches him for a moment. “you think leah won’t?”

he glances at her, and there’s a hint of something amused there now. “ have you met leah?”

winnie laughs.

“fair.”

he turns the heat down slightly, finishing the dish. “…just don’t tell lovey too much.”

winnie nods. “i wasn’t planning to.”

he glances at her. “you will.”

“probably.”

they share a look.

then both laugh under their breath as honey finally trots back in, victorious, having clearly won some unseen negotiation over footwear.

and for now-

that’s enough.

⸻

fin .

[bonrussso]

nothin' you can sing that can't be sung - leah williamson

༄ all you need is love - the beatles

༄ pairing - leah williamson x fem!reader

༄ series - part one ; part two ; part three

༄ synopsis - after settling into her new life back in london, your weekly family dinner takes an unexpected turn when an innocent story about your infuriating next-door neighbour quietly makes one person at the table realise exactly who she is.

༄ word count - 4.2k

༄ notes - this is just a filler chapter but i have another coming in about two hours so please bare with me, i’ve never ever written a fanfic like this before; not proof read

༄ read more - masterlist

thursday has always belonged to home.

it doesn’t matter how old you are.

it doesn’t matter how busy work becomes, how many countries you’ve lived in, or how many airports you’ve wandered through with a suitcase that feels heavier than it did the week before.

thursday is home.

when you were twenty-two and reporting from buenos aires, you called in from a hotel lobby because the wi-fi in your room had given up halfway through the day.

when you were twenty-four in hanoi, you balanced your laptop on the windowsill of your apartment, eating takeaway pho while your family tucked into roast chicken three continents away.

when you spent six weeks following elections across eastern europe, your father simply moved dinner back an hour because your train had been delayed crossing into austria.

nobody complained.

they just waited.

your mother always says traditions only survive if everyone treats them as non-negotiable.

the lovetts have always been remarkably good at not negotiating.

—

by quarter to six you’ve finished everything your editor asked of you.

your notebook closes with a satisfying snap.

three emails sent.

two interviews confirmed.

one article filed.

your desk is left exactly as you found it that morning.

you’ve never understood people who abandon mugs, loose papers and charging cables everywhere.

work is easier when your surroundings aren’t arguing with you.

“heading off, lovett?”

you glance up to see your editor is leaning against the doorway with his own coat already slung over one shoulder.

“yes.”

“first week still treating you alright?”

“very much so.”

“good.”

he smiles. “don’t work too hard.”

you consider that. “…i’ll try.”

he laughs. “that’s the least convincing thing i’ve heard all day.”

you offer him a polite smile before slipping your satchel over your shoulder.

outside, london feels different to how it does in the mornings.

less expectant, but more content.

people drift home instead of hurrying towards somewhere.

the air smells faintly of rain despite the sky remaining stubbornly blue.

you’ve always preferred london in the evenings.

the city exhales.

you decide to walk part of the journey before catching the underground.

there’s no rush.

there never is on thursdays.

you stop briefly at the florist you’d noticed earlier in the week.

your mother insists flowers are an unnecessary expense.

she also smiles every single time somebody buys them.

“good evening,” says the florist.

“evening.”

you study the buckets lining the pavement.

hydrangeas.

sweet peas.

peonies almost past their season.

then you see them.

white lilies.

your mother’s favourite.

“those, please.”

the florist wraps them carefully in brown paper. “special occasion?”

“thursday.”

he looks mildly confused and you simply smile.

“it’s family dinner.”

“ah.”

somehow, that seems explanation enough.

—

your parents’ house hasn’t changed.

the black railings still need repainting.

the climbing roses still threaten to take over the front of the house every summer.

the brass knocker is still slightly crooked after christopher somehow managed to loosen it with a football when he was eleven.

your father insisted he’d repair it.

he never has.

you secretly hope he never will.

home isn’t perfect.

it’s familiar.

before you’ve even reached the front steps, the front door swings open.

“…mum.”

vivienne lovett stands there with a tea towel thrown over one shoulder. “you’re early.”

“by four minutes.”

“exactly.”

she kisses both your cheeks before immediately taking the lilies from your hands “you didn’t need to bring flowers.”

“i know.”

“they’re beautiful.”

“i know.”

she rolls her eyes.

“still impossible.”

“genetics.”

“your father’s fault.”

“i’m standing right here.”

sebastian lovett’s voice drifts through the hallway.

he appears a moment later, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, reading glasses perched lower on his nose than they’re supposed to be “good evening, lovey.”

“evening, dad.”

he kisses your forehead once.

brief, uncomplicated, but entirely him.

“journey alright?”

“fine.”

“work?”

“good.”

“good?”

“productive.”

he nods once. “splendid.”

coming from your father, it’s practically an emotional speech.

your mother disappears into the kitchen with the flowers. “don’t just stand there, sebastian.”

“i’m greeting my daughter.”

“you’ve greeted her.”

“twice, technically.”

“exactly.”

you smile to yourself as your father quietly hangs your trench coat beside his.

he still does it every time you come home.

he’s done it since you were fourteen.

you’ve offered countless times.

he’s never once accepted.

voices spill from the kitchen.

lefa.

obviously.

“…i’m just saying, if harry hadn’t panicked-”

“he reversed into a stationary bollard,” christopher says.

“because it came out of nowhere.”

“the bollard?”

“yes.”

“the one concreted into the ground?”

“they’re unpredictable.”

you step into the kitchen just in time to watch your younger sister steal a roasted carrot straight from the baking tray.

“leona-faye.”

your mother doesn’t even turn around.

“i’m tasting.”

“you’re stealing.”

“same difference.”

“not in this kitchen.”

lefa sighs dramatically before looking up.

her face brightens immediately.

“lovey!” before you can say anything she’s wrapped you in a hug that almost knocks the breath from your lungs.

“hello to you too.”

“i’ve missed you.”

“i saw you five days ago.”

“exactly.”

“that’s hardly a lifetime.”

“It felt like one.”

you laugh softly. “dramatic.”

“says the journalist.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

“you lot make weather sound like warfare.”

“only when it’s interesting.”

lefa grins. “see? dramatic.”

christopher appears beside her carrying a stack of plates.

“lovey.” he leans down, presses a quick kiss to the top of your head and immediately notices your expression.

“what?”

“nothing.”

“you’re analysing something.”

“…your plates aren’t stacked evenly.”

he looks down. “…they’re not.”

without another word he adjusts them.

winnie watches the exchange from the other side of the island before laughing. “you’re impossible.”

“which one?” christopher asks.

“yes.” she responds, avoiding the question.

you and christopher glance at one another. “…fair.”

“i knew i liked this family,” winnie says.

your mother looks over her shoulder. “you’ve been part of it for years, darling.”

winnie’s smile softens. “still nice hearing it.” she walks over and hugs you. “hello, stranger.”

“hello, winnie.”

“first week survived?”

“surprisingly.”

“told you you’d love it.”

“you did.”

“and?”

“…you were right.”

she beams. “i’m framing that.”

“don’t.”

“too late.”

from somewhere behind you-

“i heard that!” your father appears in the doorway. “if anyone is framing anything tonight, it’s the fact our eldest daughter admitted someone else was right.”

“dad.”

“remarkable scenes.”

“you’re all insufferable.”

“runs in the family,” lefa says brightly.

“except mum.”

your mother snorts. “oh, sweetheart.”

“what?”

“i’m worse than all of you.”

the room falls quiet for exactly two seconds.

then everyone starts laughing, even sebastian. especially sebastian. you hadn’t realised how much you’d missed this.

not just seeing them, but hearing them.

the familiar overlap of conversations.

your mother’s wooden spoon tapping lightly against a saucepan.

christopher quietly correcting where the serving spoons sit on the table without even noticing he’s doing it.

lefa talking enough for three people.

your father pretending not to smile while absolutely smiling.

winnie moving around the kitchen as though she’d grown up inside it.

for the first time in years…

home doesn’t feel borrowed.

it feels yours again.

the kitchen has always been the heart of the house.

not the drawing room.

not your father’s study.

not even the dining room where every thursday eventually ends.

the kitchen.

it’s where birthdays began before anyone else is awake.

it’s where christmas mornings smelt like cinnamon before presents had even been opened.

it’s where your mother insists every meaningful conversation somehow belongs.

the room hasn’t changed nearly enough for the number of years that have passed.

the aga still gives off its familiar warmth.

the old clock above the dresser still runs three minutes fast because your father once claimed it encouraged punctuality.

your mother never corrected it.

she simply started living by it.

your cherry bourbon pie sits neatly in the centre of the island, still tucked inside its pie carrier.

mother notices it immediately. “lovey.”

“yes?”

“you brought dessert.”

“i did.”

“you didn’t have to.”

“i wanted to.”

she walks over, unclipping the lid with surprising excitement. the smell of butter and cherries escapes almost instantly. for a brief second, nobody says anything. then-

“…good lord,” christopher mutters.

lefa leans across the island. “is that-”

“don’t.” your mother’s voice is gentle but firm.

she doesn’t even look up from lifting the pie free.

“i wasn’t going to touch it.”

“you absolutely were.”

“…alright, i was thinking about touching it.”

“thinking leads to doing.”

“that’s a dangerous philosophy.”

“it’s worked for twenty-something years.”

lefa sighs dramatically.

“this family has no faith in me.”

sebastian looks up from pouring everyone a glass of water. “earned, sweetheart.”

“whose side are you on?”

“your mother’s.”

she gasps theatrically. “traitor.”

he smiles into his glass. “i’ve been happily married for thirty years.”

“twenty-nine,” your mother corrects automatically.

“see?” your father gestures towards her with quiet satisfaction. “proof.”

winnie laughs softly from beside the oven, where she’s checking on something simmering in a saucepan. “he’s got a point.”

“thank you, win.”

“don’t encourage him.”

“too late.”

vivienne cuts a look towards her husband that somehow manages to be both exasperated and impossibly fond.

you’ve spent your entire life watching them communicate like this.

half sentences, shared looks, corrections that aren’t really corrections. love, translated into routine.

your mother turns back to the pie. “it’s beautiful.”

“thank you.”

she studies the lattice for a moment longer. “your edges are neater than mine.”

“mum.”

“they are.”

“you taught me.”

“i know.” she smiles to herself. “still unfair.”

christopher wanders over, hands tucked comfortably into his pockets. he studies the pie with the concentration of someone assessing an engineering project. “…it’s symmetrical.”

“of course it is,” lefa says. “it’s y/n.”

he nods once. “good point.”

you look between them. “…what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

christopher shrugs. “if one side had more cherries than the other, i’d assume someone else made it.”

“that’s ridiculous.”

“is it?”

“…”

“…”

“…no.”

“thought so.”

lefa grins triumphantly. “she admitted it.”

“i admitted nothing.”

“you absolutely admitted something.”

“i chose not to continue the conversation.”

“same thing.”

“not remotely.”

“lovey.”

you turn towards your younger sister. “yes?”

“hypothetically.”

“…i don’t like that word.”

“hypothetically,” she continues anyway, “if i accidentally dropped this pie…”

“you wouldn’t.”

“but if i did.”

“you won’t.”

“…”

“…”

“you’d cry, wouldn’t you?”

christopher answers before you can.

“yes.”

“i would not.”

“lovey.”

“christopher.”

“you alphabetise your bookshelf.”

“by author.”

“then genre.”

“yes.”

“then publication date.”

“…”

“…”

“…that’s beside the point.”

lefa folds her arms. “you iron tea towels.”

“only the linen ones.”

there’s a beat of silence.

winnie blinks. “…you iron tea towels?”

“only if they’re linen.”

“bit deranged if you ask me…”

“it prevents creasing.”

“they’re tea towels.”

“exactly.”

“they’re designed to get dirty.”

“that doesn’t mean they should begin dirty.”

winnie looks helplessly towards christopher. “is she serious?”

“completely.”

“terrifying.”

“occasionally.”

“i heard that.”

“you were supposed to.”

your mother reaches across the island, squeezing your hand once. “there’s nothing wrong with taking pride in your things.”

you smile.

“thank you.”

“however…”

“…”

“…you do iron tea towels.”

“…only the linen ones.”

your father clears his throat. “i think we’ve established that.”

everyone laughs. including you unfortunately.

it comes easier here than it does anywhere else- without effort or thinking.

lefa steals another roast potato.

this time your mother catches her immediately “leona-faye.”

“i’ve committed now.”

“put the next one back.”

“that’s fair.”

she actually does.

which somehow surprises everyone more than if she hadn’t.

sebastian watches her for a second before quietly sliding the bowl two inches closer in her direction.

nobody misses it.

least of all your mother. “sebastian.”

“what?”

“don’t encourage her.”

“i’m not.”

“you just moved the potatoes.”

“did i?”

“you did.”

he glances down. “…must’ve slipped.”

lefa bites the inside of her cheek so hard she’s practically vibrating with suppressed laughter.

your mother looks from one to the other, then simply sighs. “honestly.”

“what?” father and lefa ask together.

christopher shakes his head. “you’re impossible.”

“runs in the family,” lefa says.

“except lovey.”

you look up. “pardon?”

“you’re impossible in… a completely different way.”

“thank you?”

“it wasn’t a compliment.”

“i gathered.”

“she means,” winnie says warmly, rescuing the conversation before it can spiral, “you’re all impossible for completely different reasons.”

“exactly.”

lefa points at her. “see? she speaks lefa.”

“i speak youngest sibling because i too, am the youngest sibling.”

“there’s a difference?”

“a significant one.”

“i’m learning.”

“quickly.”

you watch the three of them together for a moment- christopher leaning lazily against the worktop, winnie absent-mindedly straightening the stack of napkins he’d left slightly crooked, lefa perched on a stool swinging one foot as she plots whichever joke she’ll make next.

it strikes you then, quietly, that despite spending years chasing stories across the world…

you’d almost forgotten what it felt like to know every person in a room by heart.

“right,” your mother says, clapping her hands together once. “before someone subtly offends someone else…” she looks directly at lefa. “…everyone to the table.”

almost instinctively, chairs scraped against the wooden floor.

christopher pulls winnie’s chair out before sitting himself.

your father reaches automatically for your mother’s hand as they walk the few steps into the dining room.

and of course, lefa nudges your shoulder. “race you.”

“to the table?”

“yes.”

“it’s six feet away.”

“…coward.”

before you could answer, she’d already darted past you, laughing to herself.

you watched her go with an involuntary smile.

some things, you thought, never really changed.

but thank god for that.

everyone falls into the same seats they’ve occupied for years.

not because anyone ever assigned them.

because they never needed to.

your father sits at the head of the table nearest the window.

your mother opposite him.

christopher to your father’s left, winnie beside him.

you opposite the pair of them.

and lefa, despite repeatedly insisting she’s a grown adult with a medical degree and a mortgage, sits beside you exactly where she’s sat since she was old enough to graduate from a highchair.

some habits simply outlive childhood.

the room settles into a comfortable hum.

plates are passed.

serving spoons exchanged.

your mother insists everyone takes vegetables before potatoes.

lefa immediately reaches for the potatoes.

“leona-faye.”

she pauses, spoon halfway to her plate. “…yes?”

“vegetables.”

“i’ve had vegetables.”

“when?”

“earlier.”

“while stealing them doesn’t count.”

“i wasn’t stealing.”

“borrowing?”

“sampling.”

your father nods thoughtfully. “quality control.”

“thank you,” lefa says.

“you’re welcome.”

your mother doesn’t even look at either of them. “both of you.”

they exchange identical expressions of innocence.

christopher watches them for a moment before quietly serving himself broccoli.

“i’m staying out of this.”

“smart,” winnie murmurs.

“survival instinct.”

“years of practice.”

your mother finally slides the bowl of potatoes across. “now.”

lefa brightens immediately. “see? delayed gratification.”

“don’t make this sound educational.”

“everything’s educational.”

“not everything.”

“most things.”

“absolutely not.”

you shake your head, reaching for the carrots. “how you’ve managed to become a doctor remains one of life’s great mysteries.”

“neurosurgeon,” lefa corrects.

“which somehow makes it worse.”

“my patients adore me.”

“your colleagues don’t.”

“they’ll tolerate me either way.”

“that’s optimistic.”

“i’m choosing confidence.”

“you’re choosing delusion.”

“same difference.”

“they are quite literally opposites.”

winnie laughs into her napkin. “i’ve missed thursdays.”

“you were here last thursday,” christopher reminds her.

“exactly.”

“that isn’t long enough to miss something.”

“i disagree.”

“of course you do.”

she smiles at him. “i missed you too while i was at work today.”

he tries very hard not to smile.

fails completely.

your father notices. “you’re getting soft.”

christopher looks up. “i’ve always been soft.”

“that’s true,” lefa says.

“rugby ruined the illusion though. because then you got strong and started deciding you could attack us- even when we were children and i was a head taller than you.” you add.

“i’ll have you know i’m terrifying.”

“to who?”

“outside people.”

“certainly not to us.”

“that’s because you lot have known me too long.”

“unfortunately,” you say.

“you wound me.”

“you’ll recover.”

“eventually.”

he points his fork towards you. “that sounded familiar.”

“must run in the family.”

“unfortunately.”

“fortunately,” your mother corrects gently “there’s a difference.”

“debatable.”

your father tops up everyone’s water glasses as the conversation drifts comfortably from one thing to another.

nobody asks him to.

he simply notices they’re empty.

he’s always been quietly observant like that.

doing things before anyone thinks to ask.

your mother catches him reaching for her glass before she’s even touched it. “thank you.”

he nods once. “of course.”

it’s such a small exchange that it almost disappears beneath the rest of the conversation.

you notice anyway, you always have.

love, in your family, has never been particularly loud.

it lives in filled water glasses.

chairs pulled out.

flowers placed in vases.

coats hung without asking.

the little things.

always the little things.

“alright,” you rmother says after everyone has finally begun eating properly.

she rests her knife against the edge of her plate and looks around the table. “i’ve heard enough discussion about potatoes.”

“have you?” lefa asks.

“yes.”

“because i still have opinions.”

“keep them until dessert.”

“that’s censorship.”

“that’s motherhood.”

lefa sighs dramatically. “fine.”

your mother smiles. “good.”

she glances around the table once more “how was everyone’s week?”

it’s never a formal tradition.

no one announces that they’re taking turns.

it simply… happens.

every thursday.

without fail.

sebastian goes first, as he usually does.

“a client finally agreed to stop trying to outsmart the market.”

“did they?”

“no.”

christopher nods knowingly. “thought as much.”

“they merely accepted i was right.”

“which is close enough.”

“close enough.”

your mother smiles into her wine. “you’ve been saying the same sentence for thirty years.”

“because people continue proving me correct.”

“modest, as always.”

“painfully.”

lefa groans. “i’ve inherited his confidence.”

“unfortunately,” you murmur.

“genetically unavoidable.”

“i blame dad.”

“i’ll accept responsibility,” your father replies.

“thank you.”

“provided i also receive credit for your intelligence.”

“absolutely not.”

“worth asking.”

your mother shakes her head fondly before looking towards winnie. “and arsenal?”

winnie swallows before answering. “busy.”

“good busy?”

“mostly.”

she smiles softly. “everyone’s healthy.”

“which makes my job considerably easier.”

“you’ve settled in beautifully there,” your mother says.

“i’ve been very lucky.”

christopher nudges her knee gently beneath the table. “don’t be so modest, luck had nothing to do with it.”

she smiles at him. “thank you.”

“just stating facts.”

your mother turns to you then. “and you, lovey?”

you set your fork down. “it’s been good.”

“just good?” lefa asks.

“very good.”

“better.”

you smile. “i really do like it.”

“the bbc?”

“mm.”

“already?”

“it feels…” you pause, searching for the right word.

“…steady.”

your father nods once “a good agency.”

you laugh softly.

“yes, dad.”

“good editors?”

“very.”

“colleagues?”

“lovely.”

“office?”

“surprisingly quiet.”

lefa raises an eyebrow. “you like quiet?”

“i’ve spent years filing stories from airports.”

“…fair.”

“it’s nice having a desk.”

“a permanent one?”

“yes.”

your expression softens almost without thinking. “it’s strange.”

“in what way?” vivienne asks.

“unpacking.”

they all look at you, and you smile to yourself. “for years everything i owned fitted into two suitcases.”

“now?”

“now i’m deciding where plants should go.”

lefa laughs. “that’s oddly wholesome.”

“isn’t it?”

“very.”

you nod. “i’ve got a favourite cafe, a routine, a butcher who recognises me. i even know which floorboards cream and which ones don’t.”

your mother smiles in that quiet way mothers do when they hear exactly what they’d hoped to hear. “you’re home then.”

you look at her. “…i suppose i am.”

for a second, nobody says anything.

the silence isn’t awkward, it never is here.

it’s simply… full.

then lefa clears her throat dramatically. “so.”

you don’t even look at her. “…no.”

“you know what i’m going to ask.”

“i do.”

“and?”

“no.”

“lovey.”

“lefa.”

“the townhouse?”

you sigh.

“it’s lovely.”

“but…”

“…”

“…”

“there it is,” christopher says. “there’s always a but.”

you glance between them. “…there is one downside.”

lefa grins immediately. “the neighbour?”

you point your fork at her. “don’t look so pleased.”

“i’m invested.”

“you shouldn’t be.”

“too late.”

you sigh the sort of sigh reserved for people who have accepted they’re about to be thoroughly outnumbered.

“she’s… unusual.”

“that’s kinder than what you called her on tuesday when we were on the phone,” lefa says.

you look at her. “…i don’t recall.”

“i do.”

“of course you do.”

“i wrote some of them down.”

christopher nearly chokes on his water. “you what?”

“only the particularly good ones.”

“leona-faye.”

“for posterity.”

“delete them.”

“absolutely not.”

your father looks faintly amused. “i’d quite like to hear them.”

“sebastian,” your mother warns.

“what?”

“don’t encourage her.”

“i’m merely curious.”

“that’s how she gets you.”

“it works every time,” lefa says cheerfully.

“i’m aware.”

you set your knife down.

“she isn’t unusual in a concerning way.”

“that’s reassuring,” vivienne says.

“just…” you search for the right word, “…persistent.”

“persistent?”

“she keeps appearing.”

“she does live next door,” christopher points out.

“i’m aware.”

“that tends to increase the likelihood.”

“thank you for that groundbreaking observation.”

“happy to help.”

lefa leans onto one elbow. “how many times have you actually spoken?”

“…twice.”

“twice?”

“once while i was climbing into my own bedroom.”

there’s a beat.

your father blinks. 

“i’m sorry?” your mother slowly lowers her fork “…you were doing what?”

you close your eyes briefly. “i left my keys inside.”

“y/n.”

“i know.”

“you climbed the outside of a three-storey townhouse?”

“yes.”

“using the ivy.”

“yes.”

“and the balcony.”

“…yes.”

christopher lets out a low whistle. “i’d pay money to see that.”

“i’m glad you didn’t.”

“did you make it?”

“eventually.”

“without injury?”

“…mostly.”

your mother stares at you for a long moment. “i’ve raised three children.”

“you have.”

“and this whole ttime genuinely believed you were the sensible one.”

“i am.”

“you climbed a building.”

“it seemed logical.”

“did it?”

“at the time.”

lefa grins. “i’m obsessed with this.”

“don’t be.”

“i’ve never been prouder.”

“that’s unfortunate because it only goes downhill from here.” you say with a fake grin before continuing to cut into your food.

“did this neighbour help?” winnie asks gently.

you shake your head. “not particularly.”

“she mostly stood there making comments.”

“what sort of comments?” christopher asks.

“‘need some help there, darling?’”

lefa snorts.

“and that her bicep was available.”

she bursts into laughter. “she offered you her bicep?”

“amongst other things.”

“that’s brilliant.”

“it wasn’t.”

“it absolutely was.”

you point your fork at your younger sister “you’re enjoying this far too much.”

“because it’s objectively funny.”

“it wasn’t funny.”

“lovey.”

“what?”

“you were scaling a victorian townhouse before breakfast.”

“…”

“…”

“…when you put it like that.”

“there isn’t another way to put it.”

even your father smiles into his wine- small, brief, but unmistakable.

you notice. of course you notice.

traitor.

“and then?” lefa asks eagerly.

“then i went to the café the following morning.”

“mm?”

“and she walked straight into me.”

“accident?”

“yes.”

“coffee?”

“…yes.”

“everywhere?”

you look down at your plate.

“…my coat.”

your mother looks up immediately. “which coat?”

“…the sable one.”

her expression drops. “the one i gave you?”

“it came out.”

“thank heavens.”

“after dry cleaning.”

your mother visibly relaxes. “good.”

lefa blinks between the pair of you. “hold on.”

“what?”

“you’re both more upset about the coat than the person.”

you and your mother look at her simultaneously.

“…yes.”

“that feels unhealthy.”

“it was sable,” you both say together.

christopher laughs.

“apple.”

“tree.”

your father nods. “expensive tree.”

“very expensive tree,” christopher agrees as your mother swats his hand.

winnie smiles quietly into her glass. “and after the coffee?”

you shrug. “that was mostly it.”

“mostly?”

“i saw her yesterday.”

“doing?”

“arguing over cherries.”

lefa drops her cutlery onto her plate. “i’m sorry?”

“cherries.”

“you argued over fruit?”

“she took the best punnet.”

“technically,” christopher says, “did she?”

“don’t start.”

“i’m simply asking.”

“she had her hand on it first,” you admit.

“aha.”

“but i wanted that one.”

“and did you tell her?”

“…yes.”

“politely?”

“…”

“…”

“…mostly.”

lefa laughs so hard she has to put her glass down. “i adore this woman.”

“you don’t know her.”

“i know enough.”

“she sounds hilarious.”

“she sounds irritating.”

“same thing.”

“not remotely.”

winnie smiles softly. “i’m just trying to imagine this woman.”

lefa laughs. “good luck.”

“what?” you ask.

“i can’t quite picture her.”

“there isn’t much to picture.”

“humour me.”

you shrug, spearing another carrot with your fork.

“blonde. athletic. talks far too much.”

“and her name?”

“…leah.”

winnie’s hand pauses for the briefest fraction of a second around her glass.

barely long enough for anyone to notice.

except christopher.

he catches her eye across the table.

one eyebrow lifts. what?

she gives the tiniest shrug. maybe.

he studies her for another moment. really?

another almost imperceptible nod. don’t.

she understands immediately. of course not.

the conversation never stops.

lefa is already talking again. “…did you at least get the cherries?”

you nod. “eventually.”

“she gave them to you?”

“…yes.”

“see?” lefa says triumphantly. “she likes you.”

you nearly laugh. “she absolutely does not.”

winnie lowers her eyes to her plate, hiding the small smile threatening to appear.

she doesn’t say another word.

not yet.

⸻

fin .

[bonrussso]

nothin' you can sing that can't be sung - leah williamson

༄ all you need is love - the beatles

༄ pairing - leah williamson x fem!reader

༄ series - part one ; part two

༄ synopsis - after settling into her new life back in london, your weekly family dinner takes an unexpected turn when an innocent story about your infuriating next-door neighbour quietly makes one person at the table realise exactly who she is.

༄ word count - 4.2k

༄ notes - this is just a filler chapter but i have another coming in about two hours and also be gentle with me, i’ve never ever written a fanfic like this before; not proof read

༄ read more - masterlist

thursday has always belonged to home.

it doesn’t matter how old you are.

it doesn’t matter how busy work becomes, how many countries you’ve lived in, or how many airports you’ve wandered through with a suitcase that feels heavier than it did the week before.

thursday is home.

when you were twenty-two and reporting from buenos aires, you called in from a hotel lobby because the wi-fi in your room had given up halfway through the day.

when you were twenty-four in hanoi, you balanced your laptop on the windowsill of your apartment, eating takeaway pho while your family tucked into roast chicken three continents away.

when you spent six weeks following elections across eastern europe, your father simply moved dinner back an hour because your train had been delayed crossing into austria.

nobody complained.

they just waited.

your mother always says traditions only survive if everyone treats them as non-negotiable.

the lovetts have always been remarkably good at not negotiating.

—

by quarter to six you’ve finished everything your editor asked of you.

your notebook closes with a satisfying snap.

three emails sent.

two interviews confirmed.

one article filed.

your desk is left exactly as you found it that morning.

you’ve never understood people who abandon mugs, loose papers and charging cables everywhere.

work is easier when your surroundings aren’t arguing with you.

“heading off, lovett?”

you glance up to see your editor is leaning against the doorway with his own coat already slung over one shoulder.

“yes.”

“first week still treating you alright?”

“very much so.”

“good.”

he smiles. “don’t work too hard.”

you consider that. “…i’ll try.”

he laughs. “that’s the least convincing thing i’ve heard all day.”

you offer him a polite smile before slipping your satchel over your shoulder.

outside, london feels different to how it does in the mornings.

less expectant, but more content.

people drift home instead of hurrying towards somewhere.

the air smells faintly of rain despite the sky remaining stubbornly blue.

you’ve always preferred london in the evenings.

the city exhales.

you decide to walk part of the journey before catching the underground.

there’s no rush.

there never is on thursdays.

you stop briefly at the florist you’d noticed earlier in the week.

your mother insists flowers are an unnecessary expense.

she also smiles every single time somebody buys them.

“good evening,” says the florist.

“evening.”

you study the buckets lining the pavement.

hydrangeas.

sweet peas.

peonies almost past their season.

then you see them.

white lilies.

your mother’s favourite.

“those, please.”

the florist wraps them carefully in brown paper. “special occasion?”

“thursday.”

he looks mildly confused and you simply smile.

“it’s family dinner.”

“ah.”

somehow, that seems explanation enough.

—

your parents’ house hasn’t changed.

the black railings still need repainting.

the climbing roses still threaten to take over the front of the house every summer.

the brass knocker is still slightly crooked after christopher somehow managed to loosen it with a football when he was eleven.

your father insisted he’d repair it.

he never has.

you secretly hope he never will.

home isn’t perfect.

it’s familiar.

before you’ve even reached the front steps, the front door swings open.

“…mum.”

vivienne lovett stands there with a tea towel thrown over one shoulder. “you’re early.”

“by four minutes.”

“exactly.”

she kisses both your cheeks before immediately taking the lilies from your hands “you didn’t need to bring flowers.”

“i know.”

“they’re beautiful.”

“i know.”

she rolls her eyes.

“still impossible.”

“genetics.”

“your father’s fault.”

“i’m standing right here.”

sebastian lovett’s voice drifts through the hallway.

he appears a moment later, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, reading glasses perched lower on his nose than they’re supposed to be “good evening, lovey.”

“evening, dad.”

he kisses your forehead once.

brief, uncomplicated, but entirely him.

“journey alright?”

“fine.”

“work?”

“good.”

“good?”

“productive.”

he nods once. “splendid.”

coming from your father, it’s practically an emotional speech.

your mother disappears into the kitchen with the flowers. “don’t just stand there, sebastian.”

“i’m greeting my daughter.”

“you’ve greeted her.”

“twice, technically.”

“exactly.”

you smile to yourself as your father quietly hangs your trench coat beside his.

he still does it every time you come home.

he’s done it since you were fourteen.

you’ve offered countless times.

he’s never once accepted.

voices spill from the kitchen.

lefa.

obviously.

“…i’m just saying, if harry hadn’t panicked-”

“he reversed into a stationary bollard,” christopher says.

“because it came out of nowhere.”

“the bollard?”

“yes.”

“the one concreted into the ground?”

“they’re unpredictable.”

you step into the kitchen just in time to watch your younger sister steal a roasted carrot straight from the baking tray.

“leona-faye.”

your mother doesn’t even turn around.

“i’m tasting.”

“you’re stealing.”

“same difference.”

“not in this kitchen.”

lefa sighs dramatically before looking up.

her face brightens immediately.

“lovey!” before you can say anything she’s wrapped you in a hug that almost knocks the breath from your lungs.

“hello to you too.”

“i’ve missed you.”

“i saw you five days ago.”

“exactly.”

“that’s hardly a lifetime.”

“It felt like one.”

you laugh softly. “dramatic.”

“says the journalist.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

“you lot make weather sound like warfare.”

“only when it’s interesting.”

lefa grins. “see? dramatic.”

christopher appears beside her carrying a stack of plates.

“lovey.” he leans down, presses a quick kiss to the top of your head and immediately notices your expression.

“what?”

“nothing.”

“you’re analysing something.”

“…your plates aren’t stacked evenly.”

he looks down. “…they’re not.”

without another word he adjusts them.

winnie watches the exchange from the other side of the island before laughing. “you’re impossible.”

“which one?” christopher asks.

“yes.” she responds, avoiding the question.

you and christopher glance at one another. “…fair.”

“i knew i liked this family,” winnie says.

your mother looks over her shoulder. “you’ve been part of it for years, darling.”

winnie’s smile softens. “still nice hearing it.” she walks over and hugs you. “hello, stranger.”

“hello, winnie.”

“first week survived?”

“surprisingly.”

“told you you’d love it.”

“you did.”

“and?”

“…you were right.”

she beams. “i’m framing that.”

“don’t.”

“too late.”

from somewhere behind you-

“i heard that!” your father appears in the doorway. “if anyone is framing anything tonight, it’s the fact our eldest daughter admitted someone else was right.”

“dad.”

“remarkable scenes.”

“you’re all insufferable.”

“runs in the family,” lefa says brightly.

“except mum.”

your mother snorts. “oh, sweetheart.”

“what?”

“i’m worse than all of you.”

the room falls quiet for exactly two seconds.

then everyone starts laughing, even sebastian. especially sebastian. you hadn’t realised how much you’d missed this.

not just seeing them, but hearing them.

the familiar overlap of conversations.

your mother’s wooden spoon tapping lightly against a saucepan.

christopher quietly correcting where the serving spoons sit on the table without even noticing he’s doing it.

lefa talking enough for three people.

your father pretending not to smile while absolutely smiling.

winnie moving around the kitchen as though she’d grown up inside it.

for the first time in years…

home doesn’t feel borrowed.

it feels yours again.

the kitchen has always been the heart of the house.

not the drawing room.

not your father’s study.

not even the dining room where every thursday eventually ends.

the kitchen.

it’s where birthdays began before anyone else is awake.

it’s where christmas mornings smelt like cinnamon before presents had even been opened.

it’s where your mother insists every meaningful conversation somehow belongs.

the room hasn’t changed nearly enough for the number of years that have passed.

the aga still gives off its familiar warmth.

the old clock above the dresser still runs three minutes fast because your father once claimed it encouraged punctuality.

your mother never corrected it.

she simply started living by it.

your cherry bourbon pie sits neatly in the centre of the island, still tucked inside its pie carrier.

mother notices it immediately. “lovey.”

“yes?”

“you brought dessert.”

“i did.”

“you didn’t have to.”

“i wanted to.”

she walks over, unclipping the lid with surprising excitement. the smell of butter and cherries escapes almost instantly. for a brief second, nobody says anything. then-

“…good lord,” christopher mutters.

lefa leans across the island. “is that-”

“don’t.” your mother’s voice is gentle but firm.

she doesn’t even look up from lifting the pie free.

“i wasn’t going to touch it.”

“you absolutely were.”

“…alright, i was thinking about touching it.”

“thinking leads to doing.”

“that’s a dangerous philosophy.”

“it’s worked for twenty-something years.”

lefa sighs dramatically.

“this family has no faith in me.”

sebastian looks up from pouring everyone a glass of water. “earned, sweetheart.”

“whose side are you on?”

“your mother’s.”

she gasps theatrically. “traitor.”

he smiles into his glass. “i’ve been happily married for thirty years.”

“twenty-nine,” your mother corrects automatically.

“see?” your father gestures towards her with quiet satisfaction. “proof.”

winnie laughs softly from beside the oven, where she’s checking on something simmering in a saucepan. “he’s got a point.”

“thank you, win.”

“don’t encourage him.”

“too late.”

vivienne cuts a look towards her husband that somehow manages to be both exasperated and impossibly fond.

you’ve spent your entire life watching them communicate like this.

half sentences, shared looks, corrections that aren’t really corrections. love, translated into routine.

your mother turns back to the pie. “it’s beautiful.”

“thank you.”

she studies the lattice for a moment longer. “your edges are neater than mine.”

“mum.”

“they are.”

“you taught me.”

“i know.” she smiles to herself. “still unfair.”

christopher wanders over, hands tucked comfortably into his pockets. he studies the pie with the concentration of someone assessing an engineering project. “…it’s symmetrical.”

“of course it is,” lefa says. “it’s y/n.”

he nods once. “good point.”

you look between them. “…what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

christopher shrugs. “if one side had more cherries than the other, i’d assume someone else made it.”

“that’s ridiculous.”

“is it?”

“…”

“…”

“…no.”

“thought so.”

lefa grins triumphantly. “she admitted it.”

“i admitted nothing.”

“you absolutely admitted something.”

“i chose not to continue the conversation.”

“same thing.”

“not remotely.”

“lovey.”

you turn towards your younger sister. “yes?”

“hypothetically.”

“…i don’t like that word.”

“hypothetically,” she continues anyway, “if i accidentally dropped this pie…”

“you wouldn’t.”

“but if i did.”

“you won’t.”

“…”

“…”

“you’d cry, wouldn’t you?”

christopher answers before you can.

“yes.”

“i would not.”

“lovey.”

“christopher.”

“you alphabetise your bookshelf.”

“by author.”

“then genre.”

“yes.”

“then publication date.”

“…”

“…”

“…that’s beside the point.”

lefa folds her arms. “you iron tea towels.”

“only the linen ones.”

there’s a beat of silence.

winnie blinks. “…you iron tea towels?”

“only if they’re linen.”

“bit deranged if you ask me…”

“it prevents creasing.”

“they’re tea towels.”

“exactly.”

“they’re designed to get dirty.”

“that doesn’t mean they should begin dirty.”

winnie looks helplessly towards christopher. “is she serious?”

“completely.”

“terrifying.”

“occasionally.”

“i heard that.”

“you were supposed to.”

your mother reaches across the island, squeezing your hand once. “there’s nothing wrong with taking pride in your things.”

you smile.

“thank you.”

“however…”

“…”

“…you do iron tea towels.”

“…only the linen ones.”

your father clears his throat. “i think we’ve established that.”

everyone laughs. including you unfortunately.

it comes easier here than it does anywhere else- without effort or thinking.

lefa steals another roast potato.

this time your mother catches her immediately “leona-faye.”

“i’ve committed now.”

“put the next one back.”

“that’s fair.”

she actually does.

which somehow surprises everyone more than if she hadn’t.

sebastian watches her for a second before quietly sliding the bowl two inches closer in her direction.

nobody misses it.

least of all your mother. “sebastian.”

“what?”

“don’t encourage her.”

“i’m not.”

“you just moved the potatoes.”

“did i?”

“you did.”

he glances down. “…must’ve slipped.”

lefa bites the inside of her cheek so hard she’s practically vibrating with suppressed laughter.

your mother looks from one to the other, then simply sighs. “honestly.”

“what?” father and lefa ask together.

christopher shakes his head. “you’re impossible.”

“runs in the family,” lefa says.

“except lovey.”

you look up. “pardon?”

“you’re impossible in… a completely different way.”

“thank you?”

“it wasn’t a compliment.”

“i gathered.”

“she means,” winnie says warmly, rescuing the conversation before it can spiral, “you’re all impossible for completely different reasons.”

“exactly.”

lefa points at her. “see? she speaks lefa.”

“i speak youngest sibling because i too, am the youngest sibling.”

“there’s a difference?”

“a significant one.”

“i’m learning.”

“quickly.”

you watch the three of them together for a moment- christopher leaning lazily against the worktop, winnie absent-mindedly straightening the stack of napkins he’d left slightly crooked, lefa perched on a stool swinging one foot as she plots whichever joke she’ll make next.

it strikes you then, quietly, that despite spending years chasing stories across the world…

you’d almost forgotten what it felt like to know every person in a room by heart.

“right,” your mother says, clapping her hands together once. “before someone subtly offends someone else…” she looks directly at lefa. “…everyone to the table.”

almost instinctively, chairs scraped against the wooden floor.

christopher pulls winnie’s chair out before sitting himself.

your father reaches automatically for your mother’s hand as they walk the few steps into the dining room.

and of course, lefa nudges your shoulder. “race you.”

“to the table?”

“yes.”

“it’s six feet away.”

“…coward.”

before you could answer, she’d already darted past you, laughing to herself.

you watched her go with an involuntary smile.

some things, you thought, never really changed.

but thank god for that.

everyone falls into the same seats they’ve occupied for years.

not because anyone ever assigned them.

because they never needed to.

your father sits at the head of the table nearest the window.

your mother opposite him.

christopher to your father’s left, winnie beside him.

you opposite the pair of them.

and lefa, despite repeatedly insisting she’s a grown adult with a medical degree and a mortgage, sits beside you exactly where she’s sat since she was old enough to graduate from a highchair.

some habits simply outlive childhood.

the room settles into a comfortable hum.

plates are passed.

serving spoons exchanged.

your mother insists everyone takes vegetables before potatoes.

lefa immediately reaches for the potatoes.

“leona-faye.”

she pauses, spoon halfway to her plate. “…yes?”

“vegetables.”

“i’ve had vegetables.”

“when?”

“earlier.”

“while stealing them doesn’t count.”

“i wasn’t stealing.”

“borrowing?”

“sampling.”

your father nods thoughtfully. “quality control.”

“thank you,” lefa says.

“you’re welcome.”

your mother doesn’t even look at either of them. “both of you.”

they exchange identical expressions of innocence.

christopher watches them for a moment before quietly serving himself broccoli.

“i’m staying out of this.”

“smart,” winnie murmurs.

“survival instinct.”

“years of practice.”

your mother finally slides the bowl of potatoes across. “now.”

lefa brightens immediately. “see? delayed gratification.”

“don’t make this sound educational.”

“everything’s educational.”

“not everything.”

“most things.”

“absolutely not.”

you shake your head, reaching for the carrots. “how you’ve managed to become a doctor remains one of life’s great mysteries.”

“neurosurgeon,” lefa corrects.

“which somehow makes it worse.”

“my patients adore me.”

“your colleagues don’t.”

“they’ll tolerate me either way.”

“that’s optimistic.”

“i’m choosing confidence.”

“you’re choosing delusion.”

“same difference.”

“they are quite literally opposites.”

winnie laughs into her napkin. “i’ve missed thursdays.”

“you were here last thursday,” christopher reminds her.

“exactly.”

“that isn’t long enough to miss something.”

“i disagree.”

“of course you do.”

she smiles at him. “i missed you too while i was at work today.”

he tries very hard not to smile.

fails completely.

your father notices. “you’re getting soft.”

christopher looks up. “i’ve always been soft.”

“that’s true,” lefa says.

“rugby ruined the illusion though. because then you got strong and started deciding you could attack us- even when we were children and i was a head taller than you.” you add.

“i’ll have you know i’m terrifying.”

“to who?”

“outside people.”

“certainly not to us.”

“that’s because you lot have known me too long.”

“unfortunately,” you say.

“you wound me.”

“you’ll recover.”

“eventually.”

he points his fork towards you. “that sounded familiar.”

“must run in the family.”

“unfortunately.”

“fortunately,” your mother corrects gently “there’s a difference.”

“debatable.”

your father tops up everyone’s water glasses as the conversation drifts comfortably from one thing to another.

nobody asks him to.

he simply notices they’re empty.

he’s always been quietly observant like that.

doing things before anyone thinks to ask.

your mother catches him reaching for her glass before she’s even touched it. “thank you.”

he nods once. “of course.”

it’s such a small exchange that it almost disappears beneath the rest of the conversation.

you notice anyway, you always have.

love, in your family, has never been particularly loud.

it lives in filled water glasses.

chairs pulled out.

flowers placed in vases.

coats hung without asking.

the little things.

always the little things.

“alright,” you rmother says after everyone has finally begun eating properly.

she rests her knife against the edge of her plate and looks around the table. “i’ve heard enough discussion about potatoes.”

“have you?” lefa asks.

“yes.”

“because i still have opinions.”

“keep them until dessert.”

“that’s censorship.”

“that’s motherhood.”

lefa sighs dramatically. “fine.”

your mother smiles. “good.”

she glances around the table once more “how was everyone’s week?”

it’s never a formal tradition.

no one announces that they’re taking turns.

it simply… happens.

every thursday.

without fail.

sebastian goes first, as he usually does.

“a client finally agreed to stop trying to outsmart the market.”

“did they?”

“no.”

christopher nods knowingly. “thought as much.”

“they merely accepted i was right.”

“which is close enough.”

“close enough.”

your mother smiles into her wine. “you’ve been saying the same sentence for thirty years.”

“because people continue proving me correct.”

“modest, as always.”

“painfully.”

lefa groans. “i’ve inherited his confidence.”

“unfortunately,” you murmur.

“genetically unavoidable.”

“i blame dad.”

“i’ll accept responsibility,” your father replies.

“thank you.”

“provided i also receive credit for your intelligence.”

“absolutely not.”

“worth asking.”

your mother shakes her head fondly before looking towards winnie. “and arsenal?”

winnie swallows before answering. “busy.”

“good busy?”

“mostly.”

she smiles softly. “everyone’s healthy.”

“which makes my job considerably easier.”

“you’ve settled in beautifully there,” your mother says.

“i’ve been very lucky.”

christopher nudges her knee gently beneath the table. “don’t be so modest, luck had nothing to do with it.”

she smiles at him. “thank you.”

“just stating facts.”

your mother turns to you then. “and you, lovey?”

you set your fork down. “it’s been good.”

“just good?” lefa asks.

“very good.”

“better.”

you smile. “i really do like it.”

“the bbc?”

“mm.”

“already?”

“it feels…” you pause, searching for the right word.

“…steady.”

your father nods once “a good agency.”

you laugh softly.

“yes, dad.”

“good editors?”

“very.”

“colleagues?”

“lovely.”

“office?”

“surprisingly quiet.”

lefa raises an eyebrow. “you like quiet?”

“i’ve spent years filing stories from airports.”

“…fair.”

“it’s nice having a desk.”

“a permanent one?”

“yes.”

your expression softens almost without thinking. “it’s strange.”

“in what way?” vivienne asks.

“unpacking.”

they all look at you, and you smile to yourself. “for years everything i owned fitted into two suitcases.”

“now?”

“now i’m deciding where plants should go.”

lefa laughs. “that’s oddly wholesome.”

“isn’t it?”

“very.”

you nod. “i’ve got a favourite cafe, a routine, a butcher who recognises me. i even know which floorboards cream and which ones don’t.”

your mother smiles in that quiet way mothers do when they hear exactly what they’d hoped to hear. “you’re home then.”

you look at her. “…i suppose i am.”

for a second, nobody says anything.

the silence isn’t awkward, it never is here.

it’s simply… full.

then lefa clears her throat dramatically. “so.”

you don’t even look at her. “…no.”

“you know what i’m going to ask.”

“i do.”

“and?”

“no.”

“lovey.”

“lefa.”

“the townhouse?”

you sigh.

“it’s lovely.”

“but…”

“…”

“…”

“there it is,” christopher says. “there’s always a but.”

you glance between them. “…there is one downside.”

lefa grins immediately. “the neighbour?”

you point your fork at her. “don’t look so pleased.”

“i’m invested.”

“you shouldn’t be.”

“too late.”

you sigh the sort of sigh reserved for people who have accepted they’re about to be thoroughly outnumbered.

“she’s… unusual.”

“that’s kinder than what you called her on tuesday when we were on the phone,” lefa says.

you look at her. “…i don’t recall.”

“i do.”

“of course you do.”

“i wrote some of them down.”

christopher nearly chokes on his water. “you what?”

“only the particularly good ones.”

“leona-faye.”

“for posterity.”

“delete them.”

“absolutely not.”

your father looks faintly amused. “i’d quite like to hear them.”

“sebastian,” your mother warns.

“what?”

“don’t encourage her.”

“i’m merely curious.”

“that’s how she gets you.”

“it works every time,” lefa says cheerfully.

“i’m aware.”

you set your knife down.

“she isn’t unusual in a concerning way.”

“that’s reassuring,” vivienne says.

“just…” you search for the right word, “…persistent.”

“persistent?”

“she keeps appearing.”

“she does live next door,” christopher points out.

“i’m aware.”

“that tends to increase the likelihood.”

“thank you for that groundbreaking observation.”

“happy to help.”

lefa leans onto one elbow. “how many times have you actually spoken?”

“…twice.”

“twice?”

“once while i was climbing into my own bedroom.”

there’s a beat.

your father blinks. 

“i’m sorry?” your mother slowly lowers her fork “…you were doing what?”

you close your eyes briefly. “i left my keys inside.”

“y/n.”

“i know.”

“you climbed the outside of a three-storey townhouse?”

“yes.”

“using the ivy.”

“yes.”

“and the balcony.”

“…yes.”

christopher lets out a low whistle. “i’d pay money to see that.”

“i’m glad you didn’t.”

“did you make it?”

“eventually.”

“without injury?”

“…mostly.”

your mother stares at you for a long moment. “i’ve raised three children.”

“you have.”

“and this whole ttime genuinely believed you were the sensible one.”

“i am.”

“you climbed a building.”

“it seemed logical.”

“did it?”

“at the time.”

lefa grins. “i’m obsessed with this.”

“don’t be.”

“i’ve never been prouder.”

“that’s unfortunate because it only goes downhill from here.” you say with a fake grin before continuing to cut into your food.

“did this neighbour help?” winnie asks gently.

you shake your head. “not particularly.”

“she mostly stood there making comments.”

“what sort of comments?” christopher asks.

“‘need some help there, darling?’”

lefa snorts.

“and that her bicep was available.”

she bursts into laughter. “she offered you her bicep?”

“amongst other things.”

“that’s brilliant.”

“it wasn’t.”

“it absolutely was.”

you point your fork at your younger sister “you’re enjoying this far too much.”

“because it’s objectively funny.”

“it wasn’t funny.”

“lovey.”

“what?”

“you were scaling a victorian townhouse before breakfast.”

“…”

“…”

“…when you put it like that.”

“there isn’t another way to put it.”

even your father smiles into his wine- small, brief, but unmistakable.

you notice. of course you notice.

traitor.

“and then?” lefa asks eagerly.

“then i went to the café the following morning.”

“mm?”

“and she walked straight into me.”

“accident?”

“yes.”

“coffee?”

“…yes.”

“everywhere?”

you look down at your plate.

“…my coat.”

your mother looks up immediately. “which coat?”

“…the sable one.”

her expression drops. “the one i gave you?”

“it came out.”

“thank heavens.”

“after dry cleaning.”

your mother visibly relaxes. “good.”

lefa blinks between the pair of you. “hold on.”

“what?”

“you’re both more upset about the coat than the person.”

you and your mother look at her simultaneously.

“…yes.”

“that feels unhealthy.”

“it was sable,” you both say together.

christopher laughs.

“apple.”

“tree.”

your father nods. “expensive tree.”

“very expensive tree,” christopher agrees as your mother swats his hand.

winnie smiles quietly into her glass. “and after the coffee?”

you shrug. “that was mostly it.”

“mostly?”

“i saw her yesterday.”

“doing?”

“arguing over cherries.”

lefa drops her cutlery onto her plate. “i’m sorry?”

“cherries.”

“you argued over fruit?”

“she took the best punnet.”

“technically,” christopher says, “did she?”

“don’t start.”

“i’m simply asking.”

“she had her hand on it first,” you admit.

“aha.”

“but i wanted that one.”

“and did you tell her?”

“…yes.”

“politely?”

“…”

“…”

“…mostly.”

lefa laughs so hard she has to put her glass down. “i adore this woman.”

“you don’t know her.”

“i know enough.”

“she sounds hilarious.”

“she sounds irritating.”

“same thing.”

“not remotely.”

winnie smiles softly. “i’m just trying to imagine this woman.”

lefa laughs. “good luck.”

“what?” you ask.

“i can’t quite picture her.”

“there isn’t much to picture.”

“humour me.”

you shrug, spearing another carrot with your fork.

“blonde. athletic. talks far too much.”

“and her name?”

“…leah.”

winnie’s hand pauses for the briefest fraction of a second around her glass.

barely long enough for anyone to notice.

except christopher.

he catches her eye across the table.

one eyebrow lifts. what?

she gives the tiniest shrug. maybe.

he studies her for another moment. really?

another almost imperceptible nod. don’t.

she understands immediately. of course not.

the conversation never stops.

lefa is already talking again. “…did you at least get the cherries?”

you nod. “eventually.”

“she gave them to you?”

“…yes.”

“see?” lefa says triumphantly. “she likes you.”

you nearly laugh. “she absolutely does not.”

winnie lowers her eyes to her plate, hiding the small smile threatening to appear.

she doesn’t say another word.

not yet.

⸻

fin .

[bonrussso]

there’s nothin' you can do that can't be done - leah williamson

༄ all you need is love - the beatles

༄ pairing - leah williamson x fem!reader

༄ series - part one

༄ synopsis - after returning to london for a carefully controlled new life as a travelling journalist, your perfectly ordered world begins to unravel when a chance meeting with the infuriating woman next door sparks a series of increasingly chaotic encounters that neither of you can seem to avoid.

༄ word count - 3.5k

༄ notes - currently writing my report on my lai 4 when i thought of watching ‘love actually’ and boom here we are; not proof read

༄ read more - masterlist

you wake before your alarm.

not because you have to.

because you always do.

the room is still blue with early morning, the london skyline only beginning to stir beyond the tall sash windows. somewhere below, a bin lorry rattles along the street. a pigeon lands briefly on the balcony outside your bedroom before thinking better of it and flying away again.

you lie still for another minute.

today is your first day.

there’s excitement somewhere beneath the surface, though anyone watching would struggle to find it. excitement, in your experience, has never been loud. it exists in the small things: laying tomorrow’s clothes out the night before. sharpening pencils that don’t need sharpening. checking a train timetable you’ve already memorised.

routine has always been the closest thing you’ve had to luck.

you sit up, smooth the duvet flat with the palm of your hand, and step onto the wooden floor.

your mother used to say a tidy room made for a tidy mind.

your father insisted it was simply good discipline.

between the two of them, there had never been much room for disorder.

you never minded.

because to you, there’s comfort in knowing exactly where everything belongs.

the kettle goes on before you’ve even opened the curtains.

earl grey.

and a bagel split in half. 

one half is spread with the strawberry marmalade you’d bought on arrival- the same kind you’ve been eating since childhood. the other is topped with cottage cheese, honey, and blueberries.

to the uninitiated, the combination might be off-putting. but to those with a broader palette, there’s something quietly refreshing about mixing things that are never meant to go together.

the radio hums softly in the background, low enough to sit inside the silence rather than disturb it. a familiar song drifts through- the beatles’ all you need is love. something you once played on repeat at ten years old, long past the point of your mother developing a headache for it.

you’ve eaten the same breakfast for nearly twelve years.

there was a period in buenos aires where you couldn’t find decent bread.

another in hanoi where you gave up looking entirely.

you still found a way.

habits travel surprisingly well.

the newspaper sits folded beside your mug.

old instinct.

you read it cover to cover, annotating almost absent-mindedly with a pencil balanced behind your ear.

journalists never really stop being journalists.

they simply get paid to ask questions, or not at all.

by half seven you’ve showered, dressed and packed your bag.

your navy trousers have been pressed twice.

your white shirt doesn’t possess so much as a wrinkle.

your trench coat hangs neatly over one arm.

the overpriced, leather satchel your father bought you when you graduated from university still looks almost new, despite following you across four continents.

you’ve always taken care of your things.

they’ve taken care of you.

on the hall table sits your notebook.

three fountain pens.

your wallet.

phone.

train pass.

everything accounted for.

you’ve lived in enough cities to know that forgetting something before work isn’t an inconvenience.

it’s a choice.

you simply choose not to.

the move back to london had surprised everyone except you.

your older brother had expected new york.

your grand-parents had put money on paris.

your mother suggested geneva.

your father had merely nodded once and said,

“good papers.”

which, coming from him, bordered on overwhelming enthusiasm.

you loved travelling.

you loved sleeping in hotel rooms that overlooked cities whose names you still pronounced incorrectly.

you loved filing stories from airports.

you loved waking somewhere new every few weeks.

until one morning you realised you could no longer remember what it felt like to have neighbours.

or a favourite café.

or somewhere that felt like yours.

london had never really stopped being home.

it had simply waited.

your new editor had described you as ‘exactly the sort of journalist we’ve been missing’.

you weren’t entirely sure what that meant.

but you’d accepted anyway.

today was the beginning of something steadier.

a desk with your name on it.

colleagues you’d eventually learn.

plants you might accidentally keep alive.

a life measured in months instead of assignments.

it felt…

nice.

a little strange, slightly terrifying, but overall… mostly nice.

you check your watch.

8:02.

perfect.

your train leaves in twenty-three minutes.

exactly enough time.

you slip your book into your coat and pull your trench coat over your shoulders.

the front door clicks shut behind you.

you descend three steps before instinctively patting your coat pocket.

left pocket… empty.

right pocket…. empty.

your satchel.

wallet.

phone.

pens.

notebook.

you stop, very slowly.

“…”

the key.

you picture it immediately.

hall table.

next to the bowl.

exactly where you’d placed it while tying your shoelaces.

still inside.

you close your eyes.

once.

you’ve been called many things in your life.

driven.

careful.

meticulous.

some editor in washington once described you as pathologically prepared.

and yet on the first morning of your new job, you have locked yourself out of your own house.

you look up.

third floor.

your bedroom window.

still open.

…well.

that’s unfortunate.

⸻

you hook one polished shoe onto the narrow iron railing and immediately regret wearing work trousers to attempt what is, objectively, a terrible idea.

your front door key is sitting exactly where you left it.

inside.

on the hallway table.

the bedroom window, however, is still open.

third floor.

which had seemed wonderfully convenient ten minutes ago.

now it just feels mocking.

still…

you’ve committed.

one hand grips the ivy. the other finds a crack in the brickwork. your foot searches for the tiny lip of the neighbouring balcony.

“right,” you mutter to yourself.

“don’t look down.”

your trench coat shifts against your shoulders.

something slides free.

you don’t even have time to catch it.

thud.

your book lands face-down on the pavement.

you squeeze your eyes shut.

“for christ’s sake.”

if anyone hadn’t noticed you before-

“bit ambitious for a tuesday, innit?”

you certainly have their attention now.

you twist carefully enough to avoid plummeting to your death.

a woman stands on the pavement outside the neighbouring house, dressed for a run. black running shorts, some red hoodie with the label ‘emirates’, ankle socks, and trainers. she’d clearly only just stepped outside.

she bends to retrieve your book.

you wince.

please don’t bend the cover.

she turns it over in her hands.

“my lai 4?”

her eyebrows lift as she flicks through a couple of pages before looking back up at you.

“business or pleasure?”

you don’t stop climbing.

“pleasure.”

she blinks.

“…pleasure?”

“last time i read it i was about nine.”

there’s a pause… a proper one.

“you read about the my lai massacre when you were nine?”

you glance down at her.

“you didn’t?”

there’s just enough sarcasm behind it that the corner of her mouth twitches.

“darling,” she says, lifting the book towards you, “just because i look intelligent doesn’t mean i am that intelligent.”

you reach down just enough to take it back, inspecting the corners before sliding it carefully beneath your arm again.

“you don’t even look intelligent.”

she places a hand against her chest.

“i beg your pardon?”

“so i’ve no clue what you’re trying to say.”

she lets out an exaggerated sigh.

“what a lovely first impression.”

you ignore her, stretching towards the next handhold.

almost…

almost-

“need some help there, darling?”

“…”

“a hand?”

“…”

“my exceptionally toned bicep?”

“…”

“perhaps the fire brigade?”

“shut it.”

you haul yourself higher.

“i’ve almost got it.”

“those are famous last words.”

“they’re present words.”

“debatable.”

you manage another foothold before calling over your shoulder,

“you talk funny.”

“excuse me?”

“your accent.”

“my accent?”

“you’re not from around here.”

she folds her arms, looking far too amused for someone watching a stranger attempt accidental self-destruction before breakfast.

“i live here.”

“not what i asked.”

“i’ve lived in central london since i was seventeen.”

“for work?”

“amongst other things.”

“where before?”

“milton keynes.”

you hum thoughtfully.

“explains the twang, i suppose.”

“‘i suppose?’”

you look down. “yes?”

“that choice of words.”

“what about it?”

“tells me everything.”

“does it?”

“belgravia?”

“close.”

she waits. “mayfair.” an expression of complete understanding crosses her face. “ah.”

“what’s ‘ah’ meant to mean?”

“means you sound like keira knightley.”

you frown. “pardon?”

“during her marvelous performance of ‘bend it like beckham’, specifically.”

“…”

“…”

“i’ve absolutely no idea what that means.”

“i’m not surprised.”

“is it an insult?”

“not exactly.”

“a compliment?”

“not entirely.”

“that’s incredibly unhelpful.”

“it’s observational.”

“you’re observational.”

“thank you.”

“that wasn’t praise.”

“i’ll take what i can get.”

despite yourself, you smile.

only for a second.

she notices.

of course she notices.

“there it is.”

“what?”

“proof you can smile.”

“don’t get used to it.”

“wasn’t planning on it.”

you shake your head and reach for the balcony above.

your fingers catch.

your foot follows.

success.

“ha.”

you swing one leg upwards-

and immediately feel your coat snag on an iron flourish beneath the railing.

you freeze.

“…”

“…”

slowly, you look down.

she’s already looking up.

“…fire brigade?” she offers.

“don’t.”

“the bicep’s still available.”

“don’t.”

“ladder?”

“…”

“darling?”

“…”

she presses her lips together.

you can actually see her fighting it.

“if you laugh-”

“i’m trying very hard not to.”

“harder.”

“it’s difficult.”

“harder.”

a tiny snort escapes her.

you point a warning finger.

“unbelievable.”

“you told me i didn’t look intelligent.”

“you still don’t.”

“that’s rather cruel.”

“it’s merely observational.”

she laughs then.

not loudly.

just enough that it echoes down the quiet street.

it’s annoyingly infectious.

you hate that it makes you smile again.

“i’m leah,” she says once she’s recovered.

you blink.

“that’s quite a leap.”

“well, if i’m going to witness this heroic ascent, i feel we ought to be on first-name terms.”

you consider that.

“…i’m y/n.”

“lovely to meet you.”

“i’d shake your hand.”

“but you’re halfway up a building.”

“exactly.”

another tug.

the coat refuses to budge.

leah glances from you…

to the third-floor window…

back to you.

“…you know,” she says carefully, “most people call a locksmith.”

you sigh.

“where’s the fun in that?”

⸻

the next morning, you leave five minutes earlier.

not because you’re hoping to avoid your neighbour.

certainly not because you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of yesterday wondering whether milton keynes really does produce accents like that.

pure coincidence.

obviously.

the little café on the corner is already busy.

exactly how you remember it.

you’ve missed london cafés.

the newspapers stacked neatly beside the till.

the hiss of steaming milk.

the low murmur of conversations before the city properly wakes.

it feels familiar, comfortable even.

you step forward when it’s your turn.

“a six-ounce flat white,” you say, almost absent-mindedly. “extra hot, with a double ristretto. no chocolate.”

the barista doesn’t even blink. “of course.”

you move to the end of the counter to wait, your satchel resting neatly against your leg as you glance over the morning headlines spread across a newspaper someone has left abandoned on a nearby table.

behind you, the café door opens.

someone laughs.

a chair scrapes against the wooden floor.

the usual soundtrack of a busy morning.

you pay none of it any attention.

until-

something solid collides with your shoulder.

there’s a sharp knock.

a gasp.

then warmth… far too much warmth.

coffee splashes across the front of your cream sable coat, soaking into the fabric with horrifying speed.

silence.

you look down, then very, very slowly back up.

your eyes travel from a pair of trainers…

to black sweatpants…

to a grey quarter zip…

before finally reaching a familiar face.

you give her a slow once-over.

register her.

the woman from yesterday.

of course it is.

“…you imbecile.”

leah blinks.

“…”

“…”

“we meet again.”

you don’t even acknowledge it.

instead, you lift one stained sleeve.

“this…”

you gesture towards yourself.

“…is a sable coat.”

leah squints at it. “you’re telling me they skinned a load of sables for that?”

“well, it’s not faux, is it, sherlock?”

“…”

“…”

“looks the same to me.”

you actually gasp. “that’s perhaps the most offensive thing you’ve said.”

“more offensive than being called an imbecile?”

“considerably.”

you inspect another stain and your expression falls. “oh, wonderful.”

leah shifts her weight. “sorry.”

“this is entirely your fault.”

“is it?”

“you’re like a bad omen.”

she places a hand dramatically against her chest. “i beg your pardon?”

“first you witness me attempting mount everest via victorian architecture.”

“fair.”

“now you’ve ruined my coat.”

“ruined feels dramatic.”

“it’s sable.”

“yes, you’ve mentioned for the umpteenth time.”

“i’m going to be late for work.”

“possibly.”

“my coat’s covered in coffee.”

“objectively.”

“and i’m coffee-less.”

“temporarily.”

“all because you’ve decided gluing your eyes to your cellular is more important than observing where you’re walking.”

leah pauses. “…cellular?”

“yes.”

“you called it a cellular.”

“i did.”

“who says cellular?”

“people with vocabularies.”

“people over eighty.”

you narrow your eyes. “i’m beginning to think you enjoy irritating me.”

“a little.” despite herself, leah smiles. “tell you what.”

you already dislike the sound of that.

“i’ll buy you another coffee.”

you blink. “it’s the twenty-first century.”

“…yes?”

“as a woman, i don’t require someone else to purchase my coffee.”

before she can answer, you turn back towards the counter. “another six-ounce flat white, extra hot, with a double ristretto. no chocolate, please.”

the barista nods sympathetically. “coming right up.”

you reach into your wallet, find your card, and hold it over the reader.

a hand appears beside yours.

beep.

approved.

you stare at the card machine.

then very slowly over your shoulder.

leah is already slipping her card back into her pocket.

“see?” she smiles, entirely too pleased with herself. “all better, darling.”

“…”

“…”

“you are unbelievable.”

“i’ve heard.”

“i said no.”

“you did.”

“quite clearly.”

“also true.”

“and yet.”

“and yet here we are.”

you sigh through your nose. “i don’t like you.”

leah nods thoughtfully. “i’ve noticed.”

“…”

“…”

“you’re buying my next coffee.”

one eyebrow lifts. “i thought you didn’t need someone else paying.”

“i don’t.”

“right.”

“i’m choosing to let you.”

“how generous.”

“don’t get used to it.”

you collect your replacement coffee as your name is called.

without another word, you turn and leave.

the little bell above the café door jingles softly behind you.

leah watches you disappear through the window, coffee forgotten in her hand.

only once you’re halfway down the street does she realise she’s smiling.

she hadn’t chosen this cafe by accident.

she’d simply wondered whether the woman next door might start her mornings here.

but if one thing is for certain, she definitely hadn’t expected to wear half her coffee instead.

⸻

you tell yourself you’re not thinking about her.

it’s an easy lie to maintain, in theory.

you’ve been in war zones, press rooms, airport terminals at 3:00am, where everything smells like instant coffee and panic. you’ve written entire features on people you never met and never thought about again.

so a woman next door who calls you “darling” like it’s punctuation shouldn’t be difficult to forget.

and yet.

she keeps appearing anyway.

not in any dramatic way.

just… in gaps.

between emails, while you’re brushing your hair, while you’re standing at the sink waiting for the kettle to boil.

you’re annoyed about it.

mostly.

it’s manageable annoyance.

the kind you can file away under irrelevant.

it’s wednesday when you decide you need cherries.

thursday dinners have never been optional in your family. not when you were travelling, not when you were in hotel rooms on the other side of the world, not when deadlines stacked up like collapsing shelves.

you show up.

or you call.

or you send something that tastes like home in a plastic container.

this week, you’ve decided on cherry pie.

your mother used to make it when you were younger, sleeves rolled up, flour on her cheek, insisting that pastry was “a test of character.”

you never failed it.

you just never admitted you liked it.

you leave your house mid-morning, coat already on, hair pinned neatly back, everything exactly where it should be.

you don’t rush.

you never rush.

there’s no reason to.

the farmers market is only a few streets away, tucked between a church and a row of older brick buildings that have survived long enough to become picturesque instead of derelict.

it’s busy in that soft, summer, london way- woven baskets, paper bags, the smell of bread and fruit and damp wood.

you move through it with quiet efficiency.

you don’t browse.

you select.

you already know what you want.

the cherry stall is near the centre.

bright red spilling out of wooden crates, the vendor calling prices to no one in particular.

you reach for a punnet at the same time as someone else.

your hand closes around it.

another hand lands just before yours.

warm.

firm.

you both pause.

you look up first.

of course you do.

it’s her.

you take your time with it- eyes lifting slowly, registering a pair of baggy blue jeans, a familiar coach leather jacket you had eye’d online a few months ago, that same faint expression of mild amusement like she’s perpetually one step ahead of a joke you haven’t heard yet.

you sigh. “christ’s sake.”

leah’s mouth curves immediately. “now i’d definitely classify this as a meet-cute if we hadn’t already met before.”

you stare at her hand still on yours.

then at the cherries.

then back at her.

“hello, leah.”

“hello, darling.”

a beat.

she tilts her head slightly. “fancy giving me my hand back? i’m going to need it if i want to carry this box out.”

you realise, belatedly, that your hand is still on top of hers.

you withdraw it quickly, like it’s suddenly too warm to exist. “you can’t have this box.”

leah raises an eyebrow. “why not?”

“because it’s the best box here.”

“debatable.”

“and i need it.”

“technically,” she says, far too calmly, “this is a free country, meaning i’m allowed to have whatever box i please.”

you narrow your eyes. “i had it first.”

“and technically,” she repeats, “you didn’t. your hand fell on top of mine. so if we’re being precise, you had me first.”

there’s a pause.

you look at her. “well... i don’t want you, so in return i get the box.”

“unfortunately, darling,” she says, completely unbothered, “that’s not how that works.”

you exhale through your nose. “it could be how it works. you shouldn’t fear change, you know.”

“i don’t fear anything.”

“maybe not fear,” you say, finally shifting your attention back to the cherries, “but manners certainly fear you.”

that lands.

leah huffs a laugh. “lovely. you’ve got jokes.”

you glance at her briefly. “i’m a real robin williams myself.”

“are you?”

“sure. now can you please give me the box?”

leah leans slightly closer to the stall, eyes flicking over the fruit. “what’s it for?”

you hesitate for half a second. “i’m making cherry pie.”

that gets her attention in a different way.

not obvious.

just a subtle shift.

“for what?”

“family dinner.”

“aren’t you the full package,” she says lightly. “vietnam historian, stand-up comedian, and baker.”

you make a face. “sod off.”

leah smiles. “ouch. i was just about to give them to you.”

you look at her immediately. “really?”

she pauses. “…no.” then with a grin continues, “but it was sweet that you believed me.”

you groan. “unbelievable.”

leah watches you turn slightly away, scanning the remaining punnets like you’re solving a problem in your head rather than choosing fruit.

“not to sound cocky,” she says after a moment.

you don’t look at her. “you’re doing a fabulous job at that.”

“do you have any idea who i am?”

that makes you pause.

you finally glance up.

“yes.”

leah’s expression shifts- just a flicker of something suprised. “really?”

“yes.”

“who?”

you look back at the cherries.

“the woman who spilled coffee all over me and bent my book.”

a beat.

leah blinks. “…i don’t think i bent your book.”

“you contributed.”

“i contributed?”

“you were there.”

leah exhales slowly through her nose. “so you don’t know who i am.”

you glance at her, genuinely puzzled. “am i meant to?”

that lands differently.

leah goes quiet for a second longer than before.

then she smiles, smaller this time. less teasing.

“no,” she says finally. “but let’s keep it that way.”

she reaches down, picks up the exact box you’d been eyeing, and holds it out toward you.

“goodbye, darling.”

you take it immediately.

“thank god.”

leah laughs under her breath, already turning away.

you don’t watch her leave.

you’re too busy checking the cherries like they might personally betray you if you don’t supervise them.

behind you, the stall keeps calling out prices.

the city keeps moving.

and somewhere in the crowd, leah walks off with no cherries, and a faint smile she doesn’t bother to hide.

⸻

fin .

[rylovesfootball14]

stubborn — alexia putellas x original character

CHAPTER ONE

summary: alexia putellas and her english teammate have been playing at barcelona with one another for the past seven years. slowly but surely, undeniable chemistry started to break through. are they willing to risk their long-term friendship, or are they too stubborn to do anything about it?

tags/contatins: use of google translate, fluff, friends to lovers, slow burn, original main character

please do not repost, plagiarise, or feed to ai!! (word count: 1,874)

Although Andie Russell had been living and playing football in Barcelona for the past 7 years, she was still amazed at the technicality and footwork of her current teammates. Yes, Andie is the captain of the England squad and a great centre back, but sometimes during a quick game of rondos with the Barca girls, she gets quickly humbled.

This particular session appeared that the youngsters were all purposefully trying to humiliate their broody English teammate. Claudia Pina had literally giggled when she sent Andie the complete wrong way with a quick shoulder drop; Vicky Lopez had almost caused Andie to slip over with the change of direction of her touch, and Clara Serrajordi had almost nutmegged Andie. Almost. The youngsters were giggling as Andie ran round like a headless chicken, attempting to get the ball. She had obviously given up at some point, now just jogging after the ball to entertain the others.

Mapi, Alexia, and Cata all strolled over to the circle; they’d been watching from afar. “Ei, vinga, Andie, posa-hi una mica de feina!” Mapi shouted dramatically as the trio walked over. (oi, come on, andie, put some work in!) Andie simply threw her best friend a glare, as she jogged after the ball.

“Diexeu-la en pau, la nostra pobra anglesa està cansada.” Patri joined in, in a teasing tone, putting an arm around Andie, attempting to put her into a head lock. (leave her alone, our poor english girl is tired.)

“I’m not tired.” Andie mumbled, using her strength to push Patri away. Andie could understand Catalan partially, but speaking it was a different ball park.

“Cansat i tossut, Russell.” Irene grumbled, raising her eyebrows at Andie from the sidelines. (tired and stubborn, russell.)

Andie simply rolled her eyes, closing down Alexia who now had the ball, but before she knew it, Alexia skilfully passed the ball between Andie’s legs, nutmegging her clean. The whole team erupted: laughing, cheering, clapping. The media team had been filming the last part of the rondo and caught it on camera. Andie hid her face in embarrassment. Alexia pouted, a small smirk playing on her lips as she walked over to Andie in the middle of the circle. Alexia placed an arm around Andie, pulling her into her side.

“Ho sento, Andie, ha estat un accident.” Alexia said, smiling playfully. (i’m sorry, andie, it was an accident.)

Andie was silent for a second, before looking up and grumbling, “Todas ustedes son matones.” (you’re all bullies.) She pouted, attempting to walk away, but Alexia kept a strong arm around her shoulders.

“Molt bé noies, això és tot per avui. Ben fet.” Pere shouted over, packing away the last of the footballs. (alright girls, that’s it for today. well done.)

The team slowly made their way back into the team changing rooms, chatting amongst themselves. Mapi had jogged over to where Andie and Alexia were slowly walking, showing her presence by giving Andie a little nudge.

Andie rolled her eyes playfully, “Not you again.” She sighed, smirking.

“So rude!” Mapi exclaimed, her accent pronounced through the use of English words. “I just come to ask you question.” She shrugs, innocently, but with a mischievous look in her eyes.

Andie sighs, looking at Mapi. “I don’t like the sound of that.” She grumbles, Alexia smiling softly next to her.

“Aye, Andie, why you so nervous? Is all good news, I promise.” Mapi says dramatically, placing her hand on her heart.

“Go on.” Andie replies.

“I have un amiga who I think you like very much.” She nods, putting a hand on Andie’s back. “She very… how you say? Sexy.”

“Mapi…” Andie warns, not liking the direction the conversation is heading.

“Shh. Shh.” Mapi puts her finger to Andie’s lips— Alexia giggles. “You trust me, no?” Mapi asks.

“Depends.” Andie answers. Mapi raises her eyebrows. “Yes.” Andie re-answers.

“I pick well. I know she your type. Very pretty.” Mapi continues. “She see you… she say she will go for dinner.” Mapi reveals.

Andie stops in her tracks. “Have you agreed to this on my behalf?”

Mapi hesitates. “No?” She says. She definitely has.

“No. Mapi. No.” Andie says, shaking her head. “I told you, I’m not looking for anything right now.” She says softly, but seriously.

Mapi huffs before mumbling, “Però necesitas acostarte con alguien, estás demasiado estresado estos días.” Her Spanish was too quick for Andie to understand, but Alexia caught every word of it. (you need to get laid though, you’re too stressed these days.)

“What?” Andie asks. “That was too quick.”

“Nothing nothing. Do not worry.” Mapi shakes her head, a small smirk playing on her lips. “Just think about it, si?”

“Yeah, sure.” Andie nods sarcastically, as Mapi gives up and jogs along after Kika to annoy her.

There’s a moment of silence before Alexia speaks up. “You no want to date?” She asks, a slight crease between her eyebrows.

Andie pauses. “I’m not really that bothered right now.” She shrugs. “Malas experiencias en el pasado.” She explains in Spanish, knowing Alexia understands it more. (bad experiences in the past.)

Alexia nods gently, understanding. “No dejes que una mala experiencia te impida vivir las buenas.” She advises, captain mode on full force. (don’t let a bad experience stop you from experiencing the good ones.)

Andie nods thoughtfully, the pair now arriving at the entrance to the changing rooms. Alexia gives Andie a soft pat on the leg as each of them go their separate ways to get unready from training.

Andie is left deep in thought after Alexia’s words— she values Alexia’s opinion. Not only is Alexia her captain, but one of her closest friends. They’d played alongside each other for 7 years now, and had developed that kind of bond where you understood each other without exchanging words; on the pitch and off.

At first, when Andie had arrived to Barcelona with a maximum of three spanish phrases learnt and an exhaustion that weighed down her every movement from her previous club, the pair had found it difficult to connect due to the language barrier. But, slowly but surely, they almost created their own language on the pitch. They somehow knew where the other one was without looking. So, with Andie learning Spanish from lessons provided by the club, they began understanding each other more little by little.

After about a year, they’d realised just how similar they were. They were comfortable with each other by this point. No more awkwardness or small talk. Andie began giving Alexia English lessons, and Alexia did the same for Andie, but with Spanish.

Eventually, they habitualised their own little routine. Andie would be the last one down for breakfast, as she’s not a morning person whatsoever, whereas Alexia would be the first one up. Andie would mumble a sentence in English that no one understood, so Alexia would teach her it in Spanish. Andie was the more loud, (slightly) aggressive, and intimidating one on the pitch, whereas Alexia took a more calm, collected, and silently commanding role; etc. They fit together, like two pieces of a puzzle. Two captains. Two leaders. Two people who understood each other on a different level.

They’d been there for each other through the ups and downs. Alexia’s ACL. Andie’s ex-relationship that was borderline abusive. Alexia’s loss in the Euros. Andie’s success in the Euro’s. The variety of emotions the pair had been through together only made them stronger. Deep down, both of them had a slight inkling that there was something slightly more than friendship blossoming, but both were too stubborn to even think about it. Too afraid to ruin 7 years of hard earned friendship. So, they remained as they were. No exploring. No suggestions. Pure comfort zone.

———————————————————————————————

Andie had arrived at her apartment at around 7:30pm, and she was absolutely knackered from the long day of training. Andie loves her own company: always has, always will; but sometimes her apartment seemed a little lonesome. She’d considered adopting a puppy, but realised she’d never have the time to look after it properly with her schedule for football.

By the time she had showered, cooked, ate, and washed up, it was pretty late in the evening. She’d only just sat down on her sofa when her phone started ringing. Beth Mead.

MEADO: FACETIME INCOMING 📞📞

Andie huffed softly before swiping to answer.

“Russell!” Beth’s loud voice exclaimed, travelling through Andie’s phone.

“Alright, Meado.” Andie greeted, a tight-lipped smile on her face, causing her dimples to pop.

“Don’t look so excited to see me.” Beth said sassily.

“Sorry. Tired.” Andie apologised, cuddling up on the sofa.

“You’re always tired.” Beth sighed, shaking her head like a disappointed mother.

“I’m aware.” Andie yawned mid sentence. “Did you call for any purpose or just to bother me?” She rasped, tiredness laced in her voice.

“Gosh! Can a mother not check in on her child?” Beth gasped theatrically, and Andie heard Viv’s laughter from off-screen.

“Mate, you’re literally three years older than me.” Andie scoffs, laughing gently.

“You’re still my little baby. Even if you did leave Arsenal.” Beth glares through the screen.

“That was 7 years ago, Bethany. You need to move on.” Andie says, playing along.

Beth laughs, throwing her head back. “You doing good over there?” She asks, serious now.

Andie nods. “Just the usual.”

“That a good thing?” Beth asks, raising her eyebrows.

“‘Course it is. I love it here.” Andie replies genuinely. “We’ve got a game in a few days so prepping for that. I think Ale’s coming over for dinner tomorrow.” She says nonchalantly, listing off upcoming events of the week.

“Putellas, hm?” Beth smirks slightly.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Andie asks, a look of genuine disgust on her face.

“Nothing, nothing. Just interesting.” Beth mumbles. “Just the two of you?”

Andie nodded, “It’s become a bit of a thing.”

“A thing?” Beth raised her eyebrows.

“Yeah. One of us goes round to the others at least once a week and we cook dinner together. It’s quite therapeutic, actually. And, she’s a very good cook.” Andie rambles.

“That’s cute.” Beth grins. “Bit of team bonding, huh, Russell?” She smirks. Andie furrows her eyebrows. “Do you have weekly dinner dates with anyone else in the team?” She asks, her voice unusually high.

“No. I don’t have time for multiple weekly dinner dates.” Andie replied, like it was obvious.

“Oh, of course. Just got time for the one teammate.” Beth nods dramatically.

“Well, Alexia and I are good friends.” Andie states.

“Very good friends.” Beth agrees.

“I’ll end this call if you keep being weird.” Andie warns.

“I need to go anyways. Viv is stressing about something. I’m not sure what.” Beth grumbles.

Andie chuckles. “Give my love to Viv.”

“Will do. Enjoy your date with Putellas.” Beth teases, hanging up before Andie could scold her.

Andie sighed, shaking her head. Friends could have dinner together— that wasn’t a weird thing at all. Her phone pinged. A text.

ALE: what you want for dinner tomorrow?

Andie threw her phone across the sofa. She needed her brain to stop overanalysing things. She decided to call it a night, heading to bed for some much needed sleep.

next chapter

[solongmylove818]

Last Seen.

Author's Note: Hi hello, this is my first fic here, not quite sure if I'm going to keep posting because wow this is hard and complex and maybe I'm more fit for ao3 anyways (but the community seens fun and engaged so i might as well...) *That being said, enjoy another feverish dream of mine. This one is actually based on a true story!! (more or less anyways). Side notes: 1) I listened to yukon by justin bieber a lot while writing this. not that it relates to anything. 2) i have no idea where this is going or if it's going to be a one shot or if it's ending here or what ships will live or sink enjoy the unknown!! updates: idk word count: don't ask hard questions

summary

Jude Jones is not where she thought she’d be.

At twenty-something, she’s stuck in a London pub kitchen that smells like fryer oil and bad decisions, living in a shoebox flat with her overweight dachshund, Taco, and pretending everything is fine.

It isn’t.

At some point, through a mix of boredom, poor life choices, and convenience, Jude starts using Alexia Putellas’ Instagram DMs as a personal notes app.

Shopping lists. Recipe ideas. Mild breakdowns.

It’s easy. It’s there.

It’s not like Alexia Putellas is going to see it.

Except she does.

INDEX :

1. you are a loser Jude Jones 2. it's a family thing 3. i'd pick up whenever you called 4. football stars don't come to pubs 5. oh now you're talking to me 6. the messy human thing 7. oh jude don't make it sad 8. to you everything i bestow 9. megaphone to my chest (broadcast the boom boom) 10. epilogue

[walshespasses]

Come Find Me

Chapter 5: Home

Word Count: 6,646

The first text arrived just after eight that morning.

Y/N had barely finished handing over report to the day shift when her phone vibrated in the pocket of her scrubs. She was standing outside the nurses' station with a half-finished cup of coffee balanced on a stack of patient charts, trying to remember whether she'd actually eaten breakfast or only meant to.

Alexia: Morning. Hope your shift wasn't too awful.

Y/N smiled despite herself.

There had been a time when messages from Alexia arrived in bursts. Five texts in a row. Missed calls. Long apologies that tried so desperately to fix everything at once that neither of them had room to breathe.

Now...

There was space.

Space to answer.

Space not to.

Space to simply exist.

She typed back.

Y/N: Only one broken wrist and two people convinced Google knew more than their doctor.

The reply came almost immediately.

Alexia: Sounds like a successful night.

Y/N laughed quietly under her breath.

One of the older nurses looked up from the computer.

"Whatever that smile is about, keep it. You look less terrifying."

"I look terrifying?"

"You've worked nights for three years."

"...Fair."

The nurse grinned before disappearing into one of the treatment rooms. Y/N slipped her phone back into her pocket and finished the last sip of coffee just as another message appeared.

Alexia: Coffee after work?

She stared at it longer than she expected. Three weeks ago, the answer would've been no. Two weeks ago... Probably still no. Today... She found herself thinking about it instead of dismissing it. Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard. Then she smiled to herself.

Y/N: Actually...

A pause.

Y/N: Come here instead.

Several seconds passed.

No reply.

She wondered if Alexia had misunderstood.

Then her phone buzzed.

Alexia: To the hospital?

Y/N: If you're brave enough.

Three dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Then a couple minutes later

Alexia: Give me twenty minutes.

Alexia had played in front of ninety thousand people. She had taken penalties in Champions League finals. She had stood in front of cameras after heartbreaking defeats and impossible victories. None of it compared to walking through the sliding glass doors of Hospital Clinic with a takeaway coffee in each hand. The building buzzed with quiet urgency. Doctors hurried through corridors reading patient notes. Porters pushed beds from one department to another. Phones ringing. Machines beeped. Families sat in waiting areas wearing the same mixture of hope and exhaustion Alexia had seen only from a distance before.

For the first time in a long time...

She felt completely out of place.

She looked down at her phone.

Y/N: Emergency Department. Follow the blue signs.

Easy enough she thought to herself. She followed the signs until they led her to a set of double doors that opened onto organized chaos. Nurses moved confidently between curtained bays. Someone laughed near the reception desk. A child cried somewhere farther down the hallway before being gently comforted by a soft voice Alexia couldn't quite make out. She stood awkwardly just inside the entrance. Immediately unsure whether she'd come to the wrong place. A receptionist looked up.

"Can I help you?"

"I..." Alexia smiled sheepishly. "I'm looking for Y/N."

The receptionist's expression changed instantly.

"Oh."

A knowing smile spread across her face.

"So you're Alexia."

Alexia blinked.

"...I am."

"I've heard about you."

Alexia wasn't entirely sure whether that was a good thing.

Before she could ask, a familiar voice called from farther down the corridor.

"You actually came."

Alexia turned.

Y/N was walking toward her, still wearing navy scrubs, her hair pulled into a loose bun that had surrendered several hours earlier. There were faint shadows beneath her eyes from the night shift, and she looked tired in the way only nurses finishing twelve hours ever seemed to look.

She also looked...

Happy. Not overwhelmingly. Not dramatically. Just happy to see her.

Alexia held up one of the coffees.

"I brought a peace offering."

Y/N accepted it with a smile.

"You remembered my order."

"You always pretend you don't like vanilla syrup."

"I don't."

"You do."

"I tolerate it."

Alexia laughed.

"You love it."

Y/N rolled her eyes before taking a sip.

"...Maybe."

For a moment they simply stood there, smiling over paper coffee cups while the emergency department carried on around them.

It felt strangely normal.

"So," Y/N said eventually, "welcome to my world."

Alexia looked around.

"It looks... busy."

Y/N laughed.

"You should've been here four hours ago."

Before Alexia could answer, another nurse appeared carrying a clipboard.

"There you are."

She stopped abruptly when she noticed Alexia.

"Oh."

Y/N smiled.

"Alexia, this is Sophie. Sophie, this is Alexia."

Sophie's eyebrows shot upward.

"The Alexia?"

Alexia laughed awkwardly.

"I'm beginning to think that's my full name."

Sophie grinned.

"It's nice to finally meet you."

Alexia looked toward Y/N.

"Finally?"

Y/N suddenly found the floor fascinating.

Sophie looked between them before realizing she'd said more than she'd intended.

"I should..." She held up the clipboard. "...Patients."

Then, leaning toward Alexia as she walked past, she added quietly,

"She's talked about you a lot."

Alexia watched her disappear down the corridor before looking back at Y/N.

"You've been talking about me?"

Y/N shrugged, suddenly very interested in the lid of her coffee cup.

"They asked."

"And?"

"I answered."

Alexia couldn't stop smiling.

"I thought I was the secret one."

"You were."

"So what changed?"

Y/N met her eyes.

"You did."

The words landed gently between them. Neither of them rushed to fill the silence. A doctor in green scrubs approached from the opposite direction carrying a tablet. He stopped beside Y/N.

"Can I steal you for a second?"

"Of course."

He finally noticed Alexia standing beside her.

Recognition crossed his face.

"Oh."

He smiled warmly.

"You must be Alexia."

Alexia nodded.

"Guilty."

The doctor extended a hand.

"I'm Daniel."

Alexia shook it.

"I've heard a lot about you."

Alexia looked toward Y/N again.

"Apparently that's happening a lot today."

Daniel laughed.

"Occupational hazard."

He glanced toward Y/N before continuing.

"I just wanted to say..."

He smiled.

"...it's nice to finally meet the person who makes her smile during night shifts."

Y/N groaned softly.

"Daniel..."

"What?"

"You are never allowed to speak again."

"I respectfully decline."

Alexia laughed.

A real, full laugh that echoed down the corridor.

Daniel excused himself a moment later, leaving the two women standing together once more.

Alexia watched Y/N greet another nurse passing by, answer a quick question from reception, then point a worried family toward the correct waiting area without breaking stride. She knew Y/N was good at her job. She had always known. She'd listened to stories after difficult shifts. Held her after exhausting nights. Heard her talk about patients she'd never forget.

But seeing it...

Seeing the quiet confidence with which everyone around her trusted her...

Was something else entirely.

"You know," Alexia said softly, "I don't think I've ever really seen you work."

Y/N looked at her.

"No."

"I should've."

Y/N didn't answer immediately.

Instead, she smiled a small, thoughtful smile that reached her eyes.

"I'm glad you're seeing it now."

Just then, a little girl of about six peeked nervously around the corner of a treatment room, clutching a stuffed rabbit against her chest.

Her eyes immediately found Y/N.

"Nurse?"

Y/N looked over.

"I'm coming."

She turned back toward Alexia.

"I'll only be a minute."

Alexia nodded.

"Take your time."

She watched Y/N kneel down until she was eye level with the little girl, smiling as she pointed to the rabbit before saying something that made the child giggle through her nerves. The fear melted from the little girl's face within seconds. Alexia felt her chest tighten. She had watched Y/N love her. She had watched her love a little boy who wasn't biologically hers. She had watched her welcome Eli into her life with effortless warmth.

But standing in the middle of a busy emergency department...

She was watching Y/N give that same kindness to complete strangers. And suddenly she understood what everyone had been trying to tell her.

Lucia.

Daniel.

Even the psychologist.

There was an entire world that loved Y/N because of who she was. A world Alexia had never really stepped into before. She wasn't just discovering Y/N's workplace. She was discovering another side of the woman she'd fallen in love with.

And somehow...

It made her love her even more.

When Y/N returned a few minutes later, she noticed the expression on Alexia's face immediately.

"What?"

Alexia smiled, almost shaking her head.

"Nothing."

Y/N raised an eyebrow.

"Alexia."

"You were amazing."

A faint blush crept across Y/N's cheeks.

"I just did my job."

"I know."

Alexia looked around the department one more time before meeting her eyes again.

"I think I'm finally seeing all the parts of you I should've known months ago."

Y/N didn't speak.

She simply slipped her now-empty coffee cup into the nearest recycling bin before reaching for her bag.

"My shift's officially over."

Alexia smiled.

"So..."

Y/N slung the strap over her shoulder.

"Ready to see the real chaos?"

Alexia frowned playfully.

"I thought this was the chaos."

Y/N laughed as they walked toward the exit.

"Oh, no."

She smiled over at Alexia.

"Now we have to pick up a three-year-old from daycare."

And somehow...

Alexia had never looked forward to chaos more.

--

The afternoon sun hung low over Barcelona by the time they pulled into the daycare parking lot.

Alexia switched off the engine but didn't reach for the door handle straight away. Instead, she looked through the windshield toward the colorful little building in front of them. Children's artwork covered nearly every window. Bright paper butterflies fluttered in the breeze where teachers had taped them to the fence, and somewhere inside, tiny voices drifted out through an open classroom door.

"It looks different than I imagined," Alexia admitted.

Y/N laughed quietly as she unbuckled her seatbelt.

"What exactly did you imagine?"

"I don't know." Alexia smiled sheepishly. "More... crayons."

"There are plenty of those. You just can't see them from the parking lot."

They climbed out of the car together. For the first time, Alexia realized she'd never actually been here. She'd dropped Y/N off for work. Picked up groceries. Collected prescriptions. Driven to training. Driven home. But every afternoon, while she'd been at the training ground or reviewing match footage, Y/N had been making this drive alone. Every single day. The thought settled heavily in her chest. Y/N noticed the way Alexia slowed beside the entrance.

"What?"

Alexia looked at the painted handprints decorating the wall.

"I've never done this with you."

Y/N followed her gaze before smiling softly.

"No."

"I'm sorry."

Y/N reached over and gently touched her forearm.

"You don't have to apologize for every realization."

"I know."

"You just have to keep having them."

Alexia nodded.

"I will."

The classroom door opened before either of them could say anything else. A teacher stepped outside carrying a stack of drawings before spotting Y/N immediately.

"There you are."

She smiled warmly before noticing Alexia standing beside her.

"Oh."

Recognition flickered across her face.

"You brought a friend."

Y/N's eyes drifted toward Alexia. For a heartbeat, she hesitated. Then she smiled.

"This is my girlfriend, Alexia."

The words were simple. But Alexia felt them all the way to her heart. They weren't whispered. They weren't hidden or explained. Just simply "My girlfriend."

The teacher's smile widened.

"It's lovely to finally meet you."

Alexia returned the smile, suddenly feeling as though she might cry over something as ordinary as an introduction.

"Likewise."

The teacher stepped back inside.

"I'll go get our little football star."

Y/N laughed.

"Good luck."

Less than thirty seconds later, the sound of tiny feet echoed down the hallway.

"Mama!"

The little boy burst through the classroom door carrying a paper crown that was slightly too big for his head. He threw himself into Y/N's arms before immediately noticing Alexia standing beside her. His eyes became impossibly wide.

"ALE!"

This time he didn't hesitate. He wriggled free from Y/N's arms and launched himself straight toward Alexia. She barely had time to crouch before he collided with her, wrapping both arms around her neck.

"I painted!"

"You did?"

He nodded enthusiastically.

"For you!"

He held up a sheet of paper covered almost entirely in blue paint. Near the middle was what looked vaguely like a football goal. Or perhaps a dinosaur. Alexia wasn't entirely sure.

"It's beautiful."

"It you."

Alexia tilted her head.

"...It's me?"

He nodded proudly.

"You kick ball."

Y/N laughed so hard she had to lean against the wall.

"I think you've been painted very generously."

Alexia studied the masterpiece with complete seriousness.

"I've never looked better."

The little boy giggled before taking one of Alexia's hands. His other hand immediately reached for Y/N's. Without thinking, he tucked himself between them and started walking toward the parking lot. Alexia looked down. Their hands were linked together through him. Neither said anything. Neither wanted to be the first to let go. Halfway across the parking lot, the little boy looked up at them as though suddenly realizing something was missing.

"You not holding."

Y/N frowned.

"What?"

He stopped walking altogether.

"Mama."

She looked down.

"You hold."

Then he looked at Alexia.

"You hold too."

Neither woman moved.

He sighed dramatically.

"The family hold hands."

Alexia's breath caught. Y/N looked across at her. There was uncertainty there. Hope maybe. A question definitely. Alexia didn't reach immediately. She waited. Wanting to give Y/N every chance to step away if she wanted to.

Instead...

Y/N slowly shifted closer. Their fingers brushed. Then intertwined.

Small.

Tentative.

Natural.

The little boy beamed as though he'd personally solved world peace.

"There."

He nodded approvingly.

"Better."

Alexia looked down at their joined hands before glancing toward Y/N. Y/N couldn't stop smiling. Neither could she. They continued walking across the parking lot exactly like that. A little boy happily swinging between them, humming to himself as though families holding hands was simply the most ordinary thing in the world. Perhaps it should have been. As they reached the car, he suddenly looked up.

"Ice cream?"

Y/N laughed.

"You ask every day."

"'Cause maybe today."

Alexia looked toward Y/N.

"I think today might actually be the day."

The little boy gasped.

"Mama!"

"What?"

"She said yes!"

Y/N looked helplessly between the two of them.

"I've been outvoted, haven't I?"

"Definitely," Alexia replied with a grin.

Twenty minutes later they were sitting outside a small gelato shop just off Passeig de Gràcia. The little boy had chocolate all over his chin despite everyone's best efforts. Alexia had somehow ended up wearing a smear of strawberry ice cream on the sleeve of her jumper after he'd insisted she taste his. Y/N had never seen anyone make such a mess with one scoop of vanilla.

"It's melting," she warned.

"I know."

"So eat it."

"I'm trying."

He demonstrated by taking the tiniest lick imaginable.

Alexia laughed.

"At this rate it'll be soup."

He considered that carefully.

"I can drink soup."

"You've got me there."

A little girl walking past stopped beside their table.

She stared at Alexia for several seconds before whispering something excitedly to her father.

The man smiled apologetically.

"I'm sorry to bother you..."

Alexia immediately shook her head.

"It's alright."

After a quick photograph and a few kind words, the family continued on their way.

The little boy looked up at Alexia.

"They know you."

"A little."

He thought about that while finishing another determined lick of ice cream.

Then he smiled proudly.

"My mum famous."

The words slipped out so naturally that neither adult had time to react.

Alexia froze.

Y/N looked across the table.

The little boy simply continued eating his ice cream, completely unaware that he'd just casually referred to Alexia the same way he had on the pitch after her goal.

Alexia swallowed hard.

"Am I?"

He looked confused.

"Silly."

He shrugged as though the answer had always been obvious.

"My mum."

Y/N reached beneath the café table. Without looking away from their son, she quietly rested her hand over Alexia's. This time... Neither of them let go. When the little boy finally finished his ice cream, he climbed down from his chair and grabbed both of their hands again.

"Home now?"

Alexia looked toward Y/N.

She smiled.

"I think someone has another surprise for us."

Alexia nodded.

"I do."

The little boy's eyes lit up immediately.

"A surprise?"

Alexia winked.

"A very special one."

Neither of them noticed the way Y/N's heart had already started beating just a little faster. Because she knew exactly where Alexia was taking them. She just had no idea what was waiting behind the apartment door.

--

The drive across Barcelona felt strangely familiar. Not because Y/N had made it countless times before. Because for the first time in months, there wasn't a knot sitting permanently in her chest as they pulled away from the city center. Her son sat happily in the backseat, one shoe already missing despite having left the ice cream shop less than five minutes earlier. Alexia glanced into the rear view mirror.

"Where did your shoe go?"

He looked down as though seeing his own foot for the first time.

"...Gone."

Y/N laughed quietly.

"It can't be gone."

"It disappeared."

Alexia smiled.

"That's impressive."

He nodded very seriously.

"It magic."

"I'll have to check the back seat when we stop."

The little boy seemed perfectly satisfied with that explanation before turning his attention back to the toy dinosaur he'd insisted on bringing everywhere this week. Y/N watched Alexia's hand resting casually on the steering wheel. Months ago, this drive would've been filled with conversation about training, recovery sessions, media obligations, or what they wanted for dinner.

Today...

Neither of them seemed in a hurry to fill the silence. It wasn't uncomfortable anymore.

It simply existed between them, warm and familiar, like something they'd finally stopped trying to fix. Alexia turned onto their old street. Y/N noticed immediately. She looked out the passenger window without saying anything. The apartment building came into view at the end of the block. The same building she'd walked away from with a duffel bag over her shoulder. The same front entrance where Alexia had stood frozen while Eli watched her daughter lose the two people she loved most. Her stomach tightened despite herself. Alexia parked the car but made no move to get out.

Instead, she turned off the engine and rested both hands against the steering wheel.

"If you don't want to come inside..."

Y/N looked at her.

"...we don't have to."

Y/N glanced toward the apartment building before looking back at her.

"I want to."

Alexia searched her face.

"You don't have to say yes because it's me."

"I'm not."

A small smile tugged at Y/N's lips.

"I'm saying yes because I want to know what you've been smiling about all afternoon."

Alexia laughed softly.

"Fair enough."

In the back seat, a tiny voice interrupted.

"I found my shoe."

Both women turned.

The little boy held the missing trainer triumphantly above his head.

"It wasn't magic."

Alexia shook her head dramatically.

"I'm relieved."

They climbed out together. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the pavement as they walked toward the entrance. The little boy skipped happily between them, still clutching his dinosaur. He stopped halfway to the door.

"Mama?"

"Yes?"

"Can Bagheera come too?"

Y/N smiled.

"Baby Bagheera doesn't live here."

"Oh."

"She lives with Mapi."

Alexia unlocked the apartment. The familiar click echoed through the hallway. She pushed the door open slowly. Nothing had changed.

At least...

Not where Y/N expected.

The living room looked almost exactly the same. The framed photographs still sat on the shelves. The blanket still rested over the back of the sofa. The kitchen still smelled faintly of fresh coffee.

It felt...

Comforting.

And heartbreaking all at once. The little boy kicked off his shoes before running straight toward the living room.

"Bagheera!"

A loud meow answered immediately.

The black cat appeared from around the corner like she'd been waiting all afternoon.

She rubbed against his legs before dramatically flopping onto the floor for attention.

"I told you," the little boy whispered.

Alexia smiled as she watched them together, she turned toward Y/N.

"Mapi went to go visit Ingrid and asked if i would watch her"

Y/N stood quietly near the doorway. Her eyes wandered slowly around the apartment. The stack of books she'd left beside the sofa was still there. The small ceramic mug she'd bought at a street market months earlier still sat beside the coffee machine. Even the little hook by the door where she'd always hung her hospital badge remained exactly where she'd left it.

Nothing had been erased.

Nothing had been packed away.

Alexia noticed where she was looking.

"I couldn't."

Y/N turned toward her.

"I tried once."

Alexia smiled sadly.

"I made it halfway through putting your books in a box."

She looked toward the bookshelf.

"Then I realized..."

Her voice grew quieter.

"...I wasn't cleaning."

"I was pretending."

Y/N felt her chest tighten.

Alexia walked a little closer.

"I didn't want to pretend anymore."

The apartment fell silent.

Only the sound of the little boy giggling with Bagheera drifted in from the living room.

Alexia took one slow breath.

"There's something I want to show you."

Y/N looked at her curiously.

"What is it?"

Alexia hesitated.

Then smiled.

"You'll see."

She walked down the hallway. Not toward their bedroom. Toward the spare room. The room that had once been half office, half storage. The room Y/N had never quite known what to do with. She rested one hand on the doorknob. Suddenly looking far more nervous than she had walking into the emergency department that morning. The little boy wandered over just in time to notice.

"What's in there?"

Alexia smiled down at him.

"A surprise."

His eyes became enormous.

"For me?"

Alexia looked at Y/N before answering.

"For both of you."

She slowly turned the handle. The door swung inward. Y/N forgot how to breathe. Sunlight poured through the bedroom window, catching tiny glow-in-the-dark stars scattered carefully across the ceiling. A small wooden bed sat neatly against one wall beneath a navy duvet covered in little footballs. Bookshelves, built low enough for little hands to reach, were already lined with dinosaur stories, bedtime books, and several of his favorite picture books Alexia must have quietly collected over the last few weeks.

A toy chest rested beneath the window. Beside it stood a tiny football.

And on the bedside table...

A familiar blue toy car.

The same little car that had waited beside an empty bed ever since the night Y/N walked away. She stared at it. Unable to move. Unable to speak. Behind her, the little boy gasped.

"So cool!"

He ran inside before either woman could stop him. He climbed onto the little bed, bounced once, then twice, before throwing both arms into the air.

"Mama!"

His laugh filled the room.

"I got football bed!"

Y/N remained standing in the doorway. Tears blurred her vision. Not because of the furniture. Not because of the decorations. Because every single detail said the same thing. Alexia hadn't prepared a room for a guest. She had built one for a little boy she loved.

And suddenly...

Y/N understood why Alexia had been smiling all afternoon. She hadn't been keeping a surprise. She'd been carrying hope.

--

Sunlight poured through the bedroom window, catching tiny glow-in-the-dark stars scattered carefully across the ceiling. A small wooden bed sat neatly against one wall beneath a navy duvet covered in little footballs. Low bookshelves were lined with dinosaur stories, bedtime books, and picture books Alexia must have quietly collected over the last few weeks. A toy chest rested beneath the window, and beside the bed sat a dinosaur-shaped nightlight.

But it was the photograph on the bedside table that made Y/N stop.

It was the three of them in the kitchen months earlier, covered in flour after her son had somehow decided pancake mix belonged everywhere except the bowl. Y/N had never seen the picture before.

“My mum took it,” Alexia said quietly.

Y/N picked up the frame. “I didn’t know this existed.”

“I kept it in my drawer,” Alexia admitted. “I think I was scared to put it anywhere people could see it.”

Y/N looked over at her.

Alexia’s smile was small and sad. “I don’t want to do that anymore.”

Across the room, the little boy gasped and ran straight toward the bed.

“Mama! Football bed!”

Y/N laughed through the tears already gathering in her eyes.

Alexia watched him climb onto the mattress, bouncing once before throwing both arms into the air. “I wanted the first thing he saw every morning to remind him he was loved before he even got out of bed.”

Y/N turned back to the photograph, her thumb brushing over the frame.

“You built him a room.”

Alexia nodded. “I built him a room.”

Her voice softened.

“And I built it for you too.”

Y/N’s eyes filled.

Alexia took a careful breath. “I realized this apartment was always mine. My trophies. My books. My routines. My life. I kept asking you both to fit into something I had already built.”

She looked toward the little boy, now proudly showing Bagheera the dinosaur lamp.

“I didn’t want that anymore.”

Y/N couldn’t speak.

Alexia stepped closer, but not too close.

“I’m not asking you to come home today.”

Y/N looked at her.

“I’m asking for the chance to make this feel like home again.”

For a long moment, the only sound was their son laughing as Bagheera climbed into the toy chest like she owned it. Then Y/N reached for Alexia’s hand. Their fingers laced together easily. Not fixed. Not finished. But no longer broken in the same way.

Across the room, her son looked up.

“Mama?”

“Yes, baby?”

“Can my football shirts go in there?” he asked, pointing toward the empty wardrobe.

Y/N looked at Alexia. Alexia didn’t answer for her. She only waited. Y/N crossed the room and opened the wardrobe doors. Tiny wooden hangers hung neatly inside, empty and waiting. She knelt in front of her son and brushed a curl from his forehead.

“Not today.”

His face fell slightly.

“But,” she added softly, “maybe soon.”

He considered that, then nodded like he trusted tomorrow completely.

“Okay.”

Y/N stood again, her chest aching in a way that didn’t feel entirely painful anymore. She looked around the room one more time: the stars, the books, the football bed, the photograph, the nightlight, the empty wardrobe waiting patiently for whatever came next. Then she looked back at Alexia.

“I didn’t want to fit into your world,” Y/N said quietly. “I wanted us to build one together.”

Alexia’s eyes shone.

“I know.”

Y/N smiled faintly.

“I think you finally do.”

Across the room, her son had already emptied half the toy chest onto the floor. Bagheera wandered into the room with the slow confidence of a cat convinced everything inside the apartment belonged to her. She sniffed the toy chest. Then promptly climbed into it. The little boy burst into laughter.

"Bagheera!"

The cat blinked lazily.

"That's not your bed."

Bagheera ignored him completely.

Alexia smiled.

"I think she's made her decision."

Y/N laughed through the tears gathering in her eyes.

"I don't think anyone has ever won an argument with that cat."

"No."

Alexia shook her head.

"I certainly haven't."

For a moment...

Everything felt normal.

Not perfect.

Just...

Normal.

The little boy happily pulled books from the shelf one after another, proudly announcing each title whether he could actually read it or not.

"I like this one."

Alexia looked over.

"You've never read that one."

"I know."

He grinned.

"I still like it."

Y/N smiled to herself. Some things never changed. Alexia watched him for another second before turning back toward Y/N.

"I know this doesn't fix everything."

Y/N looked up.

"I know."

"I didn't build this room because I thought you'd move back."

She took a slow breath.

"I built it because I realized something."

Y/N waited.

Alexia looked around the room.

"The apartment was always mine."

She laughed quietly.

"My books. My trophies. My pictures. My routines."

She swallowed.

"I kept asking you to fit into a life I'd already built."

Y/N felt every word.

"I never stopped to ask if it felt like yours."

Alexia's eyes drifted toward the little boy, now proudly placing dinosaurs across the windowsill.

"And it definitely wasn't his."

Silence.

"So..."

She smiled sadly.

"I started over."

Y/N looked around again. Only now did she notice all the little details. The dinosaur lamp she'd once pointed out in a shop window months ago because her son had refused to stop staring at it. The tiny football boots sitting neatly beneath the bed. A basket filled with children's blankets. A framed finger painting hanging beside the bookshelf. She stepped closer. Her breath caught. It wasn't just any finger painting. It was one he'd made at daycare. One she'd assumed had disappeared weeks ago.

"Irene gave it to me."

Alexia's voice came quietly from behind her.

"I asked if she'd mind."

Y/N turned around.

"You asked Irene?"

Alexia nodded.

"I told her I wanted him to feel like he belonged here."

A tear finally slipped down Y/N's cheek.

Alexia noticed immediately.

"I'm sorry."

Y/N laughed softly through her tears.

"You really have to stop apologizing every time I cry."

"I don't know which ones are good tears."

"They're mostly good now."

Alexia smiled.

"I'll take mostly."

The little boy suddenly looked up from the floor.

"Mama!"

"What is it?"

"I love my room, can we stay here soon?"

Y/N froze. Alexia didn't answer. She looked at Y/N instead. Giving her the choice. Always the choice.

"If you want."

No pressure.

No expectation.

Just...

If you want.

Y/N smiled at the little boy before kneeling in front of him.

"Not today though baby."

His face fell just a little.

"But..."

She brushed a curl away from his forehead.

"...I think maybe soon."

He considered that.

Then nodded.

"Okay."

Apparently that answer was enough. Children had a remarkable ability to trust tomorrow. He immediately returned to arranging dinosaurs across the bedspread. Y/N stood again. She walked slowly toward Alexia until only a step separated them.

"I've been thinking."

Alexia's heart immediately sped up.

"That's usually dangerous."

Y/N laughed.

"It can be."

She looked back around the room.

"I spent months thinking what I wanted was to finally be part of your world."

Alexia stayed silent.

"I was wrong."

She looked back at Alexia.

"I didn't want to fit into your world."

Another tear escaped before she wiped it away.

"I wanted us to build one together."

Alexia felt something catch painfully in her chest.

"I know."

"No."

Y/N smiled gently.

"I think..."

She looked around one last time.

"...you're finally understanding the difference."

Alexia couldn't speak. Not because she didn't have anything to say. Because every word she could think of felt too small.

Instead...

She stepped forward carefully. Not close enough to invade Y/N's space. Just close enough that their hands brushed naturally between them. Y/N didn't pull away. She turned her hand over instead. Their fingers laced together. Like they remembered exactly how. Neither woman spoke. Across the room, the little boy suddenly threw both arms into the air.

"Mama!"

They both looked over instinctively.

"I think Bagheera likes my room!"

The cat was now asleep in the middle of the little bed, completely sprawled across the football duvet as though she'd claimed ownership within minutes.

Alexia laughed.

"I think she's decided it's hers now."

The little boy giggled.

"We share."

Y/N looked at Alexia. Alexia looked back at her. Neither of them missed the irony.

Maybe...

Home had always been about learning to share it with the people you loved.

--

The rest of the afternoon slipped by so quietly that none of them noticed the hours passing. The little boy had quickly decided his new room deserved to be explored properly, which apparently meant introducing every single dinosaur to every available surface.

The stegosaurus guarded the windowsill. The triceratops claimed the bookshelf. The T-Rex immediately became king of the football bed. Bagheera tolerated the arrangement for exactly three minutes before claiming the middle of the duvet for herself, refusing to move no matter how many times she was informed that dinosaurs needed somewhere to sleep.

"She cheating," the little boy declared.

Alexia laughed from the doorway.

"I don't think cats know the rules."

"They should."

"I'll explain them to her later."

Satisfied with that answer, he wandered back to his important work. Y/N leaned quietly against the bedroom door frame, watching him chatter away to himself. It was impossible not to notice how comfortable he already looked. He wasn't treating the room like somewhere unfamiliar. He was treating it like somewhere he belonged. That realization settled somewhere deep inside her. Not because it meant she had made a decision. Because it reminded her that Alexia hadn't built this room hoping to impress her. She had built it because she'd been thinking about a little boy who deserved to feel at home.

There was a difference.

A huge one.

Alexia stepped beside her.

"I was hoping he'd like it."

Y/N smiled softly.

"I don't think you're getting him out of here tonight."

"I'm okay with that."

For a moment they simply stood together, watching him line up dinosaurs across the edge of the bed while explaining, in great detail, why herbivores deserved equal representation on football teams.

Y/N laughed under her breath.

"I have absolutely no idea where he gets these conversations."

Alexia tilted her head thoughtfully.

"I blame Mapi."

"That's probably fair."

A comfortable silence settled between them. It wasn't the uncertain silence that had existed after the breakup. It wasn't the careful silence of two people afraid to say the wrong thing.

It was simply... Peace.

The kind that didn't need filling.

A sudden knock at the apartment door broke the quiet. Alexia frowned.

"I wasn't expecting anyone."

She disappeared down the hallway, returning a moment later with Eli carrying a small cake box and Alba balancing two grocery bags.

"I had a feeling someone might forget dinner," Eli announced as she stepped inside.

She stopped almost immediately when she caught sight of Y/N standing in the hallway.

Her smile softened.

"Oh."

Y/N smiled back.

"Hi."

Eli crossed the room without hesitation and wrapped her in a warm hug.

"It's good to see you here."

"It's good to be here."

Alba looked around the apartment before peeking into the little bedroom. The little boy looked up immediately.

"Alba!"

She grinned.

"Well, this looks familiar."

"What do you mean?" Alexia asked.

Alba laughed.

"You called me three different times asking whether children preferred green or blue dinosaurs."

Y/N looked toward Alexia.

"You asked Alba?"

Alexia looked mildly embarrassed.

"I also asked my mum."

Eli nodded proudly.

"She spent twenty minutes researching dinosaur lamps."

"I wanted to get the right one."

Y/N couldn't help smiling.

"You researched dinosaur lamps?"

Alexia shrugged.

"I don't know anything about dinosaur lamps."

"You do now."

"I do now."

Everyone laughed.

Dinner became wonderfully chaotic after that. Eli insisted on helping in the kitchen despite Alexia protesting that everything was already prepared. Alba somehow ended up sitting cross-legged on the floor building a tower from wooden blocks that the little boy delighted in knocking over every thirty seconds. Bagheera stole a piece of chicken the second no one was looking. Alexia pretended to be outraged. The little boy defended the cat immediately.

"She hungry."

"She just ate."

"She hungry again."

Alexia sighed dramatically.

"I've been outnumbered."

Y/N stood quietly in the kitchen doorway, taking it all in. Months ago, this apartment had felt too quiet. Too careful. Everyone had spoken softly, almost afraid to disturb the fragile balance Alexia worked so hard to maintain.

Tonight...

There was flour on the counter. Child laughter coming from down the hallway. Eli humming while setting the table. Alba arguing with a three-year-old about whether dinosaurs could become goalkeepers. It wasn't perfect. It was alive.

Later that evening, after dinner had been eaten and dishes washed, the little boy curled up on the sofa between Y/N and Alexia with a storybook balanced across both of their laps.

"You read."

Alexia smiled.

"I read?"

He nodded sleepily.

"You do voices."

Y/N laughed.

"Apparently you've set the standard."

Alexia opened the book.

She'd barely reached the third page before the little boy's eyelids grew heavy. By the fifth page, his head had slipped against her shoulder. By the seventh... He was asleep. Alexia stopped reading. The apartment grew wonderfully still. Eli quietly gathered her handbag.

"We're going."

Alexia looked up.

"So soon?"

Eli smiled knowingly.

"I think you two need a little time."

She kissed Alexia's forehead, then Y/N's cheek before quietly slipping out with Alba. The apartment door clicked shut. Silence settled once again. Alexia looked down at the sleeping little boy resting comfortably against her side.

"I've missed this."

Y/N nodded.

"I know."

They stayed like that for several minutes. Neither wanting to wake him. Eventually, Alexia spoke.

"I'm not asking you to move back."

Y/N looked at her.

"I'm asking if you'll think about it."

She smiled sadly.

"If your answer is no..."

She reached down, gently brushing a curl away from the little boy's forehead.

"...I'll keep earning yes."

Y/N stared at her. Not because she didn't believe her. Because she did. For the first time since she'd walked out of this apartment with a duffel bag and a broken heart... She believed every word. She looked toward the hallway. Toward the little bedroom. The football bed. The dinosaur lamp. The tiny wooden hangers waiting patiently inside the wardrobe. Then she looked back at Alexia. Without saying a word, she carefully stood. Alexia watched her disappear down the hallway. A moment later she heard drawers opening. Closing. The soft rustle of fabric.

She followed a few short moments later. Y/N was kneeling in front of the little dresser. She had opened the overnight backpack they'd brought for the afternoon. Inside were a pair of dinosaur pajamas.

Two tiny T-shirts. A pair of shorts. Three pairs of socks. One by one... She folded them neatly into the top drawer. Alexia didn't interrupt. She simply stood in the doorway, watching.

When Y/N finally closed the drawer, she rested both hands on top of it for a long moment before turning around. Alexia's eyes were already shining.

"What are you doing?"

Y/N smiled.

Not the careful smile she'd worn these last few weeks.

A real one. Warm. Hopeful.

"I'm not moving back."

Alexia nodded.

"I know."

Y/N stepped closer.

"But..."

She rested one hand lightly over Alexia's.

"I think..."

She glanced back toward the little dresser.

"...we can start with one drawer."

Alexia let out a shaky breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

One drawer. Not the whole apartment. Not every promise. Not forever.

Just...

One drawer.

One step.

One choice.

One family finding its way back together. Alexia reached forward carefully. She didn't pull Y/N into her arms. She simply rested her forehead gently against hers.

"Thank you."

Y/N closed her eyes.

"No."

Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"Thank you for finally building a home for all of us."

Outside, the Barcelona evening carried on as it always had. Cars passed below the apartment. Someone laughed in the street. A church bell echoed in the distance.

Inside...

A little boy slept peacefully on the sofa. Bagheera curled herself into the corner of a football bed she had already claimed as her own. And in a small dresser beneath glow-in-the-dark stars... One drawer waited quietly. Half full. Ready for the rest whenever they were.

[jaegeraether]

The Runaway - Chapter 2 (Alexia Putellas x original character slow-burn)

Jae's Masterlist

CHAPTER 2

DELANEY

Most players avoided social media, especially Tik Tok and especially after a match. Delaney, though, was always curious and entertained by it.

There was an overwhelming amount of content following their match. People talking about players, about Delaney’s first time against the Spanish team, about the brutality of it.

Players were shipped with players, rumours started to swirl and most of it was over just the slightest expression one player had given another during the game.

“Guys, Dellie rolling on top of Alexia is my moment of the match for sure.”

“Did you see how she moved her? Argh.”

“They seem to really respect each other!”

“I knew people would sexualise them. She was just getting her out of the way! What I can’t get over is how they fought each other in the midfield. That’s what it’s like to watch Ballon d’Or players against each other. Dellie to get her first this year, I hope!”

“Everybody is talking about Dellie and la Reina but Kyra’s penalty? Maccas three in a row clearances? Steph’s assist from the centre line? Oof. These are the Tillies we love!”

“Turns out the only strategy to work against Baker is to put Alexia onto her. A bit more time and la Reina would have had her.”

Delaney smiled, entertained by the comments. Regardless of if they were good or bad, she knew that none of them understood what it was like to be in the middle of a match, fighting against the Spanish girls.

She did enjoy herself, though. Especially her tussles in the midfield with Alexia. She was every bit as good as she imagined and much more than deserving of the mountain of trophies she’d had. There was a moment after the match when Delaney wondered if she had imagined the strange, natural connection between her and the Spanish Captain, but that was quickly overcome when Alexia had followed her on Instagram immediately after the match.

As with most friendlies, they had another one coming up in just a few days. Unfortunately, Delaney was not allowed to play. Her shoulder had been dislocated in the last few minutes of the previous match, and it was purely by luck that she’d managed to push it back in as she rolled her body over it on the ground.

Instead, she was stuck in a sling and subsequently told off by the medics, who only did so because they had to.

The next game against Spain, she thought they did better. They still lost, but only by a small margin. The game ended in 0-1 to Spain, with the main deficit for the Matildas, their scoring. The midfield fought hard with their renewed passion, and she was working hard on the sideline analysing, pointing out their deficiencies, and making effective changes.

It felt surreal to watch the Spanish team play live though. They were all so talented. The mindset and passion for football that they’d developed at such a young age was evident in how they played. So many of their players were incredible. Mapi, Ona, Aitana, Claudia.

But there were none as good as Alexia. She was a leader. She coached the team while they were on the field, and players listened to everything she had to say. Even the Australians would stop to listen, not knowing a word of Spanish.

While most players focussed on the ball, she was assessing just at Delaney did. Making sure everyone was where they should be. Finding weaknesses and taking advantage of them. Her sight when it came to passing was unrivalled. Her technical ability had her taking on multiple midfielders at once and winning. She made quick, clever decisions that couldn’t be taught to other players defending her. They just needed that same ability.

There’s no way that someone as tall and stocky as Alexia should have been better than someone small and nimble like Aitana. But she was. And it wasn’t about the stats. It was about so much more than that.

Delaney caught Alexia’s gaze a few times during the match. Her face was mainly neutral, but from the frequency in which she looked, she knew there was some curiosity there.

There was one specific moment when Delaney knew Alexia was watching her again. She could feel it, like a spark igniting just beneath her skin. Their eyes locked across the field and Delaney felt the air shift. It was as though time slowed, and her heart skipped a beat - an inexplicable pulling. Alexia’s gaze was steady, confident. But Delaney could see something else there - something unreadable, yet so clear at the same time. And before she could break the moment, Alexia looked away, leaving Delaney to wonder if she had imagined it all.

The game ended, and she entered the field to shake hands. She made sure to let her teammates know how well they did, and how much progress they’d made. She shook hands with the Spanish players too, many who seemed curious about her.

“Sorry for… this…” Cata said in broken English, gesturing to her sling.

“Oh, it’s okay! Just part of the game.”

“I yam glad you are fix.” Cata continued with a grin. She was flirtier than she’d anticipated.

“I’m glad I could sit this one out!”

They chuckled and Cata looked down at her jacket, as if she were about to ask for her jersey.

A strong, familiar voice came from behind her then.

“You apologise?” Alexia said in English to Cata.

“Sí capitana.” Yes, Captain.

Alexia nodded and Cata took the hint to leave, but not before she winked at Delaney, “I see you again.”

“Hasta luego, Cata.” See you later, Cata.

Cata’s excited expression was worth the Google search of some basic Spanish phrases.

It was only as she looked to Alexia that she realised that the Spaniard was slightly taller than her. And then there was her gaze up close. Those golden hazel eyes of hers. When she looked at her, it was something deeper than just that. It felt like… recognition. Like she saw her clearly.

“You speak-” Alexia began.

“No.. no.” Delaney cut off with an apologetic smile. “Un poco… poco.”

Alexia chuckled at that, and it was an adorable sound. Much better than her gasp of pain at the cleat hitting her thigh the previous match. That was not so nice. Though the sound of it right in her ear- fuck. Control yourself.

“How is your thigh?”

She tilted her head. Delaney gestured to her thigh.

“Ah – is.. sore but… a little bit okay.” When Alexia struggled for the word, Delaney didn’t interrupt. She liked the way her brow furrowed, how seriously she took each phrase—as if every word mattered between them. “And.. you?” She looked at her sling, studying it.

“Is okay.” She mimicked cheekily.

Alexia hummed, her eyes scanning over her eyebrow. “Your…” She gestured to her back.

“It’s also okay. Few bruises. But that’s the game.”

Alexia picked up a word, with an empathetic look. “Bruise…?”

“Sí.. ah… muchos?” Yes, many. “But it’s okay.”

Alexia looked as if she didn’t believe she was okay. One eyebrow raised in defiance, and it made her heart skip a beat.

“You are a very good player, la Reina.”

She looked slightly embarrassed and proud. “Muchas gracias.” Thank you very much. Her tongue sneaking between her lips at the word 'gracias' was something she most definitely didn't notice. At all. “Alexia.”

“You don’t like la Reina?”

She paused for a moment, her eyes studying Delaney’s.

“Alexia.” She corrected, softer than before.

“Alexia.” She repeated.

She’d have to be simple to have missed Alexia’s eyes on her lips as she said her name. Her pupils dilating at the word.

She sucked in a breath and extended her good hand. “I’m Delaney.”

“Hola, Danny.” Hello, Danny. Delaney chuckled at the mistake. “Sorry… Delaney.” She said like she couldn't believe her own mistake.

“Well now I prefer Danny.”

They chuckled together. It was immediately evident that there was something here. A spark. A connection. Separated by language but still more than able to understand each other. It was exhilarating but scary at the same time. Delaney didn’t do well with emotional connections. She always had a habit of running or putting boundaries up.

“You are… very good... good player also.”

She bit her lip at the sound of Alexia’s adorable Spanish accent. “Thank you, Alexia.”

“Where you go?”

She tilted her head in confusion.

“Where you… play?” The Spaniard clarified.

“Oh! Uh.. I don’t know..”

Another moment of comfortable silence between them. God, she could sit in those for hours.

“Barcelona?”

Delaney gave her a look. “I’d love to... but the coach doesn’t want me.”

Alexia seemed to remember then what he’d said about not wanting or needing her and opened her mouth to apologise. Delaney touched her arm and felt Alexia lean into it.

“It’s okay. I have an offer from Arsenal that’s enticing. I’m meeting with them soon.”

“You go to them?”

It couldn’t have been easy for Alexia to have such a fragmented conversation in English, but she admired her perseverance. It felt like she wanted the conversation just as much as she did. She wanted to know anything and everything she could about this woman.

“If it feels right when I get there.” Alexia looked like she didn't understand so she put out a simpler word. “Maybe…”

“Ah…”

Yelling from the touchline got their attention as they realised they were the last players on the field. They both began to walk equally as slow toward their teams.

“I yam sorry for… for Pere. He speaks wrong.. about you.” She seemed frustrated with herself as she tried to explain. “He…”

“It’s okay, Alexia.” She reassured. “I don’t think it would be the best idea anyways.”

Alexia stopped walking and frowned again. Was it a bad thing that Delaney wanted to find out what each of her little face expressions meant? “You no want to-”

“Oh, no! I’d love to play for Barcelona. I would learn so much. I just… I’m not needed there. And besides-” She cut herself off, not wanting to say mention the elephant in the room. Alexia had understood the sentence without saying it, though.

Her frown deepened and it was like Delaney could hear her thoughts.

You don’t want to come because of… me?

The Australian stepped forwards and put her hand on Alexia’s perfectly golden arm again. Her fingers brushed against Alexia’s skin and lingered there, enough to notice the warmth of her. She told herself it was for comfort. But part of her didn’t want to let go. Especially when she realised that she was leaning into her ever-so-slightly.

“I’d love to be able to play alongside you one day, Alexia.” She said, her voice quieter than before and more confession than statement. For a second, Alexia didn’t respond, she only looked at her, and Delaney wondered if that silence held all the words neither of them dared spoke.

“ALE!”

“DELLIE!”

The shouts from the groups pulled them from their stupor. But not before Alexia smiled at her one last time.

[jaegeraether]

The Runaway - Chapter 1 (Alexia Putellas x original character slow-burn)

Jae's Masterlist

CHAPTER 1

DELANEY

In the world of female football, there had been only one name on everyone’s lips for the last three years. Delaney Baker. That was for many reasons. In her three-year professional career, the Australian had two A-League championship trophies and after she’d received a phone call from billionaire businesswoman Michele Kang herself, she’d moved to London to help Kang’s London City Lionesses get promoted into the WSL.

Beyond that, there was her character. Not only was she well-spoken, charismatic and humble, but the thirty-year-old was unstoppable on the field. Unstoppable to the point where a game without scoring a hat-trick was considered a bad game for her.

She had it all – a strong left foot, strong right foot, a playmaking ability beyond her experience, a high football IQ, precision and leadership. Unfortunately, regardless of her talent, there was a lot of scepticism about her popularity.

There were a few reasons for this. One – football hadn’t been her life, having only gone professional three years back. And two, was because she had only played in the A-League in Australia, and the second-tier league, The Championship, in the UK, which were both seen as much less competitive than other leagues such as the WSL, NWSL, and Liga F.

For Delaney, she didn’t mind about the noise. She’d always been raised with the ability to block out the negativity.

She drank her Powerade to soothe her thumping headache from the drunken night before, having celebrated a successful promotion for the Lionesses into the WSL. She wished she was rude enough to wear her sunglasses inside but alas, she was not.

Smiling to the press in front of her, she was given her next question.

“Aren’t you worried that you’ll be battered in the NWSL?”

Her smile didn’t falter. “I’ve heard the NWSL is a great competition, but I’m unsure where I’m going just yet. I move from goal to goal. My first was to bring more attention to the A-League in Australia which I feel proud of. My goal this year was to help the Lionesses get promoted into the WSL, which we succeeded at, as is evident by my current state...” That comment earnt several chuckles from the press. “From there on, I’ll assess where I can best help, regardless of its stigma.”

This Australian mentality she had was not so easily understood by football fanatics outside of her country. In Europe, they had an unwavering dedication and obsession with whichever team was theirs. Delaney had never been that way. She appreciated teams, of course, but primarily she appreciated individual players, and the growth of women’s football in general. The feeling of being helpful fulfilled her more than anything else.

“Is it a wise decision?” Another reporter asked. “I mean, you’re a great player, but you’re in the end of your career. Would it not be smarter to stay dominant in Australia and retire there?”

It was the typical opinion that most people had these days. All she could do, was repeat herself and hold strong her position. “I do acknowledge that I started playing professional football late in life, but I don’t see my age as any reason to impact my ambition or decisions. I’m in good form, I feel strong, and I like challenges. I like to think I’ve accomplished what I can here and would like to move on to whichever team would like the support.”

“There are rumours of Portland, Arsenal, Bayern, Chelsea or another season with London City. Which one will it be?”

She was a little surprised that he hadn’t mentioned the Barcelona coach saying publicly that she was a “social media trend” and “wasn’t needed” there. It was said condescendingly, but their team was already full of superstars, and she justified the comment as a language barrier in her mind. Regardless of how much she would have loved to train amongst the best in the world at Barca, she’d never go somewhere she wasn’t wanted.

Another fact about Delaney, was that she was never secretive unless necessary. “I won’t be playing for the Lionesses next year. I’ve already had a conversation with Michele about it, and we’re parting ways on a happy note. However, I haven’t made a decision on my next move.”

She tried not to laugh at the several shocked expressions at her nonchalance.

“You don’t have a contract?”

“There are several options that I’m considering.”

“What is there to consider?”

“For me personally, I’m in the midst of visiting clubs to get a feel of the atmosphere. I won’t move to a club that don’t treat their players well or have a mentality that I don’t agree with.”

Silence. And then… “Aren’t you worried?”

“Not at all. I’m happy to wait for the right door to open. For now, I’m focusing on the upcoming friendlies with my Aussie girls.”

The rest of the press conference was a bit louder, and more chaotic. She’d finished her entire electrolyte drink and had to ask for painkillers just to get through the strong opinions being thrown her way.

ALEXIA

For the first time in her career, Alexia would be playing against Delaney Baker, the girl that nobody would stop talking about. She’d done well for herself, having several high-value sponsorships and bringing attention to teams and leagues that needed it. Alexia respected that. There was also something else about her that was so… attractive.

At first, Alexia had tried not to Google her. It hadn’t worked. Not when Delaney kept appearing in clips and interviews and training photos, looking like a dream someone else had, and she’d only just remembered. After she’d slipped the first time, she found herself always stopping to watch her videos, interviews and highlights, without any idea as to why, as Alexia was never the type to do this, especially when it was in English.

Today though, she was interested to see what it would be like to share a field with her.

Spain and Australia never had friendlies, primarily due to the geographical distance, but with most of the Australians now playing in Europe, it had finally worked out.

Delaney wasn’t in the starting line-up, which was very common for her. She seemed to have a natural game analysis ability which meant that she was usually standing where she was right now, next to the coach. Alexia couldn’t help but watch as he asked her a question and she responded, gesturing to players. This was not a usual thing in their world. There was a large separation between the coaching staff and players in every team Alexia had played for. She would have assumed it was because Australia seemed to be struggling to find a permanent coach that they wanted, however she’d done this with all her other clubs too.

She tilted her head as she watched her, able to tell that she was explaining something to him. It was never a condescending way at all – she seemed to have the ability to be involved in anything without coming across as controlling, but rather curious and compassionate.

She’d said as much in her interview. She’d also said that after analysing the first part of the match, she would only come onto the field if she felt she “would be useful to the team or strategy they’re implementing.”

Watching her now, the Spaniard hoped that would be the case because while watching her, there began a tingling in her body that built the longer she-

-Alexia caught her breath before shaking the feeling off—she had never been one to stare, but for a brief moment, Delaney’s presence anchored her attention. Her own thoughts felt foreign, like she had misplaced them as the Australian’s quiet confidence reached her from across the field. She shouldn’t have been watching her this much. She knew that. But Delaney had a way of drawing her attention like it was borrowed — and she wasn’t ready to give it back.

The whistle blew, tearing her attention away from the Australian as play resumed. At half time, Alexia was confident with her team. Spain was up 3-0 and taking advantage of the injuries in their midfield. She’d expected Delaney to come on at half-time, but she didn’t. Instead, a few other players were subbed in for fresh legs. It slowed down Spain’s ability to score, but the Spanish coach, Montserrat, didn’t see this as a reason to sub any Spanish players just yet.

In the 64th minute, Delaney was began warming up. Alexia knew this, because of the sudden excitement of the European crowd, which was surprising. Nothing she was doing was specifically to get attention, but she did smile almost embarrassed. Alexia’s heart skipped a beat, and her bodily reaction immediately frustrated her. She wanted to find something about this woman she didn’t like. Anything.

In the 75th minute, she was subbed on to even louder cheers. Unsurprisingly, she was fouled on her first touch of the ball, with Olga Carmona barrelling into her, her elbow connecting with her eye and earning a yellow. Alexia cringed at the sight of Delaney’s split eyebrow. She was taken off-field for butterfly stitches and to clear the blood away while play resumed.

With a yellow as a warning, Olga needed to be careful. Unfortunately, it meant she was too careful, and the Australians managed to push up into the box, the Spaniards defending for their lives. Just because they were leading by three goals did not mean they wanted to give any away.

Caitlin Foord struck a hard ball towards the goal and Cata tipped it with her gloves. The ball hit the crossbar so fast that when it rebounded, it landed outside the box. Alexia turned to chase and was caught off guard by the figure of Delaney striking the ball at full stride.

Without even turning, she knew that no one had a chance of stopping it. There was the sound of the ball hitting the net, and then… the shouting started. The automatic reaction of the Spanish team against the referee who had allowed her to come back into play at such a vital moment.

Alexia knew it wasn’t illegal though. She was all patched up, and she had sprinted over from the touch line. Nevertheless, she’d already made an impact on the supposed “friendly.”

3-1 Spain.

Play started again from the centre, with the Spanish managing to push up close to the box again almost immediately. When they were within shooting distance, the mentality changed from their coach’s instructions of “stay on Delaney” to “let’s score.” Delaney forgotten, most players focus was on the ball which was ping-ponging towards the goal and back by either the goalkeeper or the Australian defenders throwing their body at it.

At this point in games, it would go one of two ways. Either the defenders would clear and there would be a quick rebound for the opposite team, or there would be a goal. Usually, it was the latter. This time though… Alanna Kennedy from Matildas managed to clear to Steph Catley, who was the current Matildas Captain. She spotted Delaney somehow forgotten in the middle and sent the ball her way.

Panic ensued. The Spaniards started backtracking, fast. There were none faster than Mapi Leon and Ona Batlle who both managed to get up either side of her, but at this point, Delaney was sprinting through the midfield, dodging left and right like she was playing FIFA.

Alexia heard Montserrat yelling from the boundary line. She had been yelling since they’d shifted their focus away from her.

Delaney ran straight into the box, flicking the ball up and over Ona as she slid through, dodging Mapi on the left, she slid the ball home through Cata’s legs to a crowd who were half outraged and half in awe.

3-2 Spain.

She’d been on the field less than ten minutes, with half of that time being patched up. Alexia could feel her frustration building and yelled towards her players to keep to the strategy.

She made eye contact with Delaney for the first time in her life and if she hadn’t seen it, she wouldn’t have known she’d just scored an outrageous solo goal. The Australian gave an empathetic look and returned to her position.

Who was this girl? And why did she seem to not care? It’s not like she wasn't passionate, she absolutely was. But to barely react beyond a thank you and high five to her team was not something she’d ever seen.

For some reason Alexia’s inability to understand evolved into frustration.

When they started again from the middle, she took it upon herself to control the ball. This meant fighting Delaney. Both were immediately at the ball, fighting for possession and getting up close and personal with each other. It’s the closest she’d ever been to her, and the smell of perfume… was something she certainly shouldn’t be focussing on.

The rest of the players seemed to be hanging back to see what would happen as the two grabbed onto one another, stealing the ball and losing it continuously as they danced around the midfield – both letting it play out between them rather than pass to a teammate. Alexia had control of the ball, using her body to block Delaney who, in a sneaky move, slipped under her arm, using Alexia’s unbalanced position to kick the ball free and get a head start towards it. She tried to grab her, but Delaney was already gone, passing the ball back to a midfielder who felt that pushing forward was the right move.

Alexia caught Delaney, making it her intention to not let her get any free movement, which must have surprised her because she spun, eyes widening at the sight and tripped backwards as Alexia barrelled into her. They fell, Alexia landing on top of her body hard, both just as surprised as the other. Their eyes met, which was just enough to make Alexia pause as she noted her blue eyes, the sweat dappled onto her forehead, the pinkness in her cheeks and her slightly parted mouth as she regained her breath.

Their bodies were tangled on the grass, and for a moment, Alexia felt the weight of Delaney's breath against her lips, too close, too intimate. She could hear the thudding of her own heart, and yet she couldn’t move, couldn’t break the gaze between them that felt like an eternity. In that split second, she had a feeling—something deep, something inexplicable. She was so beautiful, Alexia found herself frozen on the spot.

Delaney broke their moment first, her eyes flicking away and filling with worry. In the second that Alexia tried to get up, she felt arms moving around her, their bodies entangling further as Delaney rolled herself on top and put her arms around Alexia’s head. She felt her cheek touch the Australians neck, her own hands grasping onto her shirt, ready to push her off when suddenly a pack of players hit them. The sound of body on body was brutal as Alexia realised that Delaney was taking the brunt of it for her.

She was protecting her.

Alexia felt a cleat on her thigh, ripping it open, and the sound of feet around them. Delaney was hit several times, knocking her body around and her head into Alexia’s. Her heart sunk as she heard her whimper in pain.

The whistle was blown and the Australian whispered “Sorry” as she rolled off her with a groan.

“Is everyone okay?!” The referee asked. Players were all around them, some with injuries and some there to help. Alexia saw the gash on her leg, the blood seeping out and turned to Delaney who was clutching her head and already being attended to by the medics. They tenderly pulled up her shirt, giving Alexia a good view of the damage done to her back. She shivered.

“Are you okay?” The medics are her in Spanish.

“Yes, just my leg.”

“You’re lucky it was only that!”

She looked at Delaney’s back again, which seemed to be bruising already. “Yes, I am.”

After they’d fallen, a few midfielders had stumbled through in a group, trampling on one another. The referee stopped play for at least six of them to be patched up. One of the younger Spanish players, Athenea del Castillo had to leave the game entirely with a twisted ankle.

Alexia couldn’t stop looking at the back of Delaney. The Spaniard had been the stupid one, barging into her and knocking her over, and yet, she’d protected her. Alexia felt a strange pressure in her chest when the medics swarmed over Delaney. The instinct to help tugged at her, even though she knew it wasn’t her place. She hadn’t realized how much she cared until the sight of Delaney’s blood made her breath catch in her throat.

She shook her head, hoping it would rid herself of the conflicting emotions bubbling up, and turned her attention back to the medics bandaging her thigh.

There was still a game to finish.

She made sure her team was okay before play of this overly aggressive “friendly” resumed. Unsurprisingly, the heat hadn’t died down. There was only ten minutes left, after all.

Spanish players kept their focus on Delaney, which made Alexia feel uneasy and conflicted. The poor girl was already battered to a ridiculous point.

She stayed close to her as possible in an attempt to protect her. Her shirt in her hand whenever they were close, their bodies against each other. It reassured her for some reason.

At the end of the game, though, Alexia had tired. She’d played from the very first minute, and Delaney was on much fresher legs.

She managed to get away from her as the Australian defence pushed up. Somehow, she was on the far right of the field, running into the box and yelling to Steph, pointing to where she wanted it. Steph kicked the ball from the centre line, long and high towards the box. Delaney flew, her body leaping so high into the air, that her hip was at Cata’s head. Cata, in frustration, made a dumb decision. Eyes off the ball, she shoved her shoulder into Delaney’s waist and dumped her onto the ground head first. The ball flew straight over them, the crowd even against Cata’s decision.

The referee blew the whistle and ran over, hand reaching into her pocket. Cata had her hands out, arguing against it. But Alexia wasn’t looking at her. She was looking at the battered Australian on the ground, who was rolling in pain. She’d landed on her head and shoulder which she was clutching. Delaney was never one to stay on the ground.

Alexia automatically ran over to defend her player. It was her job as Captain, after all.

“What were you thinking?! Are you stupid?!” Caitlin yelled as she got in Cata’s face. Steph pulled her back and began talking to the referee.

“That has to be a red card. It has to! Look at her!” Steph accused.

Alexia’s gaze moved to where she was pointing. Delaney, seemingly stubborn, was pushing herself back to her feet.

“No red,” Alexia defended without any confidence in English. “It was player… playing…”

Alexia was always highly regarded by referees and players. She saw respect in their eyes when they looked at her. But she could always tell when a referee had made a decision.

Alexia went to open her mouth again and a hand touched her arm softly.

“It’s okay.” Delaney reassured… her? She turned to the referee. “No red… it’s okay. It was my fault.”

The response was shock. “What?”

“It was just a playing incident. We both went for the ball. Just let us play on. This is what the sport is about after all. We’re here for the fans.”

Cata and Alexia went silent with shock.

The referee made an exasperated sound as she looked from Alexia to Delaney who was still clutching her shoulder. “Well, I must admit, this is a first. A straight red or a yellow with a penalty. Make a decision between the two of you.”

Steph Catley stepped forward and Delaney shook her head to stop her. She looked straight at Alexia.

“Whatever la Reina wants. Red or yellow?”

Alexia’s decision? Her jaw flexed as she looked at her kind expression, clearly trying to hide her pain. The split on her eyebrow had opened again, blood trickling down her face. The medics had just then arrived and began cleaning it.

“Are you okay to continue?” They asked her.

“Yes,” she murmured without hesitation, and without taking her eyes from Alexia’s.

Alexia looked at Cata with a disappointed expression. Cata looked guiltily back. She deserved a red. But she was the Captain and needed to defend her players.

“Yellow…. with penalty.”

The referee looked like she didn’t agree but lifted the yellow card and made the penalty gesture. The crowd sounded stunned. Alexia looked back at Delaney who gave her a knowing smile, as if she’d just worked something out about her.

Alexia knew Delaney shouldn’t have still be on the field with that shoulder, but she didn’t tell the referee. Delaney wanted them to play? They’d play.

She was given the ball to take the penalty and as everyone was getting into position outside of the box, she turned it over in her hand. And then she did another unthinkable thing.

“Kyra..” She called.

Kyra ran over, confused. There were only a few minutes left in the game, and she wanted one of their youngest players to take the penalty?

Delaney handed her the ball and walked with her up to the mark, murmuring in her ear as they went, Kyra nodding as she listened to Delaney instructing her on how to take the penalty. There was no panic in her – the calm she exuded was the kind of leadership Alexia always felt she had and for a moment, that connection flared again. Why did she care so much?

Kyra looked nervous, but Delaney looked confident. Proud. As if there was nothing that would result in anything but Kyra scoring.

Kyra nodded and Delaney walked back over the line, analysing Kyra rather than preparing to run in. That was real leadership.

Alexia watched as Kyra stared at the spot to the right of Cata, with a nervous expression. She caught herself looking. Stopped. Got scared. Looked back at the right. Cata smiled. She knew exactly where the youngster was putting it. She teased and intimidated her by jumping up and down on the spot.

Kyra’s eyes landed back on that spot. She lined up. The whistle blew. She took her penalty kick. Cata lunged.

And Kyra kicked it the opposite direction to where she’d been staring.

The ball hit the back of the net, and she turned, grinning with pride and cheekiness. She pointed to Delaney to acknowledge her as the Australian girls swarmed.

3-3. Tie.

The game ended like that. No one had any more chances within the next few minutes. The Spaniards were tired, but still managing to hold off the Australians.

The final whistle blew, and everybody took a breath. Alexia shook everyone’s hands, realising too slowly that Delaney wasn’t there. She looked around and saw the medics walking with her towards the changing rooms, clutching her shoulder.

Her stomach sunk. She’d hoped she would have had the chance to talk to her. Swap jerseys. Anything, just to get to know her better.

Delaney looked over her shoulder as if she knew she was watching and smiled. Right then, Alexia knew her world had changed.

[papayadays]

feels like this — mv1

⋆˚✿˖° max verstappen x f1 reporter! reader — max is in love with someone, and everyone is trying to figure out who it is ⋆˚✿˖° a/n: this is one is for liyah @foreveralbon for a very very belated birthday gift !! i'm so glad we met each other and i'm really glad to be your moot :))) you're so kind and smart, cheers to more memories !! ⋆˚✿˖° inspired by i know love for my so close to what event ⋆˚✿˖° fc: leia immanuel (artdr3am on ig)

liked by maxverstappen1, lauracwinter, and 6,924 others yourusername thanks @.maxverstappen1 for deciding to drop the news in my interview when i was just asking about the new setup for this weekend 🥲

user5 MOTHERRRRRR

maxverstappen1 red bull have told me to consult them next time ↳ yourusername letting us know there’ll be a next time? got my notes ready

user6 “so the new front wing seems to be working, excited for pace this weekend?” “i have a girlfriend” 99.9% accuracy ↳ user7 lmaooooo literally what happened

lauracwinter congrats on your first big news drop mid-interview ↳ yourusername thanks laura 💞

user8 face card never declines omg

user9 literally goals in every way i want to be a journalist so bad ↳ user10 same i eat up her content

user11 guys are you still trying to figure out max’s gf or are you normal? ↳ user12 are any of us normal at this point

[Selected Excerpts from Baku Post-Qualifying Interview with Max Verstappen]

Q: So, Max, pole position after a tricky qualifying. How are you feeling?

MV: Yeah, long one. Lots of things happening, but the car felt good and we were able to put it on pole.

Q: Throughout the season, we’ve seen that the RB21 has been more suited to low-downforce tracks, like Monza and Baku. With the floor update, how optimistic are you when it comes to the rest of the tracks?

MV: Well, you know, it’s working, and we already made a step forward in these past few races. The team is working hard and we will see if we can keep the pace.

Q: Good to hear. With pole in the bag, looking ahead to tomorrow, what are you hoping for? Any last-minute preparations?

MV: Just to stay in the lead out of Turn 1. And I mean, not too much I can do. (smiling) I’ll probably just discuss with the team and then also my girlfriend.

Q: Alright, thanks, Max. And congrats again on pole.

liked by mv1glazer and 9,285 others f1gossip throughout the weekend, fans have noticed that max verstappen was beaming at any mention of his girlfriend (who he brought up most of the time). while we don’t know who the mystery wag is, she clearly makes him happy!

user13 he’s so in love it’s sickening

user14 i know a yearner when i see one ↳ user15 have we considered he’s madly in love rather than a yearner

user16 guys this isn’t funny anymore…who is his girlfriend?

user17 i swear he always chooses to mention his gf during his interviews with @.yourusername to piss her off while she’s busy talking technical ↳ user18 ikkkk lol he just diverts the conversation

user19 max please just give us some hints i beg of thee ↳ user20 he’s too private to do that i fear

user21 DOWN BAD 🗣️

user22 oh my god did anyone see those fragments on his interview?? she’s literally talking abt qualy and he’s like “my gf 😁” ↳ user23 i saw that too!! he literally is incapable of not mentioning his girlfriend ↳ user24 and it’s only during @.yourusername interviews to annoy her

liked by redbullracing, yukitsunoda0511, and 15,072 others maxverstappen1 nice starting position for the race tomorrow

redbullracing best seat in the house for tomorrow 👊

user25 “nice starting position” AS BRO IS ON POLE ARE WE DEADAHH ↳ user26 he’s just nonchalant like that

user27 HELLO THE LAST SLIDE??? ↳ user28 soft launch except he already said he had a girlfriend ↳ user29 who is she !!

user30 …is no one talking about qualifying? ↳ user31 i fear that gave me 3 heart attacks

user32 yippee max on pole ^-^

user33 max you better lock tf in tomorrow we can still win wdc

liked by f1, lauracwinter, and 8,961 others yourusername saturday done, onto race day :)

user34 she is so stunning omg

user35 PLEASE WHO IS MAX DATING ↳ user36 what makes you think max told her? he’s private ↳ user37 yeah but they’re more friends than the other journalists

user38 a queen in and out of the paddock

user39 i need her predictions for the race like now ↳ user40 i’m sat for her post-race questions where she grills them

user41 hi lovely can you tell max to hard launch his gf? xoxo ↳ user41 i mean…he confirmed everything except who she is… ↳ user42 maybe he will if he wins the race tomorrow ?? ↳ user43 one can only hope 😔

user44 can all these fake fans get out of the comments and stop asking about max? ↳ user45 ong like she’s a journalist max isn’t gonna tell her everything

yourusername posted to their story!

caption: morning prep

yourusername posted to their story!

caption: a little more than an hour before lights out 🍵

user50 replied: HOLY SHIT???? IS SHE WITH MAX’S GF RN? ↳ user51 replied: omg now that i think abt it, it looked like there was a girl with max’s cap

user52 replied: she’s infiltrated red bull… is max finally about to hard launch?

user53 replied: what’s the drink? ↳ user54 replied: there are bigger fish to fry than the drinks stay strong soldier

liked by redbullracing, verstappencom, and 302,574 others maxverstappen1 race day full send 👊

user55 bro did NOT have to add that pic of his gf ↳ user56 he’s a lucky guy if his girlfriend is also on the sim a lot lol

user57 lfggggggg you got it max 🔥

user58 him and his gf are the same person i fear ↳ user59 and she probably keeps up with racing analysis since he says he debriefs with her sometimes too

user60 time to seal the win ↳ user61 DUDUDUDU MAX VERSTAPPEN

user62 who is she?? ↳ user63 no one knows 😕 ↳ user64 i wish i could tell you mate

user65 can we focus on supporting max? anyways, CMON MAX 🗣️

liked by verstappencom, yourusername, and 369,184 others f1 MIGHTY. MAX. IS. BACK. 😤 Back-to-back wins for the reigning world champion ✌️

verstappencom never count max out 👏

user66 LET’S GO MAX 5 TIME WDC WE CAN DO IT

user67 insane job with the grand slam ↳ user68 now he’s tied with hamilton

user69 HELLO IS NO ONE GOING TO TALK ABOUT HIM KISSING HIS GIRLFRIEND ↳ user70 i thought the interviewer knew who it was i didn’t think it WAS the interviewer

user71 the light is back in my eyes

user72 max is so Downbad bro couldn’t even last a race weekend before hard launching

liked by mv1glazer and 39,207 others f1gossip after his win, max verstappen went over and kissed his girlfriend, @.yourusername, who happens to be an f1 reporter! this comes after the red bull driver had been cryptic about his girlfriend’s identity after revealing that he was in a relationship earlier this race weekend

tagged: @.maxverstappen1, @.yourusername

user73 oh she’s gorgggg 😍

user74 wait. so you’re telling me max has been talking about his girlfriend TO HIS GIRLFRIEND??? ↳ user75 AND she pretended to talk about his girlfriend as if she wasn’t lmaoooo

user76 it’s all making sense why he was so giggly during those interviews now

user77 the mystery has been solved we did it folks ↳ user78 lol i’m lowk surprised they’ve kept it this long with how lovestruck max is ↳ user79 i know right like you’re defending 4x champ stand up

liked by maxverstappen1, sophiekumpen, and 103,859 others yourusername my favorite driver (i’m biased) <33

maxverstappen1 i love you schatje 🫶 ↳ yourusername love you more max 💗

sophiekumpen thanks for putting up with him ↳ yourusername oh it’s definitely not a hard task sophie :)

user80 oh my god max is so boyfriend coded

user81 i pray for a love like this ↳ user82 he’s literally so Lover Boy TM in this ↳ user83 the flowers! the flowers!!!

user84 yup we’ve lost him

user85 i actually need more of her interviewing him now that they’re public ↳ user86 omg yes they’ll be so chaotic and endearing all at once

liked by yourusername, verstappencom, and 406,183 others maxverstappen1 i won today and a year ago ❤️

yourusername cheesy 👎 ↳ maxverstappen1 you love it though ↳ yourusername yeah yeah congrats on the win maxy

user87 can max fight??? that face card 🤩

user88 they match each other’s energies so well ↳ user89 chaotic and then serve

user90 god the karting date looks so cute ↳ user91 @.maxverstappen @.yourusername who won? ↳ maxverstappen1 only because she cheated ↳ yourusername i didn’t. stay mad 😋

user92 are we just ignoring the fact that they’ve been dating for a year? ↳ user93 honestly impressed at their ability to keep it under wraps, all the power to them

user94 i’ve only had them as my otp for a day, but if anything happened to them, i’d kill everyone here and then myself

user95 i have finally seen true love and it ends up being max fucking verstappen

[sonnnett]

CHAPTER ONE ━━ introduction to collision theory.

synopsis: jolie could be doing a lot with her time, so penciling kk harvey in shouldn't be a problem - except, it kind of is.

pairing: caroline "kk" harvey x oc (jolie mercer) total wc: 4.6k warnings: none for now

series masterlist. ⛸︎ pinterest. ⛸︎ spotify.

author's note: sabrina schwartz is what happens when my brain is fried by the sunshine and liquor! if you know me, you know i loooove a good social media incorporation — this was supposed to simultaneously be longer and shorter than it ended up being, but have no fear, we r queer!! and desperately making all the content we yearn to consume. kk requests r open if that tickles ur fancy. enjoy xx

TO: Jolie Mercer ([email protected]) FROM: Theodore Serrano ([email protected]) SUBJECT: Fwd: You've Been Invited!

IN OR IN?

---------- Forwarded message --------- FROM: Sabrina Schwartz ([email protected]) DATE: Tue, March 3rd, 2026 at 8:04 AM SUBJECT: You've Been Invited! TO: Theodore Serrano ([email protected])

Dearest friend and colleague,

With Team USA's record-shattering win in Milan Cortano this year and more eyes on the sport than ever before, I have spent more nights than I care to admit lying awake thinking of how we continue to capitalize on the momentum. How we generate magic for the audiences, how we unify as a community at the heart of what we do. Competition may keep the lights on, but we return to the ice time and time again for the passion in the art of our sport. The feeling is what spectators and skaters alike show up for, and the very wonderment our athletes invoke in others — myself included — has brought me to you.

On June 4, 2026, I invite you to CONVERGENCE, a one-night only ice performance here in Minneapolis, MN. Sponsored by both the University of Minnesota (my alma mater), and my friends at Swarovski, CONVERGENCE aims to celebrate the finest athletes this sport has produced through the breadth of expression on ice, free of constraint from scoring or expectation. No points, no medals, no guidelines.

Tickets will be sold through an auction-style lottery, with all proceeds donated to charity.

If you're interested in participating in CONVERGENCE, please respond prior to March 13th for further details. Each participant may designate one charity of their choosing to receive a portion of the evening's earnings.

I eagerly await your response, and hope to converge paths soon, be it on the ice or through other endeavors.

Ever yours,

Sabrina Schwartz

THERE IS ICE in Jolie's veins. It's been affirmed by a series of geometric proofs, unpacked with graphite scribbled across paper and smudged by skin, every possible theorem pointing in the same conclusion: the supernovas inside her do not burn with heat. The scars they sear are crystalline, akin to the rime structures that interconnect to form the shape of her.

No matter how warm she hears her smile is, the buoyancy in her laugh that instigates glacial calving, the spark in her eye enough to stave off an Ice Age, she knows where she originates. Where she will always belong.

Her skates trace idle, curved shapes beneath her, the sharp slice of her toe pick matching pitch with her heartbeat in her ears as Ethel Cain's sun-bleached voice glides around the rink's perimeter. Jolie's not sure what she's creating here, but lately that has been the joy in stepping on the ice. She's been allowed to create to her heart's content, craft every movement she makes and let the natural rhythm and cadence of her limbs mold the final performance. Apparently, that is what has endeared America — and, by extension, viewers of this winter's Olympics — to her: that she is the master of her own fate, controlling herself straight through a door to self-liberation. Theo describes it as the kind of paradox no one fully understands but loves to root for regardless.

Jolie likes to think she would root for herself if she were a young girl, glued to the television screen and recording every moment of the women's figure skating competition to pore over frame by frame. She'd see herself with the two-tone hair, a curtain of black tied back to reveal white blonde swishing in its ponytail with every precise turn on the ice, and she'd latch onto the ear-to-ear grin on her face. A part of her would resonate with a part of her: that euphoric sensation in mastering a new combo, the music twining around her ankles and carrying her along the staffs as though she were flying, the chill of the rink melting into the exhilarated flush on her cheeks. She would fall in love with herself before her short program ended and tack posters of herself up on her bedroom walls, dreaming of being herself but a slight edge better. Maybe more uncaged. More idiosyncratic.

In reality, she'd probably cheer Vanessa on. Vanessa's the easier pill to swallow. Vanessa skates with the tradition and grit of those who came before her, and Vanessa operates on a medal mentality. She skates because she loves it, sure, but she competes because she knows she can win.

A younger Jolie would resonate with that, far more than she would with present Jolie's mentality.

Skate because it's what makes you feel alive, compete because it sounds like a fun challenge.

It's the younger Jolie that keeps the ice inside her from fully melting.

Ethel quits crooning through the rink halfway through a mid-air rotation, the edges of her skates echoing when they kiss the ice once again. Hairs too short to cling tight inside her braid escape and cloud her vision as she scans for the source of her music's abrupt silencing.

Theo's leaning against the boards, arms folded across his chest — one hand raises in its trapped position for a curt wave. "I thought you couldn't reserve this time anymore," he calls out. "Bloomington called it prime peewee hour."

Jolie folds her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug, both hands lifting. "Maybe for Rink Two. No one likes Three the way we do."

"Are you locked out of your Gmail again?" Theo continues. Jolie coasts across the ice towards him, blades softening into the glass-slick surface only a few feet from him.

"Which one?"

"Not Jolie-Pisces, that's for sure." Jolie's eyes narrow at the mention of the email she'd made in middle school and would never fully be detached from despite the years and countless attempts to distance herself that passed by. "Don't you relegate spam to that email?"

"And promotional emails," Jolie adds, tugging her hair tie loose and letting her hair hang in limp waves around her face.

"So spam." He contemplates what he's saying, eyes quick to narrow. "Are you sending me to spam now?"

"Are you sending me promotional emails?"

"You and I both know Sabrina Schwartz is not a promotional email." Jolie gathers her hair at the base of her neck, snapping the tie from her wrist into a low bun that only captures the longest strands of hair. She has to tuck the face-framing layers behind her ears, hands stationing over her hips as she forces herself to make eye contact with her coach, attempting nonchalance. Theo gives her a look. "Jo."

"Theodore."

"It is March twelfth at—" he pauses to check the time on his wrist watch— "Nine forty-six. I have to send either a really good excuse on how I will conveniently be out of the country, or apologize profusely for your procrastination. Either way, we owe her a response."

Both of Jolie's eyebrows shift. "We'd be skating as a pair?"

She knows the casual way she digs goes too far under his skin, but it's why she enjoys it. She's biting back the grin when his glare cuts sharper. "Jolie."

"I told you I'd think about it."

"I need you to expedite the process," Theo counters without missing a beat. "Sabrina won't be upset if you say no. She'd understand."

Understand what, she petulantly responds inside the safe cavern of her mind. She knows there's a high likelihood she'll be pinched for Stars On Ice and there's an equally high likelihood she'll agree to it. Ever since she stepped back on the ice, her conditions have been simple: if she doesn't want to, she won't. She does not and will not execute any plan that doesn't hinge upon her creative control. The problem in doing Sabrina's show isn't that she doesn't want to. It's the opposite, actually. She's adored Sabrina Schwartz since she knew how to lace up her skates and swizzle on the ice. That adoration wove into an iron thread, spooling across the score of her life thus far; Sabrina coached her from ages ten to fifteen, then put her in the confident hands of Theo when she bowed out of coaching to adjunct lecture at Twin Cities. The first person she reached out to when she applied at Twin Cities was Sabrina. Jolie was the only freshman in a junior-level Sports Psychology class, because Sabrina had personally gotten it approved by the registrar upon learning of Jolie's major declaration. Sabrina's name was one of the first lighting up her phone when she'd had to step away from skating, asking what she could do. Telling her that this wasn't the end, but a beginning. Maybe not a beautiful one, but a beginning all the same.

The problem with doing Sabrina's show is that she doesn't know what to do. She can't just agree with something half-assed, and she certainly wouldn't recycle or even Frankenstein a program. Inside of the simple conditions she'd laid out for her team exist an elaborate chassis of if-thens that she alone hinges upon, an ache in the scars from years and years of perfectionism that demand to be felt. Her commitment to pleasure is the balm, but even liberal application doesn't wipe the slate clean.

"It'd be fun," Theo adds, as if that alone would be the determining factor.

"Well, yeah," Jolie concedes to the exceedingly obvious. She shifts her weight from one skate to another.

"It'd be good to pass the time until you hear something about a national tour. Or, y'know, decide to apply for a Maymester."

The talk of school sends her eyes into an irritated roll. "That's not the hang-up."

Theo's arms uncross, coming to fall by his sides. "Look, Sabrina gets that you don't want to skate to anything you haven't had a hand in choreographing. She pitched the idea to you because she knew if anyone was going to be take it and make it their own, it'd be you—"

"Pause." Jolie lifts a hand, the shake of her head trying to dispel the fog surrounding her brain. "What?"

There's now a mirrored expression of confusion painted on her coach's face. "What?"

"What are you talking about?"

"The program for Convergence."

"Program?" Jolie echoes, still just as lost. "I thought it was a whole show."

Theo's mouth opens to say something, but he stops himself and switches course. "When I ask you this, I want you to be honest: do you purposefully ignore me because you get a kick out of my reaction?"

"Theodore," Jolie deadpans. For a man that's roughly twenty years her senior, there are times when she's wrapped up in a conversation with him that's akin to explaining things to a Victorian child: TikTok trends, slang his goddaughter throws around casually, and now, this. "This is me, hitting the fast forward button until we arrive at what I'm clearly missing."

"Sabrina's putting on a one night only ice show."

"Got that."

"That you have been invited to perform in."

Jolie nods.

"Specifically, doing a program that Sabrina herself wants to build for and around you. Only you."

"Did not got that," Jolie surmises hollowly.

"Evidently." Theo fishes his phone out of his pocket, scrolling and swiping at the screen until he finds what he's looking for and extends it out to Jolie.

She skims over the words. Planning to submit my own program for the show, Sabrina writes, amongst a sea of superfluity that she and Theo apparently speak regularly. I'd be honored to have Jolie to skate it, if she wants to participate. Her Olympics inspired me. Inspired it.

"Inspired what exactly?" Jolie finds herself asking aloud, mouth moving faster than her brain can read and comprehend.

"She keeps referring to her little pièce de résistance as 'Two Sides of the Same Blade,' but if she's got half a brain, she'll trash that title." Theo retracts his phone, tucking it back into the pocket of his jeans. "You and US hockey were really all anybody talked about this Olympics, according to her."

"Be still my beating heart," Jolie drawls, resting a hand over her chest as she dials up the dramatics. "What ever is a girl to do?"

Her sarcasm goes unchecked. "And apparently, nothing screams Convergence quite like a marriage between hockey and figure skating."

"A marriage? I'm not telling one of the Hughes' brothers I do." Her status as a lesbian ensures that she unequivocally does not.

"It is a figure of speech."

"Speak faster? My ice time ends in twenty."

Theo pinches the bridge of his nose in irritation, which makes Jolie feel only the slightest bit bad. Someone once sent her a stray social media musing going on about how there truly was no duo in figure skating like a female skater and her middle aged gay coach, a sentiment she believes holds true when angled towards herself and Theo. He's as good as family: despite money changing hands, the love runs deep enough to occasionally sprout annoyance. "Congrats, your outspokenness about loving a challenge has resulted in Sabrina Schwartz wanting you to do a figure skating program about hockey."

Silence.

"She wants… huh?"

It takes a lot to perplex her. Fortunately — or unfortunately, depending upon the angle of approach — Sabrina Schwartz is the queen of a lot. For a moment, Jolie stares at her coach, lost somewhere in the weeds of her thoughts.

"It's a high-concept exhibition," Theo says, throwing air quotes around the words. "Her terms, not mine. From what I understand, she's leaning into the gray area between two disciplines, figuring out where they converge." He emphasizes the word like he finds it ridiculous. "It's not really a surprise that this is the kind of thing she's cooked up for her show."

"Pretentious," Jolie offers as a possible descriptor, and Theo acknowledges it with the tip of his head.

"Sure. But you're what inspired it."

"Are you calling me pretentious?"

"I'm calling you the unwitting muse who needs to make a decision in the next—" Theo's eyes drift back down to where his watch sits on his wrist. "—ten minutes."

She rolls her neck, feeling it crack when she lets her head loll back. Even when her eyes close the burn of the fluorescents are present. "Theo," she groans petulantly.

"You can't be mad at me for rushing your decision. I thought you were skating on it." Jolie's notorious for thinking she'll find the footprint of her next step buried in the ice. If her blades drag deep enough ruts into the surface, a part of her wholeheartedly believes she will uncover it. The years have been kinder in the sense she's not as obsessive as she once was, but the things she's sought out have only grown bigger and more elusive with time.

She could stand to do a few laps around the rink to see if there's a clearer explanation for Sabrina Schwartz's dream routine. "I don't… what does it even mean, she wants it to be about hockey?"

"All I know is she wants hockey stops. Lots of them."

"I don't know how to do those."

"Neither does she. But she's cool with it being a collaborative effort."

"Meaning?"

"You should call up a hockey friend from UMN. A Hughes brother." Theo shrugs. "She wants you to be an equal contributor in choreographing the program, so you'll have the privilege of doing your own research."

"I specifically dropped out of college this year to prevent having to do research."

Theo sounds resigned when he speaks. "Is it a yes or a no, Jo?"

She chews on her bottom lip. It's more questions than answers at this point. Ironically enough, the very thing that kept her from a more immediate yes has now resolved itself in a neatly tied ribbon.

It's not a surprise to her — or Theo — when she sighs and answers yes.

"Better get to phoning a friend," Theo teases her as he leans over to reconnect her phone to the speaker, American Teenager abruptly picking up right where she'd left off. He rests his back against the boards, turning his focus to a new email draft to Sabrina. "As soon as she sees you're in, you'll be the one fielding all her creative genius."

"Takes one to know one," Jolie grins, the gentle push of her hips as she shifts her weight slowly putting her in backwards motion. It doesn't take much before she's neatly threading her feet back in fluid cuts, gaining speed with every stride.

"Speaking of knowing, who are you gonna call?" Theo cups one of his hands around his mouth to help his voice travel over the music. "You don't have any friends your age!"

A bright, short laugh falls from her lips as she pushes off stronger on her left foot, following the curve of the rink and riding the momentum as she gracefully flips her coach off.

"I'm serious!" he yells back, his smirk only deepening.

"So am I!" Jolie retorts.

Her coach is a lot of things: one of her fiercest champions, determined and brilliant on and off the ice, a thorn in her side that she wouldn't remove for the life of her. He's also not wrong.

TO: Jolie Mercer ([email protected]) FROM: Sabrina Schwartz ([email protected]) SUBJECT: YAY! + other things

JoJo!

Thank you, thank you, thank you times a billion. I don't even know how to show my gratitude for you not only taking time out of your schedule to do Convergence, but taking a chance on working with me again for this. You will always be my one that got away and I'm determined to not let you down or regret saying yes. ☺️

I've attached logistics and things for the show itself to this email just to keep you in the loop. If it doesn't make sense to you, please don't sweat it. It's Theodore's job to make it make sense!

Theodore also told me you had questions about the program itself and while they're wonderful questions — and I'd be happy to let you pick my brain about it! — I don't want to pour too much of what I'm thinking down your throat. I meant what I said in my initial pitches to Theodore. I want this to be as much your brainchild as it is mine. Reason 1, it's entirely too self-gratuitous to put together an entire charity show and THEN shove a piece down people's throats. Reason 2, I don't want anything I envision to interrupt your flow. Watching you on the ice at Worlds and the Olympics knowing that you'd shaped those programs and built them organically with Theodore brought back a tiny coaching dream of my own that I didn't even know I had: looking at skating as more than just competition, but as a team effort.

And then at the behest of my partner (who sends you all their love, by the way!) I watched hockey and I couldn't get the grand deluge of daydreams out of my head as they collided. The parallels. The paradoxes. No joke, I was up until 3AM thinking about it until D dragged me back to bed.

The program itself doesn't have a name yet, no music, no real parameters other than I'd really love to see what you make of it and build it from the ground up with you. If there's anyone who understands the thread of discipline and creativity that makes a sport art and art out of a sport, it's you, and at its core that's what I want it to be. You're the only mind I want in on it, the only skater I'd trust with something like this. Plus, hearing that you welcome a creative challenge… you truly are a revival. The ice is going to remember you far beyond whatever records you set or break.

Anyways, tell Theodore to give you my number and we can set up times to Zoom and chat, and get some ice time on the calendar.

And re: the hockey part of it all, whoever you trust, I trust, so if there's a certain somebody at UMN or that you met in Milan, by all means, rope 'em in. Something tells me your creative works similar to mine and YouTubing hockey skating tutorials won't be enough.

Let me know if you need anything!

Ever yours,

Sabrina Schwartz

JOLIE SCOURS EVERY contact she's ever had, top to bottom, chewing on her lower lip that's begun to taste more metallic than alcoholic as her tongue swipes over it. She's reached the point of desperation that she's redownloaded Snapchat, hoping to find a hockey bro she'd met at a party buried in the streak graveyard that scrolls on for a few years. For some reason, Sabrina Schwartz trusts her, and Jolie trusts…

Well, she trusts some people, but none of them have experience doing time on the ice with a hockey stick in hand.

Her head falls back into the pillow propped up against the arm of her couch, and her free hand reaches back out for the Angry Orchard bottle she's been nursing. She should've just said no, and it would've saved her wildly loquacious emails from Sabrina that she'd had Google Translate read out loud to her, or the inevitable embarrassment in having to show up to 3M or Ridder, or worse, stay at Bloomington for fucking little league and hope autographs can be good enough leverage for parents to talk to their kids about hockey.

And then she thinks about the flutter of excitement she'd gotten when she'd told Theo what charity she wanted all of her proceeds to go towards. How she'd already started mentally cataloguing songs each time one came up on shuffle that scratched her brain at the same delicious frequency as blades engraving figure eights into fresh ice. Why she's got a PWHL game on as background noise.

Her lips wrap around the bottle again, thumb dragging languidly over the screen of her phone. She's back in her address book, eyes swimming the slightest bit as the pursuit drags on. High school, she mentally drones each time a name catches her sights.

Haven't spoken to them in six years.

Russian.

Who the fuck is that?

This is supposed to be fun. The whole thing is supposed to be fun: for all her faults and flaws, she's been itching to work with Sabrina again since Sabrina left her at age fifteen. Weightless, creative joy with the lack of scoring involved. An abundance of creativity and autonomy. If Theo were here and not ragging her on having approximately three friends — which include himself, her mom, and Vanessa — he'd be telling her to start looking for someone she actually enjoys the company of, and then see if they stand in the overlap of 'also has intimate knowledge of how to carry themselves in hockey skates.'

The endless list of names slides up, and as it lazily floats by, one name catches her attention.

Reaching out feels juvenile at its best. It's the shot in the dark that errantly bounces off the satellites when you try to recapture the same magic with a friend from summer camp. The shared circumstance has evaporated and the reality of life has resumed, and the wings of that pinned butterfly are too brittle to beat again.

She should not text Caroline Harvey.

And yet, and yet, and yet.

Heat burns in her cheeks as she drops the phone onto the couch, taking a long drag of her beer to try and wash down the first and secondhand embarrassment she feels towards herself. She pretends like she's watching the game on her TV, but every neuron firing off in her brain right now is using Caroline Harvey as the flint to make a spark.

When her phone vibrates, she acts as though it's electrocuted her. Caroline's reply makes her hate herself for even bothering.

Her mind is a radio, just distant enough from what she's supposed to be focusing on to catch the waves of a memory: shitty ice cream in Milan, witching hour evaporating Olympic pretense, the very human and oddly endearing way Caroline composed herself when people were giving her shit. There was no composure.

The muscles in her cheeks ache in remembrance of how she'd smiled, desperate to fall back into that memory. So she pushes.

Jolie doesn't have time to wish she'd worded it differently before a slew of Caroline's internal monologue lights up her phone, back-to-back-to-back vibrations interjecting and interrupting one another.

She's content to ignore herself, too: Jolie finishes off what remains of her Angry Orchard, wiping the back of her mouth as she sets the bottle down onto the hardwood floor by the couch. Her thumb brushes over the lock button on her phone, letting it fall from her hand right as it buzzes again. And again.

And again.

She turns her phone over so it's face up on the couch cushion, Caroline's name littered across the lock screen once it lights back up.

It's the most Caroline's ever talked to her, which makes it slightly easy to return the conversation — it also makes her vaguely forget she's texting Caroline, the same Caroline who had leaned on her friend as a crutch in every interaction they'd had when in Milan. The same Caroline that had looked vaguely surprised, crystalline eyes widened every time Jolie had spoken, blonde hair and white teeth only emphasizing the ever-present flush in her cheeks. She finds herself slipping into the same cadence and rhythm of conversation she'd fall into with Vanessa, or her coach, thumbs flying over the keyboard rapidly.

For a brief moment, Jolie thinks she's forgotten how to read.

She watches the typing bubbles flicker as KK types something — apparently, the next Great American Novel — and every second that ticks by, she feels a knot of unidentified origin grow tighter as it pushes down harder on her ribs. It makes the blood flow straight to her head, heat sprawling across her neck in anticipation, tinges of her discomfiture making her sweat behind the knees.

She hadn't meant for that to happen.

Well, she had.

But not how it was now unfurling, rapidly spilling out of the box beyond her control. Whatever fleeting spark of nerve had properly wanted to ask KK, sound a bit (or infinitesimally) more nonchalant when she'd done it, and maybe not equate her beer bottle to the Willis Tower in comparison to how tall she now felt had evaporated. A distant memory in a monsoon.

KK's reply comes tumbling in.

It's perfect.

Too perfect.

She can't tell if it's adrenaline, the beer buzz, or anxiety making her skin crawl.

The skin on her bottom lip is uneven and ragged, and her thoughts taste like iron as she types out the last possible out. Just so she can say, somewhere down the line, that she'd given her every opportunity to take the final bow.

Fuck it, a tiny voice in her head screams into the cavern.

It still manages to dumbfound her when the reply comes in.

⛸︎ TAG LIST ━━ @cowboybueckers .

[sonnnett]

PROLOGUE ━━ demythologized.

synopsis: the olympics come to a close. a sleep deprived kk and laila make friends.

pairing: caroline "kk" harvey x oc (jolie mercer) total wc: 5.4k warnings: none for now except for the fact i have never done this before soooo rip !

series masterlist. ⛸︎ pinterest. ⛸︎ spotify.

author's note: longest prologue ever but it's me, so who's surprised? no one? k, excellent. my brain hurts & my i ♥ exposition tshirt will be for sale on etsy soon. as stated above, i have never written a fic like this before in all my years of tippy-typing on the computer, so... remember kindness counts and it starts with u. shy kk, i love u bbyg. enjoy. xx

ARTIFICIAL SUNLIGHT DRILLS into every inch of exposed skin — which equates to none — and twice bakes anything concealed by winter white cotton — which equates to everything except for flushed cheeks and a wind-whipped nose; Caroline can feel the slick, individual beads of sweat rolling down her spine one at a time the longer they idly mill about in their marshmallowed puffer jackets. Normally, sweat doesn't bother her. She leaves her sports bras to dry out over the shower curtain rod overnight more nights than not, much to the chagrin of her roommates. The sensation of dried sweat along her hairline and tacky salt sticking to her skin in the tide pools along the hemlines of her clothes is familiar. Disgusting, but a routine.

Caroline likes routine.

She's not superstitious, but she takes refuge in predictability's embrace in every area of life she's allowed to iron-fist. It's the explanation for the weakness in her knees, amplifying with every step she takes around the emptied streets beyond the Verona Arena. She's more and less than flesh and blood in this moment. She's an amalgamation of wintermint chewing gum holding her limbs together, shitty water pressure and the residue of Laila's soap, every gram of energy she can siphon from a case of wild berry Celsius drinks fighting for the upper hand against twice as many Angry Orchards, the insanity that counting each individual thread in her sheets will do to a person. She's maybe slept four and a half hours in the last forty-eight, and that's if she was actually dreaming, not lucid hallucinating her and Laila's hour of jumping on the beds to see if the Olympic committee had disguised cardboard structures terrifyingly well. She's the gold medal sitting in the hollow of her chest that is susceptible to leave bruises on the undersides of her breasts from the number of times it has been an aggressive pendulum within the shallow valley they create.

Every blink feels like her eyelashes are cinderblocks. The white hot spotlights to illuminate every pore she has on international television throw debilitating waves of heat even with their backs to her. It's safe to say that she is having a prolonged out of body experience that nullifies her ability to control anything, fingers pried open and forcing a release of whatever resembles normalcy.

Because, in the grand scheme of whatever show the playwright's spinning, the life trajectory of winning an Olympic gold medal is not a normal one. It's not normal to receive the crown of Olympic MVP in your sport before your final transcript decrees whether you'll be the recipient of a bachelor's degree. Really, nothing about Caroline's life feels normal: hence the reason she clings to the minuscule moments of actually feeling twenty-three, addicted to her phone, and mundane responsibility the dictator over her time.

Right now, she's detached from 'Caroline,' and there's something about 'KK Harvey' that feels disproportionate, too. She's a rocket ship whose thrusters have detached, the rest of her hurtling towards a star while she herself free falls towards the ocean.

"Get off me," Laila gripes for the umpteenth time as Caroline finds herself falling into the orbit of her best friend yet again, leaning her entire body weight into Laila's steady and sure frame. "It's too hot for that shit."

"I'm tired."

"We can sleep when we're dead."

"Yeah, I think this is death." One of her fingers spins in gesticulation. "Welcome to my funeral."

"Props for the international syndication. Depressing we have to wear red, white, and blue."

"Lived and died for the cause."

"What, bruising Canada's ego?" Laila's comment tugs the corners of her lips into a smirk, even if it splits the seams and burns the slightest bit.

Dirty blonde hair, doe brown eyes with a snuffed out flame, the bitter aftertaste of Vaseline.

Blue bruises like constellations across her sternum, framing the black hole where someone forcibly ripped out her heart and stuffed the wound opening with blood-stained bedsheets.

Nausea roils in her stomach.

The errant beat of silence does not go unnoticed; Laila reads it like it's a billboard with flashing lights, an aftermath of your soul living beyond your body and inside of your best friend's ribcage. "C'mon," she continues, looping an arm through KK's unsuspecting one and tugging it into her side. "I wanna go find the curling team, see if we've got a future in sweeping ice after we get slashed one too many times."

KK lets Laila drag her wherever, no complaints aside from her legs feeling as though they could use a round of WD-40. They weave through the sea of Ralph Lauren, heralded by hellos that are kind but don't fully reach the eyes due to tiredness, several exchanges of congratulations and a mutual flash of hardware. KK knows faces but not names, and Laila knows vibes but not anyone that's not a mutual follower on Instagram. Beyond their insular bubble of hockey, the other athletes are strangers. (This is how it is back at home — Laila and KK know the same people they've known their entire time at Wisconsin, and if there's no bleed-through onto the ice, they'll forget someone inside of the hour.)

"Shit, King, what's up!?" Laila's suddenly thundering, the vibration of her voice rumbling through every layer of fabric KK's wearing. Laila goes to peel away from her, but with the thoroughly tangled nature of their arms — that, and the fact KK's fully reliant on her friend for every move she makes — the two of them wind up in an awkward, mish-mashed hug that's more clothing than limb.

Vanessa Kingsten stands at a petite five feet even, blue black hair that errs towards a rich midnight underneath the knitted toboggan; wisps of it are pushed back from where they mar her vision, a toothy smile as she grins up at the two hockey players. Even in an identical outfit to three-hundred something others, she is hard to miss.

Laila whistles, steadying KK with a hand on her elbow — without Laila, she's certain she'd be face first on some ancient cobblestones. "Damn, you're iced."

Vanessa sticks her thumb through the lanyards weighted down by two gold medals, extending them from her chest. "Got double vision?" she teases, letting the medals drop and clink against each other as they settle. "Probably shouldn't tempt fate; Jo's already broken her silver. We came close to reattaching it to a piece of dental floss."

"Jo like Jolie?" Laila parrots. "Are the Powerpuff Girls finally pack traveling?"

"Just because you and KK are a bonded pair doesn't mean the rest of us can be," Vanessa laughs. Laila shakes her head in disagreement as Vanessa spins around, scanning her immediate vicinity for someone, anyone. She casts her hand out like a fishing line, ensnaring the catch of the Olympics and reeling them into their conversation.

Silver's a harsh color. KK knows this, because she could clock the strategic methodology in a gold medal's solar eclipse when arranging the order medals rest on your neck from a mile away. Silver is a curse, a nuisance that demands attention as it forces the girl's gold to the side and share in the spotlight created between the lapels of their red puffer jackets. The girl smiles, though, like she's not been sentenced by the albatross on her neck to the ocean floor. She wears it with equal pride as the gold, its unworthy counterpart enjoying the space it occupies.

KK cannot fathom it. Her own silver medal from '22 is buried in a Sterilite container back home in Massachusetts that she wouldn't mind shipping off on a one-way vacation to a landfill. Forgetting '22 is a luxury she is not awarded.

"Laila Edwards, KK Harvey," Vanessa says by way of introduction, her hands gesturing back and forth. "Jolie Mercer."

That name, KK knows. Everyone in the Village knows that name, in the same way everyone glued to their televisions keeping up with frame-by-frame coverage of the Olympics knows it. Regardless of discipline, everyone wants an elbow brush at the dining hall with Jolie Mercer, to finger the pulse of her heartbeat and figure out how she's breathing this newfound ideal of hers that there can be fun in the Olympic Games. It borders along the edges of blasphemy.

Looking into eyes like that, though, KK understands why so many people are willing to start pulling bricks out of the religion alongside her.

"Hey," Jolie says, her voice warm and even-toned, registering at such a frequency that's got the power to send KK off to sleep. "That was one hell of a match you guys had. Congrats."

KK finds herself talking, three paces behind her brain's ability to keep up. "You too — I mean, the congrats part, not the match. You don't call them matches. Yeah. Congrats. Your skate was insane." She glances at Vanessa, offering a smile. "Yours too. Obviously, with gold and all."

By the time she manages to stop tripping over her words, the fires in her cheeks have reached new heat thresholds, and Laila's staring at her as though two more heads are sprouting from each shoulder.

She's glad to reciprocate the same bewildered glare up at her best friend.

Laila tears her sights away, shifting back to the two figure skaters. "Ignore her, she's sleep deprived."

"Right there with 'ya, sister," Vanessa nods. "We haven't slept in days."

"Livin' the dream."

Jolie doesn't chime in; she stands in the middle of their misshapen circle and lets the conversation bounce past her, the seeming natural resting state of her face both corners of her mouth upturned into a small smile. KK knows she's staring at her, but all sense about her was abandoned somewhere in a locker room shower before Bilka was tugging beer goggles over her head. Could've been minutes ago, could've been days. Time's not real anymore.

She's not sure this moment is, either.

"We should get a picture," Vanessa insists. Someone's phone materializes, and Vanessa recruits another USA puffer jacket to snap the photo. KK finds herself on the far end of their lineup with gravity pulling her into Laila's orbit yet again, the top of her toboggan brushing against Laila's shoulder. She smiles a bit too brightly, a side-effect of a blinding flash that temporarily wipes her memory.

"Thanks, dude." Vanessa threads her arm between Jolie's, hooking it — and her — closer, KK glimpsing at a scaled mirror of herself and Laila. They're two equally tired Olympians, cruising the fumes of adrenaline, reliant on their person to help navigate the waters. The difference is, somehow the two figure skaters look like they're still a complete person that is fully inhabiting their body. She and Laila gave up Scotch-taping their appearances thirteen hours ago when they were still bar hopping. "Nice seeing 'ya, golden girls!"

KK remembers to look back over her shoulder and wave a few beats too late, Laila back to using her height as an advantage to create a path of least resistance through the crowd of athletes and dragging KK along with her. By the time she does, Vanessa and Jolie have already disappeared, as if they were figments of her imagination all along.

It's pitch black in their room, luggage strewn about and not a single thing packed inside — KK's cocooned inside a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, staring up at a fixed point on the ceiling with her arms folded tightly over her chest. The silence in the room is stilted and uncomfortable, not even the reprieve of the HVAC unit's hum to fill the empty space. Right now, she's playing (and failing) the game of pretending that if she lays perfectly still, all she'll have to do is blink and suddenly be swept away into sleep.

Considering the discomfort in her stomach and the monster truck rally of errant thoughts she's got banging around inside her brain while she gnaws on the inside of her cheek, it's going about as well as she'd expect for someone still coasting an adrenaline high.

"KK," Laila groans from the other side of the room, where she's on her side under a bundle of blankets. "Stop thinking so loud."

"I'm hungry," KK can't help but whine.

There's a dull thud, likely the sound of Laila dramatically flopping fully onto her back. "I literally hate you."

"What, am I supposed to just let my stomach eat itself?"

"No, you're supposed to close your eyes and go to sleep."

"Excuse me for using all my brainpower to keep my stomach from grumbling."

Laila sighs. "My alarm is going to go off in thirty minutes and then I'm going to have to kill you for keeping me up all night."

"No it's not. It's going to go off in—" KK leans over and taps her phone screen, the light illuminating their room— "About four hours."

"KK," Laila moans, the forceful exaggeration of each syllable muffled by a pillow.

"I'm not keeping you up, it's not my fault you're still awake!"

"Yes it is. You're breathing too loud."

KK fully sits up, sheets rustling underneath her. "Fine then. I'll just… stop breathing, and you can ship my corpse back home through checked luggage."

"You're so dramatic. Jesus." There's more shifting from Laila's side of the room, and when KK glances over, she can see the faint sparkle of Laila's opened eyes staring directly at her. "Do you… I don't know, want to DoorDash something?"

"Like what?"

"A pizza? Help me out here, Harvey. You're the one that's hungering over there."

KK ponders this for a moment, lips twitching into a frown. "I think I want McDonald's," she responds.

"You want to DoorDash McDonald's? That's stupid, there's one downstairs."

KK rolls her eyes as she pulls the pillow out from behind her, lugging it in the direction of where Laila's bed is pushed up against the opposite wall. She swings her legs over the edge of the bed, unplugging her phone and stuffing it in the front pocket of her hoodie. Her feet touch the ground first, the tile chilly from where they keep their room like an icebox, as she shuffles in the general direction of where she'd kicked her slippers off earlier. "You comin'?" she asks.

"You think they'll KK-nap you if I don't tag along?" Laila pauses for a split second, then answers her own question. "Nah. They'd bring you back."

"You'd cry if I went missing."

"I'm going to cry if I have to stress-pack all our shit tomorrow while running on zero hours of sleep," she counters.

KK pads across their room, stopping right at the door as her hand hovers over the doorhandle. "I'll buy you a large fry," she offers.

Laila's by her side in under thirty seconds, muttering on about how one of these days, she's really going to tell KK no and mean it.

If she were a snob, she'd find the McDonald's in the Team USA building a joke meant to rally the rest of the world in laughing at them. McDonald's isn't even a sponsor this year, for fuck's sake — except, ever since they won gold (and the night that she and Daryl broke up) she and Laila have been permanent fixtures there, regularly arguing with the faulty kiosk ordering system and its inability to properly read Laila's credit card. They're not the only people in the halls: even at the unholiest of hours, athletes freely move about. Some of them have their AirPods in, sweat glistening at their temples from a late night workout. Others are very clearly, very conspicuously heading to or from a hookup. In theory, everyone should be exhausted now that the Olympics have come to a close, but it directly counteracts the frenetic energy that's taken up residence in the building the last few days. Everyone's wired in their own way: just because it's over doesn't mean it feels that way. People are still celebrating, still licking their wounds. Clinging to the vestiges of a snowcapped dream before they're rudely awoken at TSA in a matter of hours.

Laila's got her nose in her phone the whole way down to the common area, snippets of chatter and music as her thumb flicks through TikTok's latest for you page curation. KK fiddles with the wallet attached to the back of her own phone as they walk in attempt to pull her credit card out without bringing along the three other cards and randomly sandwiched pieces of paper stuffed between them. She can see into the McDonald's from down the hall, a straight shot glimpse at its interior even several yards out — every table within view is open. Figures, she thinks. They may not ever have original thoughts, but on occasion they do, so long as it's fueled by lunacy.

"You just want a fry?" KK asks as they shuffle through the doorless opening. It smells like grease and whatever antiseptic they've used to mop the floors.

Laila makes a noncommital noise. "And a double cheeseburger, no onions."

"I only consented to purchasing fries," KK teases, just to pull her best friend away from the phone. She grins when Laila's exasperated glare cuts up at her. "Anything else, your highness?"

"Fuck off." Laila lightly shoves her elbow. "Just for that, you get to deal with the satanic kiosk all by yourself."

She shuffles out of sight, leaving KK to deal with ordering. The machine buffers and only responds to every third touch, but its brand of headache is far more tolerable than willing an elusive few hours of sleep to find her. The sound of Laila's laugh catches her off guard and she glances over her shoulder, almost surprised — but not really — when she sees her best friend has conjured company from thin air.

It's Jolie Mercer again, sitting at a table for two and smiling at whatever Laila's said. She's recognizable but not; the glitter and rhinestones have not accompanied her, and the fluorescents of a restaurant simply don't compare to the harsh illumination of a rink's lights. Her dark hair is knotted in something meant to resemble a bun before half of it fell out. The escaped strands are platinum blonde, brushing the caps of her shoulders, and she's wearing something that clearly came from home, a conclusion KK's derived from the hoodie not being adorned with the Olympic Rings, the Team USA logo or that bear Ralph Lauren's loved this year.

She realizes that she's staring, again, and pivots back to finish their order on the kiosk. By the time it takes her card and spits out a receipt for her to take back to her table and wait, Laila's pulled up a chair in juxtaposition to Jolie's. The two of them are rapidly talking, Jolie dragging fries through the opening of her McFlurry cup.

"That," Laila points. "Is horrific."

"Oh, so you have shit taste?" Jolie counters, both eyebrows vaulted upwards and a teasing glimmer in her eye. Her gaze flickers as she senses KK standing on the periphery of their conversation, that easy smile of hers melting across her lips. "Oh, Caroline. Hey."

Laila looks up at her. "KK, please tell her that M&Ms do not belong in ice cream." She shudders for effect. "Especially not when you're dipping fries into it."

Both of KK's hands curve along the back of the empty chair that sits directly across from Jolie. Up close, her hazel eyes don't seem such at all: they're more like a shade of honey, caramelized sugar that's catching the light. It makes her wonder if she'd hallucinated that detail when they'd met earlier. It also makes her pause and wonder if they'd really met after all.

Sure, there's a tagged photo of them on Instagram that's been shared across four people's stories, but if she wasn't actually present for it, it doesn't count.

Her nose scrunches up, frown playing at the edge of her lips. "Everyone knows that M&Ms are horrible in ice cream," she denotes.

Laila crows in satisfaction, to which Jolie drags another fry through her ice cream and pops it into her mouth with a grin. "Guess not everyone."

When Laila doesn't make any sort of move to get up, KK figures this means they're crashing and slides into the empty seat. "I was just telling Laila about how many DMs I've gotten since that picture, asking if I can put in a good word with you," Jolie says casually.

KK almost chokes on the air she's breaking, the tips of her ears burning. "I— what?"

Laila snickers. "Told you she's a useless gay."

This only makes KK's skin flush three shades deeper, the receipt in her hand immediately crumpled up and thrown directly at the side of her best friend's head. "Dude!" she hisses.

"Oh, like it's a secret." KK just stares back at her, bewildered, to which Laila deadpans at before glancing to Jolie. "Surely you got the Google alerts about her eleventh hour lesbian breakup before the gold medal match."

"I did not," Jolie intones in that same nonchalant tone that implies anything but, given away by that mischievous glimmer lingering in her eyes. Clearly, she's enjoying this.

KK's sure she is. Everyone else at the table is having the time of their lives, whereas she would simply like to cease existing.

The glare she shoots Laila is murderous, but it doesn't cut as sharp as she'd like considering how embarrassed she is. "Sleep with one eye open tonight," she utters out, failing in her attempt to sound threatening.

Laila's grin only furthers in making a mockery of her. "We know that's not happening."

"Then I will shove you out of the plane somewhere over the Atlantic."

"Isn't she so kind?" Laila says to Jolie. "Our Olympic MVP, sweet as honey."

"To someone else, maybe," Jolie observes dryly, idly swirling the top of her ice cream with a fry. "Dunno about you."

"Nah. She's obsessed with me, she just doesn't show it."

A nervous tickle crawls up KK's throat, brain still ping-ponging around Jolie's earlier statement. She coughs into her fist to try and loosen it before it tightens a noose around her. "I, uh — sorry about that. The DMs. People are weird."

One of Jolie's shoulders folds in a shrug. "Not all of 'em. I think I've found you some real winners in the mix." It takes a moment for KK to realize that this is her teasing, and once whatever micro-expression on KK's face sells her out, the corners of Jolie's lips pick back up.

"Cute," KK drawls.

"Olympic breakup, though, that's… well, it sucks," Jolie continues, the edges of her tone sincere. "I'm sorry."

KK doesn't know what to respond to that with, but fortunately, Laila does. "Thank you for understanding. KK being on the market is even more of a headache than when she's locked down."

"Why? 'Cause you know they all run through you to get to me?" KK finds herself firing off, like it's just her and Laila sitting on the couch of their apartment and poking at each other with twin smirks painted across their mouths to see who will wave the metaphorical white flag first.

"We do not have even remotely the same type," Laila counters.

KK scoffs. "Then tell me why your type always says that I'm their type."

"I'm not even gay, KK."

"My point still stands."

Their food approaches, clutched within the grasp of a McDonald's employee who could not look any less thrilled about serving a table of gold medalists — he doesn't even pause to check if he's setting the tray down in front of the right customers. (In all fairness, he doesn't have any other options: they're the only people there for a dine-in meal at 3AM.)

Jolie's thumb jabs over her shoulder as he shuffles away, still making eye contact with the floor. "He your type, Laila?"

"Yes," KK immediately replies brightly, at the same time that Laila says, "Get fucked."

Jolie's sights flicker back and forth between them. "How long have you two known each other?"

"Forever," Laila pretends to lament, unwrapping her cheeseburger. KK slides one of the fry containers towards her, reaching for the lone sweet and sour sauce they'd been willing to part with. "She had the most tragic haircut at age eleven."

"Shut up," KK mumbles. "That got cancelled out when you nearly died in the freshman dorms and I had to mother hen you for two and a half days."

"That food poisoning was no joke."

KK glances at Jolie knowingly. "She got drunk for the first time at Mifflin and discovered she was a lightweight."

"Excuse you."

As if she were five, KK sticks her tongue out at Laila.

"What's Mifflin?" Jolie asks.

"Big street party," KK replies, teeth ripping off half of a fry. "It started off as a protest, back in the day? Now it's just an excuse for all of us to drink before exams."

Something in Jolie's eye's catches fire, recognition lighting them a few shades. "You guys are still collegiate?"

"Yup," Laila answers, popping the 'p.' "University of Wisconsin."

KK nods solemnly, holding her pincer grasp still full of fries up in acknowledgement. "Go Badgers."

Jolie pushes her McFlurry away from her. "You guys are gonna have to sit somewhere else then; can't let someone catch a Gopher with a bunch of Badgers."

Laila's jaw unhinges about the time KK's eyes widen. "Wait, what the fuck? You go to Minnesota?"

Her head tips to the side in a so-so motion, more blonde hairs shaking loose from her hair tie. "Kinda sorta. I deferred this year to focus on the Olympics."

"What year are you?" KK asks, tongue darting out to catch the drops of sauce that have gotten on the tips of her fingers.

"Would've been a junior."

"Major?" Laila makes an indignant noise at KK's question, and KK kicks her under the table in kind.

"Astrophysics," Jolie answers.

"You're lying." The words fall off KK's tongue like a rogue bullet; she entirely blames Laila's presence next to her for the way she lets the knee-jerk reaction get the better of her. She wishes to retract the words as soon as they fly into the space between them, because she's not talking to Laila or one of her teammates, she's talking to a glorified stranger.

Laila cocks an eyebrow at her. KK prays that she will suddenly choke on a fry or drown in the single ounce of sweet and sour sauce to escape her sudden embarrassment.

When Jolie's smile is directed at her, her insides feel as though they're syrup, melting and sticking to the sides of her ribcage in a way that warms her bones. It alleviates the weight of her embarrassment only the tiniest bit. "Duh," she teases. "I was majoring in kinesiology."

KK should breathe a bit easier, but she doesn't. "Oh. Us, too."

Laila nudges Jolie with the point of her elbow. "Any time you want to commit academic fraud, you're more than welcome to hit one of us up for papers to use."

"I am so sorry for her," KK says directly to Jolie.

"No, don't be," she insists. "Next semester's going to be brutal — pretty sure everything I learned in the last two years got zapped from my brain walking through all those metal detectors at customs."

"If you need notes or something, you can always text one of us," KK finds herself saying, because apparently, she's not dug herself a deep enough hole tonight. "I save all my notes by semester and class."

Laila nods in agreement. "She does. It's kind of psychopathic."

One of Jolie's eyebrows arches perfectly. "You actually have time to go to class?"

"Fuck, no," KK admits with an exhale, one that could be confused with a laugh. "But that's why I take such good notes." Her index finger taps the side of her temple. "Take good enough notes when you do go, make up for the time you lose."

"Infallable logic," Jolie nods, feigning all seriousness. "Will have to remember that one."

"What's mine is yours."

"So that means I get your number?" Jolie asks. "After all, if it's yours, should probably be mine, too."

KK unlocks her phone and pushes it across the surface of the table. "Don't know how your classes line up with ours, but it can't be that different, right? 'S all the same stuff."

Jolie picks up the phone, fingers flying over the screen. "Well, I don't know about that. Minnesota probably makes us do more than you guys, since we're… y'know. Smarter. Better overall." She pauses, and this time when their eyes lock, the glint shimmering there is devious. Challenging. She's digging with the intent to drag to the surface.

Laila scoffs. "Twenty bucks says you don't even know half the words in KK's notes, and not because of her shit handwriting."

KK kicks her directly in the ankle.

"It'd be easier if you just went ahead and forked over your credit card to buy me a new television," Jolie laughs drily. She finishes typing on KK's phone and passes it back, before motioning to Laila. "You, too."

"My notes are nonexistent."

Those honeyed eyes of her roll in a neat circle. "Not for that. Well — could be," she interrupts herself, jumping back on track quickly. "But c'mon. You're telling me the next time you're in Minneapolis, you don't wanna hang out? Find KK a hot rebound?"

KK groans, burying her face into the palm of her hand.

"I like you, Jolie Mercer," Laila declares once Jolie's finished putting her number in her phone, immediately going to type something the second it's placed back in her hand.

"I hear that's a common opinion at the moment," Jolie remarks drily. "But, nice to know you're in the line."

"A very, very long line. Lucky for you, I know how to cut."

KK looks up right as Jolie's sights settle back on her. "No complaints from me," she says, a bit softer this time. If she's expecting something out of KK, it dissolves in a half-second. "Well, ladies. This was fun."

"What?!" Laila pouts. "You're leaving?"

Jolie pushes her chair back as she stands up, a small laugh escaping her throat in an exhale. "It's after 3AM," she points out. "I should at least try to sleep for a few hours before I've gotta pack my entire room up and get to the airport."

"Boooooo. You're no fun."

"You don't mean that," Jolie quips, and Laila doesn't have an argument for that. She grabs what's left of her midnight snack off of the table. "When do you guys fly out?"

"Tomorrow morning," KK answers. "Criminally early."

Jolie shakes her head, in semi-disbelief. "And you're down here having a full-blown meal?"

"I was hungry." KK points at Laila. "She's just along for the ride."

"Definitely," Jolie agrees with an exaggerated nod. "You hockey players are somethin' else."

"Somethin' good?" KK finds herself asking, voice cracking the slightest bit to make room for the playful, hopeful shift in her tone.

"To be determined." She uses her hips to push the chair back in, walking around the table and giving each of them a squeeze on the shoulder as her parting gesure. Her hand lingers a beat longer on her shoulder than Laila's, glancing down. Sincerity swirls in her irises. "I'm sure someone sees it in 'ya."

It's a loaded sentiment, as if she's telling Caroline she's sorry for the breakup, even if she doesn't really know her or the situation at all. It seems to be the subtle way of taking her side, a reassurance, the lighthearted alternative to prying deep down inside of her. Like face value Caroline is deigned worthy of decency, and not for any other reason aside from just… existing. No hockey accolades. No sexual attraction. Just her.

"Thanks," she says gruffly, the weight of Jolie's eye contact the slightest bit suffocating. Her lips turn up in a thin smile.

She doesn't watch as Jolie walks off, throwing her trash away and exiting out of the mouth of the McDonald's into the common area.

"I like her," Laila repeats matter-of-factly once she's out of earshot. "She's… cool."

KK's not entirely sure that's the word she'd settle on for Jolie, but she hums noncommittally in agreement as she dips another handful of fries into the small sauce container. "Did you text her?" Laila continues.

KK's eyebrows furrow. "No? Why would I do that? She just walked off."

"It fascinates me, how dumb you are." The back of Laila's wrist lightly hits her forearm. "So she has your number, genius."

"Oh. No." Laila looks on expectantly, so KK acquiesces, throwing the handful of fries into her mouth and wiping her fingers off on the side of her sweatpants before reaching for her phone. She thumbs through her contact list, looking for the latest addition. When she finds it, she hesitates over the blank text message.

hey, she settles on. Picture of eloquence, she is. As the blue bubble appears to signify its delivery, she purses her lips, tacking on an addition text. badger > gopher. but ur alright, i guess

A message pings back in under thirty seconds.

you're something else, caroline.

[bloodyjuls-blog]

Just How Fast The Night Changes

Alexia Putellas x Female! Aussie Hippie Reader

Words: 7k+

The rain in Portland did not fall like the rain in Catalunya. In Barcelona, the winter downpours were dramatic, heavy curtains of water that turned the granite tiles of the Rambla slick and left the air smelling of hot stone and old salt. Here, on the eastern bank of the Willamette River, the mist was an atmospheric condition that simply existed between the Douglas firs and the low, damp eaves of the wooden houses. It was a grey grease that hung in the air, blurring the neon sign of the coffee shop across the street into a fuzzy pink smudge.

Alexia Putellas sat in the corner booth of a small diner in Sellwood, her long fingers curled around a ceramic mug of filtered coffee that tasted faintly of hazelnuts and disappointment. She was thirty-two years old. For fourteen seasons, her life had been measured in twenty-four-minute intervals of tactical analysis, the specific pitch of the crowd at the Camp Nou when the ball left her boot, and the absolute, crushing weight of being the permanent face of a nation’s footballing soul.

She had left at the very top. Three months after lifting another Champions League trophy in Oslo, when the press was still writing sonnets about her vision and her contract extension was sitting on the president's desk like a royal decree, she had simply said no. She had packed four suitcases, three pairs of old training boots and bought a one-way ticket to Oregon.

To go out on your comfort zone, they had called it in the Spanish papers. The elegant retreat.

But sitting in the grey light of a Pacific Northwest Tuesday, wearing a black tech-fleece hoodie that felt too thick and a pair of trousers that weren't quite dry from the walk from her new flat, Alexia felt remarkably small. The flat she had rented was empty. It was a modern, glass-fronted cube overlooking the river, but it smelled of packing tape and industrial varnish. The day before, she had spent three hours at a massive dealership on West Burnside, her English (which had always been perfectly serviceable for post-match press conferences) stuttering over words like registration fees and powertrain warranty. She had bought a silver Subaru, the most sensible, invisible car in the state, simply because the salesman had looked at her with the blank, mild curiosity of someone who didn't know the difference between a Ballon d'Or and a gold medal for regional archery.

Her phone vibrated against the table. A FaceTime call from her sister, Alba.

Alexia swiped the screen, her chest tightening with a sudden, sharp spike of homesickness that felt almost physical, a dull ache right behind her ribs.

"Ale!" Alba’s face appeared, bright and sun-lit, the background showing the white walls of their mother’s terrace in Mollet. Eli was there, too, her dark eyes squinting into the camera as she held a plate of sliced tomatoes. "How is it? Have you seen the stadium? Is it cold? You look grey, Ale."

"It’s just the light, Mama," Alexia said in Catalan, her voice dropping into that low, warm register she only used when she was entirely off-duty. "The city is... green. Very green. Everything is made of wood."

"And the girls?" Eli asked, leaning closer until her nose filled the frame. "Are they looking after you? Do they know who you are?"

"They know, Mama," Alexia chuckled, though it was a slightly hollow sound. "We had the first medical checks yesterday. Jessie brought me a box of those local donuts. They are very kind. It’s just... different. No one is shouting in the dressing room. They play country music before training."

"What jessie, the ex Chelsea?And Country music," Alba groaned, rolling her eyes. "My God, Ale. Come back. The league starts in three weeks and Cata is already complaining that no one knows how to set the defensive line during the rondos."

"They will learn," Alexia said softly. "I have to go, Alba. I need to pay for this coffee."

She hung up before the tears could form in the corners of her eyes. She sat for a moment, her thumbs tracing the edge of the phone. For fourteen years, she had been La Reina. Every restaurant in Barcelona had a table for her; every traffic warden in Les Corts would wave her through with a grin. Here, she was just a tall European woman with a slight limp in her left stride and an expensive watch, sitting in a neighborhood where people cared more about organic gardening than the Liga F.

She slid her hand into her pocket, pulled out her Spanish visa card, and walked over to the counter where a young guy with a beard and a flannel shirt was wiping down the espresso machine.

"Just the coffee, please," Alexia said, her accent thick and cautious.

The guy swiped the card. The machine gave a sharp, disapproving beep. He tried it again, sliding it through the side groove with a practiced twist of his wrist. Another beep.

"Declined, girl," the barista said, giving her a mild, apologetic look. "Sometimes these international chips don't work well in our system. Got another one?"

Alexia felt a hot, bright wave of embarrassment rise from her collarbone to her ears. She didn't have another card. Her American account wasn't fully active until Thursday, and her wallet contained nothing but three crisp hundred-dollar bills that she had changed at El Prat airport, bills that looked entirely too large and ridiculous for a four-dollar cup of drip coffee.

"I... I have this," she muttered, reaching for the large bill, her English suddenly failing her as the small, familiar panic of being a stranger in a foreign room closed in. "But it is"

"I’ve got it, mate," a voice said from behind her.

The voice was high, clear, and carried the unmistakable, lazy drawl of the southern hemisphere. It was an accent that sounded like sand and salt water, entirely out of place in the damp, wood-paneled interior of the Sellwood diner.

Alexia turned.

Standing behind her was a woman who looked like she had been imported directly from a beach in Victoria and dropped into Oregon by mistake. She was tall nearly as tall as Alexia, with long, sun-bleached blonde hair that fell in loose, untamed waves past her shoulders. Her eyes were a shocking, brilliant shade of blue, wide and clear against skin that was tanned to a deep, golden honey. She was twenty-eight, though she carried herself with the ageless, unbothered ease of someone who had never looked at a clock in her life.

She was wearing a pair of faded denim shorts that showed off legs that were long, athletic, and covered in a beautiful, chaotic collection of tattoos a lighthouse, a blue-ringed octopus, a scattering of southern stars. On her upper torso, she wore nothing but an oversized white t-shirt with a faded print of an Australian surf brand, and her feet were completely bare save for a pair of black rubber Havaianas flip-flops that looked like they had survived a minor war.

Despite the hippie appearance, she didn't smell like a backpacker. She smelled intensely clean of lemon myrtle, coconut oil, and expensive, crisp soap.

"Don't sweat it," the blonde said, flashing a wide, easy grin that showed a small gap between her front teeth. She reached into the pocket of her denim shorts and pulled out a crumpled five-dollar note, dropping it onto the counter with a flick of her finger. "Keep the change, regular Dan. The lady's good."

The barista grinned. "Thanks, Y/N."

Alexia stood frozen, her hand still holding the useless hundred-dollar bill. "No... please. I can pay. I have this, but he cannot change it."

"Nah, don't worry about it, love," Y/N said, her accent stretching the vowels until they sounded like music. She picked up her own large mug of flat white and turned toward the window. "A four-dollar coffee isn't worth the existential crisis. Consider it a welcome to the neighborhood. You're the new footballer, right? The one from Spain that everyone star to talk?"

Alexia blinked, her natural Catalan caution rising for a fraction of a second. "Yes. Alexia, nice to meet you"

"Y/N," the blonde said, extending a hand that was warm and dry, her grip surprisingly firm for someone who looked like she lived on a hammock. "Y/N Taylor. I'm from Port Fairy just down in Victoria… U know, Australia. Little fishing town. But I've been living out of a campervan in the woods near Mount Hood for the last six months. Just came down to Sellwood to see what the city folks do."

"You are... from Australia" Alexia said, her eyes involuntarily dropping to Y/N’s bare ankles and the rubber sandals. The temperature outside was barely eight degrees. "Are you not... cold?"

Y/N let out a loud, booming laugh that made two old men in the corner booth look up from their crossword puzzle. "Cold? Mate, this is summer in Melbourne. You should see the wind off the Southern Ocean. It’d rip the skin right off your face. Can I sit?"

She didn't wait for an answer. She slid her long legs into the space Alexia had just vacated, her rubber sandals making a soft thwack against the floor. She sat with her knees wide, completely relaxed, her shoulder blades resting against the high back of the wooden seat like she owned the joint.

Alexia hesitated for two seconds before sitting opposite her. There was something completely disarming about Y/N’s presence. In Barcelona, everyone who approached Alexia had a posture, a performance of respect, a nervous twitch of the fingers, or an agenda. Y/N Taylor looked at her with the same mild, friendly interest she might show to a particularly nice dog she’d met on a path.

"So," Y/N said, taking a long sip of her flat white. "The Thorns. Big deal around here. The girls in the van park are mad for them. You like the rain?"

"It is... a lot," Alexia admitted, her fingers tracing the handle of her mug. "In Barcelona, we have the sun. The sea is warm. Here, everything is... wet."

"Yeah, it’s a bit of a swamp, isn't it?" Y/N agreed cheerfully. "But the trees are bloody massive. It’s got a good vibe. Very chill. No one gives a toss about who you are or what you’re doing. You could walk down the street with a ferret on your head and people would just ask if it was organic."

Alexia felt the corner of her mouth twitch up into her first genuine smile since she’d landed at PDX airport. "A ferret. Yes. I think I saw this yesterday."

They talked for forty minutes. Y/N did most of the talking, her voice rolling along like a river, telling stories about her years spent backpacking through Brazil "ate so many açai bowls my tongue turned purple, mate" and driving an old Kombi through the interior of Portugal. She had a degree in philosophy and liberal arts from the University of Melbourne, a detail she dropped into the conversation as if it were a joke. "Never used it, obviously. My dad wanted me to go into law school, but I took one look at a grey suit and decided I'd rather wash dishes in other country. Life's too short to wear shoes you can't run in."

When Y/N pulled her phone out of her shorts to show Alexia a photo of her campervan, Alexia was surprised to see it was the latest, most expensive iPhone model.

"You have a very good phone for a hippie," Alexia noted, a small, teasing glint in her eyes.

Y/N grinned, entirely unbothered. "Oh, gal, I’m a total fraud. I might live in the dirt, but I like my technology crisp. My family’s got a bit of money back home, you know? They think I'm a lunatic for do what I’ve been doing all my life, but they make sure I don't die of scurvy in the woods."

She slid the phone across the table. "Put your number in, Alexia. I’m staying at a friend’s place near the river for a bit. If you ever want to see what Portland looks like when you’re not running around a pitch, let me know. I’ll show you where the good meat pies are."

Alexia took the phone. Her fingers, usually so precise on the ball, felt slightly clumsy as she typed her name into the contacts. She didn't know anyone in this country who didn't have a jersey with her name on it.

"I will... I will like that," Alexia said, handing the phone back, her dark eyes locking onto Y/N’s brilliant blue ones. "I hope to see you soon, Y/N."

"Too easy, mate," Y/N said, sliding out of the booth with that easy, athletic grace. She gave Alexia a casual wave, her Havaianas thwacking against the linoleum as she walked out into the mist, her blonde hair catching the faint pink glow of the neon sign.

The transition into the Thorns squad was an exercise in unlearning.

For the first time in ten years, Alexia did not wear the captain's armband. She did not have to arrive forty minutes early to meet with the technical director about the budget for the youth academy. She did not have to give the pre-match speech in three different languages to ensure the foreign signings felt included. She was just... number 11. A veteran midfielder with two reconstructed knees and a passing range that left the younger American forwards staring at the ball as if it had been delivered by a drone.

"She doesn't talk much, does she?" Sophia Smith muttered to Jessie during a hydration break on the second week of pre-season.

"She’s observing," Jessie said, her eyes fixed on Alexia, who was standing by the center circle, calmly juggling a ball with her left foot while her face remained perfectly neutral. "When you’ve won everything there is to win, you don't need to shout to show people where the space is. Just watch her hips when she turns. She’s three seconds ahead of the entire press."

Away from the pitch, the homesickness remained a low, constant fever. Alexia spent her evenings in her empty living room, the Subaru parked in the driveway outside, FaceTimeing with Clara, Patri, and Vicky.

"Caro says the dressing room is too quiet without you," Patri said one night, her face framed by the dark interior of her car as she drove through Sant Joan Despí. "No one is yelling at the kit man about the size of the socks. It’s like a library, Ale. Come home for the weekend. We’ll go to Sitges."

"I have a match on Saturday, Patri," Alexia said, her voice small. "A friendly against Seattle. I cannot just leave."

"How is the English?" Marta’s voice chimed in from the background.

"It is... better," Alexia sighed. "But everyone here says 'cool' and 'awesome' for everything. If I score a goal, it is awesome. If the bus is late, it is awesome. I do not understand the scale of the words."

Two days later, she received a WhatsApp message from an unknown American number.

Y/N: Hey Alexia. Found a place in Sellwood that does proper coffee not that filtered dishwater. You free for a feed tonight? I'll even wear clothes with buttons if it makes you feel better.

Alexia felt a sudden, ridiculous surge of warmth in her stomach. She hadn't spoken to anyone outside the club since her arrival.

Alexia: Yes. I am free. Where do we meet?

They met at a small, dimly lit bistro near the waterfront. Alexia arrived first, dressed in her usual immaculate style a charcoal grey sweater, baggy black trousers, and a pair of spotless white nike sneakers. She sat in the chair, her posture straight, her phone face-down on the table.

When the door opened, Alexia actually gasped.

Y/N Taylor walked in, looking entirely panicked. It was clear she had made a massive, agonizing effort to look "normal." She had gone to a nearby Walmart that afternoon and bought a pair of stiff, dark blue denim jeans that were slightly too long for her, a plain grey crewneck t-shirt that still had the fold lines visible across the chest, and most shocking of all a pair of brand-new, bright white Adidas Campus sneakers. She walked like a woman who had just been fitted with prosthetic limbs, her feet lifting too high off the floor with every step as she tried to adjust to the weight of leather and rubber soles.

"Oh my God," Y/N muttered, sliding into the booth with a heavy sigh, her blonde hair tied back into a slightly neat knot. "yooo, these shoes are an absolute punishment. I feel like I've got two bricks strapped to my ankles. Tell me I look nice before I rip them off and go full barefoot in the bistro."

Alexia stared at her, her eyes wide, before she burst into a sweet, ringing laugh that she didn't bother to hide behind her hand. "You bought shoes, Y/N. For me?"

"Too right I did," Y/N grumbled, though her blue eyes were dancing with affection. "I walked into that shop and the teenager at the counter looked at my feet like I was a cavewoman. I told him I had a date with a Spanish beauty and he said these were 'gas.' I don't know what that means, but they cost me eighty bucks. You better eat the expensive steak, Putellas."

"A date?" Alexia repeated softly, her accent lingering over the word, her dark eyes dropping to the table.

Y/N’s expression softened instantly. She reached across the small space between them, her long fingers brushing against the sleeve of Alexia’s cashmere sweater. "Yes, Ale. A date. If that's cool with you. I know you’re a big deal and your life’s probably a bit mental, but I really like looking at your face."

Alexia looked up, the tension that had been sitting in her shoulders for four weeks suddenly melting into the warm, yellow light of the restaurant. "It is... very cool, Y/N. Very gas." She smirked

They spent the next two months building a routine that existed entirely outside the boundaries of professional sports.

Alexia learned that Y/N’s friends "flat" was actually a high-ceilinged loft in an old industrial warehouse near Sellwood, filled with surfboards, large canvas paintings of the Australian coast that Y/N had done herself, and three massive sacks of coffee beans she had imported from a cooperative in Minas Gerais. The views from the giant steel-framed windows looked out over the river rail yards, where the cargo trains would rumble past at midnight, their low, rhythmic whistles sounding like distant ocean liners.

Y/N was an absolute creature of her country. She made Vegemite toast in the mornings, spreading it so thin it looked like ink on the bread, and laughed when Alexia tried it and nearly choked on the salt. She went everywhere barefoot within the loft, her feet strangely immaculate "never trust a hippie with dirty heels, Ale, it means they’re lazy" and she had an absolute refusal to engage with the modern panic of social media.

"Don't have it, mate," Y/N said one afternoon while they were lying on the large leather sofa in the loft, Alexia’s head resting on Y/N’s bare, tattooed stomach. "No Instagram, no Twitter. Just WhatsApp so my mum can send me photos of the sheep. Why would I want ten thousand people telling me how to live my life when I’ve got a perfectly good river right outside the window?"

"I have 3.4 million people on my Instagram," Alexia murmured, her finger tracing the outline of the lighthouse tattoo on Y/N’s ribs.

Y/N leaned down, pressing a soft, lazy kiss to Alexia’s forehead. "Well, that’s because you’re bloody gorgeous and you can kick a ball through a needle's eye, love. But you don't need them in here. In here, you’re just the girl who forgets to turn the kettle off and arrange your credit card"

Y/N dragged Alexia out of her zone of comfort with a gentle, relentless persistence. She took her camping in the high desert near Bend, forcing the double Ballon d'Or winner to sleep in the back of the Subaru under three woollen blankets and pee behind a juniper bush. She took her to a tiny, greasy spoon diner in Astoria where they ate fried clams with their fingers while the Pacific wind rattled the tin roof.

And it was Y/N who asked her to be her girlfriend, three months after that first coffee in Sellwood.

They were sitting on the hood of the Subaru at a viewpoint overlooking the Columbia River Gorge. The sun was going down, turning the water into a long ribbon of liquid copper between the dark green walls of the cliffs. Y/N had reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, smooth piece of green jade she had found on a beach in New Zealand three years ago, drilled through with a simple piece of leather cord.

"I know you’ve got fancy things, Ale," Y/N said, her voice dropping its usual joking tone, becoming something steady, deep, and incredibly sweet. She didn't look at the river; she looked straight into Alexia’s eyes. "But I’ve carried this stone through twelve countries. It’s kept me safe when the roads got bad. I want you to have it. And I want you to be my girl. Properly. No half-measures."

Alexia had looked at the small piece of green stone in her palm, her heart doing a long, slow roll behind her ribs. For years, her relationships had been complicated by contracts, by the club's image, by the gossiping tongues of the Barcelona locker room by people like her ex, Olga, who lived for the high-end drama of the Mediterranean social scene.

"Yes," Alexia had whispered, her throat tight as she leaned forward to press her mouth against Y/N’s, tasting the salt from the river air. "Yes, Y/N. I want to be your girl."

---

The Saturday of Alexia’s first official start at Providence Park arrived with a rare, brilliant burst of Oregon sunshine. The stadium was a wall of green and smoke, the timber saw striking the log after every pre-match drill, the crowd of twenty-two thousand singing with that specific, rhythmic American fervor.

Y/N arrived forty minutes before kickoff, wearing her standard uniform: a pair of faded denim shorts, a brand-new Portland Thorns jersey with PUTELLAS 11 printed across the back in sharp gold letters, and a pair of worn, brown suede Birkenstock Boston clogs with socks. Her legs were fully exposed, the tattoos glowing in the afternoon light, looking intensely hot and completely casual as she navigated the concrete concourse.

She had managed to get a pair of new Nike running shoes a week earlier not because she wanted them, but because she had stolen a pair of Alexia’s training sneakers from the flat and realized they were the most comfortable things she’d ever worn.

"Hey, Ale," Y/N had said, leaning against the kitchen counter while Alexia was packing her kit bag. "You’ve got that athlete discount, right? The thirty percent off one?"

Alexia had looked up, amused. "Yes. The Nike code. Why?"

"Well, I'm a bit of a cheap skate, love," Y/N grinned, sliding her hand into Alexia’s back pocket to pinch her hip. "Give me the code pleaseee. I’m not paying full price for shoes like a tourist."

Now, sitting in the VIP family section, Y/N was a vision of Australian chill. When the Thorns media team passed by to take photos of the families, she didn't duck her head or pose; she simply held up her large plastic cup of local beer, her blue eyes crinkling with a wide, toothy smile that looked entirely genuine.

Alexia played sixty minutes. She didn't score, but she controlled the match like a veteran chess player, her left foot dropping two fifty-yard passes onto Smith’s boots that led directly to goals. When she was substituted in the sixty-first minute, the entire stadium stood up, a roaring wave of green scarves waving in the air for the woman from Barcelona.

After the match, Y/N walked down to the tunnel area where the players’ families gathered. She was standing by the concrete pillar, her clogs tapping against the floor, when Jessie and Sophia walked out, their hair wet from the showers.

"You must be Y/N," Sophia said, her eyes dropping to Y/N’s Birkenstocks with a dry, appreciative smile. "Alexia told us her girlfriend was an Australian nomad. We didn't believe her until we saw the shorts."

"G'day, mates," Y/N said, extending that warm hand. "Great match out there. You lot run a bloody marathon every week, don't you? I was exhausted just watching from the seats."

Jessie laughed, putting a hand on Y/N’s shoulder. "She’s different since you got here, Y/N. More relaxed. In training, she actually smiles when she misses a target. In Barcelona, she probably would have kill the goalkeeper."

"Oh, she’s a fiery one, isn't she?" Y/N chuckled as Alexia walked out of the dressing room, her club track jacket zipped up, her eyes immediately scanning the room until they locked onto Y/N’s blonde head.

Alexia walked straight over, ignoring the cameras that were still hovering near the media backdrop, and wrapped her arms around Y/N’s waist, burying her face in the smell of her perfume that ever hang around her girlfriend’s neck.

"Did you like the match?" Alexia whispered against her ear.

"You were bloody magnificent, love" Y/N murmured, her long arms wrapping around Alexia’s shoulders, her hand resting on the back of Alexia’s neck. "An absolute vision. Now come on, let’s go home. My feet are freezing in these shoes and you owe me a barbecue."

By November, the league had finished, and the long American winter had settled into the valley. Y/N had been living a settled life for nearly eight months the longest she had stayed in one place since she was eighteen years old. Alexia could see the slight restlessness in her blue eyes, the way she would spend hours staring at the map of the Pacific Crest Trail on the loft wall, her fingers twitching against her thighs.

"Let’s go to Spain," Alexia said one evening while they were making pasta.

Y/N looked up, surprised. "Spain? Babe, it’s winter over there. Your mum said it’s freezing in Barcelona."

"Not Barcelona," Alexia said, her eyes bright with a sudden, tactical spark. "The Camino de Santiago. The northern route. We have three weeks of vacation. We can do the walking just you, me, and the backpacks and lots of kissing. Like your backpacking trips, but with mountains and old churches."

Y/N’s face lit up with a brilliant, childlike joy that made Alexia’s heart ache with pure love. "The Camino? Are you serious, Ale? You want to walk thirty kilometers a day in the mud?"

"I am an athlete, Y/N," Alexia reminded her, a smug smile on her lips. "I think I can walk without a ball. But... you must wear real shoes. The trekking boots. No Birkenstocks in the Pyrenees."

"oh fuck no," Y/N groaned, but she was already running toward her surfboards to find her old internal-frame backpack.

They spent the first two weeks of December walking through the thin, cold mist of Galicia. It was a brutal, beautiful trip. Y/N carried a heavy, vintage camera she had bought at a flea market in Portland, hanging from her neck by a frayed canvas strap. She took hundreds of photos: Alexia sitting on a stone wall in the rain, her cheeks red from the wind; Alexia eating a plate of hot pulpo a la gallega in a tiny village tavern, her hair sticking to her forehead; Alexia sleeping under a thick green blanket in a rural hostel, her long legs curled up like a child's.

Y/N didn't say "I love you" every hour, she wasn't a woman for the constant verbal reassurance but she showed it with a fierce, physical devotion that left Alexia feeling entirely safe. She would spend twenty minutes every evening massaging Alexia’s reconstructed knees with a local herbal ointment she’d bought from an old woman in O Cebreiro, her strong, warm fingers working through the knee while Alexia watched her with eyes that were heavy with tears of gratitude.

After finishing the trail in Santiago, they took a short domestic flight to Barcelona for a surprise five-day visit before returning to Oregon.

They walked into Eli’s house in Mollet without warning on a Thursday afternoon. The kitchen was full of the smell of roasting chicken and garlic. When the door opened and Alexia walked in, followed by a tall, blonde Australian woman carrying a massive mud-stained backpack and wearing a pair of bright white Adidas sneakers that looked thoroughly traveled, the room went entirely silent.

"Ale!" Alba shrieked, dropping her phone onto the sofa as she ran to hug her sister.

Eli stood by the stove, her eyes wide as she looked at Y/N, who was currently leaning against the doorframe, her long hair tied up with a piece of old string, a wide, easy grin on her face.

"Mama," Alexia said, her hand reaching back to take Y/N’s fingers, locking them tightly. "This is Y/N. My girlfriend."

The evening was an exercise in cultural collision. Eli didn't speak English, and Y/N’s Spanish while grammatically perfect from her years in South America carried a strange, rolling Argentine-Brazilian cadence that made Alba laugh until she cried. But Y/N sat at the kitchen table with her knees wide, completely at home, drinking Eli’s cheap house red wine from a small tumbler and helping her peel potatoes with a speed that surprised the older woman.

"She is... very tall," Eli whispered to Alexia in the hallway while Y/N was showing Alba a video of a kangaroo jumping over a fence in Victoria. "And she has no shoes on her feet in my kitchen. But her eyes... her eyes are very clean, Ale. She looks at you like you are the only person in the room. Not like the other one. The one with the cars."

"She doesn't care about the cars, Mama," Alexia said softly, her eyes tracking Y/N’s loud, booming laugh from the living room. "She doesn't care about any of it."

Two days later, they met up with Alexia’s old Barcelona teammates at a small, private bar in the Eixample. Mapi, Patri, Clara, and Vicky were already there, surrounded by empty bottles of Estrella Damm. When Alexia walked in with Y/N, the table erupted into a chorus of whistles and shouts.

"Look at Putellas!" Mapi yelled, leaning over the table to inspect Y/N’s arm tattoos. "She leaves Barcelona for five minutes and comes back with a Surfer! Where did you find her, Ale? Is she an international signing?"

"She’s an aussie gal," Alexia said, her cheeks flushing pink as she sat down, Y/N sliding into the seat next to her, her long leg immediately pressing against Alexia’s under the table.

"Well, she’s bloody gorgeous," Vicky said in her broken English, flashing Y/N a wink. "Alexia was very boring in Barcelona, Y/N. Always training, always sleeping. Did you make her go to a club?"

"Girl" Y/N drawled, her blue eyes glittering with mischief. "I made her sleep in the back of a car in the middle of a desert. She cried twice because there was no oat milk for her coffee."

The table exploded into laughter, Patri throwing her napkin at Alexia’s face while Alexia buried her face in Y/N’s shoulder, her body shaking with deep, happy giggles that her friends hadn't seen in three years. As she instinctively leaned into her even more, Y/N simply smiled, absentmindedly rubbing slow circles over Alexia’s back before pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head, a gesture so natural and effortless that it made the entire table fall silent for a beat, every pair of eyes fixed on them in complete disbelief.

"She’s good for you, Ale," Clara murmured later, standing by the bar next to Alexia while Y/N was outside showing Mapi how to do a proper Australian surf-paddle technique on the pavement. "You look... light. Like the weight is gone."

--

The peace broke on their final afternoon in the city.

They were walking down the Rambla de Catalunya, the winter sun sharp against the yellow stones of the buildings. Y/N was holding a paper bag of hot churros, her fingers sticky with sugar, her Havaianas thwacking against the ground. She was entirely in her element, her blonde hair catching the Mediterranean light, her arm dropped casually over Alexia’s shoulders.

Suddenly, a sharp, metallic click-click-click sounded from behind a nearby kiosk.

A paparazzi photographer one of the old regulars from the Mundo Deportivo gossip column stepped out from behind a tree, his long telephoto lens fixed directly on Alexia’s face, his finger rapid-firing the shutter.

Alexia froze instantly. Her entire body went rigid beneath her black wool coat, the old, professional mask slamming down over her features like an iron portcullis. Her hand dropped from Y/N’s waist, and she took a sharp step away, her eyes dropping to the pavement as she tried to pull her hood over her head.

"Ale?" Y/N asked, stopping in the middle of the crowded pavement, the bag of churros still in her hand. She looked at the photographer with a mild, confused sort of curiosity. "What's the go with the lad with the camera?"

"Don't look, Y/N," Alexia snapped, her voice carrying a sharp, icy authority that Y/N had never heard before. It wasn't the voice of her girlfriend; it was the voice of the Barcelona captain dealing with an intrusive fan. "Keep walking. Walk fast. I don't need this trash on the internet tomorrow."

Y/N didn't move. She turned her entire body toward the photographer, her blue eyes narrowing slightly, but her posture remained perfectly relaxed. "Mate," she called out to the man in Spanish, her voice clear over the noise of the street. "You’ve got enough photos. Put the lens away before you trip over the curb."

The photographer grinned, ignoring her, and took three more shots of Alexia’s turned back.

"Y/N, I said let’s go!" Alexia hissed, her hand catching Y/N’s sleeve and pulling her with a sudden, rough force that made two of the hot churros fall out of the bag and onto the dirty tiles. "Stop making a scene! You don't understand how this works! My image... my private life... it is not a joke for your little hippie friends! This is Spain. People look at everything I do, and I will not have them writing stories about me running around the streets with someone who looks like they just came out of a squat!"

The words hung in the crisp winter air between them like a cloud of frozen exhaust.

Y/N stopped walking. She let go of Alexia’s sleeve. She looked at the two churros on the ground, then up at Alexia’s face at the sharp, defensive anger in her dark eyes, the cold, aristocratic lines of her mouth that looked exactly like the woman who had lived for the glare of the Camp Nou.

Y/N didn't shout. She didn't drop her paper bag. But her blue eyes went entirely flat, the brilliant, warm light inside them turning into something cold and deep, like ice on the Southern Ocean.

"Right," Y/N said softly, her Australian drawl entirely gone, replaced by a clean, hard Spanish that sounded like a knife slicing through silk. "That's who you are when the cameras turn on, is it? The great Alexia Putellas. The one who’s too fancy for the girl who washed the mud off her knees in Galicia. God forbid she´s a normal person instead just a superstar"

"Y/N, I didn't mean " Alexia started, her face turning pale as the anger suddenly drained out of her, replaced by a cold, sickening drop in her stomach.

"Nah, you did mean it, Babe," Y/N said, stepping back into the crowd of tourists and shoppers. She threw the remaining bag of churros into a green rubbish bin by the curb. "Have a good evening, Alexia. I’ll see you at the airport on Tuesday."

She turned around and walked away, her black rubber flip-flops making no sound against the stone as she disappeared into the thick crowd heading toward Plaça de Catalunya.

Alexia spent the next three days in an absolute hell of her own making. She stayed in her room at her mother's house, her phone sitting on the duvet, sending text after text that remained on a single grey tick.

Alexia: I am sorry. I am an idiot. The press makes me crazy, Y/N. Please answer me.

Alexia: I love you. I love your shorts. I love everything about you. Please come back to the house.

Alba came into the room on Sunday night, dropping a plate of dry toast on the nightstand. "Mapi called. She wants to know why you cancelled the dinner in Castelldefels. She said you look like someone died."

"I ruined it, Alba," Alexia sobbed, her face buried in her sister's lap, her strong shoulders shaking with the same violent grief she had felt when her knees had broken. "I talked to her like she was... like she was nothing. Like she was a distraction. She’s the only person in the world who doesn't want anything from me, and I treated her like a bad headline."

Alba stroked her sister's hair. "She’s an Australian, Ale. They don't stay where they're not wanted. If you want her, you better show up at the airport with more than an apology."

The flight back to Portland was fourteen hours of silent, agonizing tension. They sat in the business class cabin Alexia had bought the tickets months ago but they didn't speak. Y/N sat by the window, her vintage camera on her lap, her face fixed on the grey fields of Greenland passing below them. She didn't refuse the food; she didn't turn away when Alexia offered her a bottle of water; she was simply... distant. A spirit that had returned to its caravan and locked the door.

Y/N stared out of the window for what felt like hours before finally breaking the silence with a quiet sigh. "You know what hurt?" she murmured, still watching the clouds below. "It wasn't the photographer. I get that part of your life. It was hearing you speak about me like I was something embarrassing, like loving me somehow damaged the version of Alexia Putellas the world expects to see."

Alexia's eyes immediately filled with tears, her fingers trembling as she reached for Y/N's hand. "I was terrified," she admitted hoarsely. "Not of you—never of you. Of losing control. I let the cameras decide who I was, and for a moment I forgot the only person I never have to perform for is you. I am so, so sorry, amor."

Y/N looked at her for a long moment before squeezing her hand. "If that ever happens again, don't protect your image at the expense of my heart." Alexia nodded before she could even finish speaking. "Never again. I swear." A small smile finally tugged at Y/N's lips as she leaned across the armrest, resting her forehead against Alexia's. "Okay," she whispered. "I forgive you." Alexia let out a broken sob of relief, wrapping both arms around her as if she were afraid she might disappear again, and for the first time since Barcelona, Y/N hugged her back just as tightly.

When they landed at PDX, the rain was falling in that familiar, heavy grey mist.

They walked out to the parking garage where the silver Subaru was waiting. Alexia unlocked the doors, her hand trembling as she threw her kit bag into the boot.

"Y/N," Alexia said, her voice cracking as they stood by the driver's side. "Tomorrow... we need to buy another car."

Y/N paused, her hand on the passenger door handle. "Why's that, baby? This one runs perfectly fine."

"Because... because when I arrive again to training, I will have the double training sessions," Alexia said, her English cautious but intensely focused. "And the matches on the weekend. If I am away, you are stuck in the house. You cannot walk three miles in this rain just to get the coffee beans. I want you to have your own vehicle. I have the money, Y/N. It is nothing for me."

Y/N looked at her over the roof of the silver car. Her blue eyes were still guarded, but the hard ice from the Barcelona street had begun to thaw under the damp Oregon air. "I don't need a car, Alexia. I don't want one and even less your money"

"Why?" Alexia stepped closer, her hand reaching across the roof to touch Y/N’s wrist, her fingers catching the leather cord of the green jade stone Y/N was still wearing. "You love the adventure. You love to drive the big buses in Portugal. Why do you not want a car in Portland?"

Y/N let out a long, heavy sigh, her shoulder blades dropping against the glass of the window. She looked down at her white Adidas Campus sneakers, which were now grey with the mud of the Galician hills.

"Because I had an accident, Alexia," Y/N said softly, her Australian drawl returning like a low tide. "Five years ago. Down near the Great Ocean Road. I was driving my brother’s fancy Mercedes the one my dad bought him for his graduation. A kangaroo jumped out of the scrub, I swerved, and the car went down a thirty-foot ravine. Totalled the thing. I walked away with nothing but a broken collarbone, but my dad... my dad went mental. Told me I was reckless, told me I was irresponsible, told me I didn't respect the things that cost money. That was the day I packed my backpack and left Port Fairy. I haven't touched a steering wheel since. The thought of being locked inside one of those metal boxes... it makes my chest go all tight."

Alexia stood entirely still, the rain dripping off the brim of her black baseball cap. She hadn't known. In eight months of living together, of sharing a bed and a kitchen and a life, Y/N had never dropped that piece of her history into the room. She had kept it hidden behind her flip-flops and her surfboards, a small, dark stone from her family that she didn't want anyone else to weigh.

"Oh, mi amor," Alexia breathed, her Catalan returning in a rush of pure empathy. She walked around the front of the car, her long arms reaching out to pull Y/N into her chest, her hands flattening against the wide, strong space of Y/N’s back. "I am sorry. I am so sorry. You don't have to drive. You never have to drive. I will carry you on my back to the coffee shop if the rain is too much."

Y/N stayed stiff for two seconds before her body completely collapsed into the embrace, her face burying itself in the soft fleece of Alexia’s neck, her long fingers locking into the fabric of her coat. "I'm sorry too, love," Y/N muttered, her voice thick. "I shouldn't have gone full bush-lawyer on you in Barcelona. I know your life's weird with the cameras. I just... I need to know you see me. Not just the shorts."

"I see you," Alexia whispered, her mouth pressing a hard, lingering kiss to Y/N’s temple. "I see you every day."

Two days later, a loud, electric humming sounded outside the glass window of the Sellwood flat.

Alexia walked over to the glass, a mug of tea in her hand, and looked down at the street.

Standing by the curb was Y/N, looking thoroughly delighted. She was sitting on top of a brand-new, vintage-style electric moped a sleek, pastel mint-green Vespa-style machine with a large wicker basket attached to the back and a small Australian flag sticker stuck to the rear mudguard. She was wearing her faded denim shorts, her oversized white t-shirt, and her nike trainers, her bare legs straddling the small machine while her blonde hair blew around her face in the damp wind.

"Look at this, Putellas!" Y/N shouted up to the window, her voice booming over the sound of the cargo trains. "No steering wheel! No metal box! Just two wheels and an electric battery! I can get twenty miles on a single charge, mate! I’m going to get the meat pies!"

Alexia ran down the stairs, her heart jumping into her throat with a mixture of terror and absolute, joyous laughter. She burst through the front door of the warehouse, her eyes wide as she saw the little green machine.

"Y/N!" Alexia screamed, running over to her. "You are a lunatic! You will catch a pneumonia on this thing! And where is the helmet?! You cannot ride a motorcycle with no shoes and yeah today you have on but usually you just don’t use it!"

"It’s not a motorcycle, love, it’s a moped," Y/N grinned, her blue eyes flashing with that old, unbothered light as she patted the leather seat behind her. "Hop on, baby girl. I’ve got the thirty percent Nike discount helmet in the basket. Let’s go see the river."

Alexia looked at the little green machine, then at the girl from Port Fairy the woman who had no medals, no trophies, and no fifteen million followers, but who carried the whole sun of the southern hemisphere inside her white t-shirt.

She didn't argue. She climbed onto the small leather seat behind Y/N, her long arms wrapping tightly around Y/N’s waist, her chin resting firmly on Y/N’s tattooed shoulder.

"Go," Alexia whispered in Catalan, her eyes closing against the cool Oregon mist. "Take me wherever you want, Y/N."

The little electric motor gave a low, happy whir, and they drifted down the grey street toward the Willamette River, the small Australian flag fluttering in the wind behind them, completely invisible, completely free, and entirely on top of the world.

[darling-flora]

cupid's chokehold

oscar piastri x yn! it girl | request — here | masterlist |

"I know I'm young but if I had to choose her or the sun, I'd be one nocturnal son of a gun" nothing like having a cool and chic girlfriend with fans that make sure oscar knows how lucky he is to have her...

note — (manips by me!!) thank u for the request my angel <3, hope you enjoy !!!! likes, reblog's and comments are appreciated ⟡˚౨ৎ⋆

Liked by charli_xcx, oscarpiastri and 3,238,362 others

im.so.yn in good company ✿

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user1 the coolest

oscarpiastri wow

oscarpiastri 2 of my favorite girls in one post

oscarpiastri im so lucky

->im.so.yn love u ♡ ->user2 self aware king

user3 She’s a digital girl

user4 most perfect girl of the world

user5 is oscar like secretly cool deep down and that's why they're dating?

->im.so.yn i do all the cool heavy lifting tbh ->im.so.yn he's my favorite person in the world btw ->user6 god they're adorable ->user7 both so incredibly down bad

user8 just perfect

user9 kitty is so cute

user10 so obsessed with this post

charli_xcx life inspo

->im.so.yn all you <3 ->user11 THE it girls ->user12 love their friendship dearly

user13 dream girl

user14 need the apartment tour lowkey

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Liked by im.so.yn, oscarpiastri and 385,713 others

dazed Extremely Online It Girl Y/n L/n talks Internet Fame, Foodie Obsessions, and Her Fiancé Oscar Piastri.

In the latest Issue of dazed, L/n reflects on navigating love in front of millions while still feeling like the only two people in the room.

Tap the link in bio to read more 🔗

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user1 her WHAT oscar piastr?!???

im.so.yn omg who is this....?

->oscarpiastri most beautiful woman on earth ->oscarpiastri also my fiancé ->user2 he's so annoying 😭 ->user3 such a loser... i know she likes that too ->im.so.yn my loser <3 user3

user4 not the point but she looks so goooood

user5 are we surprised he put a ring on it...? she's perfect!

user6 only an it girl because of her bf

->user7 mind you his following went up after she reveled they were dating ->user8 he's literally publicly said that she's more famous than him... ->oscarpiastri *fiancé and false user6 ->user9 exactlyyy oscar ->user10 if he's going to do something it's defend his girl

user11 they make so much sense but also not.. idk but i love them

user12 the wedding is going to be so iconic i know it

user13 she is so stunning i can't

user14 how did oscar keep it a secret?!???

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Liked by im.so.yn, alex_albon and 2,836,761 others

oscarpiastri Weekend highlights with the fiancé 🌊🏝

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user1 the ring is sooooo y/n i love it sm

im.so.yn my honeybee 🐝

->oscarpiastri my future wife ❤ ->user2 love them ->user3 she's so cute i love her

user4 she’ll be the most perfect bride!! congrats you two

user5 Y/N AND OSCAR FOREVER!!!!!

user6 100% pure class. our first lady

devonleecarlson she’s a fiancé!!!

->im.so.yn LUV YOUUU!!!

user7 this will be my royal wedding!!!

user8 The first bride ever

user9 most perfect was to announce it

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✎…… so many engagement fic's recently idk why but im loving it

[darling-flora]

sweet eyes

oscar piastri x yn!girlfriend | request — here | masterlist |

"right at home with perfect timing, a face that knows her perfect lighting" everyone expects oscar's new girlfriend to be like every other wag, but she's quick to prove them wrong....

face claim : leah kateb

note — (manips by me!!) thank you for the request my angel <3, hope you enjoy !!!! likes, reblog's and comments are appreciated ⟡˚౨ৎ⋆

Liked by user1, user2 and 413,751 others

F1Gossip Oscar Piastri seen with influencer and model Y/n L/n 👀

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user1 uh oh another influencer

user2 why are people so quick to hating.... she seems chill

->user3 because she's dating a driver 🤷‍♀️ ->user4 people hate to hate

user5 why do they always go for influencers???

user6 she's so beautiful... im sick 💔

user7 wow a influencer and model lets all pretend to be shocked

user8 just checked her insta and her fit's are going to eat

->user9 a wag not doing business casual? i cheered ->user10 she might change to be like all the other wags :/

user11 now how long has this been going on..???

user12 she looks nothing like the other wag's why are people being insane

user13 wait her vibe seems... good?

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♬ Ariana Grande ‧ Moonlight

Liked by oscarpiastri, bellahadid and 1,238,362 others

yourusername my moonlight

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oscarpiastri miss you

->yourusername im literally in the other room.... ->oscarpiastri so far ->yourusername so DRAMATIC omw ->user1 yeah im already obsessed

user2 this serve

user3 wearing alaïa s/s 1992.. oh mother

user4 oh she's a romantic too

user5 why'd you crop him out...?

->user6 like girl we know who it is ->yourusername he was drooling, didn't want to mess with the vibes ->user7 GIRL!?!?!??? ->user8 he's just like me fr

user9 So cute omg

user10 funny and hot, it's too much

user11 her saying "omw" after calling him dramatic is killing me

user12 actually so beautiful im in awe

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Liked by yourusername, alex_albon and 2,836,761 others

oscarpiastri Night to remember!

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user1 god y/n looks so good FUCKKKKK

yourusername third picture... somethings purring and it's not the car engine

->oscarpiastri expecting a text from PR very soon... ->user2 Y/N ?!?!?@??? ->user3 GIRL keep it in your pants ->user4 "purring" is crazy girl

user5 ain't nobody looking at that horse when y/n's right there

user6 bro tried to put the pictures in order but couldn't resist putting the pic with y/n first he's so ☠

->oscarpiastri alright 😭 ->user7 he didn't deny it

user8 the fit is eating waittt

user9 please be a good car please be a good car please be a good car

user10 it is kind of distracting how good y/n looks

user11 she's not lying the 3rd picture is hot

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♬ Ariana Grande ‧ Hands On Me

Liked by oscarpiastri, bellahadid and 2,941,635 others

yourusername special night in roberto cavalli <3

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user1 jaw on the floor

oscarpiastri listening to the lyrics btw

->yourusername now I'M going to get a text from PR.... ->user2 her acting like she doesn't like it ->yourusername 🤫 user2

user3 the hair the makeup the dress INSANE

user4 this song girl.... HORNYYYY

user5 you're always going to look good that's for sure

bellahadid this dress on you.... speechless

->yourusername ily <3

user6 Omg I think this is my fav look yet

user7 the miami air is so good to you two

user8 can oscar fight...? answer QUICKLY

user9 ugh song choice so tea

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Liked by oscarpiastri, bellahadid and 3,215,742 others

yourusername winning in life

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user1 Yessssssssss

oscarpiastri my gorgeous girl 😍

->oscarpiastri you are everything I need and more my love ->yourusername love love love you <3 ->user2 i love love 😭 ->user3 oh yall in love in love ->user4 yall are so cute omg get married 😭💕

user5 Miss princess looking glam as ever

user6 you’re so major

user7 who did you sacrifice to aphrodite....

user8 Modern day princess 😍

quenblackwell wow Liked by yourinstagram !

user9 a bondage dress loves to see you coming 😍

->yourusername exactlyyyy

user10 The servification on all the slide

user11 Wow the universe loves u ur literally always glowing

user12 Loveee this look😍

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✎…… cute little fic, hope you enjoy <3